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Beron can't see. There's sweat and blood in his eyes, and he can't reach for his face to wipe it off because they're pinned under him. He tries to pull his hands out, but he's barely capable of thought, let alone actual movement. That isn't natural , he registers, but he isn’t really capable of enough thought to say why. All he can smell right now is dirt and leaves and burnt wood and all he can hear is the blood pumping through his head.
His stomach aches, the pain red hot and pulsing, and the weight on top of him presses him into the ground so that rocks under are digging into him. Whatever it is, it's moving about so that he can't. He tries to buck, but all that manages to do is smash his crotch against the floor, which hurts like nothing else for some reason. He hisses.
Above him, he hears someone groaning, pained and guttural, the voice something he recognizes a bit. Something presses itself against the back of his skull, wet and soft, and he bucks forward again. This time whatever it is it pins him down, dragging something against the base of his head, and he thrashes in a desperate attempt to escape it, when suddenly it presses itself so that he's very aware that there's a hard cock against the small of his back.
The voice above him is starting to clear up, and his mind starting to clear up, starting to actually think, and by the fucking Mother -–
Anais’ bastard makes a noise that sounds like a dying animal against his skull. His cock is smearing precome against his back despite the several layers of fabric between them and he’s got his tunic in fistfuls so that he can shove his face into Beron’s neck. Every inch of his body is hot, too hot, and he can feel his heartbeat at his core, his cunt throbbing.
Heat. He's in heat.
“Fuck—”
He scrambles forward, trying to reach for his magic to burn the impudent little shit, but he can't. He can barely draw out anything, his magic rebelling like nothing else. The boy literally drags behind, grip surprisingly strong and trying to press his face against the leather collar covering his scent gland. He can smell his scent, cedarwood and amber all around him and it's doing something horrendous to his brain. His stomach aches again, more like a full system pulse, and his cock feels so hard it hurts .
The corpses of the soldiers surround them, both ally and foe, gore and burnt meat circling them so that there isn't a clean sight of view. He remembers they had been ambushed, seeing arrows smeared with something like tar, and having to pull out a stray arrow that had grazed his arm. Afterwards all he recalls is something going horribly wrong and then screaming from all sides. Most of the corpses look burnt but some look more blasted . He knows what injuries from light magic look like. He did not know that Anais’ bastard had enough for it to do that .
The little shit responsible for the mess is at the very least not really trying to hump him so much as he is trying to scent him, the slobber at the base of his skull piling up so that Beron is starting to smell like him. He's apparently far enough into his rut that even with his own collar his scent is pooling out of him like a faucet, and he can't seem to recognize him enough to fear the consequences of this kind of disrespect. Some of the concoction must've been rut starters specifically. One way to weaken your enemies, he supposes, is to turn them into hungry territorial beasts. His cunt clenches around nothing, and despite himself he winces. Only useful when all the alphas are actual alphas though.
“Get off of me, you brat.”
The bastard presses his face into the crook of his neck even further, basically huffing at that point, but when Beron grabs at him and shoves, he slides off his back incredibly easily. He looks pained, eyes unfocused and dilated, set into a bafflingly ruddy face and he can feel his body heat from a meter away, which is never a good sign even with fire magic involved. Beron watches as he just curls in on himself, not even trying to get up or fight or any other alpha instinct he's heard about. He waits for a few minutes before he relaxes onto the ground and tries to breathe, then gets choked by the smell of pheromones and arousal, heavy and sharp, filling his nose until he can't help but cough. He opens his mouth and tries that instead. Better, at least.
The trees around the field are woven together, the branches over them wrapped over each other until they’re almost in a cocoon and the magic itself is wrapped into sigils so that he knows they won’t be found without too much effort. It smells of the Court's magic, comforting and protective the same as always, and it calms him a little. He's very sure any person trying to kill a High Lord would simply send all their men at once, so he's confident he doesn't need much else but some cover. Like this they should be fine, probably.
Beron has had the good fortune of only enduring one heat in his lifetime, alone, deep in a cave while his brothers mauled each other half a court away, and then taking tonic after tonic until the very concept was dead to him. So he's as inexperienced with this as a little boy would be, playing only off of some books he had scoured after the first time, and he’s well aware of it. He grits his teeth, trying to stave off panic by planning.
