Chapter Text
The prisoner is brought forward, hissing and snarling, like some sort of creature rather than a person. Fitting for such a barbarian. “Remove his helm,” Heero demands.
The outlaw, Shinigami, tries to struggle, but Quatre steps forward and takes his helm off.
Whatever Heero was expecting when the guards brought Shinigami forward, it wasn't this.
Lithe frame, almost small enough to be mistaken for a child not yet grown, rich chestnut hair, adorned with bright beads and fine braids woven together to make a braid that reaches the floor as he's pushed down to his knees before Heero's throne. Brilliant purple eyes glower up at him from beneath a ragged fringe. Even sweaty and dirty, he is quite possibly the most beautiful creature Heero has ever laid eyes on, and more shocking still—he's an omega.
It’s taking both Wufei and Trowa to hold his chains, slim as he is. Heero gets down from his throne and approaches the omega. He takes the dainty chin in his hand and tilts the omega’s head back to get a better look at his face.
Exquisite. Up close, he’s even more stunning, the grime doing nothing to detract from him. “Are you sure you have the right man?” Heero has to ask, flicking his eyes to Wufei.
The omega tries to yank away from him, but Heero holds him firmly, running a hand along his hair. Soft. Why does a barbarian have soft hair?
“Get your scummy hands off me!” the omega snarls.
“We’re certain,” Wufei says. “His men have identified him as well.”
Releasing the boy’s chin, Heero steps back. “Hard to believe this pretty little omega is the infamous Shinigami.”
“Let me free, and I’ll show you up close and personal,” the omega sneers at him.
“When do you want the execution scheduled?” Trowa asks.
Curious, Heero steps forward again, sliding a hand into the omega’s hair to control his head, pulling him forward and looking at the back of his nape.
“What the fuck are you doing?” the omega demands. Heero ignores him to run a finger across that unmarked skin.
“Unmated,” Heero says, releasing his hair. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-two. Same as you,” he snaps.
Interesting. Twenty-two is old for an omega of any quality to be unmated. In the court, an omega that isn’t mated and bred by twenty is considered old. “But no mate?”
An ugly sneer curls his lip. “Omegas ain’t just for breeding.”
Aren’t they? Omegas are rare and prized, and their purpose in life is to be bred. Clearly this one has gone feral, but Heero thinks about taming him. He tries to imagine this small frame, heavy with a litter, clothed in fine silks befitting an omega. His cock stirs in his pants.
“Your Majesty?” Trowa prompts again, and Heero blinks, refocusing.
“I have a better idea,” he says. If one could hear eyebrows rise, Trowa and Wufei’s would be quite loud in the quiet throne room. “Executing an omega would be a waste.”
“Your Majesty?” Wufei asked, not quite warning, not in front of this criminal, but Heero hears it all the same.
Stepping back up to his throne, Heero sits and stares down at the omega who is still glaring murder up at him. “Rather than an execution, I think rehabilitating an omega is a better use of him.”
His men exchange a glance, and Wufei says, “You can’t rehabilitate one such as this, Your Majesty.”
“Do you doubt me, Wufei?” Heero asks, low and thrumming with an unspoken warning.
Hastily, Wufei bows his head. “No, Your Majesty.”
“Then trust that we can make a useful omega out of this one. Let’s start with a bath. Have him thoroughly scrubbed.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” they echo in chorus.
“Be as gentle as you can. I want as few marks on him as possible.”
“As you wish, Your Majesty.”
“And have Dorothy ready the breeding bench.” The omega’s eyes go wide. “I think a public breeding is exactly what this wayward omega needs.”
Shinigami yanks against his chains, struggling toward Heero with an inarticulate roar on his lips. Heero imagines him begging, and his cock hardens further. “And you call me a monster,” Shinigami hisses out.
“Take him,” Heero states. His men bow, each grabbing one of Shinigami’s arms before dragging him out. Shinigami hisses and yells, hurling invectives at Heero in at least three tongues, but Heero pays it no heed.
