Lover Be Good To Me

lover be good to me

minors and ageless blogs do not interact.

status: complete!

word count: 51k

pairings: kita shinsuke x f!reader, oc x f!reader

summary: You meet Kita Shinsuke on a rainy summer day, with a sea of hydrangeas swirling at your feet. You know him instantly, as only a soulmate can. He seems like a good man. Like a good soulmate.

But it's your wedding day.

notes: this fic. i am so excited to share this fic—i've been working on it for a very long time and it very much feels like my baby. thank you to everyone who has sat thru me yelling about it <3

title and part titles are from hozier's "be" and "nfwmb"

tags (contains spoilers for the fic): soulmate au (first words), this is a very reader-centric story, reader and kita are implied to be in their late twenties-early thirties, slow burn, hurt/comfort, pining, partner death (not kita), grief/mourning, love as a choice.

each part will have more specific warnings.

part one: when i first saw you, the end was soon (13k)

part two: felled by you, held by you (16k)

part three: the best of you, the rest of you (10k)

part four: oh, lover be good to me (12k)

read on ao3

━━ 𝐃𝐑𝐈𝐅𝐓 ;; 𝐁𝐀𝐊𝐔𝐆𝐎𝐔 𝐊𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐈

✧ cw :: gn!reader, angsty (heh), there is arguing and yelling here, reader is called 'clingy'

✧ a/n :: fun fact, this started out as a kirishima piece, but the dialogue said 'bakugou' so i changed it :D haven't written arguments before methinks, but i hope this is good !!

part 2 !

you knew how abrasive of a person he was, but you'd never felt it for yourself. every sentence felt like the sting of scraping your skin, and he just wouldn't stop.

the person standing in front of you looks like him. the same eyes, the same blond hair, the same voice that once never said anything to you with such poisonous intent.

but the bitterness in his words? the volume in them— a volume you dared to match with your own voice— it wasn't the loudness you knew.

and, as katsuki goes on and on, you wonder when the last time was that you could claim to know him.

you fall silent, eyes glassy and you stare. he notices the shift in the air, the shift in your face, and he snaps out of it.

"what are we doing here, katsuki?"

it's barely above a whisper and you're thankful your voice remains steady. you hope he can see how the hurt looks, draped across your face, and you wonder if he can feel it too.

"the hell do you mean, y/n?"

"what are we doing here, katsuki? how much more are we going to yell at each other like this? half the time i— i don't even remember why we're arguing. do you enjoy it?"

katsuki's face is unreadable. "enjoy it? you think i enjoy being like this? that i want to come home to endless problems, that i want to have every little thing psychoanalysed because you just can't leave me alone?"

it's a red-hot slap across the face, but not one hard enough to render you speechless.

"coming home? you want to talk about coming home, when you're never here? you're never here, katsuki!"

you clap your hands with each word of the last sentence, and it only escalates the situation.

his eyebrows are permanently creased and he scowls— it's ugly and malicious. you've never known him to be so ugly. "it's no wonder when you act like this all the damn time! always yapping away with your clingy ass— home isn't home when i know i have this to come back to," he gestures at you.

silence stabs, but it doesn't compare to the sharp, dagger-shaped words you've hurled at each other. you feel cemented to the floor with how heavy your body seems, and all you can do is look at him.

"i see."

in that moment, it becomes apparent to you just how close the end of everything is. the lump in your throat is as heavy as you feel, and as much of an invader as you are to his home and his peace, apparently.

there isn't much else to be said.

when you try to swallow the ache in your throat, and make to move to the door, katsuki understands just how harshly he's stomped on your heart. he watches you through glasses of fading anger, and as red becomes normal he understands the gravity of it all.

"i— i've overstayed my welcome, it seems. i'll go." you throw over your shoulder as you leave.

"enjoy your home, bakugou."

you don't slam the door— but he wishes you had. he wishes there was rage in how you left— rage was what he could deal with. instead, he hears the soft click of the door— he hears the hopelessness and the surrender in your departure— and along with it, the end of your relationship.

✧ — thank you for reading !! rbs and feedback are greatly appreciated &lt;3

shouto wakes up trapped underneath a collapsed building, only to find himself also trapped in your embrace.

warnings: both Shouto and reader are hurt pretty badly </3, blood, immediate threat of death lol?, description of a broken leg, mention of vomiting but it doesn’t happen and isn’t explicitly stated, this is cheesy and unedited

border by @cafekitsune :)

dedicated to andie if they happen to see it because I thought of them while writing my very first Shouto fic 💘

Whenever Shouto awakes, it’s to a pounding headache, intense pain throbbing along the right side of his body, flickering lights, and something soft holding him tightly.

Groggily, he opens his eyes, wincing as the flickering light blinds him for a second. There’s a steady drip drip drip of water falling onto concrete though it’s too dark to make out much of his surroundings as the light flickers off again. The last thing he remembers is coming to an office building, where a villain with an unknown quirk was holding people hostage. A teary sounding gasp makes him look upwards weakly, only now noticing he is laying down.

He sees your face for the first time then. Eyes puffy and red from crying, with a trail of blood dripping from your hairline and down your nose, past your lips to where it becomes smeared as you wipe it away hurriedly.

“You’re awake!”

Your voice is soft, and slightly trembling as you gaze at him with wide, wavering eyes. They’re very pretty, he thinks dazedly. Framed by wet lashes, he also thinks he could look into them forever. Shouto moves to shift only to have his vision flash as pain erupts like molten lava traveling down his side.

“D-don’t try to move! A beam fell on you before you passed out. You were barely able to get out from under it.”

Feeling woozy, Shouto has to close his eyes for a moment to keep the pain from escaping through his mouth. There’s a sickening crack, and he realizes he’s cradled in your arms whenever you whimper and pull him closer, so that his head is resting against your chest and you’re basically hovering over him. He hears rubble begin to hit to ground, and sees you flinch as some small bits of gravel bounce off your head and fall beside him. Your eyes are clenched shut, and a fresh line of blood runs down your face and drips onto his own. No rubble ever hits him.

He’s confused. Why is a civilian, a hurt one at that, putting their life at risk for a pro hero? He’s supposed to be protecting you, yet here you are shielding him with your soft body. He must make a noise, because suddenly you’re looking down at him again, eyes wide with concern, bravely holding back tears now that he is awake.

Softly, you move one of the hands you had cradling his head to wipe at the blood that has dripped onto his cheek. Apologizing quietly, you begin talking again, the almost whispers coming out of your mouth seemingly echoing through the space.

“Your walkie talkie still worked thankfully, for a little while. Deku is here, and so is Red Riot and Uravity. They should have us out of here in no time, so don’t worry ok! Dynamight is also here, but that’s more worrying than anything honestly.”

Shouto can’t help but laugh at your candor, wincing as it makes the pain throbbing through his body flash intensely. You pull him even closer in your lap, now petting his bangs soothingly. Your fingers are soft on his sweaty skin, and he almost purrs whenever you begin to trace the lines of his face in a mesmerizing manner. He doesn’t remember the last time he was comforted like this when he was hurt. Usually it’s himself alone in his untouched apartment, picking up the pieces and taping them back together. He can never quite get them to fit right.

“Are you hurt badly?” His gravely voice seems to surprise you, and quickly you shake your head. He sees you regret it instantly, as you wince harshly afterwards.

“Just my head, and my leg. But not nearly as bad as you are.”

Another crack shoots through the space, and you look up worryingly at the unsteady beams ominously hanging about you. Shouto can see them looming when the light flickers on again. He can also see you. You look a little rough, he’s not going to lie. But at this moment, he doesn’t think he’s seen anyone more beautiful. His own personal angel, sent to comfort him and protect him when he’s been hurt so badly he can’t move.

You make quiet conversation after that, trying to ignore the drips and the cracks. He learns that you’re an ordinary boring office worker, your words not his, but you like your job and your coworkers so it’s not that bad. You learn that Deku has been his best friend since their first year at U.A., and that friendship is still just as strong. He learns that you don’t particularly care for cold soba whenever he brings it up, which makes him look at you in mock horror. It’s funny, seeing the normally stoic hero make such an exaggerated face that you can’t help but giggle.

The conversation dies down after a sickening pop! is heard and suddenly sunlight blinds you both. Looking up, you see shocking red hair and sharp teeth grinning at you and feel relief course through your body. Shouto feels your body relax against his, though you don’t let go. Red Riot reaches for you, but you shake your head again.

“Take Shouto, take Shouto.”

As he is lifted from your arms and into his friends, he sees you smile at him tearfully and give him a little wave. He can see you fully now, and can also see how your leg is bent at such an unnatural angle it had to be agonizing for you, but he never once heard you complain. The last thing he sees before you’re out of sight is Bakugo lifting you into his arms, with a surprising gentleness, saying something that has you nodding before you rest your head on his bare shoulder, relieved tears flooding from your eyes.

A couple days later, as Shouto is scrolling aimlessly through his phone in his hospital bed, he sees a headline that makes him stop.

PRO HERO SHOUTO KEEPS CIVILIAN SAFE WHILE TRAPPED UNDER COLLAPSED BUILDING!

Thinking of your eyes, which so bravely stared into his own, he can’t help but disagree with the article. It was you who kept him safe.

ghostly | b. katsuki, k. eijirou

characters bakugou katsuki, kirishima eijirou, slight kaminari denki, mentioned shinsou hitoshi, reader prompt you were never one who believed in ghosts, not until you woke up and watched paramedics wheel out your dead body. tags major character death, minor angst, slowburn(ish), pining, no-quirks!au, slight uni!au, aged up characters (everyone is in their twenties) word count 7.6k author's note that's right !! it's ghostly rewritten hehe just like the old ver., there will be a second part to this :) i've also decided to make it a kiribaku fic instead of just kats bc i've hopped onto the kiribaku brainrot train

You were never one for superstitions. Your roommate and friend, Ochaco, was much the opposite. She’d freeze on the spot when a little black cat, a cat that you’re almost positive belongs to your neighbour, walks your path. You’ve seen her cry after accidentally dropping a hand mirror, bawling about bad luck and curses. Stuff like that just sounded implausible, ridiculous even.

To you, everything had a reasonable explanation. Creaky bedroom doors can be blamed on open windows and cool drafts. Sudden chills down the length of your spine are attributed to nothing more than a little anxiety. You never made fun of Ochaco or any of your other superstitious friends, but you couldn’t help but roll your eyes whenever it came up.

In your head, superstitions and ghost stories were nothing more than make-believe tales you would tell misbehaving children to scare them into being good. In your twenty-something years of living, you were sure that nothing could change your mind.

Well — almost nothing.

