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Corbeau usually smells it coming before anything happens.
It’s not like he needs to. He’s known Philippe long enough to recognize the signs. Philippe gets hot under the collar, always too professional to undo that topmost button but also uncomfortable enough to fiddle and fidget with the fabric, tugging at the fabric and itching at the back of his neck. That temper of his that he keeps under lock-and-key starts to rear its ugly head, a shadow reminiscent of days long past, patience wearing too thin and too quickly with his underlings over things he ordinarily wouldn’t even scoff at. Most annoyingly of all, in Corbeau’s opinion, is how Philippe starts to get possessive. Not even over Corbeau himself, but his things, even his space. Corbeau recalls witnessing him growl at one of his lackeys solely for getting too close.
In the past, it has always been manageable. Philippe usually keeps enough of his bearings to recognize the oncoming mood swings and does his utmost to keep himself in check. He’s not some knothead frothing at the mouth with overrunning testosterone. He apologizes the moment he realizes how he’s behaving, tugging that same spurned grunt close and giving them a hefty, brotherly slap on the shoulder with a hearty chuckle to try and ease the tensions. Look, the point is that he doesn’t let it get too far ahead of himself. Philippe is responsible. Calls out of the office before his judgment slips and diligently works at home until the throes of rut truly take over and cloud his senses once and for all.
This time, it comes barreling into him like a freight train. Corbeau doesn’t smell anything on him leading up to it nor does Philippe show any of his usual signs—the phone call he wakes up to in the middle of the night jars him awake, groggy as he blindly reaches out for his phone. Rotom whizzes over with a cheerful tune, and all Corbeau is capable of is squintingly blearily at the bright screen in his room’s blanket of darkness. Philippe never calls him in the middle of the night. The fat bastard would sooner allow himself to be held at gunpoint than ever dare to burden Corbeau with something troublesome, no matter what kind of danger he might be in. Something has to be seriously wrong.
Corbeau’s heart sits heavy in his throat as he picks up. “Philippe?”
“Boss.” Philippe’s voice is scratchy through the speaker. He sounds breathless. If Corbeau listens closely, he can make out the muffled sound of Philippe’s heavy footsteps, as if he were pacing while talking. “Hey, uh— I’m not— tomorrow, don’t think I can— probably shouldn’t—”
“Philippe,” Corbeau interrupts. He’s still coming out of his slumber and has to find it within himself to summon up a stern tone, but given the way Philippe falls silent on the other line, he’s going to assume that it works well enough. The pacing stops too.
“Stay there,” he says, already sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. “I’m coming to get you.”
“No,” Philippe growls. Corbeau waits, and then, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have— just. No. No, okay?”
“I wasn’t asking.”
Philippe is utterly bedraggled when he answers the door. Corbeau can’t quite recall the last time he saw him so out of sorts—it might have been all the way back when Philippe was still fighting in underground rings and he’d been hit so hard in the side of the head that he blacked out for a few seconds. His mohawk and beard are unkempt, his face is flush, his skin gleams with sweat, and… well. Frankly, it looks like he threw on whatever clothes he could find in his scramble to answer the door. Worst of all, he reeks. Corbeau struggles not to wrinkle his nose as the stench of rut comes pouring out the door.
Briefly, his gaze drifts past Philippe and into his living room. It’s messy, furniture shuffled around and blankets tossed about haphazardly. Alphas, he thinks with a tut. Couldn’t make a decent nest if their life depended on it. Corbeau steps inside, ignoring the sound of the sharp inhale Philippe draws in as he brushes past him. When he turns back around to face him, Philippe is watching him like he’s little more than a piece of meat. Those silver eyes are darkened by the size of his pupils, pitch black holes that unveil the threat of how easily he will get drawn into Philippe’s rut if he isn’t careful.
