Chapter Text
Day two of Bakugo’s Bridal Bash, as Izuku is now calling it, features one-on-one time with the Prince himself, touring the palace. Izuku is eager to escape the monotony of his rooms, but he can only imagine how boring it will be for Bakugo to escort eight different omegas along the same paths.
Izuku’s allotted hour is late in the morning, and he’s delivered to the front hall just as Bakugo is returning from the east wing with an omega on his arm. She’s the one with long cobalt hair and it’s tied in a high ponytail that sweeps down to her curvy hips. Her clothes are all in shades of blue. Long sleeves and full pants would be a nod to the cold weather, except that they’re sheer and silvery, making her look as if she’s wrapped in a cloud.
It couldn’t be farther from the wool pants and tight silk sweater Izuku is wearing. Did he completely misinterpret Bakugo’s hand-written note to dress warmly?
The prince spies him walking down the stairs, and the omega follows his gaze. She gives Izuku a tight-lipped smile, eyes a bit amused, like she doesn’t know what he’s doing here this week.
And neither does he, really. But Bakugo is expecting him and manages the awkward handoff quickly, bowing to the omega (Izuku should really learn their names) and offering Izuku his arm.
It’s bare and Izuku startles when he feels the heat of Bakugo’s bicep under his fingers.
“You’re so warm!” Izuku presses his other hand to Bakugo’s cheek before he can think better of it. “Are you ill?”
Bakugo laughs once and turns his face towards Izuku, who sheepishly drops the hand from his cheek. “I’m a dragon alpha. Don’t you know anything? We’re warm.” He strides forward, bringing Izuku along.
“How would I know that?” Izuku asks, exasperated. “How many of you are there?”
“Well,” Bakugo hedges, “Only me since my grandfather died. But it’s common knowledge.”
“Hmph. I don’t know how I’m supposed to distinguish between legend and fact,” Izuku says as they enter the grand foyer. Where are they going?
“Around here, most legend is based in fact,” Bakugo says, looking out the window. The sky is cloudy, casting the mountains in a dreary gray haze. “You’ll be cold, dressed like that.” He gestures at the attendant near the door.
“Are we going outside?” Izuku asks, confused.
“Yeah.” Bakugo takes a cloak from the attendant and shakes it out—thick blue velvet lined with fluffy white fur. “Unless you object?”
“No, that’s fine.”
“Good. I’m tired of playing tour guide.” Bakugo wraps the cloak around Izuku’s shoulders and toggles it closed down to his waist before Izuku can move to do it himself. Then he pulls the hood up over Izuku’s hair and Izuku’s eyes grow heavy as the scent of the fur surrounds him. Bakugo’s scent.
“This is your cloak,” he murmurs in shock. The dragon prince has dressed Izuku in his own clothes.
“Just for heavy snow,” Bakugo says, indifferently. As if it isn’t still permeated through. As if he didn’t just wrap Izuku so thoroughly in his scent, a blind man might confuse them.
The attendant hides his smile under a discreet cough as he opens the door.
“C’mon,” Bakugo tells him, throwing a leather satchel over his broad shoulders. His chest is still bare, but he draws his cloak closed as he leads Izuku outside.
Izuku wonders if he’ll get a tour of the palace grounds, but Bakugo leads him straight out of the west garden and into the forest at the base of the mountains.
The air is still, silent, and so cold Izuku can feel the shape of his lungs with each breath. They walk a narrow path through dense, tall evergreens.
“Do you still like hiking?” Bakugo asks. His voice suits the outdoors better than the palace. It seems to match the sounds of their footsteps through dry leaves.
“I do,” Izuku says, thinking he might have asked before they were actually in the forest. “I still sketch, too. Animals mostly, sometimes plants or scenery.”
“Mmm,” Bakugo nods. “Wild things. Like griffins.”
“Right.” Izuku looks up as a hawk cries above them. “Wild things are more interesting.”
“Yeah.”
The trees thin and the path gets steeper and rockier as they reach the foothills. Bakugo looks at Izuku’s feet and then up towards the mountain. “Are your boots going to work for this?”
“I’ll be fine,” Izuku says, squinting up the path. Wondering where Bakugo is taking him. “I wish I had my hiking boots, but they didn’t let me pack them, anyway. Not pretty enough.”