Almost nothing would have prepared you for that night. Everything had been normal. You fell asleep to the sounds of some Asian drama that Ochaco liked to watch. Sleep had come to you quickly as if you blinked into slumber. When the sun shone, and the birds outside sang, you weren’t sure what was happening.

You weren’t sure why Ochaco was screaming your name, violent sobs racking her body as she fell to her knees in your doorway. You weren’t sure why two strangers, paramedics, had come in with a gurney in hand. You most definitely weren’t sure why you were watching these paramedics yell at each other for tools as they tried to restart your heart. With the invisible hands of shock pressing against your pounding ears, the world faded away with your lifeless body.

You don’t know how long you stood there in the corner of your now-empty room. Aside from tossed blankets and dirty shoeprints on your carpet, nothing seemed out of the ordinary. It wasn’t until Ochaco came back in the dead of night that you moved. You came to her and begged for an explanation for her tear-stained cheeks.

You discovered that she couldn’t hear or see you early on. Though nothing could surpass the shock you felt when she seemed to walk straight through you. You thought to yourself that that had been enough of an explanation.

You stayed in your room. You didn’t have the strength to watch over your best friend, and she cried herself to sleep. It didn’t help. You could still hear the sound of her muffled sobs through thin walls.

It didn’t take long for Ochaco to move out. As much as you wanted her to stay, your begs falling on deaf ears, you knew it was for the best. It hurt you to see her fall into a depressive hole, a mere shadow of your bubbly best friend. If staying here with you, even if she didn’t know it, would help her, it became easier to stomach the sight of the moving truck towing her away.

You wanted to say goodbye. To walk her to the door and give her a hug. To tell her, ‘I wish you the best in life,’ since you weren’t offered that grace. When the day came for Ochaco to leave, you realized something bigger. You hovered behind her as she struggled with one last box and stepped out to follow her. Only — in the blink of an eye — the second your foot passed the threshold of the small apartment, you found yourself staring at your bedroom door instead of the outside.

You couldn’t leave.

Next to the living room window, you watched as the moving truck drove away, Ochaco’s face barely visible in the passenger’s seat. A looming dread pulled you deeper into the vacant apartment. You were stuck in the space where you took your last breath. 

You waved goodbye to no one at all.

...

You didn’t know how many days had passed since Ochaco left. Or how long it had been since you’d seen another living being. With her boxes, Ochaco took the puppy calendar from the wall, so you had no idea what day or month it was. The colourful leaves that fell to the dying grass gave you the indication that autumn was coming, a thought that made your stomach churn.

You had died when cherry blossoms bloomed outside your apartment.

Life as a ghost was empty. Of course, it was. With nothing else to do and no one to talk to, you focused on figuring out what limitations you had. After a while, you figure out how to conjure up enough energy to interact with things, even if for a blissful second. The day you were able to open Ochaco’s old door, you were ecstatic. Glee filled your unused heart and lungs with a warmth you hadn’t felt in a long while.

After a while, you get used to the vacancy. It was boring at first, but not so much after what you assumed was a year. Or maybe you just got used to the silence. You found entertainment in the living room window, finding joy in watching passersby. You even found an old magazine coated in dust and mildew under the sink.

You were in the middle of your third reread when you heard the familiar, yet oh-so-unfamiliar, sound of the front door clicking, and it was unlocked. You held your breath unknowingly, holding nothing in your lungs. You watched as your old landlord crept into the foyer. The crinkle of the magazine’s already wrinkled pages garnered her attention, prompting you to let go of it and hurriedly move into the corner of the room.

She didn’t see you, humming as she pushed up her 80s-style glasses. She came up to the kitchen counter, where you had been reading, and furrowed her brows in confusion at the sight. When she took it, a pout pulled at your lips, mumbling something about throwing it in the trash. There goes your only form of entertainment.

You could only watch in intrigue as she bustled around the tiny apartment, sweeping the floors and wiping dust off surfaces that no one but you has touched in a year. Some of you hoped that someone was moving in, but another felt tepid terror creep up the back of your neck. If someone were moving in, you wouldn’t be alone anymore. You couldn’t tell if that was a good thing or not.

Lo and behold, a few days later, the door clicked open again. This time, you stood in the foyer, watching with wide eyes as newcomers bounded into the space as if they owned it. You suppose they do now. There were three of them, one too many for such a cramped space, in your opinion. Something about them seemed familiar, you thought as you inspected them closely.

The first one to come in was tall. Like, very tall. His arms pushed against the confines of his bomber jacket, muscles seemingly aching to be rid of such restrictions. His hair, however, took up most of your attention. Bright ruby red, just like his wandering eyes, and spiked in all directions. If it were anyone else, you might’ve thought them to look stupid. On this man, oddly enough, the bold hairstyle looked good.

The next person to walk through the door was a little shorter than the first, though no less buff. His hair, just like the red one, was tousled. Blond strands stuck up almost at random, spikey and loud. His lips were tugged into a deep scowl as if he were being forced into the apartment. Although you called it cozy, you knew it was pretty fucking tiny, so you couldn’t blame him for the distaste that filled his expression as he gave the foyer a once over.

One more man walked in, all smiles and excitement. He was the shortest of the three, with longer blond hair. His hair was partially dyed, a charcoal lightning bolt sticking out like a sore thumb against his light hair. He pursed his lips as he whistled, dropping his duffle bag on the ground next to his abandoned shoes. “It’s a little small,” he piped as he bounded into the empty space.

You moved away, shivering as he brushed past you.

“But it’s nice, isn’t it, Kiri? I mean, look at that view!” With outstretched arms, he opened the balcony door with sparkling eyes. You stared out with him, eyes quickly growing bored with the sight you’d been forced to look at for god knows how long.

“Not to mention that group of cuties we saw in the lobby. Man — do you think the one with purple hair would agree to go on a date with me?”

The redhead, who you assumed was ‘Kiri,’ rolled his eyes as he kicked off his shoes. The spikey blond one was doing the same behind him. “No,” he smiled, revealing a row of shockingly sharp-looking teeth. “But you can try, dude. You’re right, though,” Kiri grinned as he came closer to the balcony. “Hanta would be downright jealous if he came over. This place is worlds better than his dumpster and at half the price.”

Kiri looked over his shoulder and eyed the grumpy one. “What do you think, Kats? Good enough for ya?”

‘Kats’ looked around, seemingly unimpressed. “Shit looks ancient,” he said, kicking the stove lightly. It groaned at the sudden aggression, only proving his point. You winced, biting your tongue. You and Ochaco had meant to replace that thing years ago, but you never found the spare money to do it between tuition and rent. “But I guess it is real fuckin’ cheap.”

You zoned out as the three of them gathered, talking with the landlord, who had also made an appearance. You stood in the kitchen, watching them curiously. Your eyes drifted over the four of them, the landlord’s back to you, examining their faces closely. When your gaze fell on Kats, who you’ve learned is actually named Katsuki, you gasped quietly. Red eyes bore into you for the briefest moment before he looked away.

Your jaw was left ajar as you stared at him hard. There was no way he could see you. No one had been able to see you thus far, so that little moment had to have been a coincidence. 

Right?

Katsuki didn’t say anything about you, nor did you ever meet his eyes again. You chalked it up to a weird coincidence. You knew it’d be in your throat if your heart could beat.

A week had passed — you counted — when the three boys finally moved in. Katsuki, Eijirou, and Denki, as you learned. You observed as they unpacked and got to know their personalities a bit more in the few moments they stayed in the main living areas. You didn’t dare breach the borders of their rooms, as if they’d catch you if you did. 

The first time Katsuki left his door open for you to peek in, you were shocked. Atop his pristinely clean desk (did he even have anything in the drawers?) was a singular framed photo. It seemed like a graduation photo; the familiar black gowns and gold sashes of Yuuei alumni hung around the necks of each person. You recognized Katsuki, Eijirou, and Denki immediately, but they weren’t the ones that surprised you. There were two more boys in the photo, one of which you knew quite well. Next to Katsuki, who had an arm around his shoulders, was Izuku. Your Izuku, your best friend besides Ochaco.

Your fingers itched to pick up the picture frame and inspect it in better lighting. Perhaps you were imagining things, or maybe the dim light of Katsuki’s room was messing with your vision. You rubbed your eyes once, then twice, but there was no doubt about it. You could hear Katsuki fumbling with his things behind you as you bounded into the room, impelled by the first bit of familiarity you’ve seen since Ochaco left. 

Words died on your tongue as you looked at Izuku’s smiling portrait, unspoken questions lodged deep in your throat. You spun around quickly, wanting to ask useless questions that would fall on deaf ears.

To your surprise, scarlet hues were staring back at you. Unlike before, his gaze was unwavering, looking at you rather than through you. Katsuki’s expression mirrored your own, rounded eyes and dropped jaws as you stared at each other in shock. You stumbled back as if he had punched you straight across the face, phasing through his desk — something you hadn’t done in months.

“You—” he choked out as he watched you appear in and out of his vision. He shut his eyes briefly before peeling them open, just barely catching the sight of you disappearing through the wall.

Appearing in your old bedroom, you held a hand over your heart. Even if it didn’t beat for you anymore, you still felt the nervous tugs at your chest as you gawked at nothing. He saw you. How was that possible? You’ve gone months without being seen, and suddenly you were visible?

As you wracked your brain for possible answers, the thud of a heavy object falling to the floor caught your attention. 

“What the hell…?”

Eijirou’s voice ripped you out of your stupor, his terse voice quickly boggled your mind. A dumbbell sat next to his feet, probably the thing he’d dropped. To your surprise, Eijirou was staring at you with an expression akin to Katsuki’s. You felt the ground spin beneath you as you flickered in and out of Eijirou’s view. Your knees buckled under the stress, and you felt yourself seemingly melting into the carpeted floor. “You…” you stuttered, “you can see me?”

Eijirou’s mouth fell open even wider at the sound of your voice. He turned on the spot and held his palms against his eyes. “I’m losing it,” he mumbled to himself, “truly. Man, I knew I shouldn’t have eaten Sero’s food. That dumbass probably put weed in it, and now I’m seeing people walk through walls. Yeah, that’s it. I’m not crazy. I’m just high.”

You reached out a feeble hand as if to appease his worries, though you were spiralling just as much. Not just one person had seen and talked to you for the first time in over a year, but now two? What’s next, Denki too?

The redhead continued to mutter to himself, eyes wide as his gaze flicked from the ground to you. You opened your mouth to say something, but the slam of Katsuki’s door against the wall interrupted you. It wasn’t long before Katsuki made an appearance in the doorway, a glower in his eyes when they met yours. “You see her too, right?” he presumed, a slight growl to his words as he sneered at you.

