Boltedfruit Archive

His selling price was one single gold piece.

A coin, the weight little more than that of any bundle of flowers, stems picked clean.

Someone paid a hundred times that to secure the sale of Steve Harrington, ruined and used omega.

Steve lies, wrists and ankles bound to the iron spikes stuck deep in the ground of a dead field. He could tell when they’d led him here, the grass dry and scratchy beneath his bare feet.

Try as he might, no amount of omega strength will ever free him. He is a whore meant to breed, after all. This is his final stop after a lifetime of misery and miserable expectations.

The rate of pregnancy has dropped. Fertility across the continent has been capped at the knees since Steve was a child himself. He was thirteen when the law declared the capture, auction, and breeding of omegas legal to the general public. It was necessary to save humanity.

Steve’s mother stole him away, left his alpha father behind and spent a year on the run living in hovels, little more than holes in the ground. When they were found, he saw his mother die on his father’s orders, and was sold to the first bidder.

He spent years enduring hell. Then he escaped, surviving however he could.

He is twenty now. And when he’d been caught little less than a week prior, he’d been caged and informed no one was to touch him, for he’d already been bought.

Steve has spent a week blindfolded and silent, awaiting his newest torturer. But it was the most peaceful week yet of his short life that he can remember.

He hears them now. The ones he’d been transferred to earlier that morning. He can smell their musk and sweat, the eagerness clotting their pores. He is cattle to them, barely even that. He is a producer.

Why he’d been purchased, he doesn’t know. He should have been put to death, put out of his misery once and for all. It was recorded history he’d never been bred before. He’d never been able to conceive, no matter how many times the last bidder had tried.

Steve waits for death.

He scents anxiety instead.

A man calls, “Stop dragging your feet, boy. This is the present you begged for, isn’t it?”

“Al, be calm…”

“Quiet, old man. You don’t know what I had to do to set this up…”

Fingers skim his cheek, and Steve flinches, baring his teeth. He hisses on instinct, the sound shrill, not as deep as an alpha. It means nothing, and still his body insists on playing its role as if it will help. As if anything can help him now.

The blindfold is gently removed, and soft dawn light fills his vision. His vision takes time to focus, but when it does, he sees a boy no older than him, eyes large and glassy, his lips pink, chin wobbly. He swallows and Steve can see the moment he steels himself.

His auburn curls glow orange as the sun touches upon the crown of his head. He blinks down at Steve, eyes scanning every inch of his face.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and then he’s standing.

Steve still has a gag tied at the back of his neck. He struggles to take in as much as he can before someone inevitably decides blind him either with the cloth or through more permanent means.

He lies bound at the head of a circle of robed men. The one with the scathing voice is still speaking to another, slightly older man beside him.

What deal had he made? Was there more to it than an unheard bidding price?

And why?

He’s heard of events like this. Rituals. They believe that sacrifice is the ultimate form of worship, and to sacrifice an omega is the highest honor.

But to sacrifice a pregnant omega is to become godlike, both in this life and the next.

They’re all insane, as far as Steve is concerned.

And besides, even if what is to transpire this morning takes, it will only borrow a month or two at least before he must die. Another handful of months of torture, of waiting, of suffering. Perhaps of being tied to this field, rain or shine.

“Kill me,” Steve says, just before the boy stands to his full height. It comes out muffled, unclear.

He is ignored save for a brief pause.

“He doesn’t even smell like anything. He’s all used up,” another man says, loud and disappointed. “Why bother wanting this one, Edward? Your father could have bought any other—”

The boy turns away, breaking whatever spell keeping their sight locked.

He turns to the one who spoke, and barks in a tone Steve doesn’t expect to be so harsh, “My whims are my own, or have you forgotten who will lead us after today?”

The first one, Al, speaks again, smiling. “That’s my boy.”

“Apologies, lord.”

Another speaks up, closer. “Though the lad is still green, I can smell it on him. I wonder if he’ll even be able to get it up—”

A shot rings out, echoing throughout the field. The morning dew settles over Steve’s shivering skin. Smoke rises from the pistol brandished by Al.

The naysayer falls, dead.

Steve sees the boy’s fingers twitching.

“No one will question my heir’s virility in front of me. Is that clear?”

A chorus of aye goes up.

“Go on, Eddie, lad. Make your old man proud.”

Eddie nods, turns back until only Steve can see his face. The way he shuts his eyes, lips silently mouthing words as his fists ball at his sides.

He is an heir, made to enact a ritual. And for some reason, he chose Steve. This young man is the means to his end, and Steve wonders why, why, why him. Why this lord, who could have any omega he wanted. A virgin, untouched. An unhurt, undamaged peach of a prize.

