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When it finally happens, it’s long overdue.
Arthur’s expecting it when he turns thirteen, when he turns fourteen, when he turns fifteen. Dread more than anticipation— afraid of the hunger that lives in him, lying in wait in his blood, ready to make him weak.
Ready to make him desperate; a helpless, animal thing who will take whatever is given to him.
Who will beg for it unabashedly.
Dutch is waiting, too, even if it takes a while before Arthur picks up on it. He’s always watching when Arthur gets restless. When he gets tactile, and soft, seeking out Dutch’s praise by any means necessary.
Sometimes after a job Dutch tells Arthur he’s a good boy, and he can feel in simmering in his veins, unfolding like petals— the promise of fever.
The promise of heat.
He knows what he is, knows what’s coming. Hates it with every inch of himself well before it means anything more than a few extra blows from his daddy’s fist. A busted lip, a broken nose.
Whiskey on his breath, and smoke in his lungs, good for nothing but spreading your legs you useless piece of shit.
Arthur didn’t know what it meant at first.
Then he did, and he despised himself more than his daddy ever had.
Then his daddy was dead, and things were better. Arthur would take the hunger that often gnawed at his guts and the cold that always seeped into his bones over his daddy’s fury any day.
His dynamic made things easier when Arthur was left on his own. People caught his scent and dropped their guard; a young omega stumbling up to them out in the wilderness, dirt on his face and suspicion in his eyes.
You poor thing, look at you, what are doing out here all alone?
Dutch didn’t drop his guard.
Dutch pulled him out of the dirt and put a gun in his hand; held his arm steady, easy, son, easy.
Take it slow. Make it count.
Dutch had put food in his belly and clothes on his back and fire in his blood. Taught him how to shoot, how to read.
How to be something more; more than an outlaw, more than an omega.
Showed him what it meant to have family. What it meant to be a man.
Dutch raised him strong and vicious but the specter of his first heat loomed over him all the same. Arthur lay awake at night staring at the stars, terrified of what he’d turn into for those handful of mindless days. He’d seen what omegas got like when they hit their cycles; whimpering and shaking and slick, please, it hurts, I need it.
Arthur wasn’t afraid of the pain.
Arthur was afraid of the helplessness.
Hosea had him drinking a cup of the worst tea on earth every day, steeped full of bitter herbs that would keep anything from taking hold in him if worse came to worst, but there was nothing they could do to stop his heat entirely. It would come, and it would pass, and Arthur would just have to bear it.
Don’t worry about it, dear boy, Dutch insisted, hand sliding up Arthur’s shoulder, palm resting over his pulse point. Scent-marking him like he always did; casual and familiar, fingers on his neck or rubbing over his face. An arm thrown around his shoulders, wrist brushing against the fabric of his shirt.
It wasn’t always so familial.
Sometimes Dutch was drunk, or tired, or shaking apart from a job gone south.
Sometimes he’d sink a hand in Arthur’s hair. Tuck his face into Arthur’s throat, rubbing it back and forth against the oily skin of his glands, rumbling low and pleased. Mouth open, teeth scraping over Arthur’s collar bones. Crooning.
Arthur had overheard Dutch fucking a lot of different women, but he never made a sound like that. It wasn’t for any of them.
It was just for Arthur.
We’ll take care of you, son.
In those fleeting moments with Dutch’s teeth on his throat and Dutch’s hands in his hair and Dutch’s scent in his nose, it was impossible to doubt him.
Time slid past them, Arthur going from lean and gangly to something more solid. Broad shoulders and a square jaw, muscled from fighting hard and living harder. Summer and winter and summer again, the world around them shifting as they pressed further west without stopping anywhere long enough to settle.
Arthur’s scent never changed. Never went sweet and vivid like everyone said it would; like he’d scented a hundred times in brothels and bars, some omega purring in Dutch’s ear and touching his arm and leaning in close. Hosea thought maybe his insides were off from too many years of going hungry.
Too many of his daddy’s kicks buried in his stomach, Arthur curled up on the ground at his feet, small and shaking with nothing to do but take them.
When it finally happens Arthur’s long since stopped expecting it. Gotten complacent, thinking he’s dodged a bullet that’s still coming for him.
When it finally happens he’s all alone, a long way from home.
A long way from Dutch, riding out to check on some homestead a half day’s ride from camp. Nothing but a few liquored up country boys sitting on a pile of stolen cash and bonds, or so Hosea had heard.
