Chapter Text
Steve rests his head against the stone wall and kicks at the shackles between his feet. His regiment was captured and marched to the Hawkins palace after word was sent of his parents’ capture. Separated, bandaged, and shackled, Steve’s only human contact since was the rotating pair of guards who stood out of his eyesight.
Steve estimates he’s spent a week down in the Hawkins dungeon, if only based on the daily appearance of thin porridge and bucket of water. Which means he’s had a long time to think. Steve can tell he’s spiraling, that the loneliness is getting to him. That the near dark is getting to him. That he’d do a lot for human touch.
Which means he’s about to do something incredibly stupid.
He hears the wooden doors creak open and footsteps fall on the steps. A guard appears in a halo of torchlight and scoops a ring of keys from his pocket. They clank against the iron door and the sound of the tumbler thunks when it unlocks. A second guard files in and together they lift Steve from the floor. The touch burns through the rough shirt Steve wears. He plants his feet underneath himself and keeps pace as the guards drag him up from the dungeon.
Sunlight bursts past the open door and Steve closes his eyes. Multiple scents assault Steve’s nose and he takes shallow breaths —a far cry from the mold, and sweat, and piss from the dungeon. He cracks open an eye. The hallway broods, the stares of past Hawkins rulers glare at Steve from dark portraits.
Their trio stops in front of a pair of grand doors. They swing open and the guards push Steve over the threshold. The throne room stretches before Steve, his steps echo across the floor, a man stands at the end. Steve knows it’s not King Edward, though by his posture and appearance Steve knows the man holds a modicum of power.
The guards stop and shove Steve forward towards the man. He trips over his feet. Steve catches himself and stands tall. He’s a soldier, a leader, a royal prince. For now, it still means something.
The man coughs. “The king and queen of Loch Nora have been executed, the royal palace occupied, and victory declared. The royal troops of Loch Nora have been given the choice to swear loyalty to their new king or face exile. However, King Edward has not decided what to do with you.”
Steve knows two things: King Edward is an alpha and he has not taken a mate.
He sinks to the floor and prostrates himself. “I submit myself to King Edward’s rule, to be bitched and promised as his mate, and birth him an alpha heir.”
The silence that follows is choking.
Steve chances a glance and the man is beet red, his mouth agape.
The man clears his throat twice. “Let me —one second.” Quick footsteps and the slam of a door mark his exit.
Steve stays on the floor. His breath warms his face. His back and knees protest against the held pose. It’s the coward’s way out. His father would be ashamed of him, but Steve’s not ready to die. An alpha king would never allow the alpha heir of another royal family to live. The doors reopen later than Steve anticipates.
“You may stand.”
Steve rises to his knees, unsure he can stand after so long on the floor. The chains rest on his thighs, cool and heavy.
The man from before stands next to another. Steve recognizes him. The glasses and beard stood out in the torchlight of the dungeon. He remembers clinical hands wrapping his abdomen under linen.
The man from before raises his hand. “All the way up now. I’d like to formally introduce myself, as Gareth head advisor to his royal highness, King Edward. This—,” he motions to the man from the dungeon, “is the royal physician, Murray.”
Steve pushes himself to standing, his legs giving the smallest wobble. He nods in their direction.
Gareth clears his throat. “King Edward has agreed to your proposal. Murray will oversee your turning.”
Murray waggles his fingers in Steve’s direction.
“When it is complete, your mating to his royal highness will commence on the eve of your first heat, approximately one month after your turning. You will renounce the Harrington name and formally be inducted as an omega of the House of Munson,” says Gareth. He motions to the guards. “Take him to the royal physician quarters.”
The guards grab Steve and escort him out of the throne room. Murray walks ahead, taking no heed of the followers behind him. Steve’s wounds ache, his adrenaline soars, but he is alive.
The royal physician quarters sit deeper in the castle, the ante chamber crowded with bookcases, jars, linens, and candles. Murray peeks his head around a doorway. “In here gentlemen.”
The guards drag him past debris. Steve stares at the floor to watch his step. Through the doorway, a single cot lies in the middle of the room.
“Thank you,” says Murray and shuts the door. He closes his eyes and sucks in a deep breath. “Okay, that’s over with.” He claps. “We’ve got an omega to make.” He pushes Steve to the cot.
Steve sits down, the fabric itchy. His restraints clang together.
Murray eyes the shackles. “Right. Those.” He produces a key from his pocket and drags the chain up to waist height. He pulls the chain to Steve’s wrist shackles up the cot to a loop in the wall. He slips a thick padlock from his sleeve and connects the chains to the loop. “Sorry about this, but political prisoner and all.” Murray waves his hand.