Once the doors slam behind them, he hears Quatre step up from the shadows. “Are you sure this is wise?” he asks. “He is quite feral.”
“He is beautiful,” Heero says. “Our children will be the envy of nations.” Quatre makes a face, and Heero is well aware that his most trusted advisor believes in true love in mating, not merely seeking the best genetic mix. “You’ll make sure there are no contraceptives in his system, won’t you?”
Quatre sighs audibly, but says, “Of course, Your Majesty.”
“And I want him in heat when I mate him.” He wants that creature begging and mewling for his knot.
He gets the sense that Quatre wants to sigh again, but he decides against it. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
“Excellent. Dismissed.”
Quatre hesitates, as if he wants to say more, but in the end, he leaves silently.
“Get your fucking hands off me!” Shinigami snarls as Wufei and Trowa drag him away. “I’m going to fucking kill you when I get loose! You know my reputation! You know what I do to men who stand against me! I will laugh as I dance over your corpses!”
Trowa can admit, if only to himself, it’s a fairly impressive threat. Too bad he’s unlikely to get a chance to make good on it. They drag him, cursing and fighting the whole way, to the royal baths. No matter how tempting it is to throw him in a trough and half drown the outlaw while they scrub him down, they both know that isn’t what Heero will be expecting if he’s planning to breed him publicly. He’ll want the omega handled as delicately as possible.
Unfortunately, Trowa’s pretty sure that isn’t going to be very delicately. He doesn’t expect Shinigami will give them much of a choice. The bruises on his arms alone are going to be spectacular.
When they make it to the bath—nearly an hour later, Shinigami having fought them every step of the bleeding way—Trowa isn’t surprised to see Quatre already waiting with three attendants. The massive bath has already been filled and is steaming. Trowa would almost be jealous except that it’s probably more salt in Shinigami’s wounds than salve.
“Hello,” Quatre greets warmly, as if this isn’t a writhing, half-feral creature in their arms. “We need to bathe you for your mating tomorrow.” He steps forward with a mug of something in his hand, and both Wufei and Trowa tighten their grips on their captive to keep him from lunging and spilling whatever concoction Quatre has—doubtlessly—painstakingly made.
“I will never let that thin-blooded worm mate me!” Shinigami growls. He’s surprisingly strong for such a small man, and both Wufei and Trowa have to strain to keep him in place.
Quatre gives him a pleasant smile. Trowa knows that smile; that smile is a warning. “I have two options for you, Master Shinigami,” he says in an almost disconcerting cheerful tone. “You can either kindly cooperate with us, and we will lavish you with care and goods you cannot fathom.”
“Or?” Shinigami demands.
“Or, I can force this draught down your throat, and we can do this while you are unconscious.”
Bracing himself just in time for Shinigami to lunge again, Trowa says, “That’s how you tell him?”
“Over my dead body! I will fight you until I breathe my last, if it costs me my life, my soul—”
“I think that’s quite enough,” Quatre says with a sigh. “Gentlemen, if you’d be so kind?”
Wufei manages to tangle Shinigami’s arms, forcing him to his knees, and Trowa manages to force his mouth open and crane his head back. Quatre wastes no time pouring his potion down Shinigami’s throat.
Sputtering and choking as he tries not to swallow, Shinigami does imbibe most of the potion. As soon as they release him, he tries to drive his fingers into his throat to throw it back up, so Trowa and Wufei have to wrangle him again.
“Don’t worry,” Quatre says. “It won’t be long.”
Within a minute or two, Shinigami’s struggles noticeably weaken. Five minutes later, he’s slumped, unconscious, between them.
“Wouldn’t it have been easier just to drug him?” Trowa asks him.
“I wanted to at least give him a chance to cooperate,” Quatre admits. They have to take off his shackles to disrobe him, but Shinigami is well and truly unconscious.
