Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina

Arion obliged, his mouth continuing its downward journey, leaving a trail of fire behind it. Dean’s breath hitched as Arion’s tongue traced patterns across his chest, lingering over nipples that pebbled instantly at the contact with his wet tongue. Arion’s vetiver pheromones were warm and earthy, mingling with Dean’s own clean scent of mint and lemonade, and combined, they made a scent that was all their own.

”I’ve missed this,” Dean murmured, his fingers carding through Arion’s hair. ”Just us.”

”Me too,” Arion said against his skin before taking one peaked bud into his mouth and sucking gently.

Dean’s back bowed off the bed, a soft sigh escaping his lips. There was no struggle for control, no need to dominate the field and moment. It was a surrender of the sweetest kind, a gift freely given and thankfully received.

”Arion,” he breathed.

Arion lifted his head, his golden eyes dark with want but soft with affection. ”Right here.”

Clothes vanished with an efficiency that spoke of long practice and mutual desperation.

Dean’s earlier exhaustion had transformed into something else entirely, a hunger that had nothing to do with the food on the tray downstairs. His hands roamed Arion’s body, familiarizing themselves with planes and muscles he’d touched countless times but still hadn’t memorized completely.

”Turn over,” Arion said softly.

Dean nodded and lay down on the mattress, sighing with a mixture of exhaustion and anticipation.

Arion’s hands on his back were both soothing and stimulating, working out tension Dean hadn’t realized he was carrying. ”You’re tight as a wire.”

”Field conditions,” Dean murmured into the pillow.

”Mmm.” Arion’s thumbs pressed into a particularly stubborn knot. ”Let me help.”

Dean’s response was lost as Arion’s mouth followed his hands, lips, and tongue working to unravel Dean completely. By the time Arion’s fingers breached him, Dean was already panting, pushing back instinctively.

”Easy,” Arion murmured.

Dean just hummed in response, too relaxed to argue. ”Just you.”

Arion’s breath caught. ”Always.”

Preparation was thorough, more thorough than Dean would have allowed under normal circumstances, but tonight wasn’t normal. Tonight was about coming home, about reclaiming what the campaign had taken from them. By the time Arion entered him, Dean was ready, arching back to meet him with a groan that was equal parts relief and need.

”Alright?” Arion asked, his voice strained with control.

Dean’s answer was to push back harder, taking him deeper. ”Perfect.”

The movement was slow at first, then faster as Dean’s demands became more insistent. Dean’s fingers clenched in the sheets as Arion hit just the right angle, sending sparks through his already overloaded senses.

”Arion,” he gasped.

”Right here.”

Dean’s response was inarticulate, lost as Arion adjusted his angle, hitting that spot again and again until Dean was seeing stars behind his closed eyelids. His release came suddenly, thicker from the weeks of abstinence, leaving him shaking and breathless.

Arion followed moments later with a low groan, collapsing beside him with none of his usual grace. For a moment, the only sound in the room was their combined breathing, gradually slowing as they came down from the high.

Dean shifted, wincing slightly. ”I’m going to feel that tomorrow.”

Arion laughed softly against Dean’s shoulder, still breathless himself.

”You say that like it’s a tragedy.”

Dean cracked one eye open. ”I survived infected pheromones, zombie flies, and Hendrik’s command reports. I deserve to walk tomorrow without consequences.”

”You launched compressed gravel through skulls for six days straight.”

”Yes.”

”You held a destabilizing alpha in place while neutralizing infected residue.”

”Yes.”

”You insulted three technicians, one commander, and an entire category of insects.”

Dean shifted slightly against him. ”All professionally.”

”And now you are offended your body remembers any of that?”

Dean considered it. ”When you say it out loud, I sound unreasonable.”

”You are unreasonable.”

”That is not the same as incorrect.”

Arion’s laugh deepened, warm enough that Dean felt it through the mattress.

The room had gone soft around them. Open windows let in the cool evening air from the capital, carrying distant city sounds muted by height and thick curtains. The bed smelled like clean linen, sweat, vetiver, and the sharp mint-citrus edge of Dean’s pheromones, now calm and heavy with exhaustion.

Home smelled different after battle.

Arion brushed damp hair back from Dean’s forehead. ”You’re thinking too hard again.”

”I am evaluating structural damage.”

”To yourself?”

”To my dignity.”

”That was lost days ago.”

Dean made a quietly offended sound and shifted carefully onto his side, immediately discovering that Arion had not, in fact, been exaggerating about consequences.

”Oh, absolutely not.”

Arion’s mouth twitched. ”That bad?”

”You are built incorrectly.”

”You seemed very supportive of my construction ten minutes ago.”

”I was emotional.”

”You were extremely persuasive.”

Dean glared at him without real heat. ”If you become smug after battlefield stress relief, I will divorce you before autumn.”

”We are not married yet.”

”Administrative detail.”

Arion leaned closer, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth. ”Mm. Then I’ll behave.”

”That sounded insincere.”

”It was deeply insincere.”

Dean sighed dramatically and let his head drop back onto the pillow.

—

Dean was beginning to wonder what exactly he had done in a past life, assuming he had one, to deserve this level of targeted suffering.

He was awake at an hour reasonable people should still be unconscious because an alpha with golden eyes had decided that sex was apparently excellent for muscle recovery. In retrospect, Dean should have clarified whose muscles before agreeing to the second and third round.

Now Boreas was sprawled across him like a victorious siege weapon.

The massive malamute had planted his full weight over Dean’s legs and lower stomach with the serene confidence of a creature who knew nobody in the household would move him by force. His thick fur was warm, outrageously soft, and completely impossible to escape under in Dean’s current condition.

Dean stared at the ceiling in silence.

Arion stood beside the bed holding a cup of coffee with the deeply relaxed expression of a man whose life choices had benefited him tremendously.

And somehow, against every security protocol in the palace, Nero was sitting in the armchair near the windows eating fruit like he paid taxes there.

Dean narrowed his eyes slowly.

”You,” he said to Arion, ”live in a failed state.”

Arion handed him the coffee. ”Good morning to you too.”

”This is not morning. This is punishment with sunlight.”

Boreas huffed happily and shifted higher onto Dean’s stomach.

Dean made a strangled sound. ”Your dog weighs as much as a military vehicle.”

”He missed you.”

”He is compressing my organs.”

Boreas wagged his tail once against the blankets, entirely unrepentant.

Nero watched all of this with open delight.

”You look terrible,” he informed Dean cheerfully.

Dean accepted the coffee with the exhausted dignity of a dying aristocrat. ”Why are you here?”

”I live here temporarily.”

”You have your own palace in Saha.”

”Yes, but this one has entertainment.”

”That is not a valid diplomatic reason.”

Nero popped another piece of fruit into his mouth. ”It should be.”

Dean looked at Arion. ”Why is he in our room?”

Arion took a calm sip from his own coffee. ”Boreas opened the door.”

Dean stared at him.

”...What?”