Chapter Text
Contrary to what most would expect, mating has never been one of Shōta’s priorities in life.
Solitary by nature and nurture, Shōta’s clowder of cats and his small collection of jangling fools have always been enough for him.
Thanks to years spent growing up in the cutthroat hellscape that is a public rookery, dragonkin’s modern answer to human orphanages, other dragonkin have never really appealed to Shōta. He’d spent his youth dealing with too much posturing for the added worrying over bloodlines and hoard sizes that attempting to purposefully mate another dragonkin would entail to be appealing.
The few human omegas who haven’t been terrified of him on sight and first scent were either entirely repulsive to his own senses or too interested in Shōta for all the wrong reasons. Too focused on being with any dragonkin at all rather than with Shōta specifically.
Or, as in Fukukado’s case, an odd and deeply unappealing mix of all of the above.
Plus, even with the build-up and the actual duration that goes hand-in-claw with being dragonkin taken into account, Shōta’s biyearly ruts have always been mild and manageable. Low-grade arousal is his constant companion during his denning phase and then into his rut itself, but for Shōta it has always been more of a directionless irritation. Something he found easy to ignore or channel elsewhere instead of the all-consuming need other dragonkin and even human alphas tend to complain about.
Meticulously grooming his cats and seeing the precious metals and jewels from his carefully built hoard dangling from Nemuri’s ears, glinting on Tensei’s wrists, and pinning up Hizashi’s hair has always been enough to take the edge off of the rest of his instincts.
Even the agony of the loss of Oboro and his ever-waving ring-covered hands that had once driven Shōta’s possessive instincts into a frenzy for months has faded over the years.
Not gone, never truly gone, but … dampened.
A wound healed over, thickly scarred but no longer weeping.
Overall, Shōta has always considered himself to be an even-tempered and rational dragonkin. Even the few outbursts Shōta remembers having in his younger years were things that he has always chalked up to growing pains more than anything else.
No matter what Hizashi and the others might say and dramatically carry on about.
But then, even with their secondary gender traits and all of the issues that come hand in hand with them, humans have always considered even the most easy-natured and casual dragonkin like Shōta himself to be … intense.
So really their metric of measurement isn’t exactly accurate in Shōta’s opinion.
Either way, Shōta’s lack of interest in mating is a well-known fact in the three-ring disasters that make up his work and social circles. As well as the local dragonkin population as a whole.
Which is part of what makes the situation that Shōta has found himself in so goddamn frustrating.
~~~
“A-Are you sure it’s okay for me to have this?” Izuku asks, a delicious flush riding high on the biteable apples of his cheeks.
He always acts so sweetly surprised, so awed, whenever Shōta gives him a gift.
It makes Shōta’s teeth ache with the need to bite.
“Wouldn’t have given it to you otherwise,” Shōta says just as he always does, unable to help the way he trails a claw down the line of Izuku’s throat, eyes riveted on the jewelry that rests there now.
The choker, all delicate swirls of silver dotted with tastefully cut emeralds, looks just as enchanting against Izuku’s throat as Shōta had known it would when he’d found it while doing hoard inventory.
Shōta had been unable to concentrate on anything else until he’d had it polished to perfection and tucked into his bag, ready and waiting to clasp it around Izuku’s throat where it so obviously belonged.
“You know Shōta,” Izuku stares up at him, eyes wide and so painfully earnest, “you don’t have to keep giving me gifts.”
Shōta pauses.
“Do you not like them?” The thought makes Shōta want to hiss in displeasure even as his mind automatically starts reviewing his hoard. He’s stayed mostly with lighter and brighter metals for Izuku, mainly silver and platinum pieces with the occasional rose gold thrown in. The stones have varied as well but he’s always picked the ones with the best luster.
Shōta has been sticking with the pieces that called to him, the ones he most often fantasized about seeing Izuku wear. But, if after months of these exchanges, Izuku has an actual preference and is going to speak up about it …
Shōta is all ears in that case.
“Oh no! They’re all gorgeous,” Izuku rushes to reassure him. Shōta fights down the sudden semi-conflicting urges to both mantle and preen. “It’s just, well I mean, it’s not really n-necessary? I-I understand what you’ve been trying to say is all.”
Shōta goes still.
He understands.
Shōta feels a mix of hope and anticipation well up inside of him, feels the beginning of a triumphant purr rumble in his chest.
After six months of dedication and attention, six months of Shōta holding himself back out of respect for Izuku’s human sensibilities, Izuku finally understands.
“I just want you to know that I feel the same way,” Izuku continues.
Shōta can’t help the way that building purr erupts from him at full force.
Izuku understands and reciprocates.
Shōta isn’t used to feeling euphoric victory outside of battle or finally claiming a unique or hard-won piece to add to his hoard. And even those bursts of bliss don’t compare to this moment.
Not even beating Vlad in yet another bet or challenge produces this kind of joy. Mainly because Shōta would have to be more invested in anything related to Vlad for that to be possible and that’s never going to happen.
“A-And I thought,” Izuku shuffles in place just a bit, one hand moving down to slide into the pocket of his slacks for a moment, “maybe I could give you something in return?”
“Yes,” Shōta says instantly, unable to help the way he leans forward even further into Izuku’s space.
There was never going to be another answer for Shōta. Whatever it is Izuku has, whatever he plans to present to Shōta as his first official gift in this courtship, Shōta wants it.
“It-It’s not much,” Izuku demures, the bashful look that had first captured Shōta’s attention so completely back on his face again.
Shōta doesn’t care.
He wants anything and everything Izuku is, has, and will be.
“Give it,” Shōta half demands, half pleads.
Whatever it is, Shōta knows that he’ll cherish it.
“R-Right!” Izuku puffs his cheeks out, features falling into his customary determined expression, as he pulls his hand out of his pocket.
Shōta’s attention zeroes in on what he’s holding.
Made from thickly braided bands of rich black leather with gleaming silver clasps and beads, the two bracelets are obviously good quality. They’re understated but finely made, the exact kind of thing that Shōta, unlike many dragonkin, would gravitate toward to add to his own jewelry box.
But it’s the jewels that really catch his attention.
One bracelet has a small but exquisitely cut emerald set in the center of a silver koi fish while the identical koi fish on the other bracelet carries a ruby.
Shōta can’t help the shiver that rakes down his spine or the way it causes his wings, tucked away as they are, to quiver beneath his skin. Or the way that he practically shoves his arm into Izuku’s chest in a bid to have Izuku put the bracelet on him.
Matching bracelets.
Izuku has skipped past every other stage and moved straight to matching them.
Shōta had thought they’d have to work up to something so bold as matching sets.
But then again this is Izuku. One of the things about the omega that had attracted Shōta’s attention in the first place was his ability to be so utterly surprising.
So a bold move like this? Shōta probably should have expected Izuku to do something so unorthodox and delightfully unanticipated.
“I’m glad you like it,” Izuku says as he locks the clasp of Shōta’s bracelet into place around his left wrist. “Was honestly kind of scared you’d think it was childish.”
Shōta pauses.
Blinks.
“Explain.” Shōta demands as he snags the other bracelet from Izuku and moves to put it on him, pushing the other bangles Shōta has gifted to him over the past few months up and out of the way.
“Ah,” Izuku shuffles in place a bit. “Was scared it’d feel a bit grade school I guess? I know you really like giving your friends jewelry but I wasn’t sure how you’d feel about matching friendship bracelets.”
Shōta, claws still pressed gently against the delicate inner skin of Izuku’s left wrist, freezes.
Friendship.
Bracelets.
In the background of the staff room, Hizashi begins to laugh.