Chapter Text
Duncan’s legs buckled, a violent tremor tearing through him before he crashed to his knees. Within a heartbeat, a feverish sweat broke over him, until the wool of his tunic soaked entirely, now clinging to him like second skin. The doublet he wore over his tunic – crafted in the striking red and black of House Targaryen – was quickly bruising into a shade darker as the feverish sweat beneath crawled outward.
I’m burning alive.
The thought consumed him as his skin scorched, radiating a fierce heat that felt entirely impossible against the icy winter air sweeping across the open field. Panicking and desperate for air, Duncan clawed frantically at his chest to tear open his doublet, wild for a reprieve from the agonizing fever. A broken whine left his throat as the fabric held taut; for the material was too rich and the seams too strong to rip. Were he capable of coherent thought, Duncan might have laughed at the bitter irony; the rich fabric, a badge of honor he wore with fierce pride and honor, now clung to him like a wet shroud. In a cruel twist of fate, the very dragon he championed was slowly killing him – drowning the boy in his own sodden, suffocating heat.
In the midst of his distress, he froze. For a deceptively clear moment, the roaring heat receded and bitter chill claimed his entire frame.
It was a false reprieve.
He felt it before he understood it; a hot, sudden rush of fluid spewed from below, tracing a slow, almost agonizingly ticklish path down his thigh like a taunting caress. Mortified, his breath caught in a ragged choke. He lunged to palm roughly at his trousers and gasped aloud, his hand closed over his weeping member that felt terribly small and vulnerable in his clammy grasp.
No, this can’t be…
Shaking with dread, he slowly traced his fingers down the slick, wet rivets oozing down his leg. With each agonizing second, his trepidation mounted. The world seemed to still completely as Duncan raised his trembling arm, slowly bringing his slick fingers to his face.
Please... No!
His sight blurred with tears and breath hitching in pure terror at the sight of the glistening, translucent substance coating his fingertips started back at him, gleaming almost mockingly in the moonlight.
But this is impossible! I just had my rut!
“Duncan…”
A sharp gasp tore from the boy at the sound of the strangled voice cutting through the air above. He looked up with trembling caution, dread and confusion raging like poison through his veins. In the desperate, blind haze of checking his own failing body, awareness has escaped him; he had completely lost sight of his surroundings, entirely forgetting that he kneeled in the presence of a prince.
“Prince Daeron…”
“You’re an omega?” A faint, incredulous whisper broke the quiet, thick with disbelief.
Duncan shook his head furiously, desperate to block it out, but the haunting accusation pierced through frantic, suffocating fog of his panic, “N-no! I swear it not to be true! Truly! I am not an omega!”
Unbeknownst to him, his own biology had betrayed him. Driven by pure panic, his heightened emotions threw off a sharp flare of pheromones. It was the exact, evocative scent of petrichor—the raw, dark musk of drenched soil tangled with a faint, intoxicating sweetness.
Daeron reeled back with a sharp breath, a hand flying to clamp over his nose and mouth “By the Gods,” he breathed behind pressed fingers, “You smell as if you’re in he—”
“No!” came the sharp, desperate bark of denial, only to collapse into a breathless ragged murmur, “No…” he rasped, the word a frantic whisper perhaps meant to convince himself, “This is… simply the lingering heat of a rut! I assure you! Prince Aer-“
The words died in his mouth as a memory pierced through his frantic haze. Prince Aerion. The name alone was a balm to the agonizing fever. For it was Aerion who had guided him through the fire of his awakening when he had presented as an alpha only three moons prior. Despite the dark reputation and volatile tyranny that shadowed the second-born Prince, he had unexpectedly treated Duncan’s vulnerability with an almost sacred gentleness. Having walked that same agonizing path years before, Aerion told him that he refused to let Duncan drown in it.
There had been no need to ask; Aerion had already stepped graciously into the role as a nurturer, serving as the calming voice in the storm, his presence an anchor to Duncan’s unraveling mind against the blinding, isolating pain of a rut spent entirely alone, trapped without an omegan mate to save him from being consumed by his own primal instincts.