Bakugo’s mouth curls up at the side. “As long as I don’t have to carry you. It’s not much further.”
He doesn’t say where they’re headed, and Izuku doesn’t ask, content with the misty views of the forest and the novelty of being outdoors rather than cooped up in his rooms.
The wind picks up as they climb into the foothills and Bakugo increases their pace, eventually moving to walk on the windward side and block the chill when Izuku clenches his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering.
But they’re not exposed for long. Soon the path curves and dips and Izuku looks up in surprise when he’s hit with a faceful of hot, muggy air.
They’ve come to a plateau, as large as a field but sheltered on three sides by a curve in the mountain. On the far side, steam billows up from a pool, filling the cove. It must be a natural hot spring. Izuku walks closer and pushes back his hood, breathing in the warm air.
“And I thought we were climbing for the view,” he says, peering down into the pool. It’s the inky blue of deep water. “Are we going to swim?”
Bakugo is looking up at the gray sky, but he laughs. “Even I don’t have enough body heat to get you back down the mountain before you go into hypothermia. It’s nice in the summer, though.”
Shame Izuku won’t be here then. He looks around. It’s rather plain and gray in autumn. Not exactly where a prince would take an omega he’s courting. “So…”
“Any other guesses?” Bakugo asks, pushing back his cape.
“Umm…” Izuku eyes his chest, which is gleaming with condensation. “The steam is good for my complexion?”
“Hah. Come over here,” Bakugo says, beckoning him to the far edge of the pool.
Izuku comes, steps slowing as he gets close enough to smell Bakugo. It’s something different than before. Anticipation, maybe. Or excitement.
“Closer,” Bakugo tells him, so Izuku steps right up into his space.
Bakugo smells good enough to give Izuku goosebumps.
“Ready?” he asks.
Izuku nods solemnly, unsure what he’s ready for.
Bakugo presses two fingers into his mouth and whistles loudly. One high note and one lower, like a bird’s call. The sounds echo off the sheer face of the mountain rising above the pool.
Eyes narrowed, Bakugo searches the sky. Izuku does too, feeling a thrill of anticipation, but he sees nothing.
Bakugo repeats the whistle, and the sound reverberates and fades until it’s quiet again.
And then, Izuku hears something—a shrill scream—far above them. He looks at Bakugo, startled, and the prince gives him a wild grin before he uses two fingers to tip Izuku’s face back towards the sky.
Izuku can see it now. Something distant, dark, and gleaming as it circles high above them like a fish in a pond. And then… it dives.
It looks like nothing at first. Stillness. A distant arrow. Except it grows larger and larger until Izuku realizes it’s the size of a carriage and it’s speeding directly towards the plateau.
A jolt of fear sends him stumbling forward into Bakugo’s bare chest. The prince rumbles with laughter, wrapping an arm around Izuku’s shoulders and spinning to press his back against the mountain.
Izuku huddles into the shelter of Bakugo’s body, breathing in his warmth and scent. He smells content and Izuku’s nervous system translates that into safety, right up until there’s an enormous crash that throws water into the air and shakes the plateau beneath his feet.
Pulse thrumming, Izuku ducks forward against Bakugo’s chest, pressing close until he hears a slow, steady heartbeat. The arm around his shoulders tightens.
“You okay?” Bakugo asks, sliding his free hand around Izuku’s waist—inside the cloak so Izuku can feel the heat of him everywhere.
“Mmhm,” Izuku hums. He peels himself away and looks up into deep red eyes. For once, they’re soft. This place must make Bakugo happy.
Then there’s an alarming splash and a grating sound. Izuku rises on his toes and peers over Bakugo’s shoulder just in time to see a jade-green dragon claw its way out of the water, scoring marks in the stone at the edge of the pool.
“Holy shit,” he whispers as the dragon stretches its neck and wings, dripping water as it turns carefully in the space and tilts its narrow head at them.
“What do you think?” Bakugo asks, stepping out of the way but keeping his arm tight around Izuku’s waist.
“Aaaaaah,” Izuku squeals, like a child at the fair. “It’s amazing.” He steps forward instinctively to get a better look, but Bakugo holds him back.
“Uh, you need to stay here. He’s wild, you know?”
“Oh. Oh, sure.” That makes sense. The dragon shakes his wings and folds them closer to his body. “I wish I could sketch him. He’s gorgeous.” This is probably his only chance.