They’ve been through this song and dance before, but what stands in between then and now is the fact that this is sudden and, by the look of Philippe, intense. Still, Corbeau knows what Philippe needs. Wordlessly, he heads into Philippe’s bedroom, shoulders tense knowing that he’s turned his back to him when he shouldn’t. Thankfully, Philippe keeps his distance, taking his place near the bed. Poor thing is struggling to control his breathing, to not give in to the allure of Corbeau’s scent. To those primal instincts to breed.
Silent, Corbeau tips his chin up, eyes narrowed as he locks eyes with Philippe. Challenging an—his—alpha straight up. He isn’t about to tuck his tail between his legs and run just because Philippe is entirely keyed up from the beginning instead of easing into things.“Sit,” he commands, jerking his head towards the bed. Philippe’s nostrils flare as he lifts his head in kind. Stubborn thing. Corbeau raises a brow, crossing his arms. “Sit. Don’t make me repeat myself again.”
With a wary look, Philippe slowly sits at the edge of the bed. “Good,” Corbeau praises coolly, approaching him until he’s standing in front of Philippe. He nudges Philippe’s knees with one of his own, stepping in between them when Philippe opens his legs just enough to make room for him to do so. Corbeau lifts a hand to Philippe’s chin, tipping it up so that the alpha is looking up at him. His skin is burning up, and Corbeau’s touch alone sends a shiver through him.
“Look at you,” Corbeau croons, swiping his thumb across Philippe’s cheek. Philippe leans into his palm, lashes fluttering. “Snuck up on us both this time, huh? You must be miserable, feeling like this.”
Watching Corbeau’s face, Philippe turns his head to nuzzle into his palm, lightly curling a hand around his wrist. Starts to kiss it, even. Ordinarily Corbeau would find it endearing, if not for the fact that Philippe then moves on to laving his tongue between and over Corbeau’s fingers. Already trying to leave some semblance of his scent on him. He’ll allow it, he decides, so long as Philippe doesn’t start getting any other ideas about making his own moves. That’s not what Corbeau is here for.
“I know how much you hate acting like some meatheaded alpha who doesn’t know how to think without his knot,” Corbeau continues, lowering one of his hands to Philippe’s thighs. He threw on a tank-top and an old pair of sweatpants that look like they’ve seen better days. He can feel the heat of his skin even through the fabric. “Someone with a reputation like yourself can’t be seen acting so shamefully. We’ve both worked so hard to get to where we are, haven’t we?” Corbeau leans in, lips hovering just inches from Philippe’s own. “And I won’t have one little outlier rut go tearing that all down.”
“Boss.” Philippe’s lower lip quivers. His thighs spread, inviting Corbeau to move his hand further inward. Okay. Maybe Corbeau can play nice. Still, he’s on a mission here: calm Philippe down, then make him submit. Sure, Philippe is being pliant now, but his inner alpha might stubbornly dig in its heels the moment Corbeau mounts him.
“Boss,” Philippe tries again. His hands are fisting at the sheets, knuckles white. He really is doing his best to restrain himself, isn’t he? Fine, Corbeau can reward that.
“I’m listening,” Corbeau assures him, then leans in to press their lips together. As if a dam has broken, Philippe leans in to crush their lips against one another, his big hands jumping up and grabbing ahold of Corbeau’s waist. He tugs Corbeau closer, closer, closer until he’s practically seated in Philippe’s lap. Corbeau melts into him, framing Philippe’s face with his hands, lips parting and welcoming Philippe’s tongue into his mouth.
Before Corbeau can reach between their bodies to grab ahold of Philippe’s clothed erection, damn near burning a hole between their pants, Philippe begins to rock against him. With that solid grip of his on Corbeau’s waist, he handles Corbeau as if he were no more than a toy, making him roll his hips so that he grinds back down into Philippe. Greedy alpha thinks he can just do whatever he wants because he’s in rut, hm?
“Philippe—” he starts, but Philippe’s mouth moves against his too eagerly for him to get another word in. Even tries to turn and press Corbeau into the bed. Corbeau gives a warning growl that Philippe ignores at first, but when he snarls again and bares his teeth at him, Philippe relents.
