Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

"It is." Dean began to unbutton his own shirt, his movements deliberate, his eyes locked on Arion’s. "I’m going to take you apart, piece by piece. I’m going to make you forget about reports and infected beasts and the weight of the empire on your shoulders. By the time I’m done with you, the only thing you’ll remember how to say is my name."

Arion’s breath hitched. The confident, teasing Dean was one thing. This... this commanding, dominant version of his omega was something else entirely. It was a side of Dean that only ever emerged when Arion was at his most vulnerable, his most worn thin. It was a gift.

"Dean," he started, his voice lower than he intended.

"No." Dean slipped his shirt off, letting it fall to the floor. In the dim light, he was all lean muscle and pale skin, with Arion’s silver ring casting a stark light on him. "You don’t get to talk yet. You just get to watch."

Arion watched. He watched Dean remove the rest of his clothes with an effortlessness that was both graceful and completely maddening. He watched Dean kneel on the bed and crawl toward him with the fluid grace of a cat stalking its prey.

Dean’s hands went to the waistband of Arion’s trousers, deftly undoing the fastening. He didn’t pull them off. Instead, he leaned down, his mouth hovering just above Arion’s, close enough that Arion could feel the warmth of his breath.

"Last chance to be in charge," Dean whispered.

Arion’s answer was to surge up and capture his mouth in a bruising kiss.

Dean allowed it for a moment, a soft hum of approval vibrating in his throat. Then he pulled back, pressing a firm hand to Arion’s chest and pushing him back down against the pillows. "Wrong answer."

And then Dean’s mouth was on him, but not where he desperately wanted it to be. It was on his chest, his stomach, and his hips. Dean’s hands roamed, mapping his body with a possessive touch that left Arion trembling.

Dean’s tongue traced the line of his hip bone, and Arion’s hips bucked involuntarily. A sharp, surprised gasp escaped him when Dean’s teeth scraped lightly against the sensitive skin there.

"Stay still," Dean murmured against his skin.

Arion’s hands fisted in the sheets, his knuckles white. He was a prince, a commander, an alpha used to being in control of every situation. But here, in this room, with this man, he was nothing more than a vessel for pleasure, a body to be worshipped. And he had never felt more powerful.

Dean finally took him in hand, his grip firm and sure. Arion’s back arched off the bed, a choked sound tearing from his throat. Dean’s thumb swept over the head, spreading the bead of moisture there, and Arion thought he might break apart right then and there.

But Dean didn’t let him. He brought him to the edge again and again, only to pull back at the last moment, leaving him gasping and begging for a release he knew Dean wouldn’t give him. Not yet.

"Dean," he finally managed to gasp out, his voice wrecked. "Please."

Dean lifted his head, his eyes dark with satisfaction. "Please, what?"

"Please... let me have you."

Dean’s lips curved into a slow, wicked smile. "Since you asked so nicely."

He moved up Arion’s body, straddling his hips. The scent of vetiver and mint pheromones filled the room to the point of suffocation. Dean got ready with a level of patience that was both painful and a sign of how well he knew Arion’s limits.

Then he positioned himself, the head of Arion’s cock pressing against his entrance. He held Arion’s gaze as he slowly, so slowly, sank down onto him.

The feeling was overwhelming. The tight, wet heat of Dean’s body enveloping him, the sight of Dean above him, head thrown back in pleasure, and the sounds he made as he took Arion in - it was all too much and not enough. Arion’s hands found Dean’s hips, his grip tight enough to bruise.

Dean began to move, setting a slow rhythm that was designed to drive Arion out of his mind. He rose up until Arion was almost out of him, then sank back down, taking him even deeper than before. Every move was a test of control, showing how powerful Dean was over him.

Arion met him thrust for thrust, his hips rising to meet Dean’s, and his body moved without thinking. He was lost in the feeling of Dean’s body around his and the sounds of their pleasure filling the room.

Dean leaned down, his mouth finding Arion’s in a messy, desperate kiss. "Come for me, Arion," he breathed against his lips. "Let go."

And Arion did. He let go of the control, the responsibility, the exhaustion. He let go of everything but the feeling of Dean’s body around his and the sound of his name on Dean’s lips. He came with a hoarse cry, his body arching up off the bed as wave after wave of pleasure washed over him.

Dean followed him over the edge a moment later, his body tightening around Arion’s as he found his own release, and a soft cry of Arion’s name escaped his lips.

They collapsed against each other, a tangle of limbs and sweaty skin. Arion wrapped his arms around Dean, holding him close as their breathing slowed and their heart rates returned to normal.

"You’re going to be the death of me," Arion murmured into Dean’s hair.

Dean shifted, pressing a soft kiss to Arion’s chest. "What a way to go."

Arion’s hand stroked down Dean’s back, coming to rest on the curve of his ass. "Stay."

Dean’s response was a soft hum of contentment as he settled more firmly against him. "Not going anywhere."

Arion closed his eyes, a sense of calm washing over him that he hadn’t felt in four days. The empire could wait. The infected could wait. Everything could wait. Right now, he was exactly where he needed to be.