The first obvious option is to just tough it out. His heat would take a week at most. They'd search for them after a day and a half of them being missing and that’s enough of a head start. Trying to hide when heat-drunk is difficult but doable, especially with the boy beside him so pliant. They'd find some cave to shove into and Beron knows they have enough supplies to last them more than a fortnight. And then he'd, what? Have a witness who knows and has no reason to not tell? Something to hold over him? It's not like he can just kill him, if killing Lucien Vanserra was an option he'd be dead in his cradle.
He scrapes the dirt off his face, trying to think through the haze of heat, both literal and figurative. What could he use against him, a bargain? He'd have to be just coherent enough for a bargain, which would take a while, if the boy’s lack of sense right now was any indication. Blackmail? Less than likely. No secret he has could ever have more worth than Beron’s own. He racks his head for options, head (and cunt) throbbing in genuine pain.
For a moment, he considers the easiest, natural way to cut a heat down to just a day. There's an instinctual repulsion to it, but he pushes past it out of nothing but need. Would it work? Sure, the heat would be shortened significantly, but would that be worth it? Maybe he'd just cause himself more shame, more things to be used against him. But then again, then he’d have more to use against the boy. Incest is after all a two-ways scandal.
He pinches his nose, trying his best to think. Maybe , he could fuck him. His heat would shorten while the bastard's rut stays a bit longer because of the rut starters, so he has a head start in trapping him into a bargain. And then the bastard probably takes all of it to his grave because even if he wants to get around the bargain, even if he does know he isn't Beron's, only three other people do. Because any justification he could possibly have for knowing rolls right back into him fucking his own father. If he can't trick him into a bargain, he can bind him with mutual destruction. No one wants to be branded a father raping menace after all.
It sounds like a good idea to his heat-addled brain. It sounds wonderful, actually. Heat dealt with, witness made quiet. It feels perfect
(In a few days Beron will register that this was one of the most idiotic ideas he’s ever had. He will stand by the idea anyway because admitting that he’s no more coherent then the average alpha in rut is an infinitely worse option.)
Beron is incredibly willing to suffer private humiliation to avoid public shame. If he wasn't, Anais' bastard wouldn't carry his name. If he wasn't, they wouldn't have been here.
He grabs at his own pants and pulls down, not too hard when half of the fabric is torn already from the fighting. There's enough slick coming out of him that when he does it the breeze in the clearing makes the apex of his legs feel incredibly cold. He tries to think through how to go about what he's doing, how he's supposed to get it done. All he's heard of omega seduction is that they make a nest and make slick and then the alpha does the rest, so he's woefully unprepared for this. Maybe aiming him would be enough? Alpha instincts and all that.
He pulls on the boy beside him, yanking on him by his hair, trying to redirect him towards his cunt. The boy less acquiesces and more goes because he’s too dazed to do much else, and he lets Beron shove him downwards, shuffling until he's nearly face to face with it, which takes some maneuvering on his part. He expects the boy to go off his own instincts and figure it out himself, alpha instinct kicking in so he'll fuck him and get this over with, but instead he stays remarkably calmly still, breathing heavily. Before Beron can even guess exactly what he's going to do, his nose presses flat against the scent gland just by his cunt and suddenly his chin is rubbing against Beron's clit. Beron startles but stays still after, trying not to scare the boy so that he doesn’t fuck up the proccess and startle him into registering who he's sniffing. The boy is incredibly close to the gland, which means his clit is being pressed on with force, slick lubing the process up so that he can feel sparks of pleasure going up his spine. For a moment Beron actually doesn't feel too bad, arousal sparking in his gut all on his own, and then he can feel the boy's mouth opening and teeth scraping against him and he jolts forward, startled and uncomfortable. The boy follows him, mouth still on his cunt and nose still on the gland, and he has to grab his face and shove him out of range of his cunt for him to stop. He curses, nails digging into the boy's skin. So much for pliant .
“Stop that.” He hisses out. Lucien just ignores him, eyebrows only slightly scrunching as he continues pressing against his palm, trying to reach the scent gland with only his head because he seems to forget he has other limbs. He’s not exactly all there, and for some reason Beron feels his stomach swoop with the realization of how bad it is.
“Do you not hear me? Stop what you're doing.”
