The auction house air was thick with the smell of horse, hay, and old leather, a physical weight that made Izuku’s lungs feel small. He wove through the chaotic aisles, his new boots already dusty, trying to look like he belonged. The centaurs stood in makeshift pens, some dozing, others watching the crowd with wary, intelligent eyes. Izuku’s own eyes skimmed over them, his heart a frantic bird in his chest. He didn’t know what to look for. Muscle? Temperament? The right… feel?
“You lost, city boy?”
The voice was a low, grating thing, all gravel and disdain. Izuku flinched, turning. In the last pen, a chestnut draft centaur leaned against the wooden rail, his human arms crossed over a muscular chest. Ash-blond hair, spiked and wild. Crimson eyes that didn’t just look—they dissected.
“I’m not lost,” Izuku said, too quickly. “I’m shopping. For help. With my new farm.”
The centaur snorted, a sharp, equine sound. “Help. You’ve got dirt under your nails from a potted plant, not a plow. Your boots are shiny. You’re gonna get eaten alive out here.”
Izuku felt his face heat. He clenched his hands, hiding the clean nails. “I’m a fast learner.”
“Yeah?” The centaur pushed off the rail, his hooves clopping heavily on the packed earth as he moved closer. He was massive, the power in his equine barrel undeniable, the human torso above it corded and lean. He loomed, the scent of him—clean sweat, leather, animal musk—washing over Izuku. “You know how to clear a field of stone? How to read the weather in the clouds? How to fix a busted harness before it snaps and takes your hand off?”
“I’ll figure it out,” Izuku whispered, his gaze dropping, then snapping back up defiantly. He wouldn’t be cowed. Not here, not on the first day.
The centaur’s sharp eyes tracked the movement, the defiance. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face. “Stubborn little thing, aren’t you? They call me Katsuki. And you’re gonna buy me.”
It wasn’t a question. Izuku’s mouth went dry. “Why would I do that?”
“Because I’m the best they’ve got here. And you’re the greenest. You need me.” Katsuki leaned in, his voice dropping. “And I’m bored. Watching you try not to drown might be fun.”
Izuku’s breath hitched. The challenge in those red eyes was a live wire. It was madness. This creature was all sharp edges and mockery. But the certainty in Katsuki’s statement—*you’re gonna buy me*—felt like a stone settling in Izuku’s gut. A truth. He looked past Katsuki’s shoulder, at the other centaurs. They seemed placid, disinterested. None of them looked back with that terrifying, captivating focus.
“Fine,” Izuku heard himself say, the word leaving him in a rush. “But you take orders.”
Katsuki’s grin widened, all teeth. “We’ll see, city boy. We’ll see.”
Izuku turned away from Katsuki’s predatory grin, his heart hammering against his ribs. He needed to find the auctioneer, to make this madness real. The crowd seemed to blur around him, a sea of weathered faces and practical clothes that only highlighted his own out-of-place newness.
“Leaving so soon?” Katsuki’s voice chased him, a low taunt from the pen. “Changed your mind?”
“No,” Izuku called back, not turning. He spotted a harried-looking man with a clipboard near the front. He pushed through, the scent of dust and animal thickening with every step.
The paperwork was a blur of numbers and legibility. Izuku signed his name, handed over a shockingly large portion of his savings, and received a bill of sale and a coarse hemp lead rope in return. The weight of the rope in his hand felt alien, final.
He walked back to the pen, the noise of the auction house fading into a dull roar in his ears. Katsuki watched him approach, those crimson eyes tracking every hesitant step. He made no move to come forward.
“Well?” Katsuki said, his voice flat. “You own me. For now. What’s your first order, boss?”
The title was pure mockery. Izuku’s fingers tightened on the rope. He unlatched the gate, the iron bolt cold under his palm. “We’re going to the farm. Now.”
Katsuki moved then, his hooves striking the hard earth with a solid, powerful rhythm that Izuku felt in his bones. He stepped out of the pen, his equine body dwarfing Izuku, blocking the harsh fluorescent lights. He didn’t lower his head for the rope. He just stared down, waiting.
Izuku’s mouth was dry. He reached up, the movement awkward, and looped the rope loosely around Katsuki’s human torso, just under his arms. The heat of him was immediate, radiating through the thin cotton of his shirt. Izuku’s knuckles brushed against solid pectoral muscle. He snatched his hand back.