It was a kindness that bought Duncan's absolute loyalty, leaving him eternally indebted to the prince.
Duncan swallowed hard, the sound guttural and heavy in the sudden quiet as he dragged a ragged breath back into his chest. “Prince Aerion will vouch for me,” he pleaded, the words tumbling out in a desperate rush. “I assure you… I presented three moons ago and he helped me through the worst of it. He has seen everything firsthand.”
Daeron’s eyes narrowed into twin slits, a sudden, heavy suspicion hardened his features. His voice dropped, thick with a cold, eerie ambivalence that made the air between them go still. “My brother… aided you? Through a rut?”
A frantic, desperate nod broke from Duncan. Vision swimming behind a thick, stinging sheet of sweat that dripped profusely down his brow, he forced the words past his trembling lips. “Yes! Please believe me! Prince Aerion never left my side—he tended to me throughout the entire time. He—”
Duncan dropped his head, mouth open in a silent scream, body convulsing as another agonizing wave of slick forced its way out of him. Blinded by a feverish haze of sweat and tears, Duncan dragged his eyes upward, his fracturing pulse roaring in his ears as he fought to maintain a single shred of composure.
“D-Daeron,” he breathed, straining to focus his gaze back on the prince.
A low, warning growl answered him - a predatory vibration thick with a primal, dangerous intent. Instantly, the space around them went completely dead. It was as if every living thing in existence had suddenly snapped out of existence, leaving nothing but Duncan and the shadow towering over him.
Daeron’s pupils were blown completely wide, swallowing his irises as he locked his gaze onto Duncan. His lips pulled back into a feral snarl, the sharp points of his fangs gleaming in the dim light. Duncan froze, terror spiking like ice water through his veins. For all the nonchalant composure and aloof indifference Prince Daeron usually carried himself with, this moment laid a brutal truth bare—he was still, undeniably, an alpha.
A choked, hysterical laugh escaped him, a desperate defense against the terror threatening to swallow him whole
“No, no, no… This is a jape. A cruel jape. It isn’t real.” The denial muttered past his lips like a prayer as his legs buckled beneath him.
Shaking from head to toe, he forced himself up, completely consumed by a desperate, frantic urge to run. To run away from this nightmare. To run away from the reality that had just shattered his world.
Duncan’s mind was spinning at a dizzying, frantic speed, but his body refused to keep pace, his limbs felt impossibly sluggish – as if his entire weight had vanished and he was floating through a heavy, suffocating fog. Finally forcing himself upright, he stumbled forward, desperately trying to find his footing. He managed a single, agonizing step toward escape before the air was violently stolen from his lungs. With a sharp yelp, he was slammed back into the dirt, tackled down instantly by the shadow above him.
Pinning him beneath his weight, Daeron stared down at Duncan with a raw, predatory hunger that made the air stand still. A feral snarl rippled through the prince's chest as he dropped his head, burying his face into the hollow between Duncan’s neck and shoulder. He pressed his nose flush against the exposed scent gland, drawing in a massive, slow breath of the intoxicating petrichor bleeding fresh from the skin.
“Not an alpha… you are an omega. I’m sure of it,” came the hushed whisper, the words slurred and heavy, as if the prince were already drunk in the intoxicating heat of his scent.
Duncan’s hands came up, pushing weakly against Daeron’s broad shoulders in a desperate, useless effort to create space. If his life hadn’t been hanging in the balance, it would have been laughable. Duncan was a giant at six and ten, standing taller than most of the Targaryen family he served, and nearly a head taller than Daeron especially, with a massive frame that promised he would continue to grow. In a normal state, throwing Daeron off him would have taken no effort at all. Instead, trapped in a fever-addled haze of a spiking presentation and drowning in a sea of disbelief, his body refused to obey him. His strength withered to nothing, and the world around him began to warp as he lost his grip on reality.