“Sorry,” Philippe pants out, “sorry, boss, it’s just— you smell so good, and- and we could, you know, uh… maybe just this once, instead of you— I could—” and his hands are wandering as he talks, trying to slip his hands beneath Corbeau’s shirt, his waistband. One of his thumbs hooks under both of Corbeau’s waistbands, and alright, alright, that’s enough.
“Quiet,” Corbeau snaps, surging forward with the exact kind of ferocity an omega needs to put an alpha in this state in their place. Philippe sinks back against the bed as Corbeau launches at him, but once Corbeau plants his palms on either of his shoulders to keep him pinned, he starts to fight against it.
“Stay put,” Corbeau barks at him, shoving him back with another soft thud against the mattress. Philippe curls his lip up at him, but he remains resolute. “You might be an alpha, but you’re mine, Philippe, and you. Submit. To me,” he growls. So long as Philippe is still tense beneath him, he’ll just have to keep asserting his will.
“You don’t lay a hand on me if I don’t want it there,” he continues, removing Philippe’s hands from his body and placing them on either side of his head. Realistically, Corbeau knows that he could never push Philippe around like this. Knowing that, however, does nothing to inhibit just how arousing it is, having control over someone twice his own weight and strength. It’s not just control—it’s loyalty.
“You need this.” He straddles Philippe’s broad waist. Now Corbeau controls their frottage, Corbeau controls what pleasure Philippe does or doesn’t get. Corbeau controls him. “You need an omega to fuck you and put you back in your place. Isn’t that right?”
…Corbeau understands how alphas can get so arrogant, feeling a sense of ownership like this. His own arousal is dampening between his legs, a twisted sense of delight pooling in his groin. He leans in, feeling cocky and overconfident. “Tell me how much you need it.”
“No,” Philippe hisses. Corbeau straightens up, scandalized, but before he can get out even a single word to scold Philippe for his blatant and unapologetic disobedience, Philippe continues. He won’t meet Corbeau’s eyes, his breathing heavy as he mutters out, “Not… not just any omega. You, boss.” The larger man swallows thickly, throat bobbing. “Need you to fuck me.”
Oh. Oh, doesn’t a saccharine-sweet confession like that just make Corbeau’s dick throb. “Okay,” Corbeau hums, leaning over to reach for the bedside drawer. They have to keep things close and on-hand for situations like this, after all. With the lube in one hand, Corbeau shuffles down Philippe’s body and positions himself between his legs, smirking up at him. He pulls Philippe’s sweatpants down just enough to reveal his boxers and the swell beneath them, Philippe’s cock straining against the fabric, damp where he’s been leaking from the tip.
“Such a shame that a nice, big, handsome alpha like yourself was given such a package,” Corbeau snorts, grasping him over the fabric. Philippe must be sensitive already, given how he shivers. “You don’t even use it. Seems like a waste, don’t you think?”
“You like my knot,” Philippe huffs out, pressing up into Corbeau’s palm.
“Not when you haven’t earned it,” he quips in reply, finally pulling Philippe’s boxers down as well. His cock is hot and heavy and swollen, pre-cum steadily dripping down along the side. Corbeau can feel every delicious pulse against his fingers. If he were even close to his heat, tonight might have been a different story. Maybe he would have sat on Philippe’s cock all night long and ridden him until his insides were stuffed with his seed, milked his knot for all it was worth and then some, but he’s not in heat and his man needs him. “Go on, alpha. Spread your legs for your omega.”
Corbeau can feel the heat of Philippe’s leer burning into him, but like a good alpha he parts his legs anyway, exposing his asshole. Any other alpha would take offense to the mere suggestion of being fucked during their rut, might have even thought Corbeau was making some kind of taboo joke if he said that Philippe was his bitch during his rut. They don’t know the relief of letting go of all that tension, releasing the instinctual need for control and allowing themselves to be taken care of instead. His Philippe is different. He knows better, even if he lets out a warning growl when Corbeau introduces a lube-slick finger to his rim, circling it with the pad of his finger. All bark, no bite.