Though it’s tempting to dump the outlaw into the tub, Quatre gives Trowa a look that tells him that won’t be acceptable, so they sigh and lower him in. While Wufei scrubs all the dirt and filth from his skin, Quatre takes his time, meticulously picking out every braid, bead, and string from his hair before washing it.
He pretty much comes out three shades lighter in skin and hair both.
For a warrior of his renown and reputation, he is shockingly free of scars. They clean him thoroughly inside and out before pulling him out to further prepare him.
Trowa’s steady hands cleave away the body hair from everywhere below the neck. There’s not much, not surprisingly for an omega. He does wish Shinigami were awake as Trowa removed the bush above his pretty cock, just so he would have to watch. Wufei follows on his path, rubbing Shinigami down with oils meant to keep his skin soft and inhibit further hair growth.
As he spreads Shinigami’s legs, he freezes. Trying to control his voice, he says, “Quatre.” He’s pretty sure that there’s nothing particularly alarming in his tone, but the way that Quatre’s head snaps up tells him otherwise. “I think you should have a look at this.”
Setting down the mass of hair he’s still working through with care, Quatre dries his hands and comes around, then sucks in an audible breath.
“That’s…” he trails, attracting Wufei’s attention.
Annoyed, he comes over and looks. He opens his mouth—probably to be a smart ass—and instead it closes with a soft but audible click as he sees what caught Trowa’s attention.
A dark blue line runs down the omega’s perineum, ending at his entrance. It’s a sure sign of a slick gland that hasn’t been activated, which means that the omega is… untouched.
“It can’t be,” Quatre breathes out, drying off his hands on a nearby towel, then pressing a dry finger into him. When he pulls it out, his finger comes away clean. “It is…” he says, actually swaying a little. “He’s untouched.”
“Probably wouldn’t risk being mated,” Wufei comments. He probably means it to come out snide, but it doesn’t quite make it there.
Quatre stares down at him, thoughtful. “His gland is swollen, no surprise given how old he is. Still, it’s hard to imagine an omega going through their heat without anyone to soothe it.”
Swallowing, Trowa says, “Don’t the barbarians have potent contraceptives? Heat blockers? I know that the black market deals in them…” They’re all highly illegal, all things considered, but they are supposed to be effective.
Sighing, Quatre says, “Then I need to make another potion to make certain there are no traces left.” He looks down at the omega, something pitying in his eyes. “I’m familiar with most of their tinctures. I should be able to neutralize them, but he will not be in for a good night.”
With a snort, Trowa says, “He’s not going to be in for a good night anyway.” He eyes the ballsack hanging between the omega’s legs. It fortunately doesn’t appear to have any hair. Balls on an omega seem ugly and out of place.
Quatre must follow his eyes, because he says, “Barbarians do not castrate their omegas when young.” Though he’s trying to be informative, he sounds like the practice puzzles him. “But once he’s shaved and oiled, we can tuck them to make him more appropriate. Castration in adults is frowned upon, but Heero may opt for it if he deems them too unsightly.”
The idea sends an uncomfortable shiver down Trowa’s spine, and he gets back to work, removing every body hair he can, while Quatre goes back to his head to finish with his mane. He would almost feel sorry for the barbarian bastard, if not for all the death he has wrought.
You reap what you sow, he thinks, and works carefully around the limp cock.
When they’re done, Trowa feels oddly like they’re looking at a blank canvas. A moment later, he’s proven almost right.
“Hold his legs up,” Quatre instructs, then steps between them. He lifts the omega’s hips, placing an oddly-shaped strap beneath him, then does something with one of his balls that makes it appear to vanish.
“What in the—” Wufei begins.