“Shh, don’t claw at me, omega,” Daeron murmured against his skin, a wet, dazed smile cutting through his words. “Not when you smell so sweet.” Duncan shivered as the words vibrating directly against the sensitive curve of his shoulder. Without warning, the Prince licked a slow, wet path upward toward his jaw, his tongue tracing the sweet, heavy tracks of moisture bleeding from the skin. A low, trembling groan tore from the alpha's throat as he pressed closer, thoroughly intoxicated. “Gods above, you taste even better…”
With a pained gasp, Duncan gathered the absolute last of his remaining strength, seizing on Daeron’s dazed, scent-drunk state. He threw his entire weight upward, violently hurling the prince off him. Without waiting to see him fall, Duncan scrambled to his feet and bolted, his legs pumping in a frantic sprint toward the open fields. He tore through the grass, desperately fleeing the place where he and Daeron had met under innocent pretenses, back when they were simply escaping the stuffy, high-born crowds of the Westerosi nobility.
The low, vibrating growl rose right behind his shoulder, close enough to raise the hairs on Duncan’s neck. With a hard cut to the right, Duncan shifted his trajectory in the desperate hope that the sudden turn would throw his pursuer off balance. A splintering crash echoed from his blind spot, followed by a furious roar. It sounded like Daeron had gone down hard, but Duncan couldn't afford to glance back and check on his prince. Pushing his body past its limits, he swallowed down his panic and ran faster, his heart hammering as he sought only one thing: to put as much distance as humanly possible between himself and the alpha.
He tore through the unfamiliar terrain, his strained eyes locking onto a small, derelict outhouse looms ahead - abandoned, dark, and blessedly empty. A breathless prayer to the Seven slipped past his lips as he bolted toward the isolated structure. He practically threw himself toward the rotting wooden door, entirely intent on burying himself in the shadows until he could finally claw back a semblance of control over his failing, heat-addled body.
Slamming himself inside the shed, he looked around wildly for anything to secure the entrance, finally jamming thick wooden planks against the rotting doorframe until it held. In the stifling dark of the outhouse, he sank heavily into the furthest corner. Dragging his massive knees to his chest, he curled his towering frame into a tight, trembling ball, desperately trying to shrink into the shadows.
With silent tracks of tears running down his face, he pinched the skin of his arm until it bled, wishing with every fiber of his being for the world to stop - for this to be nothing more than a feverish delusion, a nightmare he could wake up from and laugh at the sheer absurdity of.
But no matter how fiercely he dug his nails into his skin, all that remained was a thin trail of blood and the sharp, stinging bite of defeat. The evidence was absolute; a cold and relentless truth carried in the treacherous scent clinging to his skin. He was an omega. And yet, his mind still screamed in desperate denial.
But how? No—no, it was impossible. It had to be impossible.
A bitter wave of memories submerged him, his mind desperately retreating into the ghosts of simpler times, mourning a life that was slipping through his fingers like sand.
Oh Gods, Hela…
His heart wept at the memory of Hela, the apprentice seamstress who had captured his heart in the quiet corners of King’s Landing. He could still see her so clearly, bent over the rich fabrics of Aerion’s royal garments—so earnest, so breathtakingly diligent, and completely oblivious to the hold she had on him. Duncan remembered the exact moment she had stolen his heart - the sudden, burning flush of embarrassment when he had tripped over his own long limbs during a fitting. Yet, the humiliation dissolved the instant he saw her face. There was no mockery in her eyes, only a gentle, knowing smile that made him fall helplessly in love.
He had been so fiercely elated when she softly confided that she, too, had just presented - her own omega instincts triggered the moment she breathed in Duncan’s crisp, woody alpha scent, fresh and clean from his own presentation weeks prior. He recalled how eagerly he had run to Aerion with the news, practically begging the prince for advice on how to properly court an omega woman. Duncan had been entirely out of his depth, but he wanted to pour an earnest, effort, however clumsy it may be, into a girl he could already see himself loving, a girl he wanted to build a family with.
