Arion went perfectly still for one heartbeat, then another.

Then the predator beneath all that princely control surfaced fully.

"Good boy," he breathed.

The praise hit Dean harder than the collar ever had.

The hand on Dean’s thigh shoved upward, lifting his hips higher, forcing his face deeper into the pillow while his knees spread helplessly. Arion’s weight settled over him, a cage of golden skin and coiled muscle, and Dean felt the slick brush of Arion’s arousal against his entrance, teasing once, twice, before the alpha pushed in on one brutal, unrelenting thrust.

Dean screamed into the pillow.

Pleasure burned through him so sharply it blurred the edges of the room, turning the world into nothing but the heavy weight of Arion above him and the relentless rhythm that followed. Dean clutched at the sheets, muffling broken sounds into the pillow as Arion set a pace that felt less like seduction and more like claiming.

"Mine," Arion growled against his shoulder, teeth grazing skin hard enough to leave marks. "My omega."

Dean shook beneath him.

The collar shifted warmly against his throat with every movement, each pull of leather reminding him exactly who held him there, who had unraveled him so completely.

Arion’s rhythm never faltered. He drove into Dean with single-minded focus, each thrust staking claim, rearranging him from the inside out. Dean’s knuckles went white where he gripped the sheets, his screams dissolving into breathless, broken moans that Arion swallowed like communion.

"Look at you," Arion rasped, lifting Dean by the collar until his spine arched in a perfect curve and his head fell back against Arion’s shoulder. The angle went far deeper, and Dean sobbed, exposed and held and seen. "Taking me so well. Made for this. Made for me."

Dean couldn’t answer, his vocabulary had narrowed to Arion’s name and helpless gasps. The hand at his hip shifted lower, wrapping around his leaking cock, and Arion stroked him in time with his thrusts, demanding everything.

"Come for me," Arion commanded against his ear, teeth catching the shell. "Give it to me, Dean. Give me everything."

Dean broke apart with a cry that tore his throat raw, spilling over Arion’s fist in long, shuddering waves. Arion groaned, grinding deeply, and followed.

But that didn’t make him soften or withdraw. He kept Dean pinned there, trembling through the aftershocks, and began to move again.

"Again," Arion murmured, licking the sweat from Dean’s neck.

"I can’t—"

"You can."

He proved it, fucking Dean through the oversensitivity until Dean was weeping and until his body betrayed him into another climax and then another. By the time Arion finally came himself a second time, Dean was limp as water, held up only by the arm banded around his chest and the cock still buried inside him.

Hour Six

They had collapsed sideways, still joined, Arion’s chest to Dean’s back. Dean hovered in a daze, floating on endorphins and the heavy scent of their mingled arousal. Arion’s hand rested over his heart, feeling it hammer against his ribs.

Arion eased out slowly, drawing a whimper, and turned Dean onto his back. The sight of him - wrecked, flushed, the collar dark against his pale throat - made Arion’s drained cock twitch with renewed interest. But he didn’t take him again immediately.

He worshipped him instead.

Arion started at Dean’s ankles, pressing kisses to the bones, licking the arch of his foot, making Dean squirm and laugh weakly. He moved up to his calves, his knees, and the sensitive inside of his thighs, each kiss and touch reverent. When he reached Dean’s hips, he lingered, mouthing over bruises he’d left earlier, soothing them with his tongue.

"Arion," Dean whispered, embarrassed by the tears pricking his eyes again. "You don’t have to..."

"I want to." Arion looked up at him, gaze infinite. "Let me worship my mate."

Dean’s breath caught. He nodded, helpless to deny him anything while in heat.

Arion took his time. He traced Dean’s hipbones with his lips, nuzzled into the softness of his lower belly, and licked the trail of cum that had dried there. When he finally took Dean’s cock into his mouth, Dean cried out, hands flying to Arion’s hair, tangling in the black strands.

Arion sucked him slowly, lovingly, his eyes never leaving Dean’s face. The intimacy of it undid something in Dean’s chest. He came with Arion’s name breaking across his lips like a prayer, and Arion took it all, drinking him down, then crawled up his body to kiss him deep, sharing the taste.

He pushed back in while they were still kissing, Dean’s legs wrapping around his waist automatically, and this time it was slow, rocking, grinding, Arion’s forehead pressed to his, their breath mingling.

