Taming the Wild Beast of Alamina-Chapter 89: Barnacle

"You’re incredible," Dean whispered.

Arion, as if taking the word as permission rather than sarcasm, made a soft, satisfied sound and settled his weight more fully across Dean’s torso, cheek pressed to Dean’s throat like he had found the exact center of the universe and was now offended by the concept of leaving it.

Dean stayed very still for a long moment, because experience had taught him that dominants - especially exhausted, half-awake dominants - noticed movement the way wolves noticed a rabbit twitch. Arion’s eyes were open now, barely, gold peeking through lashes as if he were awake only enough to confirm Dean’s existence and then decide that consciousness was optional.

The absurd part was that he looked pleased about it.

Arion didn’t even pretend to sit up. He didn’t shift to create space. He didn’t do the normal human thing where you wake and your body remembers you have duties, dignity, or at least a spine.

Instead, he tightened his arms around Dean with the reassurance of a man who had evolved overnight into a sea creature.

He held on.

Dean’s eyebrows lifted despite himself.

"Are you... clinging?" Dean asked in a low voice, as if speaking too loudly would startle the creature into violence.

Arion’s nose brushed his neck again, a lazy nuzzle that made Dean’s skin prickle and his mouth twitch.

"Mhm," Arion murmured, voice still rough with sleep.

"That wasn’t an answer."

"It was," Arion said, and if arrogance could yawn, it would have sounded like that.

Dean stared at the ceiling, expression caught somewhere between disbelief and reluctant amusement. Boreas remained at their feet like a furry witness, eyes half-closed, breathing deep and content, as if this was the most normal arrangement in the world.

Dean shifted his gaze down.

Arion’s eyes were open a little wider now, gold still hazy, still warm, still far too pleased with himself. He looked like a man who had spent his entire life being forced to move, forced to perform, forced to hold himself upright for the benefit of other people’s peace of mind... and had finally discovered that he didn’t have to.

Dean’s amusement turned into something more dangerous because it was paired with fondness he didn’t want to examine.

"You’ve turned into a barnacle," Dean said flatly.

Arion blinked.

Then, very slowly, the corner of his mouth lifted.

"Yes," he agreed, like it was a strategic choice. "It’s very nice; you should try it."

Dean stared at him for a beat, letting the absurdity land in full.

"You have to be kidding me." He started to move away from the barnacle, only for Arion to latch on harder. "C’mon. You are awake already!"

Arion didn’t even bother pretending he hadn’t understood.

His arms tightened with unwavering resolve, not the frantic reflex from earlier, but the refusal of a man who had discovered comfort and decided it was now policy. His cheek stayed pressed at Dean’s throat, breath warm, and the faintest hint of smugness curved in the corner of his mouth like he was proud of his own laziness.

"Awake," Arion murmured, voice still gravelly with sleep. "Yes."

"Then let go."

"No."

Dean went still, blinking once, because the simplicity of it was insulting. "That’s not an answer."

"It’s the only one you’re getting," Arion said, and the words landed with that familiar princely certainty - quiet, effortless, like he’d never had to persuade anyone in his life.

Dean tried again, carefully shifting his shoulder, attempting to slide out from under the weight without triggering a dominance response. It was a reasonable attempt. A mature attempt. The kind of attempt his parents would have approved of if they weren’t busy being dukes and terrifying half the continent.

Arion followed the movement like a creature with perfect tracking.

His nose nudged Dean’s neck, searching, and then he nuzzled, insistent, right under Dean’s jaw.

Dean jerked with a strangled laugh, mixed with outrage. "Don’t—Arion—"

Arion did it again.

Dean’s body betrayed him with another sharp, involuntary twitch. The sensation wasn’t painful; it was worse. It was ticklish in a way that made him feel twelve years old and undignified, like his entire reputation could be dismantled by a crown prince with too much authority and too much affection.

Arion’s eyes narrowed slightly, satisfied. 𝙛𝒓𝓮𝒆𝔀𝒆𝙗𝓷𝒐𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝒄𝓸𝓶

"You’re making noises," he observed.