Even when Aerion abruptly banished Hela and her master over some fabricated, minor misunderstanding - demanding an entirely new rotation of seamstresses - Duncan hadn’t wavered. It became increasingly difficult to meet, but he only fought harder to reach her. He had learned to harbor his intentions in secret, ever since a careless slip of the tongue revealed to Aerion that he still intended to pursue her. The consequence had been a moon of quiet terror; the prince ran him ragged into the dirt, burying him under a mountain of exhausting duties to ensure he had no strength left to wander. But Duncan persisted. She was the missing piece of his soul, the moon to his sun. She was the woman he was meant to proudly make his wife, the one he dreamed would bear his children.
So when the white-hot intensity of his rut finally hit, it wasn't madness that consumed him, but a singular, desperate instinct: Hela. She was his only sanctuary, the gentle hand capable of taming the beastly impulses clawing at his chest. This was supposed to be their beginning. He was going to find her, mark her thoroughly as his own, and seal their fates as mates for life. But the moment Duncan resolved to leave his quarters, the dream shattered.
Aerion stood waiting in the hallway, propped casually against the brick walls, as if he had anticipated this exact second. Catching the thick, unmistakable scent of Duncan’s rut, Aerion closed the distance. He dragged Duncan down into the depths of the cellars, indifferent to his frantic struggles. Duncan fought with the full, terrifying rage of an alpha in heat, yet Aerion remained impossibly, terrifyingly firm. The prince's grip on his bicep was a vice, agonizingly tight, completely unmoving as he hauled him into the dark.
“You will kill her, you idiot. She may be an omega, but she is fragile; she will never know how to handle what you are. But I do. Your first rut is a mindless, violent thing. Until you learn to hone those primal instincts, you are my responsibility. It will take years before you master the beast inside your blood, and until I—and only I—deem it safe for you to touch an omega, your ruts belong to me. You will be taken care of by my hand, and no one else's. Understood?
Back then, Duncan had clawed blindly against the restraints, raging against Prince Aerion with a feral, uncomprehending fury. But in the quiet, bleeding aftermath of his lucid moments - when he looked around at the sheer destruction he had wrought within those confined walls, when his mind drowned in the heady, violent fever of the rut – Duncan finally understood. His Prince had been right all along. As he always was.
Oh Prince Aerion, what do I do now?
A ragged sob tore from Duncan’s throat at the memory of Prince Aerion - a man who, despite being his equal in years, Duncan had spent a lifetime looking up to. From boyhood, he had chased the prince's favor, desperately eager to please him and always striving to be worthy of a presence so regal, calm, and perfectly collected while the world burned around them. He remembered the fierce swell of pride that had warmed his chest when he finally approached Aerion, standing tall to show him that he had presented as an alpha. He could still see the quiet approval in Aerion’s calm smile, still feel the genuine warmth of a praise that had made him feel entirely invincible.
What will become of me?
Duncan turned over the fates of the omegas he had known or heard of. Those of high birth and renown were lauded, their very presence worshiped by alphas and betas alike. They were treasures to be guarded and shielded from the wind - dainty, delicate, and entirely feminine. They lived lives untainted by hardship or sacrifice, every whim catered to, every burden carried for them.
Yet King’s Landing offered no such grace to the smallfolk. In the gutters of Flea Bottom, an omega designation was a death sentence to one's freedom. Duncan knew the horror that awaited them. There, omegas were merely property to be owned, treated and bred like cattle – their autonomy was entirely stripped away. Imprisoned by the alphas who claimed them, their very survival hung on their master’s whims. He had heard the whispers: omegas sold off to whorehouses by the very alphas meant to protect them, or worse, torn apart in the dark for the simple crime of disobedience.
In his youth, Duncan had nurtured a quiet vow: if he ever became an alpha, his omega would know only safety, softness, and unshakeable love. They deserved nothing less. But the universe had played a cruel, mocking trick on him. Despite his years of unfaltering devotion to House Targaryen, Duncan could not erase the stench of Flea Bottom from his skin. An omega could not serve the royal family; he would be cast out, stripped of his duty, and banished back to the slums. Panic clawed at him as he imagined the horrors waiting for him there. He was too large, too sturdy; a towering antithesis of the delicate creatures omegas were engineered to be. Duncan could only look at his broad hands – worn from a lifetime of labor and the grime of service – and weep, for a body like his wouldn't be protected; it would be broken.