That provokes only the slightest response. He turns slightly up, but he’s not looking at him. He’s not looking at all, really. His pupils barely move from Beron’s throat. There's rut-sick and then there's this, and Beron finds himself almost amused. Being this vulnerable after just a dose of something, how… horrid. It’s a good attack strategy, he thinks, but it’s fighting dirty. Something to borrow for his own arsenal, because he’s honestly shocked Lucien didn’t get captured when he could’ve been fighting like this .
Beron's brain immediately provides him with a compilation of things enemy soldiers might do to a prisoner in rut, and he ignores how interested his cock has gotten and pulls the boy up his body to lap at his neck again, resisting the urge to pull back at the strong scent of his own slick. Lucien doesn't seem to notice anything, latching round him and quietly huffing the scent. He's searing hot against Beron’s own body, and he can feel his bones just from how tight he’s pressed against him. He waits for a couple of minutes, one last chance for him to simply come to his senses, to do anything before registering that that’s not happening, that he’s well and truly out. None of the so-called Alpha aggression is manifesting, just fear and instinct. If he wants what he wants done, he’s just going to have to do it himself. His prick twitches. His stomach churns too and he focuses mostly on that part.
He turns to his side and grabs at the boy's breechcover ties, fumbling to untie the damn things. When he finally frees his cock, he learns that the slick he felt probably wasn’t just pre-come because there's a baffling amount of spend smeared in his underwear. Lucien keens when Beron makes to grab his cock, high and frankly wildly pained. Beron’s hands keep slipping a bit from how much liquid there's covering everything, trying to keep a solid grip as the boy instinctually humps into his hands. He can see exactly where the knot is, a slight bump with every thrust into his loose grip. It is intimidating to look at, large and an almost angry red at the tip. He tries imagining fitting that inside of him and his cunt jolts a little, mostly in fear. But lesser men than Beron have managed, he consoles himself, so when he turns over he breathes in, out, and crawls forward.
He’s moved just enough to line his cunt up with the head of Lucien’s cock and he turns about to look back at him. He looks so dazed, unfocused. He thrusts forward into Beron’s hands again, and it goes just so his cock rubs hard against his clit, and he can hear a soft noise escape his own throat.
“Alright” he says, a genuine attempt to steady himself, “Now–*
Lucien thrusts forward again, cock head just grazing the opening, then the second time it just veers off course to press to the side of his pussy. On his third unsuccessful pass, Beron snaps out of annoyance and grips the damn thing harder, aims it as directly as is possible, and then sinks himself on it, fear be damned.
For a moment it feels like he's dying. The pain is searing, sharp, and the sensitivity makes it all the worse. The head presses past his rim, then a bit of the shaft. It hits his maidenhead and presses just a bit before stopping. He breathes in, out, tries to relax so this won't hurt, and then the boy pulls out just a little before thrusting forward in one smooth motion. He can feel the tear, a pained choke coming out of him, and there's no way he isn't bleeding from that. The first instinct he has is to lash out, fist smashing into the arm that’s holding Lucien up above him. He lets out a pained noise and nearly collapses onto Beron, but when he pulls him forward, sinking his cock in even deeper, he obliges easily, not a hint of aggression in sight. Pathetic.
Beron stabilizes himself on his haunches and then slowly tries to fuck himself on the alpha’s cock, wanting at least the dignity of taking that control. Anais’ bastard helps somewhat, moving slowly in tandem with him so that he doesn't have to contend with his weight while doing it. The slide is slick, cunt already wet by nature of the heat and the baffling amounts of precome the male inside him is letting out, but it's still somewhat difficult simply because he's too tight, too tense for anything else. He reaches out, feels around a bit until he grasps the hand he just punched and brings it to his cock. The grip is loose, the only thing keeping it closed is his own fist, but his cock is so sensitive it doesn't matter. Every time he moves forward, off the bastard's cock, Beron's cock pushes into the gap of his loose fist, and every time he moves back, he impales himself on his cock again.
Above him he can hear Lucien moaning, soft ‘uh uh's slipping out. There's drool soaking into his shoulder and sweat forming between their legs, and slowly he can feel the male stabilize a bit and pick up speed. He lowers his shoulders to the ground so that he doesn’t have to balance on the arm not jerking himself off. He speeds that hand up, tightens it so that he’s got his own cock in a chokehold. The hand he's using as a fleshlight twitches periodically, and he tightens his fist so much that he knows the hand will bruise.