“He won’t stay long,” Bakugo warns him, reaching into his satchel. “But here.” He hands Izuku a pad of paper and a charcoal pencil. “Stay here, okay?”
Izuku nods, already distracted, fingers moving on instinct as he flips open the pad and begins roughing in the shape of the dragon, starting with his round belly and curving neck.
Bakugo walks closer, halting when the dragon thrusts its head forward to smell his hands and wrists. Then his chest, making a strange chirruping sound. Finally, Bakugo pulls something from his satchel and tosses it. The dragon snaps it out of the air so quickly Izuku can hear his teeth clack together.
“What are you feeding him?” Izuku asks, now focusing on the triangular head and narrow jaw.
“Deer sausage,” Bakugo answers, tossing up another one. “They like smoked meats.”
“Mmm.” Izuku adds the frills on the back of the head, remembering Bakugo's circlet. “How old do you think he is?”
“Oh, maybe six. Not fully grown. I can remember when he was only as tall as I was.”
Izuku tries not to coo about how cute that must have been. “What’s his name?”
“I call him Clover,” Bakugo says, tossing the last sausage.
“Oh my god. Really? That is—”
“No, not really,” Bakugo interrupts, shooting him an irritable glance. “He’s a wild animal. He doesn’t have a name.”
“Oh fine,” Izuku says, scrawling Clover across the top of the page anyway. He flips to a blank sheet to do some detail sketches, wanting to capture those strange eyelids and the pattern on its snout. “What’s that?”
Bakugo looks down at the feathery greenery in his hand. “We actually just call it Dragon’s Herb. But they like it.” He steps close enough to feed the dragon by hand. When it lowers its head to take the herbs, he strokes all the way down its long neck to the ridges of its wings.
The dragon turns its head to watch him as it chews, and then noses him away with a huff of steam from its nostrils.
“Oh fine,” he says, smacking it once on the back before coming back towards Izuku. “That’s about it,” he says, as the dragon prowls away from the water. It turns back once, watching them, before it takes three quick bounds and leaps off the cliff.
Izuku runs to the edge just in time to see it coast over the trees before flapping its wings and disappearing around a curve in the mountain.
“Well?” Bakugo asks, joining him.
“That. Was. Amazing.” Izuku looks back at his sketch and adds a few shadows while the image is still clear in his mind. Not bad for less than five minutes.
Bakugo steps close to look over his shoulder.
“You gonna critique it?” Izuku teases.
“No time,” Bakugo replies. “I’m already going to be late for the next one.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Izuku closes the drawing pad and hands it back. “That was really special, thank you. Let’s get going then!”
Bakugo leads the way down the mountain while Izuku simmers with questions which he answers with increasingly fewer words.
“How many colors do dragons come in?
“A lot, but they’re mostly shades of green, blue, and red.”
“Is green common?”
“Yeah. There was a big clutch when I was twelve that was almost all green.”
“Are they different in temperament or strength?”
“Uh huh. Greens are more docile.”
“Oh, lucky that’s what color came then! How long do they live?”
“Long time. Generations.”
“How large do they grow?”
“Big.”
“How big are their eggs?
Bakugo turns back to look at him. They’re halfway through the forest and Izuku is a bit out of breath from talking the whole way. Bakugo slows his pace until they’re walking side by side. He holds out his hands about twice the width of his shoulders.
“Dragon eggs are about this big. But—”
Izuku jumps in, excited. “Wow, have you seen a clutch of them? Have you seen them hatch?!”
“Hey.” Bakugo grabs Izuku by the back of his cloak and pulls on him to stop. “Can you just shut up for a minute? I wanted to ask you something.”
“Oh,” Izuku pants. “I’m sorry.” Now that they’ve stopped, he can smell the sour edge of irritation. Maybe he shouldn’t be talking so much. He’s never been good at the demure omega thing. “What is it?”
Bakugo exhales steam and tugs Izuku’s cloak closed over his chest. “You know about the dragon pact.”
“Yes?” It protects the whole continent after all.
Bakugo swallows. “And how it changed my bloodline?”
“Uhhuh. It’s so interesting. Is your body temperature too high—”
Bakugo smacks a hand over Izuku’s mouth. “And you’re…” he looks out of the corner of his eye at a castle tower visible over the trees. “You’re fine with that?”