He’s sweating under his duster and vest; there had been a chill in the air when he rode out that afternoon, but it’s long gone now, replaced with stifling warmth and an itch in Arthur’s skin. Arthur undresses down to his shirt and shoves everything in his saddlebags, using his bandana to wipe the grit from his face. He keeps shifting in his saddle, leg muscles tensing like that’ll help him feel less uncomfortable as his horse trots steadily forward. Every step has him rocking in place, a wetness that he attributes to the heat making his union suit damp and sticky between his thighs.
Arthur feels like he’s coming down with something; a little too hot, a little too breathless. Fatigued in a way that makes him want to find Dutch.
Lay his head in Dutch’s lap. Feel Dutch’s fingers in his hair.
None of that matters. Arthur has finished jobs in worse shape than this, chasing stagecoaches with a bullet in him, or running down witnesses with blood soaking into his clothes from a dozen differents wounds. This is nothing, or at least nothing compared to most of the bullshit he ends up fighting through.
The sun’s starting to set as he closes in on the homestead, and for once, it seems like things will be easy.
There are around a half-dozen outlaws lingering outside of a long abandoned house, laughing loud and raucous. Arthur hitches his horse to a nearby tree, hunkers down in some brush, and peers through his binoculars. Several of them have jugs of moonshine in their hands. One is passed out on the ground snoring. Arthur is outnumbered, and outgunned, but it’s not time to act yet.
He’ll get the lay of the land, watch them for a while to make sure they’re not accidentally running headfirst into a firefight they can’t win, and then he’ll head back to camp and get Dutch and Hosea.
Dutch will squeeze his shoulder. Maybe run a hand over his throat, rub soothingly at the back of his neck.
Tell Arthur he did good. Tell him that he’s proud.
Arthur swallows a whine. Feels himself get wet. Nothing like the weak pulses of arousal he’s felt before when Dutch touches him, when Dutch scent marks him.
This is overpowering. Suffocating, and Arthur drops a hand between his legs, and presses at his cunt through the thick canvas of his jeans. They’re soaked; he jerks at the friction, tucking his face into the bend of his elbow, binoculars hanging loose from his fingers. He lets them drop. Lets himself drop, rolling over onto his back in the underbrush and grinding up into his palm. Something is wrong with him.
All he can think about is Dutch. Dutch’s hands, and Dutch’s teeth, and Dutch’s scent.
Dutch pulling him in close, easy, son.
I got you.
The wind changes, but Arthur doesn’t notice. Just keeps rutting forward into the press of his hand, arm thrown over his eyes and body alight with need. A jolt of pleasure arcs through him, and he whimpers, feeling the patch of wetness on his jeans get warmer as he pulses fresh slick into his clothes.
He doesn’t hear them approaching until they’re already on him, circling like vultures with lascivious grins.
“Well look what he got here here,” a voice says, and Arthur’s eyes snap open.
There are four of them, all looking down at Arthur with a kind of hunger he’s never seen up close. Not directed at him, anyway. He’s seen men look at whores in brothels that way, or omegas who’ve been caught out; in the wrong place, at the wrong time.
It’s only then that the pieces click into place, lust and need washed away by an all-consuming horror.
Arthur is in heat.
Arthur is in heat, and Dutch is too far away.
He can’t help the sound he makes, loud and animal— an omega calling their alpha, all instinct and no logic. No one can hear him but these outlaws, drawn in by the honey-sweet lure of his slick, watching Arthur like he’s the best meal they’ve never had.
“Oh, sugar. Ain’t nobody ‘round to hear you. Specially not no alpha that don’t even wanna put a mark on you.”
Arthur feels the empty expanse of his throat, fury riling through him, because that ain’t true. An alpha’s mark won’t take until an omega is heating. Until they’re desperate.
Until they want it there, ink black and possessive.
He didn’t realize how much he ached for Dutch’s teeth in him until that moment, when the absence of them is like a wound.
“Dunno why they ain’t. Pretty boy like you, muscled up ‘n still whining for it? Shouldn’ta let you get away. We sure ain’t gonna.”
Another one of the alphas laughs, stepping in closer.
“Goddamn, he smells good, don’t he? Hadn’t smelled nothing that good in ages.” He crouches down, cocking his head with a smirk. “You’re a long way from home, aren’t ya, boy?”