"I love you," Arion told him, thrusting deep. "I love your strength. I love your surrender. I love that you wear my collar and my marks and my child someday."

Dean gasped, the future image flooding him with heat. "Yes. Yes, Arion—"

They moved together, finding a rhythm that spoke of years, of lifetimes, of forever. When they finished, it was with Arion’s hand wrapped around Dean’s throat above the collar, claiming, and Dean’s fingers digging crescents into Arion’s back, holding him close, never letting go.

Hour Fourteen

Night had fallen. Dean awoke to fingers tracing patterns on his bare back and the heavy press of Arion inside him - Arion had never fully withdrawn, keeping them together even while sleeping, his rut demanding constant connection.

"Hey," Arion murmured, his voice rough as gravel. He was moving already, with shallow rolls of his hips that stirred Dean awake in the most delicious, torturous way.

"Hey," Dean rasped. His throat was destroyed, his body sore in places he forgot could be sore, but Arion kept reminding him.

Arion rolled them so Dean was atop him, still inside, and guided his hips with steady hands. "Ride me," Arion commanded softly. "Take what you need."

Dean braced his hands on Arion’s chest, the collar heavy against his collarbone, and began to move. It was awkward at first - his muscles trembling, his coordination shot - but Arion’s hands were there, guiding his hips, lifting him and pulling him back down, setting the pace until Dean found his rhythm.

He rode Arion with abandon, his head thrown back, his hair sticking to his sweat-damp neck. Arion watched him with something like awe, his hands roaming everywhere - thighs, hips, waist - before settling on Dean’s cock, stroking him in time with his movements.

"Beautiful," Arion groaned. "My beautiful, perfect omega. Look at you taking me."

Dean came apart with a cry, clamping down on Arion’s cock, and Arion sat up instantly, wrapping his arms around Dean’s waist and pounding into him from below, seeking his own release. He found it with his face buried in Dean’s neck, teeth sunk into the bond mark, groaning long and low as he spilled inside him once more.

They collapsed back onto the pillows, Dean sprawled across Arion’s chest, still joined, panting into each other’s mouths.

"Water," Dean managed.

Arion chuckled, the vibration moving through them both. "Yeah. Okay."

He helped Dean drink, holding the bottle to his lips, then fed him bites of light food. He cleaned Dean gently, checking every mark, kissing every bruise, murmuring praise and apologies and love against overheated skin.

Then he took him again, face to face, knees drawn up, moving slow and deep until Dean was sobbing from the intimacy of it, from the feeling of being truly, completely known.

Hour Twenty-Two

Morning light spilled gold across the sheets. Dean woke to emptiness, Arion’s knot had finally withdrawn, and the loss made him whimper before he was fully conscious.

Then he felt hands on his ankles, spreading him wide, and opened his eyes to find Arion kneeling between his legs, gazing down at him with dark, endless hunger.

"Last time," Arion promised, though his voice said he could go forever. "Let me have you one last time."

Dean nodded, beyond speech, and Arion pushed back into him with a groan that sounded like relief. This time, Arion folded him - legs over shoulders, hands pinned above his head, collared throat exposed - and took him with a depth and precision that made Dean’s vision blur at the edges.

It was thorough. Arion moved with the absolute confidence of a mate who knew exactly how to touch, exactly where to press, exactly how to make Dean fall apart. He brought him to the edge and held him there, whispering filthy, loving things against his lips, until Dean was begging mindlessly.

"Come with me," Arion commanded. "Now, Dean. Now."

They crashed over together, Arion burying himself as deep as he could go, spilling with a roar that Dean felt in his bones, and Dean following, clamping down, milking him dry, his body wrung out and perfect and his.

Arion collapsed on top of him, heavy and warm and trembling, his face pressed to Dean’s neck. For long minutes, they lay there, breathing hard, Arion’s cock finally softening inside him.

"I love you," Arion whispered, pressing a kiss to the bond mark.

Dean smiled, delirious and exhausted and happier than he’d ever been. "I know. I love you too, you rutting maniac."

Arion laughed, the sound tired and blissful, and carefully, reluctantly, pulled out. He gathered Dean close, arranging them on their sides, tangling their legs, his hand coming up to rest possessively over the collar.

They slept then, truly slept, tangled in each other’s scent and warmth, the rut and heat ending, the bond sealed deeper than it had ever been.