They will hunt me down, cage me like a beast, and bleed me until there is nothing left. There is no mercy for an omega built like a warrior, only a slower, more brutal way to be broken.
In that single, still moment, Duncan knew. He had to flee. Loyalty was a luxury that would get him slaughtered. It didn't matter what he felt for House Targaryen - for Aerion, for Egg, for Maekar, or even for Daeron. Honor wouldn't protect him; the graveyards were already full of honorable men.
Swallowing down a wave of choked, desperate sobs, he reached toward the dim light of the window ledge, his callused fingers wrapping around a rusted pocket knife. He moved with a quiet, terrified urgency, hacking into his own garments. He tore a ragged patch from his tunic, using it to cleanse the sticky, hot slick tracing paths down his legs. Desperation driving his hands, he carved out a second, thicker sheet of cloth, binding it around his knuckles before shoving the crude compress deep into his trousers to catch the heat.
Duncan stripped away the thick, noble doublet. His watery eyes traced the contours of the dragon sigil one last time; he held the heavy cloth to his mouth, breathing a silent farewell into the threads before placing it gently on the floorboards.
His knees trembled violently beneath him as he stood. He crossed the small room to the door, his heart hammering against his ribs as he slid the wooden planks from their brackets, agonizingly slow, terrified of making a sound. He gripped the doorknob, his knuckles turning white. A frantic prayer for strength died on his lips as he finally braced himself. Then, he turned the lock, opened the door, and stepped out into the night.
Only to be struck frozen by a vision of silver and violet.
Prince Aerion was leaning casually against the trunk of a nearby tree, as though he had all the time in the world and his pale violet eyes stared back at him, calm and assessing. Duncan reeled, a suffocating sense of déjà vu gripping his chest. It felt exactly like the onset of his first rut.
“P-Prince Aerion!”
Aerion smiled, a tiny, knowing tilt of his mouth. Duncan’s vision focused, narrowing on the small, fresh scratch on the prince’s upper lip. His old instincts took the reins, abandoning all reason. Before his brain could scream at him to run, he was already moving toward the alpha. He reached out, taking the prince’s face between his trembling hands, entirely consumed by the need to inspect the hurt.
“My Prince, what happened?” A quiet murmur of genuine concern escaped Duncan’s lips, his heart aching behind the ribs that screamed at him to run. Yet, he could not draw his hands away. His thumb traced a ghostly, trembling path over the angry mark and the violet bruise blossoming along Aerion's jawline.
Aerion closed his eyes, inhaling deeply before releasing a long, contented sigh that brushed hot against Duncan’s wrist. He leaned into caring touch, heavy and yielding.
“Worry not, Duncan,” Aerion whispered, a soft, haunting smile playing on his lips. “It is a small price to pay.”
Without warning, Aerion snaked a powerful arm around Duncan’s waist and yanked him flush against his chest, eliminating every inch of air between them. He buried his face deep into the hollow of Duncan’s neck, inhaling a ragged, desperate breath of the scent pooling there. The prince’s eyes fluttered shut, a low, primal rumble vibrating deep within his chest as the pure pleasure of it took hold.
“Daeron was right…” Aerion mumbled.
Aerion’s long, slender fingers traced a slow, delicate path down Duncan’s chest, pressing into the sweat-sodden linen of his shirt. A shiver ran through Duncan as he swallowed hard and tried to lurch backward, but the prince’s hand snapped around his wrist like an iron shackle, yanking him right back into the alpha’s space.
“Where are you going?” Aerion chimed softly, his tone light, even as his fingertips traced a tantalizing line over Duncan's ribs. Duncan stammered, the words drying up in his throat.