Steve understands. For now, his shackles are visible.
Murray putters around the room, contents of jars and bottles come together in a bowl. The narrow workbench strains under Murray’s collection of medicines. He approaches Steve with a thick paste and strips of clean linen. “Really should have changed these before now, but—.” He shrugs. He peels the first strip of linen away from Steve’s abdomen, and Steve bites his lip. The lacerations cross over his stomach, the deepest on his left side. Murray whistles. “You’re damn lucky, kid.” He scoots a stool from the workbench underneath himself and begins his work.
The dirty bandages are tossed in a bucket, dried blood and dirt properly cleaned away. The paste smears cool on Steve’s skin. The clean bandages are wrapped around his body.
Murray turns back to the workbench and swaps the paste for a bottle. “Not gonna lie to you, this is going to be rough.” He holds the bottle up to Steve’s lips. “Bottom’s up.”
Steve opens his mouth and the mixture oozes down his throat: herby, thick, and bitter. He’s sure his face shows what he’s feeling, but Murray doesn’t say anything.
Murray corks the bottle and slaps Steve’s leg. “I’d get some rest. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.” He places the empty bottle on the workbench and blows out the candles.
Steve’s alone again, the room only better than the dungeon by virtue of the smell and cot. He pulls at his chains attached to the wall and there’s enough length he can rest his hands at his waist. He wiggles on the cot in an attempt to find a comfortable position and fails. He closes his eyes and hopes to drift off to sleep.
He’s young —just turned fourteen— and the lessons he sits through are terribly boring. His father insists he stay well rounded and well informed. He’d much prefer playing with Nancy in the gardens, or riding his horse through the pastures. Someday, he’ll be an alpha and his own man. He’ll make his own choices.
He found his first servant’s hallway on the eve of his ninth birthday. When he wants to avoid his lessons —or his parents— he slips through the not so well hidden door closest to his chambers. Any of the servants he has met never spoke of it.
He traipses through the servant’s hallways, his back to the wall, always careful not to make a sound. He hears a raucous roar of laughter and stops. He knows this section of the castle has one of many sitting rooms —this one has an attached informal dining room— rarely used by himself or his parents.
The voices on the other side are muffled, but it sounds like a party. It’s much too early in the day for any formal affair, and he hasn’t heard his mother mention any visiting diplomats or monarchs to host. He pushes the hidden door open a crack.
All he sees are people’s backs: most in court attire, others more casual, but still dripping in finery. Steve’s pre-presentation nose isn’t the most reliable, but he can’t miss the miasma of alpha that chokes the room. He sneezes into his elbow and freezes. None of the adults turn to look his way, more focused on what is happening off to the right of the room.
There’s a tension in the room he can’t identify, but his hackles raise and he knows he shouldn’t be here. He moves to close the door when a whimper pierces the crowd. He’s only heard one like that once before —an older child of a council member hit her heat in the middle of the fall festival last year.
The crowd parts and his parents step through —his father adjusts his pants, his mother flattens her skirts. Just past them, he can make out the heavy wooden frame of a breeding bench and bare feet.
He saw one once before —cobweb dusted, leather dull— in an unused bedchamber in the guest wing. He heard the royal guards talk about a trip to a ruttery that catered to a certain kind of alpha. One where omegas weren’t the only ones strapped to the bench.
He shuts the door and scurries through the hidden hallways back to his bedchamber.
Steve wakes, his heart beats a brand inside his chest. He sits up and leans forward to grasp at his ankles. The shackles still rest in between his legs. His wrists sore from the sudden snap forward.
Fear and terror hang heavy in the air, but his scent’s already changed. It’s muddled like the days leading up to his presentation.
Steve pinches his shoulder. Sharp and quick, the pain blossoms.
The door swings open and Murray bustles in with a tray of odds and ends, a sheet thrown over his shoulder. His nose wrinkles and his lips twist in a small frown.
Murray is a beta, Steve smelt that on him yesterday, but that doesn’t mean he’ll miss Steve’s scent clogging the room.
“Morning, kid. Sleep well?” Murray pulls the stool to the end of the cot.
Steve presses his lips together. He can’t smell them, but he knows past the antechamber the castle’s alphas wait. How long will they wait between each knot? Will they let Steve sleep? Will Murray turn an eye to what they do?