Quatre interrupts him. “It’s called tucking,” he explains, repeating the process with the other ball, and suddenly, it appears that the omega has only some loose skin where his balls were. With surprisingly expert hands, Quatre presses it down, then takes one of the straps and wraps it across, before repeating it with the second golden strap. He fastens them to the first one he laid down, and suddenly, the space where his balls were looks flat and beautiful, decorated in the golden fabric. Though he’s mated, the sight makes his own cock stir. The way the straps curl between the omega’s legs leave his ass and his hole completely accessible, and even the blue immaculate line is still visible.
Though now his cock looks out of proportion and ugly against the beauty.
As if reading his mind again, Quatre steps away to bring back a small, golden cage. “I think this will be much more attractive,” he says. He slides the ring down to sit snugly at the omega’s base, then fastens the cage to it, having to sort of compress the member down to fit into the finger-long cage.
It’s a far more generous cage than most Trowa has seen on an omega, but again, the barbarian habits of allowing their omega to present as though they are other than omega has allowed his member to grow unfashionably.
“I’ve heard that cages help shrink omega members,” Wufei remarks. “I’m sure Yuy will be glad when something more appropriate can be applied.”
Trowa looks at him. “Your people cage omegas as well?”
Wufei crosses his arms, looking haughty. “Of course. An omega’s purpose is to be bred and to pleasure their masters. There’s no need for an alpha to touch so unseemly a vestigial member when seeking their own pleasure. An omega’s pleasure should come from their alpha’s pleasure.”
So only from behind, in other words. Trowa doesn’t argue with him over the suitability of omegas for other things or that an omega may find pleasure from their member. Then again, omegas are even more prized and isolated among the Wufei’s Phoenix people than they are in the Lowe Kingdom.
Ignoring them, Quatre attaches the lock for the cage, then the fine chain that goes around his waist and between his legs to keep it in place. The chain looks thin and frail, but it’s gundanium, so it’s stronger than steel despite its fineness.
This barbarian omega will not be removing that cage without its key. Properly attired, he is a stunning specimen. Heero’s eye is as discerning as ever.
His hair is done up in simple braids more befitting a to-be-bred omega—two is all—and then they maneuver him onto the breeding bench. As they’re setting it up, Heero returns. He isn’t shy about stroking his hands possessively over the unconscious omega’s body, including spreading his legs to see his blue line for himself. There’s a strong spike of alpha pheromones as he strokes his finger over the obvious line.
“How could someone such as this be untouched?” he asks, but Trowa suspects the question is rhetorical, since no one answers it, and Heero moves to lift a leg high to the side to inspect his caged cock. He frowns. “Must it be so large?” he asks.
Quatre clears his throat. “The vestigial penis can, of course, be compressed more than an alpha penis can be,” he admits. “But with omegas who have been permitted to… be wild, the discomfort is more extreme.”
Without waiting for further comment, Heero lifts Shinigami from the bench and places him back on the table they had been preparing him upon. That done, he takes his time, stroking over face and throat, before moving down to feel at his pecs.
“So small,” he complains.
“The will likely grow once he is pregnant,” Quatre reassures. “And if you wish him to nurse, it’s better to leave his nipples unpierced, though I know you find it attractive.”
Heero says nothing to that, sliding his hands down a slim waist, pausing before opening Shinigami’s legs wide. His frown deepens as he runs his fingers over the golden cloth holding Shinigami’s balls hidden away.
“Are we sure it’d be inhumane to castrate him?” he asks. “He hasn’t even been knotted. In our kingdom, it makes him immature.”
It may legally mark Shinigami as immature, but they’re all well aware that he’s long past the age of maturity. That he is still untouched is a minor miracle.
“I… think it may be best to hold that option in reserve,” Quatre says diplomatically. “Legal maturity aside, there are many well-documented issues with castrating omegas this old, including potential fertility effects. It’s why all of the literature recommends castration as young as possible, and if the omega maintains them through their first heat, tucking is a better solution if you do not find them pleasing.”
Heero huffs, then flicks the cage. “This is definitely too large then. What sizes do we have available.”
