Chapter Text
Midoriya Izuku was certain that the gods had cursed him with the most rotten luck.
In the past three-hundred years, nary a soul has had the misfortune of being chosen as the great mountain spirit’s bride. That was, until a month ago, when his father had faltered in the face of his mother’s declining health, and committed the most terrible mistake of all: stealing a Flower of Vitality from the upper forests of Mt. Yagi, where a tempestuous deity was known to reside.
In one of the few alchemical books in their family’s possession, A Hundred Cures for Diseases and Ailments, it was written that after a cold extraction numbering thirty days, a single drop of the flower’s essence could be used to cure a human of any and all afflictions. Both he and his father, Hisashi, had searched far and wide. Izuku, a gifted healer and alchemist, had lived his days burdened with the knowledge of his mother’s deteriorating condition, yet unable to procure neither elixir nor explanation for her symptoms; the constant coughing, difficulty to breathe, weakened muscles and bones, raging fever that spanned days. It seemed as if the air itself had poisoned her lungs.
His father, scoundrel though he was, had loved his mother as much as Izuku did. Now, curled into the cold tatami of the room he had been kept in, the gravity of the crime Hisashi committed had finally sunk into his bones. His body raged with fever, not one joint nor crevice evading the fiery heat of the illness that now consumed him. He had been given a tincture for the past thirty days, taken under the watchful eye of his red-haired guard; though his heart had grown heavy with the knowledge, Izuku would take it dutifully, wincing as the liquid burned its way down his throat, and with it his temperature would rise with each passing day. After all, he knew it had all been to prepare himself for the ritual—the union between mortal and great spirit, which Izuku himself had acquiesced to.
“You shall be grateful for this opportunity. The blood price will be paid not by sacrifice to the serpent, but with your servitude. Your mother will be treated by the best healers under our care.” A woman whose beauty Izuku had only seen in scrolls of old had addressed him as he had prostrated himself at her feet, forehead pressed to the ground, his form wracked with fear.
For generations, the Bakugo family have been the stewards of this temple, and have long served the gods and the spirits of the great Mt. Yagi as the world had modernised around them. It was they, in their force and their glory, who have seized Izuku and his enfeebled mother as they had passed through the mountain town, on their way to a hot spring in the next town over that was rumoured to provide potent healing benefits. Only then had they been informed of the great crime Hisashi had committed; that a blood price was hence demanded by the great deity as penance for his father’s sin, who had since escaped his guards, and had fled.
Izuku had pleaded for them to keep his mother safe. She had been frail, in the midst of nausea, and had almost choked on her own vomit as she had thrown herself to the ground, and sobbed. She, too, pleaded for her son’s life to be spared, and for her to be taken instead. But the leader of the Bakugos, Mitsuki, had gazed at her with deep sympathy, and instead had decreed that Izuku shall become the mountain deity’s new bride. The townsfolk that had gathered at the foot of the temple bristled; it had been generations upon generations since the last bride had been offered to their mountain deity, whose ill-will had only been tempered and appeased by grand celebration and costly offerings. Izuku had felt the sting of their gazes, their whispers of condolences like sharp rocks thrown onto his skin, as he had sunk himself onto the frozen soil, and accepted his fate.
From what little he had seen of Bakugo Mitsuki, she seemed to glow in the late autumnal light, like bioluminescent mycenae under the soft coldness of moonlight. Her skin, though concealed by ceremonial robes befitting of her station, was as pale and smooth as freshly-pressed paper; her eyes, fiery and bright, raged as it placed its heavy gaze unto his form. “You shall be the new bride of the mountain deity, the great Katsuki. And you shall bear him an heir, so he may ascend to godhood, and bring prosperity to this land.”
He recalled how his already-pallid skin had grown cold, his trembling hands turning clammy, his lungs ceasing to move. Izuku heard tell of this ritual before—to turn a mortal being into an omega, ripe for breeding, as an offering to a deity of the land. This was the blood price the Midoriyas had to pay, in exchange for his father committing a crime out of desperation. Izuku will become something other than himself, his life now of little worth in comparison to the being he carried; all until his deity—or alpha, now so-called—sees him fit to be disposed of, and replaced, as it has happened for hundreds of years now.
Tomorrow, during the winter solstice, the barrier between the spirit world and the human world is set to weaken. Only then will Izuku be dressed in a fine black furisode, and a matching hood will be placed to cover his green curls; he would kneel in front of an altar in the northern room of the temple, with opened doors facing a snow-covered garden and frozen koi pond lined with stones, while a ritual was being performed by a priest through the temple proper, witnessed by the Bakugos, the shrine-maidens, the townsfolk, and his mother, Inko. He would have liked to imagine their gaze through the thin paper of the shoji between them, eyes lingering on the outline of his shadow in pity and relief that he was instead an outsider and not their own son, if only it had not caused him great sorrow to do so.