Eijirou looked up at his friend before whipping his head back to you, tresses of red falling into his eyes. “Too?!” he repeated. “Dude, are you high too?”

Compelled by the commotion, Denki opened the adjacent door with a frown. “You guys got high without me?” he asked with a pout before his gaze landed on you. “And you have a cute girl over? You guys always do all the fun stuff without me.” You couldn’t move, glued to the floor in astonishment. Denki maneuvered his way around the two and towards you, ignoring Katsuki and Eijirou’s words of caution and disapproval. “Hey, pretty, I’m Kaminari, but you can call me—”

His hand phased through your shoulder, sending him tumbling through you and onto the ground.

There was a pause, the tense air growing thick around your unused lungs.

“What the fuck?!”

Your eyes widened as you hastily moved so Denki wasn’t lying where you stood, feeling the telltale signs of nausea as you moved through him. “Wait! I can explain!” you rushed out, making a noise of terror when Denki’s eyes rolled back and his body went limp. “Oh my god, he passed out,” you gaped. You reached for him, flinching when Katsuki barked at you to stay where you were.

As told, you held your hands against your body tightly, shuffling so you were in the furthest corner of the room. You watched with trembling eyes as Katsuki moved to pick up Denki, willing your mouth to stay closed when he hauled him over his shoulder like a bag of rice. Without breaking a sweat, he locked eyes with you. His stare was intimidating, deep reds boring into your very soul deeper and deeper with every passing second. Behind him, Eijirou placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s go out into the living room, Kats,” he said, almost breathlessly, as his eyes stayed on you. “We can put Denki on the couch and… and figure out what’s happening here.” He swallowed thickly, ignoring your look of gratitude as he made his way out of the room. Katsuki followed, his sock-clad feet hitting the ground. It was almost deafening in the silence of the room.

When you didn’t move, he scowled over his shoulder at you. “Well, ghosty? You coming or what?”

“Yes,” you stammered, quickly urging your legs to move. You kept your distance, pausing a few meters away from Katsuki. His eyes narrowed at you before he clicked his tongue, exiting the room first.

The three of you sat in the living room, waiting for Denki to wake up. Again, you stood in the far corner of the room, though it was clear that they had made room for you on the loveseat. Your lips were sealed, glancing between the three of them guiltily. Eijirou and Katsuki whispered things to each other, the latter sounding much harsher than the prior. You didn’t need perfect hearing to know what Katsuki was saying.

After what felt like eons, Denki came to his senses and awoke with a stir. Eijirou was quick to check up on the blond, asking if he was okay. When Denki hummed, slowly sitting upright, all attention turned to you. You unknowingly flinched, backing up into the corner further.

Eijirou gestured for you to talk while Katsuki crossed his arms as he stared at you, scrutinizing you. You cleared your throat before briefing them on the fact that you were dead and couldn’t leave the apartment no matter how hard you tried. “Please don’t move out because of me,” you frowned, hugging your middle tightly as you tried to make yourself seem smaller in the corner. “I’ll stay out of your way, I promise. I won’t haunt you or whatever, like in the movies. I’m not out to kill anyone either—”

“Oi,” Katsuki’s harsh voice interrupted your rambles. “Dumbass. You lived here before, didn’t ya? You should know that the old hag has residents sign a shitty two-year lease. We can’t leave either, and we aren’t a bunch of pussies to run away with our tails behind our legs just ‘cause someone can walk through walls or some shit.”

In contrast to his words, Denki still looked a little pale.

“Kats is right,” Eijirou injected, offering you the first smile directed to you in a year. “So long as ya don’t haunt us, I’m okay with you being here! Just… uh, warn us? When you’re going to walk through walls and stuff.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “Kinda scared the shit out of me personally when you did it earlier.”

Snapping out of his daze, Denki nodded enthusiastically. “I’d never complain about a cutie like you living with us! Ghost or not!”

You were a bit weary at his enthusiasm but nodded in thanks. “I’m sorry. This probably wasn’t what you expected when you moved here. If I could leave, I’d be out of your hair as soon as possible, really.”

Katsuki rolled his eyes, slouching against the back of the couch. He clicked his tongue at you, the ever-present frown on his face remaining steady. “‘S not like you could tell the old hag or anything that you were still here. Stop apologizing and just stay outta the way, got it?”

You bit the inside of your cheek as you nodded.

After that day, you found yourself growing closer to the three. You didn’t have much choice in the predicament; you were practically roommates after all, but you let them come to you first, not wanting to scare them off. You made easy friends with Eijirou after you managed to convince him that you were, in fact, the real deal and not an afterthought from the result of an edible. It took him reaching through you a few times and a couple of waves of nausea, but it got through to him eventually.

Denki was also easier to get close to, eventually warming up to you and growing past his fear. You eventually bonded over his (not so) minor crush on a neighbour a floor above, someone you actually knew.

“No way,” you scoffed in disbelief, an amused grin tugging at your lips as you crossed your arms at Denki. “You like Shinsou? Mr. Eye-bags? Mr. I-haven’t-slept-in-ten-years-and-now-that’s-your-problem?”

Denki’s face had burned redder than Eijirou’s ears as he shushed you as if Shinsou would be able to hear through the walls. You’ve interacted with Shinsou a fair bit since you moved into the apartment building, a result of Ochaco making it a personal mission to befriend everyone in the goddamned building. You knew his type. When you let Denki in on the type of flowers he liked and the music he listened to, Denki tried to hug you. You couldn’t help but laugh at his tossed hair, dumb-faced as he winced away the pain. 

He deemed you the best ‘wingman from another dimension,’ the wordy nickname earning a snort from Katsuki when the blond announced it proudly. On the other hand, Eijirou pouted at getting his spot taken away. “I thought I was your best wingman?” he whined, the kicked-puppy look feeling out of place for a man of his impressive stature.

“‘Course you are! But you’re the best wingman from this dimension,” Denki refuted.

“Yer’ all dumbasses, that’s what.”

Out of the three, Katsuki was difficult. You hadn’t expected any differently, learning very quickly how hard it is to get close to the man. Even as days grew colder and the windows began to frost over, it was clear that Katsuki wasn’t trying to make friends with you. Admittedly, you tried. Seeing him joke around, albeit aggressively, with the others, it was obvious that the hardheaded male was a real softie for his friends beneath all those curse words. But whenever you tried striking up a conversation with him, you’d either get no response, or he’d tell you to ‘shut up and leave him the fuck alone.’

You persisted, though. When he’d get home from university, you’d ask him how his day went, only to get his room door slammed in your face, the lock clicking moments after. It didn’t deter you much, physically anyway, since you could just walk through. However, you respected him enough to leave him be after that, opting to walk away with a pout.

There were days, however, when he was nice to you.

Old Christmas songs vibrated in your throat as you hummed, helping Eijirou and Denki put up lights. Katsuki was in his room, opting out of the festive activities because it was ‘stupid and fuckin’ childish.’ Eijirou’s speaker was propped up against the base of the TV, skipping every now and then with how old the device was.

As you floated higher to the ceiling, a feat you recently discovered you could do due to some curious inquiries Eijirou had, you lined the living room with the glittery gold tinsel with much effort. Interacting with physical objects was still just as tiring.

From below, you heard Denki drawl out a swear. “I forgot to buy gifts,” he whined, clumsily getting off the couch and walking over to where his coat hung in the foyer, digging around the pockets for his wallet. “I’ll be back. I think I saw a scarf I think Shinsou might like…”

Although he rolled his eyes in disbelief, Eijirou got to his feet and sauntered to the blond. “I’ll come with. We ran out of gift wrap, and Mr. Grouch in there didn’t wanna grab some while he was getting groceries,” he huffed, nodding over at Katsuki’s room. He looked over his shoulder at you for a moment, pausing before offering you one of the bright smiles you had grown to love. “We’ll be back. We’re pretty much done anyway. You can leave the lights for us, yeah? You’ve been working hard all day.”

True to his words, you were dead tired — no pun intended. Hanging up all the decorations would’ve tired you when you were still breathing, but mustering up the energy to do it felt like a tonne of bricks on your shoulders. Smiling, you nodded, falling onto the bauble-covered loveseat. “Will do.”

Eijirou laughed quietly at your expression before turning around and leaving with Denki. When you heard the soft click of the door, you turned your attention to the box of lights. You occupied yourself with untangling them — still tiring, but not as bad as hanging them up. As much as you would’ve loved to sleep, the task was out of your reach. While you could feel tired enough to hibernate for a year, you couldn’t fall asleep. Not being able to rest in the arms of slumber was infuriating at first, but you had gotten used to it.

Sucked into the task, you didn’t notice the snow outside falling. In the morning, it had been a light dusting. A thin veil of white covered the ground, enough to tell you that winter had arrived but not enough to raise concern. But now, as the sun set behind clouds of grey and black, it fell to the Earth mercilessly. Raging winds slapped against the old siding of the apartment building. The howls of wind that once had little effect on you made you flinch.

You eyed the blanket of white outside warily, jumping when the windows shook with the vicious gales screaming outside.

“Never thought I’d see a fuckin’ ghost scared of a little wind.”

You jumped. “Katsuki!” you harshly breathed, his sudden presence scaring the shit out of you. “Warn a girl next time, please.” Weakly glaring at him, you moved far away from the window. Small tremors coursed through your body as you willed for them to go away. The last thing you wanted was to look weak in front of Katsuki, the one man who would never let go of the sight of you cowering in fear because of a storm.

He studied your face for a moment longer before scowling. “C’mon, dumbass,” he grumbled, walking away. He reached his bedroom, stilling his hand over the knob as he looked over his shoulder to where you stood. You hadn’t moved. “Are you coming or what?”

Snapping out of your surprised stupor, you dumbly followed, trudging into his room only to jump into him when another round of harsh winds screeched at the apartment. Or rather, you jumped through him. His face turned a little green, waves of nausea seemingly drowning him for a moment before he shook it off. “Careful, dumbass.”

You watched as he grabbed his laptop off of his desk, haphazardly unplugging it before flopping onto his bed, perusing Netflix with a bored expression. Watching you from his peripheral, he clicked his tongue, a habit you noticed he did whenever he was annoyed. “Sit down. It’s fuckin’ creepy when ya just stand there like a ghost.”

“... Katsuki. I am a ghost.”

“Shut the fuck up, you know what I mean.”

Giggling, you made your way over to the edge of the bed, watching over his shoulder as he put on some movie you’ve never heard about. “It’s new,” Katsuki mumbled when he caught your intrigued expression. “Shitty Hair kept going on and on ‘bout how good it is. Something about some rich assholes who have a person living in their basement. Bunch’a dumbasses if you ask me. How can you go years without knowing there’s someone in your fuckin’ house?”