“Where is your doublet?” Aerion cut in again. The prince’s voice was a gentle whisper, his grip on Duncan’s wrist remained bruisingly tight, paralyzing any hope of a struggle.
“I… I left it back inside,” Duncan whimpered, a wild shake of his head indicating the outhouse behind him.
“Why? Going somewhere? Dressed like this?” Aerion’s hand drifted back to Duncan’s chest, a mocking caress. “You must be so cold.” His fingertip began to circle Duncan’s areola with agonizing slowness, before cruelly pinching the hardened nipple.
Duncan let out a startled, breathless gasp at the searing burst of sensitivity. Below the waist, another shameful rush of slick flooded his trousers. Terrified and humiliated, Duncan fought back, throwing his entire weight into a desperate shove.
“Prince Aerion, please—let me go!”
Humiliation and desire left Duncan simultaneously enraged as he was breathless. It was a brutal awakening to his new reality - either a failure of his own diminished strength as an omega, or a testament to the absolute power Aerion wielded over him. The prince barely faltered; he just absorbed the impact, letting out a soft, humming purr against Duncan’s throat. Then, with his grip never wavering, Aerion threw his weight forward, his shoulder colliding with Duncan’s chest to shove the massive attendant backward into decaying outhouse.
“And why would I ever do that?” Aerion murmured, pulling the wooden door shut and locking them into the dark.
Under the suffocating pressure of another alpha in the cramped space, Duncan’s legs completely buckled, sending him crashing down to his knees and hands on the floorboards. His traitorous body broke out in a violent wave of shivers and sweat, his skin felt as though they were catching fire all over again. He could only stare at the floor, his chest heaving.
Above him, Aerion calmly assessed dim interior of the structure, his gaze sliding down until it locked onto the discarded doublet resting perfectly folded on the wood.
“Were you perhaps thinking of leaving, Duncan?” Aerion murmured, the sweetness of his voice dripping with malice.
A ragged gasp tore from Duncan's throat. “N-no, no,” he choked out, shaking his head frantically, his large hands scraping against the floor as he scrambled for an excuse.
“I was just... too hot. Please, Your Grace... the doublet makes it too hot to breathe.”
Aerion’s amusement was quiet, but the coldness still remained. “A half-truth, then. But a lie sits right beside it. Tell me, Duncan - why were you running?”
Aerion strolled to where the doublet lay and brought it to his face. His eyelids fluttered shut as he drank in the scent ground into the fibers, mapping the sweet, overwhelming pheromones of the newly turned omega. “You smell divine... far better than I ever could to imagine.”
The air turned to stone in Duncan's lungs. “M-my prince?”
Pulling the doublet away, Aerion glided toward Duncan’s collapsed, trembling form. Laying the doublet down with precision, he placed his fingers over Duncan's collarbones, and with gentle, unyielding pressure, he pushed the towering man down until he was laid out flat on the ground.
Duncan was entirely spent. The brutal fight-or-flight ordeal with Daeron had drained every ounce of his strength; he could only lie there, pliant and defenseless beneath his prince. Aerion descended, planting his hands on either side of Duncan’s face as he sought the warmth of his neck. The alpha's mouth latched immediately onto the swollen, forming scent gland, his tongue softly sucking and prodding the raw, sensitive skin.
Duncan let out a strangled cry, as his body violently twitched. It was an overwhelming, terrifying sensation - as if his entire being, body and soul, had been laid completely bare beneath the alpha’s lips.
“Daeron claimed you had presented as an omega,” Aerion whispered, pulling away from the scent gland with a soft, breathless murmur. He leaned closer, his voice brushing against Duncan's ear like silk. “I had to see it with my own eyes.” The prince whispered, entirely entranced by the scent. “An omega. So magnificent. So perfect. I can’t believe it worked.”
The world was spinning. Duncan’s thoughts were thick and hazy, drifting away into the heavy heat of the outhouse. In a final, desperate burst of willpower, he reached out blindly, his heavy, callused hand bunching into the fine fabric of Aerion’s collar. “My Prince, please... I have to leave. I can’t stay,” he choked out, the syllables melting together.