The celebration for Toji had commenced as the sun had begun to fall from its zenith, disappearing behind a range of snow-capped mountains to the west. The skies had burned orange, mirroring the large pyre in front of the temple, even as the snow fell in icy sheets around the vast courtyard. The townsfolk had gathered themselves within the temple proper, vast offerings and food lined on wooden benches, dressed in their finest garb as they mingled. Throughout history, Toji had always been a time for celebration, even after experiencing the longest night of the year; it had long served as a reminder that even through the freezing winter, the sun will one day melt through the frost, and shine brightly once more.
The first bleed happened that morning. Izuku had woken with a start, beads of sweat rolling from his temples; he had felt the stickiness before he noticed the spots of blood on his garments, then on the futon when he had clambered to his feet in panic. The shrine-maiden, or miko, who had come to check on him in his panic had attempted to soothe him. It had signalled that his transformation had been complete. Izuku had felt the sting of his womb, newly-formed and raw, as if a foreign object had settled inside his stomach; with it, the fevers had ceased, replaced by umbral bouts of pain.
Izuku had felt that numbing cold through his fingers as water had been poured over them, then onto his face; later, he would be cleansed by haraigushi, under the watchful eye of a priest, and ushered into a side room to prepare for the ceremony. Through the methodical acts of placing himself into his furisode, wherein a young miko fastened the ties with careful fingers, Izuku had imagined himself to be a true bride preparing for his wedding ceremony. Though he had been a man all of his life, he had never thought himself lucky enough to experience romantic love, with all its beauty and tribulation; it had been a humorous thought, one that elicited a secretive smile, when he realised that this deity will be his first of all firsts.
Yet, he had counted himself lucky, for Katsuki had been known to neglect his bride, as had been prophesied by a shaman centuries ago; for it had been said, in ages long past, that the mountain deity shall have little interest in mortal beings, until the day he feels the blossoming of true love in his heart. Those that manage to survive his capriciousness had reaped the reward of keeping their lives, after twenty long years of service to their deity, and had all their memories of him erased. By what means, Izuku had no clue, as his knowledge of spirits and the magical properties of nature were limited only to its application in alchemy, and its related formulas and compounds.
A question had formed in his mind, worrying in its obtrusiveness. His stomach tingled as he splayed cold fingers onto his sore belly, as if it were bruised fruit. What if, by some miracle or sheer force of luck, Izuku is the one who fulfills the prophecy, and gives Katsuki an heir? It lingered inside of him as the ceremony began, the priest in his white robes and black headpiece a formidable presence, as the purification ritual commenced. The back of his neck prickled at the sensation, of this newfound desire to become something bigger than himself, and had proceeded to tamper it down.
Izuku had kneeled himself onto the cushion, his features obscured by the hood atop his curls, as he felt his heartbeat quicken. He sat towards the open shoji, facing the snow-covered garden and koi pond, gaze trained on the thick brush of trees past the stone fence of the temple compound. He had curled his fingers into his palms, nails biting into soft flesh. As doubt began to seep through him, he felt himself blink away tears, as the cold and the fear had caused his eyes to sting. When his eyelids had fluttered open, he found himself face-to-face with a man whose sheer beauty had taken his breath away.
He, whose skin had seemed translucent, whose eyes gleamed like curling lava, settled onto the cushion beside him. He wore the ornate, brightly-coloured layered robes of a junihitoe, its gilded sleeves swaying gently with the breeze, a grand display of his power that left Izuku in tremored awe. His movements seemed to draw no weight, nor notice, as if the air itself had ceased to exist, and the priest and his miko had failed to acknowledge his existence as they continued with the ceremony. Izuku felt his skin prickle at the weight of the deity’s attention; he had smelled of sandalwood and clove, overwhelming yet tantalising all his senses. He waited in bated breath, watchful eyes on the priest to his right, as Katsuki scrutinised him; he felt as if those fiery eyes could see his every thought and intention as plainly as Izuku could read letters on a piece of paper. If the presence of spirit could be measured in force, Katsuki was like the swelling of the tide before a storm.
The priest had asked them to stand. Izuku had wondered if the priest had been aware of the great spirit in their presence, as his eyes seemed to gloss over his form, as if there had been a thick veil placed between them. As the sake had been poured into the largest cup, it had been passed into that veil; though Izuku could see with his own eyes that Katsuki had taken a sip from the white ceramic cup, and had passed it onto him, perhaps the small jolt in the priest’s back indicated that it had instead disappeared into nothingness. The reverence with which the priest bowed, as if he need only tremble in supplication for his life to be spared, had left a bitter taste in his mouth.
The ceremony continued. San-san-ku-do had only ever been witnessed by Izuku once, when he had attended the wedding of his dearest friend Iida Tenya as his matchmaker, but it had been as solemn and beautiful to him then as it was to him now. He felt it in the shifting winds, as Izuku took his last sip, that his fate would be forever changed from that moment on.
