Spoils

His room seemed… different, somehow.

The furnishings were all exactly as T'Challa had left them - the king-sized canopy bed, the large writing desk, the bookshelves stacked with books on everything from politics to history to pop fiction. (Even though Wakandan technology meant that he could read anything from his kimoyo bracelet, T’Challa still enjoyed the feeling of a solid book in his hands).

But still, something was different. Almost grating.

T’Challa sniffed the air, turning his head left and right.

Alpha pheromones, blanketing every corner of the room. It wasn’t an unfamiliar smell - T’Challa knew, logically, that it was just his own pheromones from when he was an alpha, soaking into every corner of the room in which he’d lived for years.

But now that his dynamic had changed, the smell was just foreign enough to grate on his senses.

The smell of an alpha, in his territory.

Another alpha who wasn’t his mate… his mate wouldn’t be pleased…

The thought made T’Challa’s hands curl into fists unconsciously, made his heart rate spike with anxiety.

T’Challa gritted his teeth and pushed that illogical worry out of his mind. The scent was irritating, but it would fade soon. He made a mental note to ask his servants to air out the room later.

T’Challa made his way across the room towards his bed, wanting nothing more than to burrow under the covers and pass out after this nightmare of a day and succumb to the sweet oblivion of sleep.

Then, a thought suddenly struck him. He paused, turning to stand in front of his full-length wall mirror.

Tentatively, T'Challa reached up to undo the button of his robe. He tugged it down slowly, letting it slide off first one shoulder, then the other. The pants went next. He undid the fastenings and stepped out of them, letting them puddle on the floor.

Now naked, T'Challa stared at his new omega body in the mirror.

The changes were subtle, but still noticeable. His physique hadn’t changed that much, and for that he was immensely grateful. There semeed to be some loss of muscle mass in his upper torso, and he certainly felt as if he were less quick, less strong. But T'Challa wasn't sure how much of that was due to losing the herb, or due to his new omega physique.

The most obvious change, though, was to his genitals. T'Challa's face heated up in shame as he palmed his soft cock, unable to tear his eyes away from his reflection in the mirror.

His cock was visibly smaller now, compared to before. The slight thickening at the base, which was supposed to inflate to full size when knotting an omega, had completely disappeared. His cock now felt strange and unfamiliar in his hand.

Experimentally, T'Challa stroked down the length of his cock, trying to estimate how long it was now. Five inches? Six?

T'Challa unconsciously bit his lip, his breath hitching slightly. His heartbeat suddenly started to rise as blood started to rush to his cock. He could feel himself beginning to get wet -

With a gasp, T'Challa abruptly let his hand fall away, his entire face flushing with shame. Even the tips of his ears felt hot. He hadn't expected to get aroused from that.

T'Challa knew that omegas were extremely reactive, even more so than alphas or betas. Omegas would produce slick at the slightest bit of stimulation, to prepare themselves and ease the pain of taking a large alpha cock. In the past, he had enjoyed this aspect of his omega partners. Had mercilessly taken advantage of this to tease them, get them wet and panting for his cock.

But now, he would be the one who -

Face hot with embarrassment, T'Challa quickly bent down and jerked his pants up over his neglected cock, deliberately ignoring the tingle that ran up his spine upon contact with the silky fabric. He hastily buttoned up his robe before turning towards the bed.

A sharp, sudden cramp suddenly struck him, making him almost double over. He gasped in pain, hand automatically coming up to rest on his stomach. For a moment, the only sound in the room was T'Challa's whimpers as he wrapped his arms around his midsection, fighting back the urge to scream.

Gritting his teeth, T'Challa staggered towards the bed. Internally, he cursed Bast, his ancestors, his evil cousin, and the entire chain of circumstances which had led up to this horrible situation, beginning from the first Council gathering which had come up with the horrible Challenge ritual a thousand years ago, right up to that terrible moment when he had recklessly accepted his cousin's challenge for the throne.

T'Challa collapsed onto his bed, panting for breath. He curled up tightly into a miserable little ball of stress and pain, hugging his knees to the chest.

T'Challa clenched his teeth, preparing to wait out the change.

It was agonizing.

The pain would gradually fade for few minutes, then strike back again with a vengeance, leaving him gasping for breath. In between cramps, the anticipation of each upcoming wave of pain filled him with dread. The cramp - relief cycle was somehow worse than it would have felt if it had been just been a constant ache.

T'Challa wasn't used to pain like this. In the past, the herb would have almost immediately healed any injuries that would cause this level of pain.

Briefly, T'Challa considered calling for the doctor. He had sent her to wait outside of his room earlier, disliking the presence of a stranger in his sanctuary. But he knew that there was nothing which she could do for him at the moment.

How much longer was this torture going to last?

T'Challa tried to recall what Dr Sabra had said just now. She hadn't been very definite about the time frame.

A couple of days? That could mean anything from one to two days, right up to a week, in the worst-case scenario.

Another sharp cramp forced a small whimper from him, and tears began to burn in the corners of his eyes.

The primal, instinctive part of T'Challa was screaming at the back of his mind, craving relief, craving comfort. There was no way that he could make it through several days of this pain by himself. He badly regretted sending Erik away now. What was the point of protecting his pride, when Erik had already seen him at his lowest?