Arthur bares his teeth, hand twitching down closer to his revolver. The alpha to his left has a rifle on his back, and even if he’s pretty sure they don’t want him dead, Arthur doesn’t intend on chancing it.
“I ain’t your fuckin’ boy,” he spits, and they all grin.
“Maybe not yet, but yer gonna be.”
One of them grabs for Arthur’s ankle, another already working open his own belt, licking over yellowed teeth and sneering. So confident, as though Arthur will roll over and let them do what they like, just because he’s in heat. He’s wet, and desperate, and he needs, needs, until burns him all over, inside and out.
But Arthur isn’t for them.
Arthur belongs to Dutch.
Something savage comes alive in him and swallows him whole, and Arthur jerks his ankle away from the alpha grabbing it and kicks him square in the face. Blood sprays, and he falls backwards, clutching at his nose with gore pouring between his finger.
“Son of a bitch!”
The others are roaring with laughter, struggling to get a hold of Arthur’s limbs as he lashes out at them. Fabric rips, buttons tearing loose on his shirt to leave it hanging open. He gets his fingers on the hilt of his pistol before his wrist is yanked roughly away, the weapon tossed a few yards off into the grass.
“We got a live one, boys!”
Two of them manage to grab his elbows and wrench them behind him, tugging him halfway to his feet as the other approaches from the front and pulls a knife.
“Easy there, sugar,” he says, dodging a wild kick from Arthur and sliding the blade between his thighs. Arthur goes still, feeling the bite of the metal against his jeans, breathing noisy and fast through his nose as the alpha steps closer. “Wouldn’t wanna hurt nothin’ important, now would we? Specially not ‘fore we get a taste.”
He leans in, pressing his nose to Arthur’s throat and breathing deep, moaning at the scent.
“Christ alive, that’s good. Gonna break you, pretty boy.”
Dutch’s voice in his head, slurred and soft with whiskey, face tucked into Arthur’s neck.
I’ll take such good care of you, Arthur. Anybody tries to put their hands on you, I’ll fucking kill ‘em. I promise.
You’re mine, son.
The world is suddenly awash in shades of gray. Everything slows down, the way it does sometimes when Arthur is frantic. Outnumbered, outgunned. He doesn’t have a weapon, but it doesn’t matter.
Dutch has made him sharp, made him strong. Made him vicious, all rough edges that only he can smooth; Arthur leans forward and sinks his teeth into the alphas throat, biting down hard.
When he pulls back he spits a chunk of flesh out, meat in his teeth and blood running down his chin, the alpha screaming as he tries to put pressure on the wound. He drops to his knees, weaving for a moment as crimson soaks down his chest and belly before falling over sideways. The alphas holding onto his arms stare in shock, wide eyed and open mouthed, hands gone loose where they cling to Arthur’s arms.
It’s all Arthur needs. An inch. A breath. An instant.
He draws his knife from his belt and moves.
Arthur comes back to himself covered in blood and panting like a dog in the summer heat, four dead alphas scattered around him like carrion. The others have heard the commotion— Arthur can see them staggering from the farmhouse, rifles in hand.
He picks his gun up out of the leaves and puts a bullet in each of their heads; right between the eyes, one, two, three.
Arthur puts his hands on his knees and leans forward, chest heaving and lungs on fire. None of them managed to get any real licks in, but the adrenaline has him shaky, stomach rolling in protest. He wants to go home.
Wants to find Dutch, and go to his knees. Tuck his face into Dutch’s stomach, wrap his arms around his waist.
Wants to lay down on his belly and lift his hips and let Dutch take him.
Wants, wants, but Arthur has already done the work, and if he takes off now it will be for nothing. Someone will stumble across this place and pick it clean, like ravens scavenging off a pack of wolves who’ve left their kill behind. He makes his way to the house on unsteady legs and heads inside, skin stretched too tight over his bones.
Criminals are predictable. There’s stolen jewelry behind a loose brick in the disused fireplace, cash and bonds in box under the floorboards. A bottle of rum on the table, half a pack of cigarettes on a shelf, a sawed-off leaning against the wall behind the door. Arthur takes everything of value that he can carry and loads it all into his saddlebags, digging his heels in and leading his mare back the way he came.
The ride home is slower by miles. The terrain is unforgiving, and Arthur can’t help the way he’s rocking in the saddle and whimpering soft.
Can’t help the way he’s shivering, nothing to do with the cold.