Without wasting time, Wufei brings over a tray with an assortment, ranging from one that’s even larger than the one Shinigami is currently wearing to ones that appear perhaps an inch.
Still being careful, Quatre says, “If you want smaller, I suggest we try this one.” He points to a cage that isn’t much smaller than the one he’s currently wearing, but it has small raised spikes on the insides of its bars. “The spikes are not sharp, but they will be extremely uncomfortable if an erection begins to occur, and will eventually teach his penis to remain soft regardless of stimulation.”
Though Heero lingers over the potential there for a moment, Trowa isn’t surprised when he moves onto a cage that’s half the size of the one Shinigami currently wears. “Intriguing, but I’m more interested in the aesthetic. A penis that large on an omega is unsightly.” He picks up the smaller cage—this one almost solid metal as opposed to the larger ones that have bars. “This one.”
There is no sign of hesitation as Quatre grabs the key for the lock on Shinigami’s cage to remove it, then remove the unsuitable cage. Even unconscious, the penis seems to grow when released. Trowa suppresses a shudder at the thought of what it would feel like to have such a surprisingly generous length be compressed into such a small space.
It takes a little work, but Quatre manages it, replacing the lock that holds the base cock ring and the cage back together. Then he steps aside, a silent question in his actions, even if not spoken.
A small, pleased smile crosses Heero’s face. “That’s much better,” he says, though he reaches over and picks up another cage—this one nearly flat—and holds it up. “Though I look forward to the day that this will be a finer fit.” He sets the cage back down on the tray. “Let’s get him back on the bench. I’ll pick out the decorations.”
The “bench” is less a bench, these days, than a display stand. It’s centered around a cushioned bar that will rest right on the omega’s pubic bone, keeping his ass raised in perfect presentation with minimal discomfort. Trowa isn’t surprised that Heero opts to move the ankle bindings out as far as he can while allowing Shinigami to remain kneeling, as he can. He spends several long minutes standing between the spread thighs, touching and stroking over them and the omega’s ass, pulling his cheeks apart to reveal his flower. When he does, his pheromones spike again, leaking in a way that is uncharacteristic for the king.
“Is there any particular bridle you’d like?” Trowa asks as he settles the chin rest in place.
Leaving Shinigami’s virginal ass with obvious reluctance, Heero moves up to his head with Trowa and several styles of bridle are. They range from O-rings to classic bits like one would put in an actual horse’s mouth, to nothing that rests in the mouth at all.
He shouldn’t be surprised that Heero chooses the bridle with a phallus attached.
“This one,” he says. “Given that he should be executed, he should not have an audience for his toxic ideology. The only sounds he should make are the needy sounds of an omega in heat.”
Without remarking on the choice, Trowa fits the bridle to Shinigami’s face, sliding the phallus into his mouth and checking to ensure he can breathe around it, followed by making sure that no amount of thrashing will meaningfully move it, then fastens it at the back of Shinigami’s head. That done, he shifts the chin rest, and attaches the lead on the bit to the front of the frame. It will help keep the omega upright, unable to hide his face or his shame as he’s mated. Likewise, the long braids are fastened to the front of the bench, as are the omega’s wrists.
Running a hand down Shinigami’s back, Heero breathes out, “He’s perfect.”
“We’re all glad he meets with your approval,” Quatre says, giving him a bright smile. “I’m sure he’ll be even more perfect when he’s mated and heavy with your kits.”
Trowa sees Heero’s hand tremble where it strokes over Shinigami’s arched back. “High noon,” he says. “Make sure he’s in the full thrall of heat.”
“Of course,” Quatre says agreeably. Heero makes no further comment but stalks out.
Watching the tension go out of Quatre’s shoulders, Trowa says, “You can make sure he’s in full heat, right?”
“Needs must,” Quatre says, going over to his cabinet again. “It is not advisable, but certainly doable.”
And so they will do it. Because their king has commanded it, so it will be.