Murray snorts. “Not very chatty.” He shoves Steve’s pants down with no preamble. He lifts a pair of scissors from the tray and cuts the fabric away from Steve’s legs. He throws the sheet over Steve’s lower half. “Now, can I do this next part without your legs pinned or do you want the restraints?”
Steve blinks. He’s already restrained.
Murray says nothing and spreads Steve’s legs wide and —oh. Steve thought King Edward would start his bitching, but Gareth did say Murray would oversee the process. Murray rests an elbow on Steve’s right leg, but doesn’t stand.
The sheet obscures Steve’s view, so he can’t see what Murray’s hands are doing. He feels them at his calves, his thighs. His cheeks are spread and something cool slips into his hole. In a rush, something warm fills him up. Steve knows a blush must spread from his face to his chest.
Murray leans back to the tray and swaps instruments.
Something rounded and cool slips inside Steve’s hole and rests there. On reflex, Steve clenches around it.
Murray pulls the sheet over Steve’s legs and stands. He fumbles with the tray and doesn’t look at Steve. He slips out the door, and Steve’s alone.
Steve wiggles on the cot, the base of the object bumps into his body. It sends a shiver up his spine, sparks flare in his chest. When Murray opened the door, he couldn’t smell any alphas. He shifts and his chains follow. He shuts his eyes and slips back into his head.
When Steve wakes up, there’s something metallic wrapped around his dick. He catches the door’s groan as it shuts. He looks down, but the sheet hides whatever it is. He tugs it up to his chest and his dick is encased in a thin metal cage. He turns hot at the implication. The sheet rubs his nipples; they perk up with the friction.
Steve’s unsure what was in the elixir Murray gave him, but he feels feverish, sore, and horny. He thrusts his hips in the air —useless. He pulls at his chains and flips himself over. The rough fabric on his cock makes him hiss. He humps the cot, the sheet tangles in his legs, but the cage prevents him from getting hard. Steve growls and thrashes against the cot. Steve and the cot tip from his weight and he slams onto the floor. His arms jerk upwards, and he whimpers.
“Christ, what was that,” says Murray as he shoves his way in the room. He glances between Steve and the wall and covers his face with his hands. He stares at the ceiling and shakes his head. “So that was a bad idea on my part. I wouldn’t get used to me admitting that, by the way.” He kneels down next to Steve. Murray runs his hands over Steve’s shoulders, his armpits, his wrists. “Well, the good news is your arms are still in their sockets. Bad news is you yanked the shit out of them.” Murray turns to the work bench.
Steve groans into the floor. His arms are sore, but the urge of want is stronger. He stuffs the sheet under his hips the best he can and humps the floor. If he could just come then maybe this would all stop.
"Hey, stop. Stop it." Murray grabs him by the shoulder and turns him around. “Can you drink this for me?” He puts a glass to Steve’s lips.
He’s hot, so maybe it’ll cool him down. Steve drinks and it’s overwhelmingly bitter. Liquid drips down the sides of his mouth to his chest.
“That’s better, right” asks Murray.
Not really. Still hot, still achy, still horny. His eyes feel heavy and he slumps against Murray’s body.
Murray lowers him to the floor and throws the sheet over his body. “You’ve got it bad, Harrington.” He frowns, eyes drift to the work bench.
Steve rolls his head on the floor. He needs something. He snuggles into the sheet and drifts to sleep.
The cuffs around his wrists are softer. Steve pulls at the new restraints, more a visual restraint than physical. He could bite through the thick leather if he tried hard enough, he’s sure. His sheet’s gone. Something in Steve’s body aches over its loss. He curls up in his body and squeezes his knees to his chest.
He’s alone and chained like when he was in the dungeon, but this time without the noise of guard change to remind him he’s not truly alone. If Murray forgot to check on him would anyone notice? Maybe they’re not actually going through with the bitching and they’ve given him something that will slowly kill him. Finishing off the last of the Harrington line.
Or maybe they’re trying to make him desperate before they bring the alphas in. Steve can’t fight them off if he’s weak and defenseless. Would gladly welcome touch again.
The door opens and Steve surges forward.
“Hey, hey. It’s just me,” says Murray. He carries a bundle of bedding in his arms. “Sorry about the sheet, but you’ll like this better.” He drops the bedding on top of Steve.
Moss. Tobacco. Amber. The bedding is thick and soft and smells heavenly. Steve buries his nose and inhales. It’s alpha, but not one he recognizes. And it is just one alpha he can smell. Maybe they’ll only let one alpha in instead of the castle’s whole brood? He wraps the bedding around him, sighs.