When the ceremony had concluded, Katsuki had stepped through the shoji, his bare feet touching the snow with little resistance, as if it had simply been tatami under his feet. Izuku felt the gust of wind pick up all the trousseaus from the altar, heard the doors rattle from the sheer force of it, then push him forward, towards the great mountain deity who spared him no backwards glance. When both his sandals had crunched into the ground, the scenery had begun to blur around him in a flurry of icy wind and white snow. Then, when he opened his eyes, he found himself in the courtyard of a vast home, surrounded by lush, green gardens, and ringed by towering fir trees.
“Welcome to my home.” When Katsuki spoke, his voice filled his ear canals, as if he had been standing close to him instead of by the foot of the house. He smelled it again, that creamy, woody scent, and it had stirred something deep within the bowels of his newly-formed body.
Izuku bowed in reverence, and had said Thank you, my lord, in the most respectful tone he could muster, even as his knees had threatened to buckle under the oppressive weight of his new reality.
Time passed differently in this strange world, as the cycle of day and night seemed to ebb and flow with no discernable pattern in length. Izuku had yet to notice if the seasons would change, too, as the gardens had been bereft of snow when he first arrived, and the sunrays seemed to perpetually break through the clouds, warming the otherwise wintry air. Yet, the ground remained frozen underfoot, and the water from a nearby stream flowed under a thin sheet of ice.
As he had predicted, Izuku had been ignored on the night of their wedding ceremony. His body had throbbed with a sense of urgency, a desire as equally palpable as it was terrifying. He had been led towards a room, ornate in comparison to the humble façade, with a futon large enough to fit three people square in the middle, splayed on the tatami with a thick, embroidered duvet folded neatly across it. The room had a small wooden table off to the right, and a large closet opposite to the entrance. On the left hand side was a pair of sliding doors that opened into the courtyard.
It had been instinctive for Izuku to settle himself into his new home, resignation settling into his stomach like a puck of lead. He had yet to grow accustomed to his surroundings, but having found little use for the newfound time on his hands, he had decided to put himself to work. The hallways had been in need of dusting to rid of the cobwebs, and also some minor repair, where the shoji had torn in odd places as if it had been slashed; the kitchen had a stove devoid of firewood, which Izuku had to collect and dry on an outdoor rack. The nabe and ceramics he had found scattered in different rooms of the house, as if the effects had been used for other means, some containing dried herbs and oil-based salves when Izuku had begun hunting for them. He had left those where he found them, and had placed the rest in the kitchen to be washed and used, though he had labelled them all in his head: ginseng root, white mulberry bark, ephedra, and more he had yet to identify.
Izuku had inferred that spirits did not eat, drink, or need regular sustenance as a mortal would. As such, he need only cook for himself, grateful that the trousseaus had included bags of rice, soy beans, and some condiments. Though the mountain had yielded little by way of forage, it seemed that food had been provided for him, as the larder had been well-stocked with all manner of vegetables, cuts of meat, and chicken eggs when he first arrived.
Though his basic necessities had been provided for, being faced with such loneliness in the midst of winter had been difficult for Izuku, whose heart yearned to see his mother, feel her pulse under his fingers, and see the colour blossom onto her cheeks as she smiled. It was, after all, the reason he was here; although he felt no remorse, nor anger, he instead felt the sharp twang of guilt deep in his chest, as if a carving knife had been buried to greet his heart. Perhaps, if he had not mentioned the healing springs, they would not have ventured into Mt. Yagi, and they would not have been caught by the Bakugos; and if he had not purchased A Hundred Cures for Diseases and Ailments from a Western traveling merchant, insistent in his ambition to become a healer, and alchemist, then perhaps his father would not have been forced to choose between saving his wife or saving himself.
It was the burden of hindsight that had caused tears to flow from his eyes each night, as his body throbbed with heat, curled into a fetal position underneath the duvet. He would feel the breeze rustle his curls, breathing in the heady scent of sandalwood, as if it had been a hand reaching to caress him; and slowly, painfully, fall asleep, alone for the first time in his twenty years of existence.
He counted that ten days had passed until Katsuki showed himself once again, now dressed in plain white-and-red robes that matched his colouring. Izuku had been foraging in the woods, having felt an intense need for mushrooms, and had been on his hands and knees trawling through muddy earth as he harvested them from the fallen logs of large oak trees. When Katsuki entered his field of vision, he gasped, and fell backwards in surprise. Katsuki had looked at him with a mix of curiosity and mild irritation, as if Izuku had been a mutt who was ordered to guard its master’s home, and had now been found to have disobeyed.