As Corbeau starts to press that first finger inside, he lowers his head at the same time, lapping away the pre from Philippe’s cock. His alpha groans, tensing around his finger, torn between snarling at the intrusion and rubbing his dick against Corbeau’s cheek. “That’s it,” Corbeau coos, sinking deeper despite Philippe’s tightening walls. “Good boy.”
Once his finger is fully inside, he stops, allowing Philippe to adjust while he continues licking at him. Corbeau starts off slowly when he begins to pull his slender finger out, not even fully withdrawing before pressing it back inside. Were it not for Philippe being in rut, everything about this would be drawn out. Maybe he’ll never admit it, but Corbeau can tell how much Philippe loves the slow drag of a cock inside him, the subtle burn it brings. Soon enough a second finger is added, then a third, and Philippe begins relaxing around his digits, hips twitching as Corbeau eagerly starts to bully his prostate.
“You, ah— boss,” Philippe pants out, squirming growing more lively. Ah, yes, Corbeau likes to see him writhe, but better yet, he wants to hear him whimper. He doesn’t relent, smirking up at Philippe around the cock in his mouth. “Boss— Corbeau,” Philippe whines, and oh, it’s not that he doesn’t want to cum yet, is it? He wants to ask for permission. What a good alpha, behaving so well, exactly as he should be.
Corbeau slides his mouth off of Philippe’s cock with a slick pop, a sound that resonates within both of their cores. While his fingers still, his other hand replaces his mouth as he looks up at him. “Yes, Philippe?”
“I want to…” Philippe trails off. Still bashful as ever. Normally Corbeau would demand his eye contact, but he has a feeling that Philippe will blow his load the moment he looks down. When Corbeau doesn’t answer him, he quietly, pitifully adds, “I want to cum.”
“I knew you would remember your manners eventually. You just needed them fucked back into you, right?”
“...Yes, boss.”
“Okay then.” Corbeau clicks his tongue, readying himself to take Philippe back into his mouth. “Cum.”
It doesn’t take more than one, two thrusts of Corbeau’s fingers before Philippe is spilling into him; hot, thick seed pours over his tongue, balls churning against Corbeau’s hand to pump every rope down his throat. Corbeau feels Philippe’s knot start to swell at the base of his cock, but without a hole to tie itself into, all it does is throb uselessly. Corbeau isn’t so unaffected, himself—his cunt aches around emptiness, as if craving that very untied knot before him, instinct seeking to sink himself down on top of it and allow himself to be filled with Philippe’s release.
While Philippe catches his breath, panting harshly in the buzz of his orgasm, Corbeau sits back to begin undressing himself. They can fully ravish each other later—for now, Corbeau needs to act quickly, assert himself over his alpha before the rut starts to cloud his mind again. He shucks his pants off and fumbles awkwardly as he slips into his harness, the plush of the mattress making his posture wobbly. Eventually he’s all buckled in, and when he glances back at Philippe, those cool, steely eyes are watching him once more, warmed by the heat of desire for his omega. He spreads his legs again to invite Corbeau back against him, as if he hasn’t just cum. Greedy bastard.
“Get over here,” Philippe demands impatiently, only tacking on a “Please” after Corbeau shoots him a glare.
Shuffling back to his place between Philippe’s legs, Corbeau slicks his cock with a generous amount of lube, and starts to press inside.
As expected, Philippe snarls, hands leaping up to Corbeau’s waist as if he were preparing to throw him off. That won’t do. Corbeau leans down and sinks his teeth right into his collar bone to remind that alpha who exactly is in charge right now. There’s a smaller, weaker sound of protest from Philippe, but it dies down when Corbeau doesn’t let up.