Steve thrusts against the bedding and cries. He needs to come, he needs to come. He’s wrapped in the alpha’s scent, needs the alpha here, needs his alpha here. He places a hand on his weeping cock the best he can, but it doesn’t soothe the ache, can’t soothe the ache when he’s caged. He rocks back into the bedding, thighs trembling.
The door opens and it’s not an alpha, it’s the beta again. He won’t help Steve either. He’s pleaded, bargained, begged on his knees with tears down his face, but the beta can’t be budged. Only coaxes elixirs down his throat and avoids Steve’s gaze. Steve growls and pulls the thick duvet over his head. He’s in a cavern of his alpha’s scent: warm, comfortable, safe. He closes his eyes and rolls his face against the duvet. He’s pulled out of his heady thoughts —literally.
The beta has him by the feet and pulls. Steve growls, bares his teeth.
“Cut that out,” says the beta. He shifts his hold on Steve’s feet so he holds them in one hand. The beta rubs a hand over his face. “Eddie’s going to murder me.” He pulls a key from his robe and unshackles Steve’s feet.
Steve kicks and catches the beta in the face.
“Mother fucker,” shouts the beta, dropping Steve’s feet. A trickle of blood drips from his nose.
Steve’s still shackled to the wall, but this is progress. He pushes himself against the wall with the bedding bundled in his lap.
The beta approaches. His left hand pinches his nose, the other grips the key. “Work with me here, Harrington. You want to meet the alpha the bedding comes from, you behave.”
Steve tilts his head up at the beta. He could be lying. This is how they lure him on to the breeding bench —bait and switch. The heat in his groin pulses.
“Real talk.” The beta squats down to look Steve in the eye. “Do I agree with his royal highness’s choices? No. But you’re about to go feral, so this is more like medical intervention than treason.” He reaches up and unlocks the shackles from the wall.
Steve sprints for the door.
The beta tackles him at the waist and Steve smacks the floor. “What did I just say,” asks the beta.
Steve wiggles under the beta. The weight is right, but still wrong, wrong, wrong .
The beta snaps in his face. “Stop it.” He grips Steve around his middle and lifts. “Jesus. What do they feed you in Loch Nora?”
Steve wiggles in the beta’s grip. He’s hot, he’s horny, he needs.
It’s a slow walk, but the beta takes Steve down the hallway. It’s dawn, the morning sky reds and pinks. The beta pushes a door open and Steve’s hit with a wall of steam. A beta pours water into a steaming wooden tub.
“Morning,” says the beta around Steve’s shoulder. “Please tell me his majesty isn’t up yet?”
The other beta clutches the water jug to her chest. “No, sir.”
“Excellent.” The beta waddles to the tub and leans Steve against the edge.
The tub is warm against Steve’s hip. He rocks his groin against it, a whimper slips from his lips.
The beta rummages in his pockets. “Too many damn keys. Aha!” The cuffs fall from Steve’s wrists, then ankles. The beta kneels down and unlocks the cage around Steve’s cock. He prods Steve to lean against the tub. “I swear to God if you kick me.”
Steve stares into the tub, watches the steam swirl in foggy circles. The beta pulls the object from his hole and something rushes out, drips down his thighs. It clings to his leg hair, smells like his alpha. Smells like his alpha —
Steve’s unceremoniously shoved into the tub. Water rushes over his head, into his mouth, up his nose. He breaks the surface and coughs. Spits water and shakes his head.
“...make sure you lock a collar on him. I cannot be responsible for his majesty mating him before his heat hits. I’m already fucked as is bringing him here.” The beta has a towel held to his face, no doubt to staunch the blood still flowing from his nose.
“Yes, sir,” says the other beta. She curtsies and turns to Steve. “I promise I won’t take long, your highness.”
Steve collapses against the tub and closes his eyes. He hears the door shut.
The new beta is gentle. Much softer than the other one. She scrubs his back, massages his scalp when she cleans his hair, whispers in a low voice so he knows he’s not alone. He drips on the stone floor as she rubs him dry with a towel, kneels nicely when she asks to lock the collar around his neck. It’s made from tiny metal chains like his armor, splayed over his collarbones up to his throat.
She guides him through the servant’s corridors, stopping in front of a door. She pushes it open, and Steve stumbles through.
It’s all alpha.
Steve lets his nose guide him: find him, find him, find —
In the middle of a vast bed, nude and asleep, is his alpha. Dark hair tangles around his face, the dips and divots of his back, rise and fall of his chest.