The softness vanished from Aerion’s face. His eyes turned to slits as he descended upon Duncan, his lips hovering dangerously close to the attendant’s mouth. “Why?” Aerion demanded, his voice dropping to a fierce, venomous whisper. “Did you find another alpha to crawl to?”
“N-no,” Duncan whimpered, his head rolling weakly from side to side. “No, but I can’t stay. Please, Your Grace... they’ll slaughter me if they discover what I’ve become.”
Aerion let out a low, dark chuckle, tilting his head slightly before surging forward to capture Duncan’s softly parted lips in a bruising, heated kiss. The prince's tongue plundered its way into his mouth, ruthless and demanding as it traced the line of Duncan’s teeth and tangled deeply with Duncan’s helpless one. Drowning in the heat, Duncan’s fingers bunched tightly into Aerion’s collar, a quiet, helpless moan escaped him. Beneath the oppressive, heavy taste of dragon fire and ash, he began to taste something deeper - a subtle, intoxicating hint of rich cinnamon and sweet vanilla.
As Duncan lost himself to the kiss, Aerion’s hand glided downward over his torso. His long fingers worked with practiced, effortless precision, unbuckling the belt and sliding beneath the fabric of his trousers.
A loud, ragged groan tore from Duncan’s throat, his hips involuntarily canting upward as those long, icy fingers wrapped around his embarrassingly diminished length, his palms completely swallowing the small weeping cock.
“How adorably small…” Aerion murmured, a thin layer of delight lacing his tone.
The freezing touch was an agonizing contrast to his feverish skin as Aerion teasingly prodded the sensitive tip with a cruel, deliberate slowness.
“Aerion…” Duncan whimpered, a desperate impulse driving him to reach down and pull the hand closer, practically begging for a firmer touch to put an end to the agonizing, delicate torment.
But Aerion was faster, he captured his wrist in a crushing grip and slammed it back into the wood. “No,” the prince murmured against his cheek, his tone light and airy despite the immense strength behind his hold.
“You just take what I give you.” And with a soft smile, he leaned down to taste the helpless, unconscious pout of Duncan’s lips.
Duncan’s breath caught in a choked gasp as his trousers were ruthlessly yanked away, the cold draft of the night striking his burning thighs like ice. Stripped and exposed, he felt utterly defenseless. Aerion looked down at him, tapping his jawline with a soft click of his tongue. “Stay still, Duncan. Don’t move an inch.”
Duncan gave a weak, uncertain nod, helpless as Aerion tracked downward, the alpha’s hot breath sending a fresh wave of tremors throughout his body.
A soft tap brushed his inner thighs. “Spread them.”
Whimpering, his face burning a deep crimson, Duncan forced his legs apart. He let out a sharp cry as Aerion’s strong hands seized his hips, effortlessly lifting his massive weight to arrange Duncan’s legs over his shoulders. Duncan’s nails dug frantically into the rough wooden floorboards, splintering against the grain as a long, heavy swipe of a tongue began to teasingly poke and prod his newly formed cunt.
“I can drink from you all day,” Aerion growled softly, entirely intoxicated. A high, desperate scream tore from Duncan’s throat as the alpha’s hot, wet tongue buried itself deep into his slick core.
“Aerion!” he shrieked, his pelvis bucking wildly.
A violent shudder wracked his entire frame when he felt the blunt, solid tip of the prince’s nose nudge softly, relentlessly against his sensitive clitoris. Tears streamed freely down his flushed cheeks, pooling in his ears as he quietly wept, “Please… please.”
With a soft, wet suctioned sound, Aerion finally pulled away. His lips were pink and heavily puckered, his mouth obscenely, glisteningly wet with a heavy coat of Duncan’s sweet omega slick. He looked up, his dark eyes fixed on the weeping attendant, and a dark smile tugging at his lips. “Your heat will start soon, sweet Duncan... We’ll need to prepare for it.”
Before Duncan could gather a thought or even draw breath, a wave of blistering heat consumed him as Aerion's hot mouth swallowed him whole.