But he’d chosen Steve instead. Broken, hurt, forgotten, infertile.

Why, he thinks, thoughts racing as he looks upon the face of his death, muttering to himself like a madman.

Confidence, Steve considers. Perhaps the boy means to talk himself into doing this.

Maybe, Steve thinks as he looks once more at the father, that he is being made to do this as much as Steve is.

But again, why choose Steve?

What does it mean?

Steve scents the anxiety peak as Eddie’s fingers go to his pants, undoing the laces until his cock is out, soft and of middling length. Steve catches the tail end of dark tattoos beneath his clothing, and wonders how many were attributed to this ritual. He cannot smell fresh blood. Did the young man bleed before coming here? Did he trade a mild suffering thinking it would mean anything for the omega he was to unmake?

He also wears a knife at his hip.

He is otherwise still clothed, a heavy woolen cloak falling around his shoulders to cover them both as if a shield. Steve feels his weight for only a brief moment as he straddles Steve’s thigh, before moving to settle between his legs. Steve’s bindings already have him spread for any access that is required. Why the boy is fiddling with him, unserious and nonviolent, is beyond Steve.

Fingers dance over his stomach, his chest. They leap away, a touch traded for the presence of sight. Steve meets his eyes, sees the anxious stare reflected back on him.

“Don’t speak, okay?”

The gag is removed as gently as he can hope for. His tongue is little more than starch, dry and flaked. He licks his lips to no avail.

“Kill me,” he repeats.

Those dark eyes bore into his, shock evident.

He looks so familiar then, in his fright.

“I-I…”

Their words go unnoticed. Within the boundaries of Eddie’s cloak, they are hidden away.

Steve turns his head to the side, protecting his bonding patch. Standard practice. “Then just get it over with.”

Eddie is silent for a long while.

Then hands are fumbling with his cock where it lies limp at his groin. Eddie pulls and squeezes, unpracticed. He gives up to swipe his fingers through Steve’s slit.

Steve exhales through his nose.

It’s nothing new. The telltale plump of flesh pushes against his entrance, has to try a few times to push all the way in. He is slower than what Steve is normally used to. He does not barge, does not force skin to split in two for the slick of blood. He grunts, open-mouthed and light as he works his hardness inside Steve and Steve looks at him then.

He is staring at a spot on Steve’s chest. He is not as hard as he should be, which makes the action difficult. Annoying. He will never finish like this, and the proof that will surely be demanded won’t be evident in time.

Steve’s life is forfeit, yes. But that does not mean he wants to do this twice.

He bucks his hips, makes Eddie gasp. His eyes fly to Steve’s.

“Make this count, fool,” he orders on a whisper.

Thankfully, Eddie is not so foolish as to miss his meaning. He pumps his hips, faster and deeper. Groans long and low, meets Steve’s small movements until he’s hard as stone, and Steve is wet to ease the way. His tongue lolls, sliding across his lips before lowering to press them to Steve’s jaw.

The touch shocks him.

The way he flinches has his abs tensing, makes heat fill his belly. His cock is beginning to fill out. The feeling of Steve’s hardness against his stomach makes Eddie moan before he buries the sound against Steve’s neck.

He is glad he hid his bonding patch. He does not know what this fool will do.

“God be damned, I did not—” Eddie pulls away, canines sharp and eyes red. “I am sorry.”

He looks away, at the brown grass and pistons his hips. His fists clench at either side of Steve’s head.

Steve doesn’t know why he is apologizing. No one has ever spared him apologies before, and no one likely will again. It only makes the rest of his life harder, what little remains of it.

Will it be the knife at Eddie’s hip that does it? Will he bleed out here, tied and naked, humiliated a final time?

It’s with that thought he feels Eddie go tellingly still. Steve feels warmth seep inside him. It leaks as Eddie removes himself. But it’s not the painful stretch Steve knows. He expects a knot to breach him, stretch him beyond his means. But Eddie withdraws, ignoring the swelling at the base of his cock. Steve can see it. It’s right there. Why had he not—

Eddie’s hand finds Steve’s length, and tugs him until he’s clenching against the rising pleasure. No, no. He cannot, not like this, not from this fool—

Steve spills, the evidence all over Eddie’s fingers. He brings them to his mouth, licks it all away so there is no trace left behind of Steve’s embarrassment—his pleasure.

Steve smells citrus, earth. Smells something deep-rooted and uniquely Eddie that makes his insides sing.

He bites it away, bites his tongue bloody.