The boy starts to slam into him, hips drawing back as far as they can comfortably manage before thrusting forward again. There's too many pheromones in the air to fucking breathe, so Beron resorts to breathe through his mouth, inhaling dirt in the process and still able to taste cedarwood. Every pass of the bastard's cock presses deep against a spot deep inside of him, and every time it sends a jolt through him, slick leaking out quicker and quicker. The whole thing fits inside him, but barely, so every pass makes him feel so full, verging on pain. He reaches behind him with his freehand to dig his nails into Lucien's thigh, trying to get him to slow down, which only speeds him up for some Cauldron-forsaken reason. The noise of hip smacking up against ass is loud and humiliating and he presses his ear against the ground in a weak attempt to ignore that that sound is coming from him, that this is happening to him.
When the knot finally starts to swell, it's barely noticeable from the force his cunt is being fucked with. It presses against his entrance, pushing through and past that spot and then dragging itself out with the same force, cunt burning each time he feels it. It grows slowly, struggling a little more each time until one thrust it presses through and just can't pull out again. The boy pulls on his cock a bit, yanking on his entrance in the process for one long moment that feels like forever, before slamming back inside. Like this, the knot presses on his cock from the inside, like a vice. His cock twitches in Lucien's hand, and he can feel the pleasure starting to pool in his gut. It feels so, so different from using his cock, deeper, like it's coming from everywhere, and despite himself he keens. He sounds like a whore for it and that thought causes a particular fierce clench and a wave of utter repulsion.
When he finally tips over, it feels like something grabs every particle of his body and squeezes. He clenches down with enough force that it must hurt and comes onto the dirt below him, a baffling amount of come escaping him. Lucien speeds up through it, like the clenching is egging him on, and so every second thrust or so that spot inside is being pressed against hard. He just keeps going, getting seized by it in waves until it just blurs together.
Lucien slams further in one more time and then comes, all of it trapped inside him so that he can feel every pulse of it. Beron's orgasm doesn't stop so much as wind down, cunt still throbbing around the boy and pleasure still pulsing out. Beron resists the urge to drop onto the dirt underneath him, trying to keep himself mostly upright, but Lucien clearly doesn't as suddenly all his weight lays across his back, nearly crushing him against the ground. He doesn’t even bother moving, turning to his side just so that he doesn't have to lay in a sizable pool of his own spend, making sure not to pull on the knot.
The fever and the pulsing fades slowly, and he feels full and worn, but that won't last for too long and he knows he only has some time for everything to start up again. Still, he's loose-limbed and warm despite that knowledge and being half naked on wet soil, and he leans back so that most of his weight is on the poor bastard behind him. He can hear the boys breathing even out, until it's slow, soft. He needs to sleep – he won’t get much of it later.
When Lucien starts up for the fourth time, his face still presses straight against the collar and he gnaws at it like a dog. The thrusts he manages like this are slow and jittery, without much force but deep enough to hit what it needs to. The boy is pressed up against him, legs tangled with his own and sweating through his fever, skin sticky against Beron's own. He brings his hand lower and rubs at his clit, cock too sensitive to bother with right now. He’s almost boneless against the bastard, drowsy and warm despite the breeze. He can feel his cunt pulsing again, but it's not nearly as harsh. He's had most of the libido squeezed out of him.
In this position he can see the dead surrounding them, some of them too mutilated to recognise, some faces turned towards them like an audience. He feels watched, like he's one of the whores the nobles often brought to court for entertainment. He wonders what it would feel like, to do this in front of the others. He imagines their faces, usually fearful and submissive, laughing at him being defiled, the oh-so-mighty High Lord speared on a knot. A curious few would probably approach, the body of a male omega novel and new. For a brief moment he can see one of them reaching out for his cunt, rubbing at it like he does now, rough and clumsy. A wave of repulsion pours over him, visceral, and it twists in his stomach, but it’s only a little more powerful then the lust that follows it, his hand moving faster.
He wonders if Anais would watch them. Look at him, impaled on her bastard, and laugh.