By the time he gets back to camp it’s past midnight, stars glittering overhead, sky clear and bright. They aren’t expecting him until the next morning at best. Hosea is gone, still in town most likely, trying to sweet talk a local businessman out of his money without firing a shot. The campfire has burned down to embers, and the flaps of Dutch’s tent are closed against the cold. Arthur can’t feel it.
He’s covered in sweat, jeans ruined, a dark patch spread out over the inside of his thighs. It’s less like dismounting and more like falling out of the saddle when he finally pulls his mare to a stop at the stand of trees they’ve been using as hitching posts. Arthur gets the satchel of cash and bonds and jewelry from his saddlebags and staggers towards their tents, falling heavily to his knees just outside them.
“Dutch.” It’s weak. Loud enough that Dutch can hear him but laced with a whine. Arthur swallows and tries again. “Dutch!”
He must have been sleeping because there’s a sudden rustling, and then Dutch is moving his tent flap aside with the barrel of his pistol and peering out with furrowed brows.
He catches Arthur scent before he takes in the rest of him, a sharp intake of breath as his eyes go black, lips parting slow. Dutch growls, glancing around like he’s worried someone followed Arthur, like there’s some kind of threat waiting.
All that’s waiting is Arthur, heat sick and panting, palm rubbing against his cunt through his jeans with a bag of cash beside him. There’s dried blood on his face and his hands and his clothes. He’s flushed all over, shirt hanging open, every breath a whimper.
“Arthur!” At the sound of his voice Arthur tilts his head to the side as far as it will go, exposing the line of his throat. Dutch lets his weapon fall and kneels in front of him, a palm on either cheek, eyes darting around his face. “What happened? Tell me. Who did this to you? You hurt?”
Arthur shakes his head, leaning into Dutch’s touch and letting his eyes fall closed.
“Blood ain’t mine. Nobody did nothin’ to me, I… I was checking that place out. Buncha alphas. Caught my scent when the wind changed, I- I’m—“
In heat.
Arthur can’t say it, not even with it soaked into his skin as he eases a hand in his jeans, pressing his fingers into the burning warmth of his slit like he never has before— never wanted it, never needed it. He shivers, voice breaking over his words.
“They tried. Didn’t get far.” Arthur nods his head towards the satchel full of bills and bonds as best he can without dislodging Dutch’s hands. “Took ‘em out. Grabbed everythin’ I could and hightailed it outta there. Dutch, I… please, Dutch, I ain’t never… it hurts.”
It had been bad enough when things started, and worse on the ride back; now it’s sharpened into something merciless. The glands in his throat and wrists and thighs are throbbing with every thunderous beat of his heart. Dutch’s scent in his nose is like a drug, and he uses his free hand to clutch one of Dutch’s palms tighter against his face. Slides his nose down until he gets to his wrist. Breathes in deep, and shakes, cunt clenching around the rough press of his fingers.
“Need you. Been needin’ you, please. Please.”
Dutch glances at the bag next to Arthur, bills spilling out of one side, necklaces glinting gold and ruby on the ground.
“Oh, Arthur. You did so good, son.” Arthur shudders hard at the praise, mouth open against the glands on Dutch’s wrist, sticking his tongue out to lick up the taste. “Got the job done, all on your own. Heat sick and outta your mind and you still came home to me. My dear boy. I’m so proud of you.”
Arthur goes tense and comes weakly around his fingers, sucking at Dutch’s wrist with his eyes wrenched closed. Trembles through it, whining, but it does nothing to take the edge of his need. If anything it’s worse now— then Dutch’s fingers close around his wrist, and ease his hand out of his clothes.
“No, none of that, that’s just gonna hurt you right now. Let’s get you out of those clothes. I’ll take care of you.” Dutch lifts Arthur’s slick covered fingers to his mouth. Presses them between his lips, and groans, a low vibration starting up in his chest.
Crooning to Arthur like always, but now Arthur feels it all the way down to his toes, all the way inside his bones.
He stands, tugging gently on Arthur’s elbow and urging him to follow.
“Head on in there, get those clothes off while I put this away.” Arthur gets to his feet, weaving in place as Dutch tucks the spilled money and jewelry back into the bag and picks it up. He nudges Arthur on the shoulder, giving him a little shove towards the tent. “Go on, now. I won’t be long.”
Arthur obeys, ducking under the flap of the tent and slipping inside only to freeze in place.
