Chapter Text
He’s not sure if it’s the heat outside or his rut, but he’s uncomfortably warm and the inside of his tent, only slightly cooler than outside, did nothing to alleviate his growing discomfort. Disrobing down to his trousers helped little as well. However, as uncomfortable as it is, he is rather familiar with the aching heat that is an alpha’s rut. That fire in his loins as it fuels the flames of a primal need to breed and to claim his mate.
A pity Jonathan isn’t here. His mate is off visiting family in England for the week (a dearly beloved cousin on his father’s side had recently given birth so Jonathan had returned home to support her and help her with whatever she needed) and so Ardeth is here to deal with this alone. Not that he minds, really. Before Jonathan, Ardeth dealt with his ruts in the quiet isolation of his tent, far from the prying eyes of others and tempting scents of omegas, and it is no chore to do so now. He’ll tend to it in the way he always had before (only, it’s far less shameful now).
He finds the oil he keeps among his belongings and then he lowers himself to the nest of pillows and blankets that make up the shared bedding, grateful for the scent of Jonathan that lingers still as it soothes his instincts that howl for his omega, his mate.
He undoes the ties of his trousers and, pushing the fabric down just far enough, his arousal springs free, thick and stiff with lust. He slicks his hands and then wraps one around his aching shaft. He pumps steadily, slowly, and, surrounded as he was by the scent of the Englishman, pretends that it’s Jonathan’s hands on him and imagines the slighter built man slicking the alpha's cock in preparation of being taken and knotted while he stretched open his pretty cunt with the other hand. Imagines the sweet smell of the omega’s slick, his arousal in response to Ardeth’s own desire. His own hands and Jonathan’s natural scent of vanilla and cardamon make for poor substitutes but closing his eyes makes it easier to pretend.
He swipes a thumb against the weeping tip and twists his wrist in just the right way that makes his breath hitch and grow heavier. His other hand snakes below to squeeze his aching sack and a quiet groan leaves his lips. He could almost hear Jonathan teasing him over his control and wandering what it would take for him to lose it.
(Ardeth would never tell him but it’s the sounds the Englishman makes when he’s about to climax and the way his cunt starts clenching tightly, almost painfully so that drives him wild).
Slowly, but surely, the pace of each stroke increases until finally he’s pulling and tug with a desperate need, as the fire builds, and it’s not long before he finally tumbles over that edge, that point of no return, with Jonathan’s name leaving his lips.