“I know you can control yourself,” Corbeau says over the reddening imprint of his teeth. “Behave.” He drags his tongue over the mark as an apology, and although Philippe’s otherwise tight grip doesn’t ease up on his hips, Corbeau feels the rest of him untensing beneath him. With that, he can resume sliding into him, watching the way Philippe’s brows knit together and how his jaw clenches as he fights against his instincts.
That, in and of itself, does more to Corbeau than he’ll ever know. Being able to see Philippe visibly fight against every instinct to turn things around and stuff Corbeau full of his knot is just another attribute to his loyalty, to their mutual trust of one another. What he said earlier is right—only Corbeau gets to see him like this, reduce him to this pitiful state, break down his alpha until all that’s left of it is a whimpering mess. Corbeau’s thighs are sticky. With a shudder, he starts to fuck into him in honest, hips rolling as he works his strap into Philippe’s tight hole.
“They don’t know you like I do,” Corbeau huffs, stealing a kiss from Philippe, murmuring against his skin. “They only see what’s front and center. Big, strong, intimidating alpha…” He catches the lobe of Philippe’s ear between his teeth, relishing in the way it makes his breath hitch. “They know your reputation. They know who you were then, who you are now. They see how powerful you are.”
Grunting, Corbeau drives a particularly harsh thrust into Philippe, prompting a guttural groan. His fingernails dig into Corbeau’s sides, leaving half-moons in his skin beneath the thin veil of his shirt. “They’d never expect what kind of a whelp you become once you have a dick in you. That by the end of your rut, you’re begging for me to put a pup in you.”
“Yes,” Philippe gasps, pawing helplessly at Corbeau’s sides, toes curling with every thrust. He mouths wetly at Corbeau’s neck in kind, ignoring every temptation to sink his fangs into Corbeau’s scent gland. Corbeau can’t help but huff out a laugh, reaching between them to loosely grasp at Philippe’s cock.
“I really should get on with collaring you one of these days,” Corbeau groans, panting with every roll of his hips. If he peers in between them, looks down at where his strap stretches and sinks into Philippe’s hole, he can pretend that the lube is slick, that Philippe’s body is ripening itself to be bred. If only it were possible—Corbeau would give him a pup, as many as he asked for. “Have the leather engraved with my name, scent it before you put it on each day so that when you go out, everyone knows just who you belong to.”
“Yes,” Philippe echoes eagerly. Corbeau chuckles over his lips before sealing them together. Between each kiss, Philippe starts to plead, desperately trying to meet Corbeau’s thrusts. “Please, boss, ‘Beau, I wanna— so close.”
“I know,” Corbeau purrs. “You’ve been such a good alpha, such a good boy. Go on. You’ve earned it.” With those words, he nuzzles into Philippe’s neck until he finds his prize, latching onto his scent gland with his teeth until he can smell the rush of hormones filling the air between them.
The bite makes Philippe swear under his breath, body tightening up before every ounce of tension is unleashed in an explosive orgasm, shuddering beneath Corbeau as he shamelessly moans his name over and over and over. Corbeau fucks him through it, feeling how he spills over Corbeau’s hand, each rock of his hips slower and slower until Philippe is twitching beneath him and trying to usher him away with a gravelly “off, off.” Corbeau rolls off of him and plops down next to him with a heavy breath, draping his arm over Philippe’s belly.
For a moment, it’s quiet. Then, entirely serious, Corbeau says, “I really need to stop doing physical labor.”
Philippe bursts out into a hearty laugh, hooking an arm around Corbeau’s shoulder to tug him flush against him. At least he seems to be coming out of it—not that it will last long, not this early into his rut.
Or maybe not at all, with the way Philippe suddenly pulls away, sliding down to part Corbeau’s thighs and settling between them, licking his lips. He grabs Corbeau's hips, tugging him closer, and starts to undo each little buckle on his harness.
“Let me take over for a little while, then.”