His hand slides to the side so his thumb rests on Izuku's cheek. Izuku frowns at the odd question. “Why wouldn’t I be?” What sort of objection could he possibly make?
Bakugo searches Izuku’s face for something, eyes furrowed, but still the brightest thing in the forest. His hand shifts slightly, fingers curling along Izuku's neck, and then falling away. “Never mind,” he says.
They finish the walk to the castle in silence and find the next omega waiting in the foyer like a flame—wrapped up in shimmering orange and yellow silks.
Izuku returns to his rooms, certain he misstepped with Bakugo, but unsure exactly how.
It’s more disappointing than it should be.
𓆇 𓆇 𓆇 𓆇 𓆇 𓆇 𓆇 𓆇
The next morning, Izuku is dressing when he hears horses snorting and stamping in the courtyard below. He throws open the shutters and looks down in confusion at the crowd milling about, loading luggage into a line of carriages. He spies an omega climbing into one, wrapped in a teal cloak.
“Toshinori!” he calls. “Do you know what is going on in the courtyard? I thought all the omegas were spending time with Queen Mitsuki in the gardens today.”
The old man joins him, leaning out into the cold to peer down. “I have no idea what this is. Perhaps I should go inquire with—”
He’s interrupted by a knock at the door, too sharp to be a servant. Izuku startles and reaches for his comb. “I’ll be right out,” he hisses, shooing Toshinori out of his bedroom and closing the door behind him.
Izuku is not prepared to see anyone important, still wiping sleep from the corners of his eyes. There’s an ewer on his dressing table and he pats jarringly cold water over his cheeks before pinching them pink, still listening to the clatter of hooves in the courtyard.
He dresses in tight leather pants and a plain white shirt that laces up the chest, showing some skin. It will have to do.
Just as Izuku expected, the prince is in his receiving room when he steps out. Bakugo is sitting in an armchair near the fireplace, ankle crossed over knee, fingers drumming on his thigh. On the table in front of him is a box wrapped in shiny green paper.
“Apologies for keeping you waiting,” Izuku says, coming to sit on the plush red sofa. Toshinori has left a tea service on the coffee table and Izuku pours two cups.
Bakugo eyes his but does not pick it up. “I’ve chosen you,” he says.
“You’ve what?” Izuku drops the sugar spoon, spilling white powder across the black lacquer tray. “Shit,” he adds indelicately, focused on the sugar but reeling in confusion at the words.
Bakugo will marry him.
Mate him.
Izuku won’t return to Musutafu. He’ll live here, like actual royalty. With responsibilities like producing an heir.
Izuku takes a scalding sip of tea, glancing over at the prince. It’s not that Bakugo isn’t attractive. He is. He’s gorgeous and strong and he smells amazing. But still.
Why?
“Weren’t you supposed to spend a week on the selection?” Izuku asks.
Bakugo’s expression goes opaque. “I don’t like to waste time.”
Funny, and Izuku has been expecting this trip to be entirely a waste of his time. A few days in a carriage and a week of political politeness before he could return home to his life.
He stares down into the steam rising from his teacup and then blows it away. “I guess I should get Toshinori,” he says quietly.
“For what?” Bakugo asks.
“To barter for my bride price.”
After all, that’s why Enji sent him. To benefit Musutafu with his marriage. A sum of gold for the wedding. Perhaps arms for every child born. After this, Izuku will be able to define his exact worth to his home country.
Bakugo looks disgusted. Smells disgusted. His mouth hangs open for a minute before he finally says, “He can meet with my mother then.” He flicks his hand at the box next to the tea service. “For you,” he says shortly. “It’s tradition.”
Okay. Izuku looks at it. “Shall I open it now?”
“Absolutely not,” Bakugo says vehemently. He stands like he's recoiling from the thought and Izuku dutifully climbs to his feet.
Bakugo has his hand on the doorknob before he turns back and asks, “Why did you come if you didn’t want to be mated to me?”
Oh shit. “Well. I… didn’t really think you would pick me.”
“You didn’t,” Bakugo repeats. “Is it because of…” he stops and shakes his head. “Nevermind. It doesn’t matter. Somebody has to, and I already sent the girls home.”