Dean stared at the ceiling like it might offer him legal counsel. "It tickles."

"Good."

"That is not a justification."

"It is," Arion said, and then he inhaled at Dean’s throat in a slow, greedy breath, like he was drawing calm straight out of Dean’s skin. Arion’s body responded immediately, another subtle loosening, another fraction of tension dissolving, as if Dean’s scent was the final piece that restored the world’s order.

Dean swallowed.

He hated that he noticed. He hated more that it worked.

"Arion," Dean said, switching tactics, voice firmer, "I have to get up."

Arion made a sound against his neck that was somewhere between a hum and a laugh. His hand slid up Dean’s side, fingers spreading like an anchor.

"Why," he asked, as if Dean’s desire to move was a confusing personal flaw, "would you do that?"

Dean exhaled sharply through his nose, the beginning of a laugh threatening again, because this was insane.

"I need the bathroom," he said flatly.

There was a pause.

Arion’s eyes opened a fraction wider, gold sharpening as consciousness caught up to biology and dignity. He didn’t let go, but his face lifted just enough that Dean could see the calculation flicker across his expression.

Dean raised his brows.

"You’re going to make me commit treason on your sheets," Dean added sweetly, because if he had to suffer, Arion was coming with him.

Arion blinked once.

Then, with the slow reluctance of a man pried from something sacred, he loosened his hold by a single inch.

Not enough to free Dean, but enough to prove he was considering mercy.

Dean stared at that inch like it was a formal treaty.

"You do understand," Dean said slowly, "that mercy implies you eventually let the prisoner leave."

Arion’s gaze drifted back to Dean’s throat, as if the throat was the only argument that mattered. He lowered his face again, nuzzling with maddening patience, and Dean had to clamp his lips together to keep from making another traitorous sound.

"You’re not a prisoner," Arion murmured.

Dean’s brows rose. "What am I, then?"

Arion’s voice was still sleep-rough, but the answer landed with terrifying clarity. "Mine."

Dean went very still.

He told himself not to react. Told himself to take it as instinct, as dominance, as a prince being dramatic in the morning.

His body, unfortunately, did not consult his brain.

Heat rose under his skin, and his pheromones warmed a fraction in response, the way they had all night when Arion softened. Arion inhaled, slow and satisfied, and the last stubborn tension in his shoulders eased as if that single breath had fixed something inside him.

Dean exhaled through his nose, equal parts furious and amused.

"Congratulations," Dean muttered. "You’ve officially become a hazard."

Arion’s mouth twitched, almost smiling, and he loosened his hold another inch, still not enough, but more than before.

Dean took it.

He shifted his hips carefully, using the tiny allowance of space to start sliding out from under Arion’s weight. Arion tracked him immediately, hand tightening at Dean’s waist in reflex, but this time he didn’t drag him back down.

He just held on like a tether, eyes open now, watching Dean as if he didn’t trust the world not to steal him the second he stood.

Dean sat up, hair a mess, throat warm, and dignity scattered across the bedding.

Arion’s hand remained at his waist.

Dean glanced down at it pointedly.

Arion looked up at him, unrepentant.

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Detach."

Arion’s brows lifted, a silent challenge.

Dean sighed, then offered the only threat that felt both childish and devastatingly real.

"If you don’t let go," Dean said, sweet as poison, "I’m going to tell my father."

Arion paused.

It was subtle, but Dean saw it, the flicker of recalculation, the mental image of Trevor Fitzgeralt materializing like an angry god in a suit.

Dean’s smile sharpened. "And my father bites."

Arion stared at him for a long beat.

Then, with visible reluctance, he let his hand slip away.

Dean slid off the bed immediately, not giving Arion time to reconsider, and pointed at him like he was disciplining a wolf.

"Stay," Dean ordered.

Arion’s mouth twitched again, dangerously close to a smile.

Dean backed toward the bathroom, eyes on him, voice firm. "If you follow me, I will throw you out a window. Royal status will not save you."

Arion didn’t move.

But his gaze stayed on Dean like a promise.

Dean disappeared into the bathroom before the barnacle remembered he had limbs and a mission.