You chuckled at his displeasure but eyed the screen with interest. You hadn’t watched a movie in so long.

…

Eijirou and Denki stood before the bed, flabbergasted at the sight before them. End credits music quietly poured out of Katsuki’s laptop, the dark screen dimly lighting the otherwise pitch-black room. Katsuki was under the blankets, pulled up to his chin as he snored quietly. Eijirou’s eyes trained on his friend’s expression; the usual sneer or irritation that twisted his face wasn’t there. Instead, his features relaxed into neutrality. He smiled at the sight before his gaze fell on you. 

You sat up against the wall, looking up at him with warm cheeks. Katsuki’s hand, the only part of him that left the blanket aside from his head, was placed over yours as if he’d fallen asleep like that.

“You like him,” Denki mumbled after a while, tearing his gaze off of your ‘connected’ hands. “You like Katsuki, don’t you?”

Eijirou’s eyes widened as he nudged Denki, a silent way of telling him to shut up, something you quietly thanked him for. The sound of Katsuki groaning awake stopped the three of you, holding your breath as you all watched him shift under the covers. He simply rolled onto his side, his back facing the room to your relief.

Denki rubbed the back of his neck. “Isn’t that kind of pointless, though? You’re dead, and he’s not. ‘S not like you could get together or anything,” he wondered aloud with a shrug as if he hadn’t just pierced your heart. Eijirou was quick to smack his shoulder lightly, scolding him for being rude, but it was too late. The words had already settled into your head.

“Yeah,” you mumbled, staring at your joined hands before moving off the bed. “It is kind of pointless.” You cleared your throat before offering the boys your best smile. “I’m gonna go on the balcony for a second. It’s… nice to see the snow.” Without much else, you left the room by phasing through the wall, something you hadn’t done since they moved in.

Denki blinked at where you used to sit. “Did I say something wrong?” he asked Eijirou, who pinched the bridge of his nose with an exasperated sigh.

“Maybe a little,” he sighed, pushing his red locks out of his face. “Don’t wake Kats. I’ll go talk to them.” Denki frowned as he watched the redhead leave the room, a slight shake to his head as his shoulders heaved in a sigh. The blond was left to his thoughts, promptly taking a seat on Katsuki’s desk chair as he mulled over his words.

Your name left Eijirou’s mouth in whispers, his eyes searching for your presence when he made it to the living room. He saw you, barely, sitting on a stool out on the balcony. The awning, thankfully, kept the balcony mostly clear of snow. For a moment, he didn’t dare come closer, holding his breath as if interrupting you was sin itself. His garnet eyes bore into the expanse of your back, your shoulders curving as you tried to make yourself smaller. Your legs were up on the stool, your arms dangling over your knees limply. 

The snow fell around you like gently dancing fairies, twisting and twirling as flakes of white made their way to the ground below. The street lamps barely illuminated the scene, leaving you to bask in the dim lighting. Eijirou swallowed thickly, gently tapping on the sliding door with his knuckles. He waited for you to turn your head before he slid it open.

You watched him with an unsteady gaze as he made himself comfortable beside you, leaning his forearms on the railing and staring outwards into the white abyss. A few snowflakes managed to make their way under the awning, landing on his freckled cheeks and melting just as fast as they’d come. 

Your eyes fell, tracing over his arms. The t-shirt he wore did little to protect him from the cold that you were immune to; raised skin gave away how frigid he was. “You don’t have to stay out here with me,” you all but mumbled as you nustled your nose into your crossed arms. “I know you’re cold.”

Eijirou smiled at you over his shoulder almost bashfully. “It’s a little chilly. Nothing I can’t handle, though, so don’t worry about it,” he chuckled at you, closing his eyes as he relished in the silence of winter. You looked at him passively before averting your gaze, picking at your nails that never seemed to grow.

“I’m sorry about Denki. What he said was out of pocket,” Eijirou whispered, his voice just barely carrying over to you. He stayed leaning over the railing for a moment longer before he settled down beside you, sitting on the balcony floor with his back to the door. When you met his eyes once more, you could see the sincerity floating around in those ruby reds.

You frowned, biting at your lip as you stared at the snow. You missed how his eyes followed the movement. “He’s right, though.” You sighed, nestling yourself further into your arms. “I don’t actually have a crush on Katsuki,” you explained, “the way you guys found us was really just a coincidence. I was more… embarrassed, I guess, to be caught like that. Like we were two awkward teenagers dancing around our feelings.”

Eijirou’s fingers twitched as he resisted the urge to reach out to you, instead nodding in an attempt to get you to continue. When you did, his eyes remained on you as you spoke, hanging onto every utterance. “I felt normal,” you laughed. It was an empty laugh, the supposed amusement in your statement gone. “For a moment, I forgot I was, y’know, dead. It was nice. Really nice. What Denki said wasn’t out of pocket at all. He was just reminding me of the truth.”

Eijirou’s frown deepened, his chest tight as he inched closer to you. “You deserve to feel normal.” He mumbled your name once more, making you look at him. Even sitting on the stool with Eijirou on the floor, he was almost at eye level with you. 

“Maybe. But normal hasn’t been an option for me for a while now.” You offered him a weak smile, but it didn’t meet your eyes like it normally did. If Eijirou noticed the unshed tears that lined your eyes, he didn’t comment on them. “What does it feel like? The snow, I mean.”

At that, Eijirou tilted his head in confusion. “What do you mean?”

You swallowed before looking up at the night sky, an endless abyss of obsidian lined with white. “I used to hate the snow. Would dread the thought of going outside whenever it stormed like this. Whenever it started snowing, I’d get really miserable. ‘Chaco would have to deal with my mood swings, but we always made it work. Had a lot of movie nights with hot chocolate and stuff,” you drawled on; the memories of your best friend sent a painful pang to your chest.

“But now… I guess I just wish that I didn’t take feeling for granted. I can interact with things, yeah, but I can’t really feel what I touch. I’ve been trying to remember what snow feels like since it started storming.”

You realized you were rambling on and looked at Eijirou bashfully. “Sorry! You can honestly ignore me. It’s a stupid question anyways—”

“It feels like the night after Christmas. When everyone’s opened their gifts, and they’re full of all the good food. The lights are still up, but you know the day has passed. It feels like that night when you’re curled up in your blankets, but you can still feel the cold from outside,” Eijirou’s voice came out quietly, almost shy, as he reached out with his hand. You watched as each snowflake drifted peacefully onto his fingertips before melting away.

“It feels like holding someone’s hand on a cold day or giving them a hug. It’s cold, but something about it makes you feel all warm inside. Kinda like drinking hot chocolate when it’s storming.”

The two of you sat there for a while as his words lingered in the air. Eijirou avoided your stare, the tips of his ears growing bright red — though you weren’t sure if it was from embarrassment or from the cold. You felt your eyes sting as emotions bubbled in your throat, a look of nostalgia painting over your features as you closed your eyes to imagine the scenes he had described.

When you didn’t speak, Eijirou glanced at you from the corner of his eye, mouth opening when he realized there were tears flowing down your cheeks. He uttered your name as gently as the snowflakes that fell around you. You finally opened your eyes, taking a deep breath as you gave him the first genuine smile since you went onto the balcony.

“Thank you,” you murmured, grinning widely despite your tears. “The snow is really beautiful tonight.”

Eijirou let himself smile at the sight of your joy. He nodded, leaning against the glass as he looked out into the storm with you.

“Yeah. It really is.”

...

After that night, not much else changed. Katsuki was none the wiser about what had happened, and you didn’t plan on letting him in on it either. You still got along with Eijirou and Denki, though it was slightly tense between you and the latter for about a day before he crumbled. He came to you with teary eyes, apologizing on his knees for saying something so insensitive. Even when you assured him it was okay, he promised to make it up to you somehow. Eijirou, who was watching the whole thing, had belly laughed at how much grovelling Denki had done.

You tried to remain the same around Katsuki, who apparently didn’t remember anything about holding your hand when Eijirou teased him about it after the whole thing. “His hand just fell there, and you came in at the same time,” you argued weakly when the redhead brought it up. “We weren’t holding hands. We can’t anyway.” You winced at how you spoke. Bitter feelings you had tried to push away had bubbled to the surface. You didn’t miss how Eijirou and Katsuki eyed you curiously at the comment.

“How was school?” you asked for the nth time when Eijirou and Katsuki got home from their first day of classes after the winter break. They shook off the snow from their hair, reminding you of dogs as you laughed quietly at them. “The apartment is so boring without you guys here,” you pouted. “I’m abandoned every day.” To prove your point, you fell dramatically over the armrest of the couch, covering your eyes with the back of your hand.

Eijirou only laughed at your antics, mumbling something about taking a shower as he dumped his bag against the couch. He sent you a toothy grin before disappearing down the hallway. Katsuki, on the other hand, rolled his eyes at you, throwing his bag against the couch as he made his way to his room. You followed behind, waiting for him to answer your question.

“It’s the same thing every time. Dunno’ why you bother asking,” he grumbled. You paused in the doorway, waiting for the slam of the door in your face that awaited you every day. Without fail, he shut the door behind him. You hummed as you rocked on your heels, waiting for the telltale click of his lock.

When a minute of silence passed, you realized he didn’t lock the door.

He didn’t the day after that, the next day, or the next. Realizing the trend, you grinned ear to ear when Katsuki slammed the door in your face. Easily phasing through the old wood, you smiled at the sight of him hunched over his chair, homework for the night laid out neatly. “You want me here!” you exclaimed, pointing at the door. “You didn’t lock it!”

Katsuki only peered at you, the faintest hint of exasperation on his face, before he clicked his damn tongue again. “You’re so fuckin’ slow, ya know that?”

...

Months passed by, with you getting closer to each of the boys. True to his word, Denki made it up to you by serenading you with his electric guitar. Much to your delight, he sang a song you mentioned liking a few weeks prior. Apparently, he had been sneaking off to a certain purple-haired neighbour’s apartment to practice. He treated you like his little sibling, and you were overjoyed with the new development.

Eijirou, ever the gentleman, always ensured he was spending time with you when he wasn’t busy working out or in class. At some point, you even realized that you had taken some of the classes he was struggling with, and it became routine to tutor him through the content. He was vigilant in making sure you never really felt alone in the apartment, always including you in game nights and movie nights. He had even brought home bouquets from time to time after learning that you liked watching them bloom. It reminded you of spring.