That is what brings him to the edge, that mix of shame and arousal and hate combing through him, building in him, until he tenses up and falls over it. This time, the boy's orgasm is almost immediately after, his arm tightening around him like a vice as he groans against his neck, guttural and desperate. Every muscle in Beron’s body spasms and he chokes out a noise that sounds like a dying bird. He curls in on himself before it's even over, and the boy curls with him, trying to keep as much skin to skin as is possible. He can feel the boy's cheek against his back. He tries to sleep again. He fails.
The ninth time around, he's folded nearly in half. The bastard has gotten a second wind, the rut sinking in deeper, and he's decided to use that energy to fuck him with as much force as he can manage. He's pressed his nose to Beron’s cheek, still trying to scent him, and a hand crushed to Beron's stomach, pressing hard on his cock inside of him, the bump visible every time he fucks further in. Beron’s cock is trapped between them, his orgasm reached a few minutes ago and so spurting every time Lucien bullies his knot in. He feels raw, used, and all his energy is put wrapping his legs around the boy's waist, because the position has his hips a few inches off the floor and if he doesn’t do that he'll pull on the knot.
At the edges of his vision he can see the glow on his skin, the glamour broken so that he can see the effects of a high lord on his skin, the magic swirling about him. He can feel the ground and the trees and he can feel the boy's magic too, searing hot. He’s burning.
The knot pushes through one last time and settles fully inside of him, pressing hard against the back of his cock, and he comes around it with force. It's dry and painful and feels more like a full-body cramp. The boy keeps fucking in, and his head starts swimming. Distantly, the feeling of tongue against his cheek registers and he starts to drift off to sleep.
It's just after unlucky thirteen that he reaches out to the boy, presses a palm to his face so that he can’t move forward any further.
“If you want any more help,” he says, voice hoarse enough that it almost covers the magic running through it, “You can’t tell anyone what you saw today.”
Lucien is managing some focus right now, eyes pinned almost clearly on his face. He’s far enough down Beron’s body that he’s just nearly out of range, and yet he doesn't move, still like a tree.
It’s a gamble, bargains need understanding, a knowing that it is a bargain. He’s betting on him being just awake enough to know he's making a deal but also rut-addled and desperate enough to not care, betting on a weakness he might not have. After all, the first instinct any good court fae has is to not make promises you’re not able to keep, and it's not like a rut isn't unsurvivable alone. He would know.
The male looks at him, clearly thinking as hard as he can manage given the circumstances, which isn't very hard Beron will admit. Seconds drag into what feels like forever and for a moment he thinks he'll be depending on mutual destruction when the bastard reaches out for him again, fingers digging into his thigh like a claim. Beron can feel the bargain weaving itself under his skin, barely noticeable, and he relaxes his entire body.
Lucien makes the attempt to pull at what remains of his shirt, half through a tug before Beron removes his palm, and the boy takes the immediate chance to crawl up onto him like a tree. It reminds him of Eris’ dogs, he thinks dazedly, and when he smashes against the dirt and gets a mouthful of hair, he laughs. It sounds distinctly like he’s choking.
When his heat breaks properly, it's nearly dawn and Lucien is just barely awake. He's laying on top of him, chest to chest, pressed close enough that he can feel his ribcage move with each breath. Every part of him between his legs is both in pain and still aroused, come spilling out even as the boy stays seated inside of him, the entrance stretched out from all the knots it's taken in quick succession. He's bruised so much in the past couple of hours that he wonders if he looks like some of the corpses around them, more injury then fae at this point. He remembers his mother terrorizing him with stories of omegas fucked to death and then defiled after and he feels his cunt make a valiant attempt to flutter that doesn't come through because every muscle in the area is dead.
He settles further into the dirt, borrows the bastard as a blanket, and decides to go to sleep again. He has a day until the people below him figure that something has happened, a day to get himself to rights, burn the bodies, wipe himself of the filth and cum and emerge as he is. As of right now, he can relax, rest. He's tired and stuck and for once he'll give himself a break. He closes his eyes and tries to fall to the sound of the boy on top of him snoring.
The way Beron wakes up a few hours later is via the very jolting, very new sensation of being suddenly empty, suddenly not covered in someone else, and the sound of someone vomiting exactly three feet away.
Ah , he thinks, that is one way to respond to that .