“That’s not how you lead a centaur,” Katsuki said, his tone dripping with condescension. “You lead from the front. Unless you’re scared I’ll bite.”
“I’m not scared,” Izuku muttered, but he moved to walk ahead, the rope trailing behind him like a lifeline he wasn’t sure was attached to anything solid.
The walk to Izuku’s battered truck and the rented centaur trailer was silent, but the air between them crackled. Izuku could feel Katsuki’s gaze on the back of his neck, a physical weight. He fumbled with the trailer latch, his clean, soft hands clumsy against the rusted metal.
“Let me,” Katsuki grunted, shouldering him aside with careful, deliberate force. He opened the latch with a practiced ease, then turned those sharp eyes on Izuku. “You gonna watch me load myself, too? Or you got a ramp hidden somewhere, genius?”
Izuku’s face burned. He hadn’t thought about a ramp. He stared at the steep trailer incline, then at Katsuki’s powerful, heavy build. “I… I don’t have one.”
Katsuki let out a sharp, exasperated breath. “Of course you don’t.” He backed up a few steps, his muscles coiling. “Stand clear, city boy. And try not to piss yourself.”
With a gathering of immense power, Katsuki launched himself forward. The sound of his hooves on the metal trailer floor was a deafening crash that made Izuku flinch. The entire trailer rocked violently on its springs. Inside, Katsuki turned, already looking bored. “Shut the door. Unless you want me to jump out at the first stop sign.”
Izuku moved on numb legs, heaving the heavy door closed and sliding the bolt home. The metal latch felt like a prison lock. Through the slats, he saw Katsuki’s silhouette, a dark, powerful shape in the shadowed trailer. Watching him.
He climbed into the driver’s seat, his hands trembling on the steering wheel. The scent of hay and horse and something distinctly, musky-Katsuki already filled the cab. In the rearview mirror, he saw a pair of crimson eyes, gleaming in the darkness, fixed unblinkingly on the back of his head. The farm was a thirty-minute drive away. It felt like a lifetime sentence, and the first day had only just begun.
The truck hit a pothole, jolting the trailer. From the darkness behind him, Katsuki’s voice cut through the rumble of the engine. “So, city boy. You got a plan for this farm of yours? Or you just gonna stand there and hope the weeds feel sorry for you and die?”
Izuku’s grip tightened on the wheel. “I have a plan. I’ve read books.”
“Books.” Katsuki snorted. “You read a book on how to take a shit, too? Or do you just figure that out as you go?”
“It’s a start,” Izuku shot back, his voice tight. He could feel the centaur’s gaze like a brand between his shoulder blades. “I’m getting chickens first. For eggs.”
“Chickens.” Katsuki’s laugh was a short, harsh bark. “Foxes’ll have ‘em in a week. You know how to build a coop a fox can’t get into?”
“I’ll learn.”
“You’ll learn,” Katsuki echoed, the mockery thick. “You’ll learn when you’re scooping up feathers and guts at sunrise. What about water? You got a well, or you planning to cry on the crops?”
Izuku’s jaw clenched. He stared at the winding country road ahead, the fields blurring into a green smear. “There’s a stream. I’ll manage.”
“You’ll manage,” Katsuki said, his voice dropping lower, closer to the slats dividing them. “You keep saying that. Like a prayer. You’re in over your head, Deku.”
The name—a nonsense syllable, an insult—landed with surprising weight. Izuku’s breath hitched. “Don’t call me that.”
“Why not? It fits. A useless little thing, out where useful things survive.” The trailer shifted as Katsuki moved, his weight settling. “You gonna manage when your back gives out from lifting shit you’ve never lifted? When the blisters on your soft hands burst and bleed? When the winter comes and you’re alone in that farmhouse, listening to the wind howl?”
The questions weren’t just taunts. They were images, sharp and visceral. Izuku saw them. Felt them. The isolation wrapped around his throat. He swallowed hard. “I’m not alone.”
A beat of silence. Then, softer, almost thoughtful, Katsuki said, “No. I guess you’re not.”
The road turned to gravel, the crunch loud under the tires. Izuku’s farm—his farm—lay just beyond the next bend. The tension in the cab didn’t ease; it changed. The mockery was still there, but underneath it now was something else. A recognition. They were stuck with each other.
“You’re wrong, you know,” Izuku said, the words leaving him quietly. “I’m not useless. I’m here.”