To an outsider, your friendship with Katsuki hadn’t developed at all. He was as aloof as ever, still blowing up over tiny things. It was odd to go a day without one of his outbursts. It was more amusing to you than anything, watching the man lose his mind over Denki’s mismatched socks or Eijirou’s hair. But in truth, you got along in silence. He kept his door unlocked and never argued when you’d spend a couple of hours reading one of his novels on his bed as he studied at his desk. He wasn’t even mad when you interrupted his schoolwork to rant about a drama you had been watching.

They were all out, either in class or bustling about town. Birds sang outside the window as you stared at them longingly. The snow had begun to melt earlier that week, and the sounds of children going outside to play started resonating in the air again. 

It was almost your two-year death anniversary. By your request, the boys had pinned a calendar to the living room wall, and you felt odd knowing the date was soon approaching. Almost two years after your death, you found yourself wanting to go out into the world so desperately for the first time in a while. Throughout the winter, you were content. Old habits rang true as you found no issue in holing up inside. But now, as the snow melted away and flowers began to bloom, you really started to miss being alive.

You missed going for walks to clear your head before exams. You missed going to bars with your friends. You missed studying at the cafe downstairs with Ochaco when you both had days off. You even missed having to run for the bus because the driver was too cranky to wait even after seeing you running to the stop.

There was a brief thought, a flicker of uncertainty and festering insecurity that filled you as your eyes landed on the calendar again.

You lived here before, didn’t ya? You should know that the old hag has residents sign a shitty two-year lease.

You wondered if the boys would leave you alone when spring came around once more.

The front door clicked as it swung open, but you paid no heed to whoever entered, staring out the balcony doors. Your silhouette was outlined by the stark brightness outside, from the shining sun and the remaining kisses of snow. You didn’t even look up when you felt the couch dip beside you.

Your name left Eijirou’s lips, prompting you to finally tear your gaze off of the coming spring. When you looked at him, his expression was pulled taut, as if he had been delivered awful news. Your eyes drifted beyond him, at Katsuki, who stood at the foot of the couch with a similar look.

You frowned, worry easing you out of your reverie. “What’s wrong?” you asked, reaching out to hold Eijirou’s cheek as you glanced at the two. Your hand stopped an inch short of its goal. “Did something happen? Are you hurt? Where’s Denki?”

Katsuki halted your slew of questions with a simple statement. “We ran into Round Face today on the way home.”

You blinked.

“Ochaco,” Eijirou corrected, his low voice ringing in your ear. His warm breath fanned across your cheek. “You said she was your old roommate before.” You felt your mouth go dry as you looked into Eijirou’s eyes, silently willing him to continue. “I… We asked her about… how you died.”

You felt the world stop. You tensed, your hands clenching into fists at your sides as you rose from the couch. You backed away subconsciously. “You what?” your voice barely broke a whisper, your lips curling into a frown. You never explicitly told the three about how you died. You didn’t really know how either — you had been too shocked at the time to hear what the professionals had to say when they found your body. There hadn’t been any blood, and your body hadn’t been injured, so you always assumed you had a stroke in your sleep or suffered from an aneurysm.

Katsuki furrowed his brows as he stared at you, focusing on the fuzzy image of your presence and how he could see through you slightly.

“You aren’t dead,” he spoke clearly, a hint of disbelief behind his crude tone. “You’re at the Musutafu Hospital right now, in a coma.”

turn me like a beast / hold you to the floor

tags: nanami kento x reader, princess!reader, violence, injuries (minor), non-graphic descriptions of hunting, medium burn, sort of enemies to lovers but mostly scared strangers to unfortunate lovers, the fall of a dynasty, character death (sorry), reincarnation, bittersweet ending. mdni.

wc: 6.5k ish

notes: for @medusashima’s collab—indulging myself (and y’all) in my take on one of my favorite stories. i hope you like it 💘 this is based on the tale of the two fossils found wrapped up in each other in an unlikely pairing (which is made even better by the fact that it is not fiction and it happened!! love is real nerd!!). there’s a really phenomenal webtoon called burrow (by saige9) that makes me cry and that y’all should read immediately. anyway, enjoy. love u

summary: the world is at its end, and an unlikely pair finds solace in each other. to love is an animal thing.

it shocks you, how gentle a tug it takes to unravel everything that you were. only a thing between two others—before: a princess on a hill, the unraveling, and who you’ll be after.

your feet stomp clumsily over dirt and jagged rock—softened soles split open easily with each stride. but, ever your grandmother's frightened little rabbit, not even that searing pain is enough to thwart you in your descent down the hill—away from what is surely certain death. nothing but the animal need to survive pushing you forward—to get to whatever comes next.

it happened too fast—the only way a dynasty can fall to those privileged enough not to notice the slow decline of the society around them until it's too late. your family spoke of pockets of uprisings as if they were fictitious and theoretical—some grandiose, far away prediction of the old crone that haunted the village below your compound, and certainly not the men concealed by shade of trees that had been pruned by your family for centuries, salivating but patient for the perfect moment to strike.

and then they were dead. all of them but you.

a childhood of exploring the grounds of your family home proves useful in knowing without much thought which paths lead farthest from the carnage at your back, but your fright makes you uncoordinated—mechanical in your stride. the price to stop for even a second is far too high, and the hounds that howl after you in the dark serve as a constant reminder of the consequence of hesitation. so, bruised and bleeding, you keep on.

you run until your lungs threaten to collapse and then on farther. your feet carry you through unfamiliar wood, but in your rush, your brain rationalizes that the repercussions of trespassing cannot be much worse than what's behind you. and that seems to be the truth—right up until the real consequence drops out of the tree above you and pins you to the earth below, a blade to your throat.

gritted teeth snap too close to your face. you hear a deep voice—maybe a deeper threat, something to raise the hair on the back of your neck if you could only focus on the words. the world spins and your mind struggles to make sense of the sudden stop in motion, but something far more animal inside you decides that it's had enough. against any remaining survival instinct, you feel all tension bleed from your body—the stranger's face comes into clearer view right as you go limp underneath him. resignation wins out—your limbs wouldn't move if you pleaded with them to.

blond eyebrows meet hairline as your attacker is caught off guard by your forfeiture. "what are you—"

once distant howls growing nearer cut him off. he looks over his shoulder, eyes narrowed at something he cannot yet see. you watch from outside yourself as he turns back toward you. dark eyes meet your own and you see the decision make itself—in one instant you are free of his bodyweight, and in the next you are weightless as he hauls you over his shoulder.

he makes it no more than 10 feet down the path before the last bit of adrenaline leaves you and is replaced by a sudden, blinding pain with no identifiable source. you feel it everywhere—all of the seemingly inconsequential injuries catching up with you now that you've stopped moving. the receding tree line is the last thing you see before the world goes dark.

.

..

the warmth that surrounds you is decadent. you curl into it, reluctant to break the spell of sleep. but then you remember.

you shoot upright, sending at least three layers of blankets rolling off of you. you pinch the fabric of the top one between your fingers—alpaca. not native, but farmed here over the last century or so. you know (and had been told) that it was unbecoming of a princess to hold so much commonplace knowledge. but then again, status matters little now, and this blanket is soft. you're grateful to know the beast it was made from.

it hurts, but you coax your head into swiveling around to survey your surroundings, surprised when you find that it's very clearly someone's home. it's old—some of the wooden boards that line the walls have started to bow against the nails that drove them into the framework of the house, and daylight peaks through the cracks. the bed you rest in can barely be called that—an old futon cushion atop bundles of straw. but it's warm, and you slept. someone has been taking care of you. the thought is sobering; the anxiety that comes with it is enough to hold you to the bed for the foreseeable future.

but your stomach growls, and the bodily betrayal forces you to move. you do it slowly, kicking both feet out from under the blankets. to see them bandaged is startlingly unexpected.

your memories until now are fuzzy at best, but the last thing you distinctly recall is the feeling of sharpened metal biting into your skin. there are few ways you can fathom connecting the dots from that moment to this—swaddled in blankets with your wounds tended to. it leaves you on edge.

on two feet, you sway a bit—the hunger feeds the vertigo that spins the surroundings in your peripheral. one hand braced on the bed now behind you, you blink until things settle. you take a step forward, and the pain is shocking—your feet are clearly more injured than they'd felt at the time, but there is only one way out of this room. you press on.

the heavy wooden door opens into a one room cottage. it's old, and not in the well-loved and well-lived way—the dilapidated structure and lack of any real homely qualities tells you immediately that it's current inhabitant is more of a recent opportunist than a longtime homemaker. that distinction mattered little now, though, and you suppose you should be grateful for your stranger's resourcefulness.

you creep further into the room without a sound until you find yourself in the middle of it. crouched and defensive, until the realization hits you—you see all four walls and are perplexed to find that you are completely alone.

the room is little more than a crooked wooden table and a futon pad on the floor. there are remnants of a fireplace in the center of the room—mortar and brick crumbling up wooden slats toward the roof, but still useful with still-burning embers inside. truly, it's more primitive than livable—there are weapons and tools strung up along the wooden panels of the walls, and animal hides hang in any space between metal and wood. but it's warm, and it's a reminder of what is at stake. what should spur anxiety brings only confusion—when cost of survival is so high, why add another body to the burden?

you forget yourself until the heavy fall of footsteps outside the door reignites your adrenaline. you watch, wide eyed and frozen, as the door picks a fight with whoever is on the other side of it. a weight smacks solidly into it once, twice, and a third time before it opens with a heavy groan. in the daylight, your captor is revealed to you.

hard eyes widen slightly at the sight of you, and then narrow in suspicion. you're still as he takes in all of you, and suddenly very aware of the nightgown you escaped your home in, still hanging off your body. you fight the urge to withdraw into yourself—you know it’s not the time to cower.

he eyes you for a moment more, and then drops a heavy pack on the floor next to him, and busies himself with unloading. you watch as he pulls out tools that look unfamiliar to you—though you suppose any tool would. it's not as if you or your family ever had a need for them.

you watch him work and are surprised to find that he's...handsome. jaw set at a hard angle with scars that wrap around the slope of one side, he's rugged in a way you'd never been taught to find appealing. he is unlike the men that sought after your hand with promises of riches and comfortable living. he is unlike anyone you've seen before, truthfully.

"um—"

"is there something you need?"

his coldness stuns you for a moment. you're not sure what you were expecting—you'd no real reason to anticipate any kindness from the man, but the care by which your feet were wrapped had led your mind in that foolish direction anyway.

you fight the urge to draw your limbs into yourself like a startled turtle. "oh—i just. wanted to thank you, i suppose. for helping me."

he looks up from his sorting to meet your eyes, and the disdain in them feels like a physical wound. he drops the tool in his hand with a sharp thud against the floor, and it makes you jump.