Eddie’s body hovers over him, panting and red-cheeked, eyes flitting between Steve’s.

A damp palm finds Steve’s cheek, turns him until he is facing Eddie again. Fingers fall delicate over his bonding patch and press, testing. Steve scents what remains of his own smell as it lingers between them. Sees Eddie’s pupils dilate. His eyes are crimson as he inhales deeply, never looking away.

He removes his touch completely, and for an instant Steve feels bereft.

It is just the omega, he tells himself.

Eddie rises once more after tucking himself back inside his pants.

Eddie’s father appears at his shoulder, looking down on the wet evidence between Steve’s legs with something like satisfaction.

“You’ve done it, son. How does it feel?”

Eddie stands there, blood-red eyes looking down upon Steve as his palm finds the knife’s hilt.

This is it, he thinks. This is finally it.

No more shame beyond this—

Another shot.

Steve blinks. Eddie draws away from his father, pistol in hand as his father stumbles back, bleeding from the stomach. Another man rushes them.

Eddie stabs the man twice his size in the throat. Blood sprays his pale face, gets in his hair. Steve watches as one by one, Eddie and one other robed man make quick bloody work of all the rest of their wretched circle.

Eddie stills, knife trembling in his fingers as he watches his father fall to the other man’s blade.

The short hilt sticks from his chest. He grabs at the man’s robe, knees giving way beneath him. “You—you’re my brother—”

He dies.

Steve is unsure what that means for him.

Eddie removes his cloak and lays it hastily over Steve’s nude body. He simply stares at him, confused, nose full of bitter copper.

Eddie’s chest heaves. The man approaches him, lightly takes the blade from his still-shaking hand. He doesn’t spare a single look in Steve’s direction.

“You have a few hours.”

Eddie says nothing. He lets the man wipe the blood from his face, leaves him a mess in spite of it.

“You’ll find horses beyond the trees. Go north. They’re waiting for you both.”

Eddie nods, glancing Steve’s way before seeing Steve already watching him and looking away again.

He turns away. Steve can scent his distress. And it’s an ugly thing. It’s—

God, he thinks, it’s shame.

“H-how long?”

“A day’s ride, perhaps a little less if you’re smart.” When Eddie doesn’t move, he barks, “Eddie!”

“Wayne, I d-don’t know if I can—”

The man, Wayne, goes to Steve then with a heavy sigh and starts sawing the rope until his bindings fall away. He curls in on himself and holds the robe tight around his waist, hissing. Wayne only stares him down.

“You’re a Harrington, are you not?”

He doesn’t answer. Of course they know he’s a Harrington. What does that matter?

“The horses have supplies, a change of clothes.” He points back at Eddie, who still won’t look their way. “This was the only way he could think to get you safe. Forgive one hell for another, as they say. This is ugly business. But with any luck, and lack of trouble,” he says, pointedly at Steve, “Eddie here will manage to get you both to safety. Where this ugly business doesn’t exist.”

“That’s not possible.”

“‘Course it is.”

“Just kill me.”

Wayne snorts before turning back to Eddie.

Eddie’s looking at him again.

“It’s real,” Eddie says.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Pragmatic for an omega.”

“Fuck you.”

“Wayne…please.”

The man goes to his nephew, returns the knife after wiping it on his robes.

“Get me good. Want the others to believe it.”

Eddie cuts him through the robe, a quick slice to the arm.

He claps Eddie on the cheek. Steve watches them say goodbye without saying a word.

Then he’s scrambling to his feet as Eddie starts walking toward him.

Stopping a foot away from Steve, he holds the knife hilt out.

Steve looks at it.

“I could kill you,” Steve tells him. “I could run.”

“Then kill me and run.”

Eddie raises his arms and Steve sees what he missed before. A bloom of blood at his side; a wound.

Steve considers it. He takes the knife and they all wait, wondering what Steve will decide to do.

It’s the barest trace of his own scent still in his nose, the strange murky residue of how pleasing Eddie’s was to him that stills his hand.

He doesn’t know who Eddie is, or how he’s familiar. But as the red in the alpha’s eyes fades back to a deep brown, something tells him that what happened here today will never happen again.

And Eddie, an alpha who had all the right given to him by both family and law, to knot Steve and take and take and take until he was nothing but a shell—did not.

Steve lowers the knife.

Eddie lowers his arms.

He doesn’t turn back to his uncle as he walks ahead. He just goes, stepping over the bodies of who might be the rest of his family for all Steve knows. And they’re dead.

Eddie and his uncle did this for a reason.

And he wants to find out why.

So he follows Eddie to the trees.