Duncan arched his back violently, a loud, shameless moan echoing off the wooden walls. He stared upward in a blind daze, his mind adrift, his eyes mapping the rotting wooden beams of the ceiling that trapped them. A heavy shudder ran across him as the tight space filled with the slick, wet sounds of the alpha's mouth and their own ragged, tangled breaths - the freezing air around them turning thick, humid, and intoxicatingly hot in a heartbeat.
A sharp yelp broke from Duncan's lips as the razor-thin graze of teeth scraped against the raw tip of his length. Overwhelmed and frightened by how easily his body was bending, he jammed his fist between his teeth, biting down savagely on his own hand. He welcomed the sharp sting of pain, begging it to ground him before he drowned in the heat.
But then the heat lifted. Aerion’s mouth pulled away, leaving the damp, sensitive cock to shiver in the biting chill of the outhouse air. Duncan let out a pitiful, involuntary whine.
“Stop,” Aerion growled softly, reaching up to wrap his fingers around Duncan's wrist. “Don’t hide it from me. I want to hear every sound you make.” The prince's breath was ragged, his composure completely unraveled by the heavy scent of the omega.
Bracing his weight on his forearms, Duncan leaned forward, his vision blurring. He froze when he saw Aerion looking up at him—the prince's violet eyes dilated into a dark, predatory obsidian that made his blood run hot. Duncan nodded in dazed submission, his head instantly crashing back onto the wood as Aerion swallowed him whole once more, hollowing his cheeks to pull him into the absolute root.
“Ah! Ah!… Ah!” Duncan cried out feverishly, the shameless, echoing moans tearing from his chest just as the prince demanded.
The sight beneath him made his heart hammer in a mix of arousal and despair. Aerion was wedged tightly between his hips, a small, slick mound of flesh glistening between them as the prince's mouth worked over his sensitive length. Duncan’s legs, once so powerful and unyielding, now flopped completely boneless over the alpha’s shoulders - slack, heavy, and undone by the ruin of his own pleasure.
Suddenly, Duncan went entirely rigid. He felt it - a blistering, hot rush gathering deep within his core. Without a second thought, his instincts took the reins; he bracketed Aerion’s face tightly with his thick thighs, his hands burying into the prince's silver hair as he began to frantically ride his face. His hips canted back and forth is a wild, frantic haze, entirely consumed to reach his release.
“Please! Please!” he begged, his voice cracking in his unraveling.
Through a glaze of tears, he caught a fleeting glimmer of wicked, triumphant amusement passing through Aerion’s obsidian eyes. Then, a sharp scream tore from Duncan's lungs as a long, slender finger forced its way deep inside his swollen, weeping cunt. The sudden, invasive intrusion shattered his last thread of control, sending him violently over the precipice. Duncan shrieked, his core clenching fiercely around the finger as he yanked Aerion's face hard, pulling the alpha’s face flush against his pelvis as his body convulsed, contracting over and over in a never-ending release.
Finally, with a long, drawn-out, broken moan, he finally collapsed back onto the wooden floorboards, with chest heaving. his muscles jumping with residual tremors. In the quiet gloom of the outhouse, he heard the distinct, heavy sound of Aerion swallowing him down, the wet pop of his lips, and a searing, possessive kiss pressed to his sensitive inner thigh.
“Good omega,” came a low, intensely satisfied purr against his skin.
Perhaps it was the sheer exhaustion of the horrors he had endured in a single night; perhaps it was the staggering shock of sprinting blindly from one dragon's trap straight into another. Or perhaps, far deeper down, his newly turned body felt a traitorous, sickening elation at the alpha's praise. Nevertheless, Duncan had no strength left to fight it, let alone question it. The world simply faded to black at the edges, the shadows of the outhouse closing in like a shroud. As his eyes drifted shut, his racing heart finally slowed, anchored by a terrifying, suffocating comfort: his alpha was here, and his alpha was going to take care of him.
Just like Aerion always had.