Steve crawls into the bed. The bedding is sleep-warm, and sticks to his damp skin. He lies himself in the cradle of his alpha’s arms. He noses up towards his alpha’s neck and inhales. This is what was missing.
His alpha mumbles and shifts closer to Steve, wraps his arms around Steve’s chest.
Heat still pushes at Steve’s skin, makes him want .
His alpha snorts and his eyelashes flutter. He opens his eyes and his scent spikes. “Steve?”
“ Alpha, ” says Steve. He licks his alpha’s neck —salty and clean.
His alpha grips him by the scruff, makes Steve melt into the feather mattress. “Did Murray leave you here?”
Who was Murray? The only interaction he’s had was between the two betas. He stares up at his alpha’s pretty doe eyes.
“Goddammit.” His alpha places a hand against Steve’s forehead. “Shit, you’re burning up.” His eyes are more black than brown. He shifts to hover over Steve, his hands placed on either side of his head. “I hate it when Murray’s right. He’s always so smug.” He drops his body on top of Steve’s. Threads his fingers with Steve’s fingers.
Alpha’s so nice. Steve rolls his body up, wants to chase the friction of their bodies together. His cock stiffens for the first time since it was caged. Steve moans, leaves drifting open mouth kisses along alpha’s throat.
His alpha grips his jaw and forces him to look at him. “Steve, do you know who I am?”
“ Alpha .”
His alpha closes his eyes. “No, what’s my name?”
Steve squirms. He can’t answer his alpha.
His alpha pulls Steve's bottom lip. “It’s Eddie.”
“Eddie,” Steve moans.
Eddie drops his head and bites Steve’s lips in a bruising kiss. Drops his full body weight on Steve and buries him under his long hair.
Steve groans, opens his mouth wide so Eddie can push his tongue in, taste all of him. The weight is right, the smell is right, Eddie is right. Steve shifts and spreads his legs, thrusts up against Eddie’s groin.
Eddie pulls away, spit string connecting them, eyes all pupil. “Precious.” His hand trails down Steve’s shoulder, his chest, his waist, his hip. He squeezes, pressure like a bruise.
Steve nips at Eddie’s collarbone, laves his tongue in the wells. He wants . He wraps his legs around Eddie’s waist.
“Not yet,” says Eddie. He pulls Steve’s legs away from his waist. “Let me taste.” He kisses from Steve’s hip, across his stomach, down straight to the base of his cock.
Steve grips Eddie’s hair, tugs. Moss, amber, and tobacco bloom around him, choking him. Eddie disappears from view and — oh— his tongue is at his hole, sloppy and uncoordinated. Steve whines, hips twitch in empty thrusts. “Eddie.”
Eddie appears between Steve’s legs —face shiny, eyes dark. “Yes?”
“Need. Want.” Steve howls.
Eddie comes up and kisses him, the taste of him on his lips. “I’ve got you, big boy.” He buries his face in Steve’s neck, mushes his nose against the collar.
Steve spreads his legs and Eddie drifts a hand down to his own cock, guides it to press at Steve’s hole, and then he pushes in.
This is what was missing.
Steve claws at Eddie’s back, pulls him like he wants them to meld together. Sweat and skin and spit. He bites Eddie’s collarbone, licks the marks he leaves behind.
Eddie sets the pace —hip slamming, body crushing. He gnashes his teeth on Steve’s collar. His canines catch on the tiny loops, making him growl.
Drool runs down Steve’s chest, pools in his belly button. He pushes his heels into the mattress and lifts up to change the angle —goes starry-eyed when he’s hit with a wave of pleasure.
“Is that good, Stevie? What you need?” Eddie grins, predatory and feral.
Steve nods. All that comes out of his mouth are breathy “uh, uh, uh”s. He leans up to kiss Eddie, slips his tongue in his mouth, wants to taste him. Eddie speeds up his thrusts, the bump of his knot slams against Steve’s hole. Steve keens, wants to take it, wants to show Eddie he can be his. Another thrust, and Eddie’s knot sinks in and locks them together. Steve comes, braces his hands on Eddie’s shoulders as he sinks down into the mattress.
Eddie rubs his face in Steve’s chest, kisses the side of his cheek. He pulls the blankets over them and passes out.
Steve wakes up alone. The room smells like sex, and slick, and alpha, and omega. He pulls the blankets away from his body and glances over the bruises, and bites, and scratches. The mid-morning sun glares through the window. Steve sniffs himself: mint, lavender, and vetiver. It’s official: Steve Harrington is an omega.