“It’s not that I—”
“Whatever, omega. We’re both doing what we have to, right? Musutafu will benefit, and I’ll… I’ll leave you be. We can keep our own space.” He leaves before Izuku can put together a reply, but the scent of his unhappiness lingers.
Toshinori’s reaction to the news is much less complicated than Izuku’s.
He’s thrilled and immediately shifts into action. He writes a letter to King Enji, gathers the relevant documents on Izuku’s parentage, and waltzes off to cut a deal with Queen Mitsuki.
Izuku glares at the emerald box. There’s a bow on the top, so it’s clearly a gift. Bakugo didn’t tell him when to open it so, fuck it. Why not now?
He pulls it into his lap, grunting at the unexpected weight. The paper is so thick and shiny Izuku feels guilty tearing it. Inside is a tall black enamel box. And inside the box… is an ivory phallus.
What. The. Fuck.
It feels obscene to pull it out. It’s extraordinarily lifelike. Smooth, cool, and textured with veins. It bulges out at the base—the beginning of a knot. The shaft is thick enough that Izuku’s fingers can’t fully wrap around it, so he uses both hands to place it carefully on the table where it stands taller than the teapot handle.
And then he stares.
Bakugo said it was a traditional gift. It’s too big to be a heat aid. So maybe it’s art? A smaller version of those ten-foot-tall cocks that decorate the towns of Yuuei?
What is the deal with these people? Izuku shakes his head as it sinks in that he’s going to be Prince Consort of cock country.
𓆇 𓆇 𓆇 𓆇 𓆇 𓆇 𓆇 𓆇
Masaru comes to entertain Izuku while the Toshinori and Queen Mitsuki sit at the bargaining table. He offers a tour since Bakugo took Izuku for a hike instead and he’s seen barely more of the palace than his guest quarters.
They walk quietly through each wing, visiting everything from the kitchens to the throne room. Masaru is kind and doesn’t speak too much, which means that Izuku doesn’t need to speak much either.
He tries to imagine himself in the rooms, belonging rather than just visiting. Seeing each season from the windows. Visiting the gardens in the spring. Opening all the shutters for the summer winds. It’s not easy.
They stop in front of a wooden door ornately carved with a dragon looming over a clutch of eggs.
“These are the rooms Katsuki selected for you,” Masaru says, opening the door.
One more thing that Bakugo has chosen for him. Izuku walks in, chest feeling just as hollow as the echoes of his footsteps.
“They’re empty,” he remarks in surprise, walking slowly through the sitting room and into the bedroom. Only a few tapestries remain on the walls to ward off the cold. The beams and lintels are carved with dragons, flames, and eggs, the symbols of Yuuei everywhere. At least there aren’t any dicks.
“Katsuki had them cleaned. He thought you would prefer to furnish them to your own taste,” Masaru says, walking to the window. “But he wanted this view for you.”
Izuku expects to see the gardens—flowers and fruit trees to represent his fertility. Instead, as Masaru throws open the shutters, he sees Mount Yuuei framed in the window, so tall it disappears in the clouds.
“On the coldest, clearest days of winter,” Masaru tells him, “you can often see dragons circling the peak.”
𓆇 𓆇 𓆇 𓆇 𓆇 𓆇 𓆇 𓆇
The contract is sorted by evening. Izuku sits by the fire as the sun sets, bemused, and looking at the gift Masaru left with him.
The traditional gift. It’s larger than the first one, but carved from rose quartz. The knot is larger too, the size ridiculous. Izuku has decided to leave them both on the coffee table like a centerpiece.
Toshinori raises his eyebrows when he comes in, but doesn’t comment on the decorations.
“They agreed to every one of our terms,” he says with satisfaction.
Izuku hums, watching the fire crackle. He’s glad Musutafu will benefit from his marriage, but none of the terms were his terms. He was foolish not to have written in some. Alphas can be controlling with their mates. Yuuei is liberal, yes, but will he be free to wander the woods on his own? To choose his own wardrobe? To control his fertility?
“Provided that the betrothal begins this week,” Toshinori adds.
“So soon?” Izuku can’t help his grimace. “What's the rush? I’ve been here two days.”
Toshinori makes a delicate sound in his throat. “Prince Bakugo is going into rut.”
“Shit.” Izuku groans. It must have come early. Maybe that explains why he chose before the week was up. “I’d like to see him then. While he’s still coherent.”