"once you've healed, you will leave."

you exhale sharply. it makes sense, of course—it is no small ask of him to allow you to stay even until you're healed. even so, the reality of the world that awaits you carries a weight to it—it lurks around the periphery of the tiny cabin, waiting for you to poke your head out.

then comes the loss—the blood that still stains your fingertips and the hem of your nightgown. you bow your head—out of shame or grief, you're not sure—and turn on your heel, right back into the room you came from. you shut the door behind you quietly, and you don't make it to the bed. you sink to your haunches and gravity pins you there, head in hands as your mind reintroduces you to each of the ghosts that now have a tight grip on both your ankles.

.

..

it's dark when you emerge, once again driven by hunger or thirst, or some other base need to stay alive despite every glaring sign not to.

you commit yourself to stealth—to staying out of your stranger's way, as much as you can before you take your leave. the dark of the cabin hides you in your trek out of your hiding place—unfortunately, it also hides the solid object on the floor, laid directly in front of your door. your foot catches it and it clangs, the metallic echo ringing in your ears.

you curse under your breath, bending down to feel around in the blackness for whatever you hit. you startle when your fingers hit something unexpectedly soft. you squint, and suck in a breath when you realize what you're holding—a piece of bread. rather, half of a loaf, with a cut of meat nearby, on the metal plate that you’d kicked. you blink, like if you do it enough, the mirage will dissipate and leave only dark wood behind. but it doesn't—the bread gives some as your fingers squeeze around it as if to test it's trustworthiness. you decide to stop looking the gift horse in its mouth, and recede back the dark of your room, food in hand.

.

..

oddly enough, it becomes a regular occurrence. you grow accustomed to expecting a plate of food by your door every night—a seemingly ironic luxury, given your reality now. you hardly see your stranger—you've no idea when he has the opportunity to leave food by your door unnoticed, give his penchant for absence. puzzling still is that the food you're given varies, as if he intends for you to have a fully balanced diet in the middle of a societal collapse.

he doesn’t stop at the food, either—after a few nights spent in your room, he makes his first real appearance in the daylight. a knock at your door rouses you from what’s become a habit of mid-afternoon naps, in lieu of staring at the splintered walls of what was quickly beginning to feel like a cage instead of a place of healing. you pull the door open to find your stranger towering over you—leering down at you with the same discontent he had before. only now, he holds something in his hands, and extends them to you.

“there’s a stream at the edge of the boundary.”

he thrusts what’s in his hands to yours, and you realize that it’s clothing—not in the best shape, but certainly better than the blood-crusted nightgown you still wear. he says no more, and for once you’re grateful for his curt demeanor. he turns on his heel and stalks out of the cabin, back to whatever the outside world has to offer him. after a moment, you follow his path, for the first time since you’d arrived.

it stuns you for a moment, how sinister the land looked in the dark, and how different it looks now. the sun shines hot down on the wheatgrass that sways gently in the breeze. it picks up a lock of your hair and you feel lighter with it.

you walk where you assume you should—down a thinly-worn path between the grass. you find it eventually: a small stream, just wide and deep enough for you to bathe in if you crouch. you turn your head to each side, squinting in your search for prying eyes—you find no one, but it’s still wholly uncomfortable to undress in the open like this.

your reservations leave you the minute you step into the water. warmed by the sun with a sweeping current, you let out a guttural moan that would’ve certainly earned you a chastising from your grandmother for its crudeness. you can’t help it—the caked on dirt and grime dissolves under your fingers and leaves you feeling better than you ever have. there is a slight sting in the soles of your feet—that it is slight is surprising to you, and a harrowing reminder of the clock that continues to tick out of your favor.

.

..

days bleed into weeks. your feet heal earlier than you expect them too, and the guilt you carry is worse than the wound. you know you’ve reached the end of your stay, but you can’t get yourself to leave. not when your stranger still insists on taking care of you. the anticipation is sickening—instead of sitting and waiting to be shooed away, you decide to earn your stay. hard work for someone who’d never worked a day, but the determination proves stronger than the fatigue.

you clean. it’s the only thing you can think to do, and truthfully, it’s necessary. you haul water in old containers on your shoulder from the stream, and you wash the dust away until the floors shine and the windows are clear again. you do this everyday—finding something to clean and fixating on it until the sun reaches the other side of the horizon. today is no different—you set your sights on the ash in the fireplace, using a metal pan to scoop it into a stray tarp to carry outside when you’re done.

you’re almost finished when you hear the now familiar sound of boots scraping the stone outside. you tense, but you don’t stop, pulling another pile of stale smelling soot onto the tarp as your stranger opens the door. you hear him stop behind you, but you don’t turn.

“what are you doing?” the tone is not as harsh as you’re used to—a little fatigued, mostly inquisitive.

“cleaning,” you say softly, pulling up at each corner of the canvas and watching the ash collide into neat little heaps in the center, “i’m almost done—i’ll be out of your way.”

you get to your feet, discard in hand, and turn to look at him. his strong brow furrows as he looks at you, like there’s something about what he sees that he can’t understand. against your best interest, your curiosity gets the better of you.

“i’m sorry, it’s just—i never learned your name.”

the look he levels you with makes you wish you’d never asked. his expression gives away nothing, but it tells you enough.

“how are your feet?”

your stomach drops—all of your attempts at earning your place for naught after all. but you stand in front of him now—to lie to him would be foolish at best.

you can barely raise your voice above a whisper. “healed.”

he studies you for a moment more, and it’s too much for you. your eyes fall to a crack in the floor, and distantly you wish you’d shrink down to slip inside of it, never to be seen again.

“tomorrow i will show you how to trap.” he gruffs, finality lacing his tone. your eyes snap to his but he’s already turning, half way out the door before he stops. he turns his head, eyeing you over his shoulder.

“kento,” he mutters, barely audible and strange meeting your ears, “my name is kento.”

and then he’s gone again—leaving you standing there with a hand full of dirt and no way to discern your left from right as your world tilts on its axis, if only slightly—but noticeable and disruptive all the same.

.

..

you don’t sleep well that night—startled out of a twilight sleep in what appears to be the dark hours of the morning by the rapping of knuckles on your door. kento nods to you in a greeting of his own, turning swiftly on his heel and heading toward the front door. you follow him dutifully, pulling over your shoulders the blanket you’d snagged before you left the warmth of your bed for the chill of the morning. the grass is cool and dewey under your bare feet, and it’s a quiet luxury you find yourself reveling in as you pad along behind him. you can hardly see him in the dark and yet you keep up, somehow—you know there’s too much at stake to lag behind.

true to his word, he teaches you how to trap. solely by doing—few words are exchanged between you as he trudges into the stream and hauls out a weaved basket attached to a rope, fastened to the shoreline by a stray branch. the light that creeps over the horizon begins to illuminate his work—silvery tails gleam as they flick back and forth from inside the cage. you know better than to be sad, but you feel it anyway. it’s silly to feel a kinship with the creatures, not even sentient enough to know that there is no escape for them—but you know, and the weight of that is a tangible thing.

he teaches you how to prepare the fish, then—and you get through it, if not only through sheer determination to not throw up in front of kento. the sun rises and illuminates other opportunities to learn—he teaches you about the native plants, only in simple directions of pointing to a patch of green with an accompanied “don’t touch”, or “fine to eat”. it’d feel patronizing if it wasn’t all so overwhelming—he had a knowledge of things you’d never dreamed of before. all you can feel is excitement that he’s willing to share it with you.

as the sun begins to set, he brings you to the garden—a small patch of land, seemingly unassuming until you step inside. there are fruiting plants everywhere you look—fat, red tomatoes and vining, prickly cucumbers, complete with rows of leafy greens and cabbages. you can’t begin to imagine how he’d managed to grow all of this by himself. his nightly food gifts start to make more sense.

you work side by side, pulling ripe crop from each plant and placing them into a metal canister—usually used for mechanical purposes, but at the end of the world, you find many uses for what you have. you feel emboldened somehow with your hands in the dirt next to his, and the words leave you before you have a moment to reconsider; you tell him of where you’d come from, and of your descent down the hill. you think of the kin you’d left behind, and you feel detached as you tell him of the loss—an observation if nothing else, as if you’d sat on a shoreline and watched the tide flood in.

he doesn’t react—not to your noble status, and not to the death—he’s quiet as he moves on to each plant, only the pattering sound of what he harvests hitting the tin bottom of his canister. you don’t mind—there’s no reaction you’d expect or find helpful, and for some reason, his presence is enough. you find it odd that weeks ago his footsteps incited real fear in your veins, and now he’d spent the day teaching you new ways to be useful. it was a strange and intimate gratitude, but one you felt nonetheless.

you find you see him more now, with your newfound ability to contribute and the determination to do just that. days are spent hauling fresh catches out of the stream, and hunting down small mammals to supplement your diet. you watch him closely—the flex and twist of his torso with the pull of the bow, the way he narrows his focus to the fluffy little thing that scurries among the leaves. with the twitch of a finger, the arrow flies toward its target—there is a screech, and then a sobering quiet. for the first time in your life, you pray—quietly, for the creature with the same instinct to survive that drives you to take its life.

“here,” kento says, handing the bow to you, “try it.”

you wrap your fingers around the wood and do as he asks. it’s deceptively heavy—the tension of the bow makes it nearly impossible to draw back with your own strength. focused and determined not to fail in front of him, you nearly jump out of your skin when his hands cover your own.

“there’s no trick to it,” his voice is gruff but gentle and far closer to you than he’s ever been, “just pull back, like this.”

he guides your hand backward with his own and the tail of the arrow follows—at your back, you feel the muscles in his chest ripple with the effort.

“focus,” he breathes, and you fight a shudder at his proximity, “listen.”

and it’s hard to hear anything over the roar of blood in your ears, but you try, blinking in an effort to snap out of whatever trance kento has put you in. it takes a moment, but then you hear it—the crinkle of leaves beneath tiny paws.

“take a deep breath.” kento allows you to move the bow where you want to, and you try to focus your aim. a bushy tail flicks up behind the underbrush—you train the point of the arrow right below it. your heart thuds wildly in your chest, and suddenly you’re worried that the bow might slide out of your sweating palms, impaling you instead.

“let it go.”

you do as he says, and the ringing in your ears drowns out the sounds of short-lived suffering. he lets go of you then—you don’t notice he’s come to stand in front of you until you feel the rough pad of his thumb swipe gently across your cheek. you blink, your own fingers reaching up to find tears you don’t recall ever shedding. your eyes meet his, and they burn with an intensity you’ve never seen in him before. but he’s not angry—you feel no compulsion to apologize for whatever is happening to you. he takes the bow from your hands, and slings it over his back.