From the trailer, no immediate comeback. Just the sound of Katsuki’s steady, powerful breathing, syncing with the rhythm of the tires on stone. When he finally spoke, the edge was gone, replaced by a blunt, weary truth. “Yeah. You’re here. We’ll see what that’s worth.”
The truck rolled to a stop on the uneven gravel of the farm driveway. The silence that followed the engine’s death rattle was immense. Izuku sat for a moment, staring at the old farmhouse with its peeling paint. He took a deep breath, then got out.
He moved to the back of the trailer, his boots crunching on the stones. He slid the bolt and heaved the door open. Katsuki stood there, already turned, his crimson eyes narrowed against the afternoon sun. He didn’t wait for instruction. He backed out in two powerful, clattering steps, his hooves sinking into the soft earth of the drive. He shook his body, his blond tail flying, then surveyed the overgrown fields, the sagging fence line, the quiet house.
“Well,” Katsuki said, his voice flat. “It’s a shithole.”
Izuku didn’t argue. He let the rope hang loose in his hand. “I know. That’s why I bought you.” He looked up, meeting that sharp gaze. “Not to pull a plow. Not just to haul things. I don’t know what I’m doing. You do. So… what should we do first?”
Katsuki went very still. His ears, the equine ones atop his head, swiveled forward. The mockery that usually lined his face like armor slipped, just for a second, revealing something underneath—genuine surprise. “What?”
“You heard me.” Izuku’s voice was steady. “You know this. I don’t. The books are theory. You’re… you’re the practice. So. What’s the first real thing?”
Katsuki stared at him. The wind rustled the tall grass. A long moment passed, filled only with the sound of their breathing. When Katsuki spoke again, the grating edge was gone, replaced by a low, assessing rumble. “Fences. Always the fences first. Keep your stock in, keep the predators out. That wire’s rusted to hell. Posts are probably rotten at the base.”
Izuku nodded, a quick, earnest gesture. He pulled a small notebook from his back pocket, the pages already filled with cramped writing. He flipped to a clean page. “Okay. Fences. What kind of wire? What tools do we need? I have a budget, but…”
“You’re asking me,” Katsuki stated. It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah.” Izuku looked up, his green eyes clear, focused entirely on the centaur. “I’m asking you.”
Katsuki took a step closer. The sheer size of him should have been threatening, but his posture had shifted. The aggressive dominance had melted into something more solid, more present. He looked at Izuku, really looked, as if seeing him for the first time. “Most humans,” he began, his voice quieter than Izuku had ever heard it, “buy a centaur, they see a smart horse. A thing that talks back. They tell. They don’t ask.”
“I’m not most humans,” Izuku said. He didn’t say it with pride, just as a fact.
“No,” Katsuki murmured. “You’re not.” He turned his head, looking out over the neglected land. “We’ll need post-hole diggers. A come-along for tension. High-tensile wire, not that barbed garbage. And a fucking sledgehammer.” A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched his lips. “You ever swung a sledgehammer, city boy?”
“No,” Izuku admitted, writing it all down. “But I’ll learn.”
Katsuki huffed, but it wasn’t a laugh. It was something softer. “Yeah. You will.” He moved past Izuku, his warm flank brushing against Izuku’s arm. The contact was electric, deliberate. “Come on. I’ll show you where the weak spots are. Where the coyotes get in.”
Izuku followed, the rope forgotten, his heart pounding for a reason that had nothing to do with fear. He watched the powerful shift of Katsuki’s equine back, the muscles rolling under gleaming chestnut hide. He watched the confident set of his human shoulders. This wasn’t ownership. This was something else. A partnership offered, gruffly and without ceremony, but offered all the same.
They walked the perimeter in silence for a while, Katsuki pointing out broken stays, leaning posts, gaps in the hedgerow. Izuku scribbled notes, asked short, precise questions. The sun beat down on the back of his neck.
“Here,” Katsuki said finally, stopping by a collapsed section of stone wall near the old barn. “This is the worst of it. Needs rebuilding from the ground up.” He turned to face Izuku, crossing his arms over his broad chest. The movement made the muscles in his arms bunch. “It’s hard work. Back-breaking. You sure you’re up for it, Deku?”
The name didn’t sound like an insult this time. It sounded like a challenge. A test, yes, but one Izuku was invited to pass.
Izuku closed his notebook. He looked from the crumbled stones to Katsuki’s waiting, intense face. A slow, determined smile spread across his own. “Yeah,” he said, his voice full of a quiet, simmering heat. “I’m up for it.”