“What are you doing?” His voice had been carried by the wind, as if it was howling, rattling his eardrums with its force. Izuku flinched, and dropped his hunting knife to the ground, hearing it thunk onto the soil, and prostrated himself to the deity.
“I-I am foraging for shiitake, my lord.” He had bowed his head, frizzed curls falling into his eyes, scrambling for the correct words to appease him. “The winter variety is prized for its medicinal benefits. It could be used alongside the ointments in the house, if needed.”
At this, Katsuki bristled, his eyes growing hard. Izuku felt his heartbeat quicken, his skin growing cold in fear, prickling with a sense of danger he had never experienced before.
“What do you need medicine for?”
As if driven by instinct, Izuku reached for his abdomen, clutching it through the mud-stained fabric of his robes. The bleeding had stopped a few hours after it began, though the feverish high of his skin had persisted for the past week and a half. Shiitake had been known to appease the stomach, and to reduce swelling; though the source of the pain had been a different internal organ than the former, one could surmise that Izuku would need the latter, if he had hoped to weather his oncoming bleed, and the persistent heat that he was forewarned would follow.
Katsuki had gazed at him with some form of discontent in the arch of his brow, but had cocked his head as Izuku flushed, unsure of how to place his discomfort without causing injury to the ego of his deity. After all, Izuku had been placed under his care as his new bride; to imply that he had been ill would make a mockery of his ability to provide.
“Speak.” The command rippled through him like a barbed spear tearing through flesh. Izuku had felt his chest tighten as the wind had been forcibly knocked out of him.
“T-to ease the swelling of my womb.” It felt as if someone had reached into his throat to pull the words from his mouth. Izuku had almost retched at his own admission, trembling as he heard the crunch of footsteps on hard soil.
Katsuki had placed a hand on him then, fingers curling into the flesh of his forearm, pulling him onto his feet with tempered strength; Izuku felt his knees rock from the force, and with it a strange, wet sensation in his nether regions. Perhaps this was what the young shrine-maiden had warned him about, in her practiced, impersonal spiel about what becoming an omega would entail—the need to submit to the strongest alpha in his vicinity, and the subsequent arousal it would bring, the symptoms of which she had failed to divulge with much detail.
Izuku had known little of such pleasure, as along with love he had never felt the strong pull of desires of the flesh; though he had braved travel to the capital city often, and had crossed paths with women bodacious in nature, who often caught the eyes of his companions, he had yet to feel the intoxicating heat of sexual arousal himself. He had little time to dedicate to such thoughts, as he had filled most of it with alchemical formulas for mixing potent tinctures and elixirs, sourcing medicinal plants and herbs to dry and later sell, and caring for his sickly mother in the interim. Albeit, in the smallest of moments, he’d found his gaze lingering on the form of another man, taut from the rippling of muscle underneath skin, but he had never allowed it any further purchase on his mind.
“What else do you require?” Katsuki had smelled strongly, sandalwood almost choking him with its burning aftertaste as he pulled Izuku close. Where Izuku had anticipated a bite, he had instead buried his nose into his outer mandible, in the junction between his jaw and his throat.
“N-nothing else, my lord.” Izuku had tensed under the newfound scrutiny, in a sudden jolt of self-awareness with how he must smell; his unwashed hair, his muddy robes, the pleasant shivers that coursed through his spine from where their skin touched, and the sticky wetness that followed. “I am grateful for what you have provided for a mortal such as myself.”
“Omega. Do not forget what those fools have taken from you. You are no longer a mere mortal.” Katsuki had relaxed his grip; he had almost seemed to pity him, though Izuku could not bring himself to hope for more than the passive benevolence of a centuries-old deity. Izuku inched away from him, even as his body yearned to be closer, for their skin to be pressed against one another, and for him to be taken on the forest floor. “Your pheromones are strong, though you are newly turned. You smell different from other omega.”
Izuku, who had no bearing on what an omega should smell of, had shied away in embarrassment at his potent arousal. “I apologise, my lord, if my scent has offended you.”
Katsuki hummed, having now straightened, so close to him that Izuku could see every beauty mark on his face and décolletage, as if his skin had been dotted with constellations; his cheeks flushed pink, eyes half-lidded, lips parted as if forming a question. Instead, he bore his fangs, his pupils narrowing into deep slits against blood-coloured irises. Izuku felt his breath cease, and his abdomen swell.
“On the contrary.” Katsuki had become almost translucent, as if he had become part of the wind that blew in gusts around them, kicking up pebbles and moss and dead fauna from the feet of massive trees around the clearing. “You smell of cedar, and wisteria. The sweetness is sickening.”
All at once, the wind had stopped, and the ringing in his ears had ceased. Katsuki had disappeared.
Izuku fell to his knees, gasping for breath. Later, the sun would begin to set, painting the sky in a trail of fire—a bone-chilling reminder of the eyes of an alpha who wanted to devour him.