“we’ll go back now,” he says quietly. you follow him up the path, and the tears don’t stop until you reach the cabin. you wonder who exactly it is that you’re crying for.

.

..

you don’t know what it is about the nights that follow that lead kento to decide to stick around, but there’s a part of you that’s glad he does. above all else, you knew better than to question it. he doesn’t say much—he never does—but you’re more than happy to fill the silence. you suppose you owe him the opportunity to know you, after all he’s done for you—you’ve no idea how to quantify the gratitude you’ve felt over the last few months. you do what you can.

“there’s a story my grandmother used to tell,” you murmur, eyes to the fire that crackles in front of you, “i used to sit at her feet while she brushed my hair. she only ever told it to me—it was like a secret between us.”

the wood pops and spits an ember at your feet. you watch it blaze bright, the tiny thing—one last attempt to catch before it snuffs itself out. “there was a princess that lived high in a tower built to protect her from the bandits of the neighboring empire. she was only ever allowed to walk the grounds of the palace under the safety of a full moon. one night, as she crept out of the tower under the cover of the dark, she’s lured into the dark forest by a witch. she promises to grant the princess any wish, for a price.”

your eyes catch kento’s, and for once, his expression is not indifferent. he is here with you in this moment, and it warms you more than the flame. “of course she wishes to be free,” you continue, waving a hand at its inevitability, “and the witch turns her into a hare. and in the original story, that’s the end of it. there’s a lesson there, right?”

“but in my grandmother’s story, it’s the best thing that could’ve happened to the princess. she’s free to hop around to her heart’s content. all she does is eat greenery and lay fat in her den until she dies a natural death after a long and happy life.”

you hear what you think is a scoff from the man next to you. your eyes roam kento’s face, and you think there might even be a hint of a smirk there. it thrills you.

“the tale of an optimist,” he offers quietly, and it’s not bitter.

“she was,” you murmur, “until the end, she was an optimist.”

it’s quiet between you for a moment, save for the crackle of the fire.

“i’m sorry you lost her.”

you smile, and it hurts. the tears well up before you can stop them.

“it’s unfair,” you croak, despite yourself. you’d done well to put up a good front in front of kento—humbling, to see how quickly it could be undone.

you startle when you feel a warm palm close around your clenched fist. “it is unfair,” he says, eyes meeting yours.

the warmth is profound, again despite the fire that heats your cheeks. you find yourself leaning into it until you’ve tucked yourself under his arm. he’s tense, but allows it.

“tell me something about you,” you whisper thickly, needing to think of anything else. he hums, tipping his head back. you sneak a glimpse of the curve of his jaw, glowing between shadows cast by a flickering flame. scar tissue curves and shimmers as it tenses.

“we were a group,” he murmurs, still looking up at the old, wooden boards, “myself and some of the neighbor children. there were no family units, there— we created our own.”

you’re so quiet you think you can nearly hear him piece together the memory in his mind. you know he’s gifting you something precious, so you don’t dare speak.

“we were too young to be running around alone, but there was nowhere to go. we knew enough to dodge the militias that would burn through each village. we thought we did, anyway.”

“the elders were kind. they brought in as many of us as they could on nights when the trucks would come down the road. but we didn’t have parents or homes, and they couldn’t take in all of us.” he pauses, sucking in a long breath. it shifts you when his chest expands. “i was small enough that i was able to fit through a hole in the crawl space under a home. Yu tried, but he wasn’t fast enough.”

“he was my best friend.” kento’s voice is quiet, and more fatigued than you’ve ever heard it. it’s unnerving, seeing his humanity laid out so plainly. “he tried to run, but they caught up just as quickly. they would’ve just taken him to a work camp, but he put up a fight.” he says it with a small smile, like he’s proud. “they shot him and left him there to die.”

if there was a way you could be closer to kento, you’d have found it by now, but you find yourself trying to sneak up under his ribs anyway. trying to find a way to siphon his pain into yourself, if only for a moment.

“you were brave,” you whisper, having nothing else to say except for that—for what feels obvious and true. he scoffs, but you can hear the grief behind it.

“maybe,” he says, arm tightening around your shoulders, “i don’t think i’ve ever felt that way.”

you hum, a low and sympathetic thing, fighting the urge to nuzzle into his chest. it’s strange, how easy it is to default to such animal inclinations when there’s no need to abide by arbitrary customs. there is only the two of you here, and the urge to comfort kento is strong.

“will you let me do something?”

he glances down at you out of the corner of his eyes—narrowed in distrust, despite baring his most tender bits to you only a moment ago. you push past it.

“here,” you say, sitting up and out from under his hold, “sit here.”

“on the ground?” he’s not so much incredulous as he is confused—and you’ll take what you can get. you nod, an appeasing sort of grin teasing the corners of your mouth.

his eyes are still narrowed when he goes—crouched in defense like you wait with bared teeth instead of open arms. still, he moves to sit before you—facing you. you laugh a little, endeared.

“i meant for you to turn—“

“no.”

you’re snapped back to reality then—to the present moment, with this man that kindly took you in but does not trust you. you take in a slow breath, careful not to flinch under the weight of his stare.

“okay,” you murmur, reaching up to pull free from your hair the comb that tethers it in its knot, “that’s okay.”

your hair slips down over your nape as you pull the teeth of it free—hard and familiar in your fingers, you offer it to him like one would a scrap of food to a feral dog. an heirloom made of deer bone—your family’s own commitment to using all that you were given, even if it was in excess. a reminder of a luxury that never felt like one until now.

“is it okay?” you ask, pulling up on your own bravery to keep his stare. after a long moment of careful deliberation, he nods tersely.

you lean forward slightly, careful of his space, and let him see the comb as you reach up. he jumps when the dulled prongs meet his scalp, but you stay the course. you pull it through the blond strands—longer than they were when you first met, the dulled ends slipping through with each pass.

you sit back to look at him after a moment. there’s no resistance, nor is there any enthusiasm—but you trust that he’d stop you if he was uncomfortable, so you keep going.

you lose yourself in the task, pulling (or pushing, from where you sit in front of him) the carved bone through his hair. you allow him the privacy of a reaction—eyes focused only on the strands that flit away from the teeth of the comb.

so focused, it seems, that you have to suppress the jerk of your leg when he leans up against it. the quick glimpse you allow yourself gores you—his eyes now closed, head cushioned by the soft of your thigh. looking more childlike than you’ve ever seen him in the months you’ve spent every minute with him. you see flashes of him as a boy—small and without scarring or a reason for haunches to raise in fear or rage. you think of him laughing—rolling in mud and being scolded by an otherwise kind woman instead of squeezing his way through jagged, wooden boards to save his life. never knowing the sound of a shot ringing out in the street.

you tuck your face into your shoulder—determined to hide the tears and your grief on his behalf. determined to let him feel this, whatever it is, and be a safe place for him to do it. to be the strong arm and the kind hand for him now—the one he can give his precious trust to.

the fire crackles and the mourning is heavy in the air—but kento is alive beneath your fingers, and your own heart beat is a heavy and reassuring thud inside your chest.

.

..

he is a rose in bloom, in the nights that follow. tightly coiled and still with all of his thorns, but in bloom nonetheless.

he becomes something of your shadow. where he lingered out of distrust he now hovers with intent—comically so, his large body folding itself in the small confines of the makeshift kitchen while you wring out linens in the sink. it’s clear that something has shifted between you—though what, you’re unsure. your mind tells you he is finally coming around to you. your heart yearns for something more than just his trust, though you are not unaffected by the weight of that trust alone.

he is never more than an arm’s length away. he leaves in the darkened hours of the morning to hunt, and is somehow back before the sun rises to wake you. that was another shift—he hadn’t asked you to join him on a hunt since that night. he hadn’t asked you for anything after that, really. he sleeps nearer, too—you’d been under the impression that he’d been sleeping outside until he wound up at the foot of your bed, sleeping still like a guard dog. you didn’t have the heart to ask him about it—you just left the candle burning and turned away from the door. he was owed privacy in his vulnerability, and you give him that.

and however hard to read the man may be, you feel some discontent at not pulling your weight, so you try your best to anyway. patching up holes in the wooden exterior of your home. sealing the windows with fur and fat to beat the chill of the creeping fall. you know that the garden tending is cyclical with the seasons—the cold calls for heartier vegetables. you pull and preen until your fingers swell, aching.

and there he would be—watching you, as always.

“hard work for a princess,” he mutters through something suspiciously similar to a smirk. you level him with a glare—the heat of which is immediately snuffed out in comparison to the heat of the cloth that he wraps around your wind-bitten hands. the heat of his body before yours is a close second to the warmest you've ever been despite all of the holes you'd still yet to patch.

“i hardly remember ever being one now,” you murmur, leaning into his side as his thumbs swipe over your palms—needle pinpricks left in their wake, even through the fabric.

he scoffs, his hands engulfing yours in his warmth. "are you not still?"

"i suppose, technically." you shrug, letting him crowd you over to the old, torn up futon that you'd been using as living room furniture. he'd been doing a lot of that lately—pushing you to relax. itching to take a weight from you. he arranges you to his liking, wrapping one of the woven blankets around your shoulders. "i was meant to be made into more than that, you know. before the uprising."

kento only raises an eyebrow at you. you shrug, past the point of shrinking from his silence. "my family had paid a sizeable dowry to have me married off. an heir in a neighboring village, supposedly. only my grandmother was against it, in her own, quiet way. she took to calling me her rabbit, after her story. she wanted differently for me."

there's no mistaking the way kento stiffens. there's no reason for it, nor is there a justification for the way you want to placate him. you do it anyway.

"maybe it's for the best," you say, waving your hand as if to dismiss the whole thing entirely, "i'm not exactly the noble type, now."

you watch him deflate. he nods sagely, the smirk pulling at his lips again. "surely you're the most frightening princess i've ever met."

you turn your head to watch him settle in next to you—another new behavior, seemingly unbothered by the proximity that he no doubt was unfamiliar with. "what's that supposed to mean?"

his teasing grin fades into something a little more forlorn. "when i found you, i expected you to be afraid. i wouldn't have harmed you—i only wanted to scare you off."

you huff. "that wasn't very nice."

"you weren't afraid though. it was unnerving."

"oh?" you grin, reaching to poke him in the ribs. "you were afraid of me?"

he reaches for your hand and pulls it to his lap. "i was sad for you. it wasn't a resilience—it felt as though you were broken."

it hurts, you decide, to be known like this. how simple things had been when he'd only left you provisions at your bedroom door and left you be. now you'd gone and allowed your heart to run freely ahead without a tether. you'd no way of preparing for the injury that freedom would cause.