There was a knock on the door.

T'Challa hardly dared to believe it. Eagerly, he sat up and turned towards the door, hoping against hope…

T'Challa coughed to clear his throat. “Come in,” he called out, trying not to sound too pathetically eager. His voice came out hoarse and scratchy.

The door opened.

It wasn't Erik.

T'Challa's heart sank, but the initial flash of disappointment quickly faded when he realized who his visitor was.

“Mama,” T'Challa whispered. He suddenly felt as if he were a child again, sick in bed, waiting for his mother to comfort him and make it better.

Ramonda swept him up in a big hug. T'Challa buried his face in her shoulder, inhaling the soft, pleasing fragrance of her jasmine and pear scented perfume.

“Oh, my son,” she said sadly, running her fingers through his hair.

The anguish in her voice made T'Challa's heart break. “It's all right, Mother. I'm fine,” he assured her.

Ramonda did not look reassured. “Did he hurt you? Beat you?” she asked worriedly. She discreetly looked T'Challa over, checking him for injuries.

“No, he didn't! I'm fine, really. He was actually quite nice,” T'Challa admitted. But he understood his mother's fears. It was something that had been weighing on his own mind too. What was he going to do if Erik decided that he wanted to make life difficult for his omega?

Wakanda was, on the whole, a socially progressive country. Unlike certain countries where omegas were treated as nothing more than breeders, expected to settle down with an alpha and pop out babies as soon as they came into their first heat, omegas in Wakanda were granted the rights to education and to employment. Discrimination on the basis of dynamic was against the law, but when it came to domestic matters, Wakanda was still quite traditional. Alphas were permitted to discipline their omegas if they so wished, as long as they did not cause death or any permanent injury.

As a bonded omega, T'Challa would be expected to obey and submit to his alpha. Even his status as a prince would not be able to protect him if Erik truly intended to torment him. And T'Challa knew that there were many other ways that Erik could hurt him short of causing permanent damage.

T’Challa sighed. Back when he had been the king, omega rights reform had been an item on his agenda. However, it had taken a back seat to more pressing matters - the discovery of the stolen vibranium artifact and the sudden appearance of Ulysses Klaue, who had been laying low for decades. Now T’Challa desperately regretted not making it a top priority the moment that he had been crowned. Somehow, he had a feeling that Erik would not be too keen on the idea of improving omega rights.

Ramonda still did not look convinced, but she was putting on a brave face in front of T’Challa. “It’s all right, my son. I know it’s difficult for you, but just do your best to endure this for the moment. Your sister is working on a way to break the bond at this very moment.”

“Break the bond?”

“Yes, she started working on it right after you lost the Challenge. Don't lose hope. You know there are ways to break a bond - ”

T'Challa looked down at his hands in his lap. Slowly, he balled his hands into fists, steeling himself.

“Please ask her to stop,” he said quietly.

“Stop?” Ramonda asked in disbelief.

“Yes. I do not want to break my bond with Erik.”

Ramonda stared at T'Challa, her eyes wide with astonishment. T'Challa tried to explain himself.

“As his bondmate, I have some influence over Erik. Leverage. He will be compelled to take into account my feelings, my input, when making decisions. Erik is… not completely unreasonable. I've already managed to persuade him to leave you and Shuri alone. I do not like the idea of being bonded to him, but I have to do this, for the good of Wakanda.”

Ramonda shook her head. “T'Challa, you're making a mistake. You believe that you can change him? Don’t you know how many other omegas throughout history have fallen into this same trap, thinking that they can change their alpha? It’s futile. A panther never changes its coat.”

“I have to try,” T'Challa said. “What's the alternative? To kill…?”

His voice broke on the last word. During the Challenge, he couldn't even bring himself to kill Erik, even knowing that the fate of the world was on the line. How could he possibly do so now?

“Perhaps this is the will of Bast,” T'Challa finally said. “A way to get us to work together, to resolve our differences without bloodshed.”

Ramonda scoffed. “Without bloodshed? T’Challa, he could really hurt you now,” she said worriedly. “A slip of the hand. A punishment that went too far… These things happen. He could kill you and then just cover it up. Even if people are suspicious, who would dare speak out against the king?”

“I'll be careful,” T'Challa said. “I'm willing to take the risk.”

Ramonda frowned. “You know, you're being really reckless about this. The new bond could be affecting your mind -”

“I'm not hormonal and I'm not crazy!” T'Challa protested. “I know what I'm doing. Erik is… the indulgent sort. I can tell. He didn't even get angry at me when I spoke back to him just now in front of the Dora Milaje.”

Ramonda gave up trying to persuade T'Challa. She sighed and hugged him tightly again. “Just be careful, T'Challa. Let me know immediately if he even dares to lay a hand on you.”

“Yes, Mother,” T'Challa promised.

The pain which had temporarily faded in the presence of pack was starting to gnaw at the edges of his mind again. T'Challa leaned back against his pillow and closed his eyes, trying not to focus on the pain.

“I think I'll try and sleep now,” he said.

Ramonda stroked his forehead gently. “I can stay with you for a while more.”

“Okay,” T'Challa murmured. “Love you, Mother.”