"you pitied me," you mutter, unable to keep the bitterness from your tone. the mood shifts between you, and something inside you wants to resent him for it. how warm it had been inside the delusion—the world in which you both exist in this space as equals, brought together by fate and want and nothing else.

"no, not pity." you startle at the feeling of his fingertips as they brush a tendril of hair from your face. "you reminded me of myself. i didn't want you to be alone."

"why take on that burden?"

kento hums, pushing his fingers through the hair at your temple. despite yourself, you lean into the touch. "maybe i didn't want to be alone, either."

you blink, the sentiment working its way into your head. it lands significantly south—deep in your chest with an ache you can't describe. you reach for the wrist in your peripheral, stopping his movement and keeping him close. "is that all?"

"no." his admittance is a whispered, strained thing. you're close enough that to tilt your head back brings his jaw to your lips. the ghost of your breath along his skin makes him shudder, and you feel the fingers in your hair flex into a grip.

"what else, then?"

he ducks his chin to nose at your cheek. your eyes flutter closed, mind empty of all that swam around in it only a moment ago.

"my rabbit," his bottom lip brushes against your own, "what else is there but you?"

.

..

the weather changes and the gods grow restless.

you both feel it at the first chill of the year. there’s no graceful turn of the seasons—the air is bitter and cold, and you know something is coming. there’s little time for play, so on the last few warm evenings of fall, you take advantage of it. or you try to—you drag kento into the stream to soak in the dwindling rays of sun, but the knowledge of what is to come weighs heavily on you both. he holds you up in the current—body to body, only breathing. you can't get close enough—to reach inside him and carve out a space for yourself would still not sate the longing you feel.

that wretched something shows it’s face soon enough. the first snow is harsh, collecting in heavy banks against the roof of the house. the wood sags under the weight and the cold creeps in through the wood until the fire is no longer enough to warm the house in it's entirety—only the small space in front of the mantel that you crowd around. you and kento don’t talk much these days—to speak takes energy you don’t have to spare. he is doting as he always is—making sure you are covered in every layer of fabric and fur he can find, but something is wrong. you know the worst is yet to come. you feel it in the way kento holds you too close during the night; it’s never warm enough.

at first there is hope. kento has his food reserves and you'd preserved some of what you’d gathered. but a week of snow turns to two, and two weeks turn to two months. the rations get smaller and the two of you get hungrier. by the third month, you understand that you will not be spared the gods’ wrath. you see the punishment for what it is—a utilitarian consequence to all of the bloodshed by man. you do not have the energy to mull over the unfairness of that. even if you did, the gods do not concern themselves with what is fair—you know that now. the light inside you fades with every new inch of snowfall.

but kento is kind, despite your insistence that he be otherwise. he pulls from his own warmth to add to yours. your dinner portions are always bigger, even if it means he goes without eating entirely. it’s in vain, of course. neither of you will live through this. you scold him for pushing the last of his food on your plate and he doesn’t bother to respond. he only watches while you eat, like he can’t rest until he knows for sure that you have eaten all he has to offer you. you chew through tears and the only comfort is the hand that reaches to wipe them from your cheek. it’s a painful end, wasting away like this. watching kento fade away.

it's when you can smell death's approach that you know with certainty that your humanity has fled for a better place. the thing that remains in you—that keeps your heart beating, that coaxes your lungs to inflate—is purely animal. and it's out of that same primal need that you close the distance between kento's frail body and your own. in the silent chill of the night, the warmth between you may be merely a hallucination now, but you feel it all the same. there is no pain anymore. only a pull into a sleep you want so badly to slip into.

you don't cry—you use the last of the strength in your body to tuck yourself under kento's chin and curl around him in some intimate display of what exists between you. of what has existed this whole time.

"if this is the end," you murmur, knowing that it is, "i'm happy that i'll leave this world with you."

the knuckles that brush against your cheek are sharp and gnarled now. you've never known a touch so tender. it’s odd to speak—to shatter the intimacy of the silence that’s floated around the both of you for much of the last few weeks.

"do you know now?"

if you close your eyes, you can pretend that the man in your arms will live to see the morning. that this is merely pillow talk, and the sun will wake you with warmed skin in a few hours.

but you don't let yourself turn away. it's striking, how even with his last few breaths, kento manages to use them worrying about you. you wonder if he's done it the whole time. you do know; you realize with unmistakable clarity that you'd know his love anywhere, now. you nod, feeling his thready pulse against your forehead.

"i do. you'll have to forgive me for not seeing it sooner."

you feel him scoff—an inappropriate use of dwindling breath that makes you laugh, too. "there will be plenty of time to show you in the next life, my rabbit."

a brief bitterness curls up your spine—the unfairness of all of this creeping back up like a rising tide. how cruel it was to have settled on the loneliness of a life without love, just to be shown the magnitude of a life with it in the final months of your own.

but it recedes in the next moment, because there is no more time to grieve. you can only feel grateful, now—to leave this world saturated in all that kento has given you.

cracked lips brush the skin of your temple—he has no real energy for a proper kiss, but the desire to comfort is strong between you. you spend the next few, precious moments counting the breaths that rattle inside his chest, grateful for every one cycled through.

in the silent hours of a darker morning, there is a light only the two of you can see. shrouded in the glow, he is so beautiful.

with all of your strength, you call him by his name, one last time. "until next time, my love."

epilogue

if the notion of certainty is alive in anything, it is in the way that fable and folklore are sure to be born and born again out of gatherings of beings with mouths to speak it. one such example is the jagged, snow capped hills of Akaito—a new village comprised of all walks of life, the one commonality between them being their displacement during the fall of the Zaiaku dynasty almost one hundred years prior. built overtop the remnants of survivor settlements crushed under the Great Snow, all who inhabit the land know well of the blood that has stained the soil and pay mind to honor the loss of life in their own ways—namely in storytelling. this great coming together eventually gave way to a new mother tongue for the telling of a new bed time story to bleary eyed babes in the middle of the night: the tale of the Akaito lovers—the wolf and the hare.

as the story goes, villagers who have been bestowed some unearthly dose of luck by the gods may catch a glimpse of an unlikely pair—a formidable looking white wolf with scarring across its broad body, and its counterpart: a fluffy and downright regal grey hare. one might catch them romping around in the dusting after a fresh snow, or preening one another under a shaded tree in the heat of the summer. depending on who tells the tale, it might be the case that if a person is truly fortunate and determined to wait out the dark of night, they might even be gifted the sight of the duo curled around one another, sleeping peacefully in a protective and loving embrace under the light of a waning moon.

as with all fables, the story is altered with every new tongue that speaks it, and one day the tale will vanish from the minds of the younger generations completely. but for now, it is ripe in the minds of the young and old, the latter of which are very certain that it is no mere fable at all.

☆– a.n; here's a lil piece for valentine's day, even tho it was yesterday <3

Your first kiss with Bakugou was nothing like you expected. You thought, because of his fiery personality, that it was going to be fireworks and heat and passion all over. 

How wrong you were.

Bakugou Katsuki was a massive bundle of nerves, completely clumsy even in his walk–and Jesus, seeing that big mass of muscles trip on his own feet each two or three steps in your walk home from your date, gave you several heart attacks thinking he might kiss the ground at any minute. 

You were not expecting this at all. He was so confident when it came to his job, to his friends, to any situation he was in. Except you. Least to say, it took him for-fucking-ever to ask you out, and when he did, he stumbled upon his words and instead of asking you dinner he asked you, "would you like t'go hungry wit' me?" It took you a minute to understand, he almost backed down due to the embarrassment. Obviously, you grabbed his arm, avoiding him to run away –or better said, explode himself away– and said yes. That night, at the door of your apartment, he tried to kiss you. He bumped his forehead with yours in the rush to get his face closer down to you. He apologized and left.

You remember thinking, that was all. He was not going to speak to you ever again, or at least until his embarrassment backed down a bit, which could be months. It surprised you to see him the next morning entering the little coffee shop you owned with a bucket of roses in his hand, cheeks cutely tinted pink and a funny scowl in his face, lips slightly pout.

You decided then that it was your turn to ask him on a date. Of course, he said yes. But this time, you decided to eat something at your apartment and watch movies. Something easy and comfy. No need to let the pressure of going outside invade him, considering who he is and what it means to be seeing outside on a date with the Number Two Pro Hero. You still didn't know how people hadn't already said something about your first date, when Bakugou took you to a very expensive and recognized restaurant.

After dinner, clearly prepared by him and shared in between cheeky jokes, laughs and innuendos, you were finishing washing the dishes while he dried them. It was that domestic kind of view, him smiling relaxed and amused, his big hero body taking a big portion of space in your small apartment kitchen, his hip resting on the counter, hands busy with his task, the lines at the corner of his eyes showing how happy he actually felt, it was all of him that made you realize…

It’s him.

Bakugou Katsuki is the one.

When he finished, he folded the cloth he was using to dry the last plate and placed it on the counter behind him, before he turned to you, the amusement of the last funny thing you said still printed on his face. “What?”

“I’m going to kiss you, Bakugou Katsuki, so don’t move.” You don’t want a repentance of last time and the bump he left on your forehead thanks to his nervousness.

He visually gulped and you chuckled, but still gave him time to assimilate your words, and your actions, so you moved slowly as if it was a scaredy cat you were dealing with. His breathing was loudly heard with each movement of yours and his hands grabbed the counter strongly like his life depended on that grip. He was serious now, concentrated even in not moving. And that was so cute, that even if he looked that desperate to get close to you, he also wanted to do as you said.

You stepped closer, hand coming to rest just above his heart, and his chest loosened. Katsuki let go of his anchor at the kitchen counter and slipped his hands around your waist immediately and tugged you against him, brushing your noses together. Choosing to dive into whatever ocean you were living as a siren in.

 “If you don’t want to…”

Oh, yeah. You were going to make him say it. Because he was Bakugou freaking Katsuki and you were on fucking cloud nine at the knowledge that he wanted you as much as you wanted him.

“If you don't kiss me right now…” he murmured, voice trembling, and you couldn't avoid the smirk that appeared on your face.

“Then what?” You whisper, your other arm surrounding his neck as your fingers interlace with the short hair at the back of his head, and he breathes out loud.

“Then I'll… I’ll have to do it myself.”

You looked up at him through your eyelashes, smiling one more time, before your lips finally pressed over his. This time softly, generously and carefully loving.

His arms around your waist tightened just as his heart beated fast and strong under your hand. A clear sign that he was as human as you. And he felt as deep into you as you to him.