Dutch’s scent is so thick in the air that all Arthur can do for a moment is breathe, head tilting to the side even though Dutch isn’t there to see. He wants to be good, though— wants to be told he’s good, so he kicks off his boots and starts shucking his clothes as fast as he can. Arthur hangs his gun belt and bandolier on the back of a chair, but everything else is irredeemably filthy, and he kicks it all into a pile in the corner.
There’s a washcloth on the table. Arthur pours some water out of Dutch’s canteen and wipes at his face with it, cleaning the dried gore off his neck and washing his hands and arms as best he can. He needs a bath— needs two or three of them, probably— but this will have to do for now. Arthur wishes there was another washcloth handy, because he’d like to scrub his neck again.
To make sure it’s pristine, nothing but his own scent.
Clean enough that Dutch won’t mind putting his mouth there to bite.
There isn’t, though, so Arthur sits on the edge of Dutch’s cot to wait, except it doesn’t feel right. Lays on his side for a moment before he shifts to his back, restless and unable to get comfortable.
Then he rolls over onto his belly and shoves his face into Dutch’s pillow. Arthur gets his knees under him and raises his hips— the air is cool against his overheated slit, and Arthur swallows the sound that wants to pour out of him. His instincts settle some, even if the want in him is still raw and unbridled. His alpha is close, and he is just the way he’s meant to be, naked and ready and waiting for him.
He doesn’t have to wait long.
Arthur is watching the tent flap when Dutch comes through it. Watches him go still at the sight of Arthur laid out for him, slick dripping down his thighs, cunt swollen and inflamed with his heat. His cock is hard where it juts out from the folds of his sex— it isn’t much of one, but more than some omegas have, and Arthur doesn’t have any complaints.
Neither does Dutch if the sound he makes is anything to go by; he makes his way over to the cot and kneels up behind Arthur, laying a palm high on one thigh.
“Oh, sweet boy. Look at you.” Dutch runs a thumb lightly up his slit, and Arthur arches at the touch, rocking back into him seeking friction. “Gorgeous.”
Arthur feels Dutch moving, and then he’s licking a scorching stripe up the length of his cunt. It feels like he’s been electrified; he seizes, and the sound that comes out of him is shameless and pathetic. It feels better than anything Arthur has ever experienced in his whole goddamn life, but it’s so far from enough that tears pool in his eyes as he bears his throat and keens.
“Please, Dutch, please,” Arthur sobs, empty like he’s gonna fall apart if Dutch doesn’t fill him up. It aches like a wound; something deep.
Something that’s gonna scar.
“Shhh, hush now. I got you.”
Then Dutch fucks into him in one slow push until he’s seated deep, crooning softly with his hands on Arthur’s hips, knot already threatening at the base of his cock. A fresh rush of slick pulses around Dutch, and Arthur lifts up on his elbows, on his palms. Leans back into him with a groan, and Dutch slides a hand up Arthur’s belly, over his chest. Arthur’s spine bows, and Dutch’s mouth is right next to his ear as he grinds into Arthur and lays his other palm flat over his cock.
It covers him entirely, even hard; Arthur ruts forward against Dutch’s fingers, and then back against his cock, unable to be still when he is so alight with sensation.
“You want my teeth in you, son? Gonna let me put my mark on you?”
Arthur’s head drops his head to the side until his ear is against his shoulder, neck craned and chin raised.
“Please. Need it,” he whines, whisper soft.
“That’s my good boy. Love you, Arthur.” Arthur comes again, Dutch’s palm sliding in messy circles over his cock, hips rocking idly forward and back. Dutch works him through it, and then presses a kiss to Arthur’s throat, right over his glands. “Who do you belong to, darling?”
Arthur is still twitching through his orgasm, thighs soaked in slick and body on fire. Full, and quaking, and euphoric. Drugged with the stretch of Dutch’s cock, drool slipping down his chin.
Tears tracking down both cheeks, fucked out and perfect and overwhelmed.
“You, Dutch, always… always been you, please…”
Dutch fists a hand in his hair, and holds him in place, rubbing his face into Arthur’s skin.
“That’s right. You’re mine.”
Dutch’s teeth sink into Arthur’s throat— he bites down and holds it, jaw locked as he begins to fuck Arthur like he’s trying to break him into pieces. His knot drags and stretches with every thrust. Arthur mewls; he can’t tell if he’s coming or not anymore.
His cock is steadily leaking and his cunt is so wet it’s obscene, Arthur’s whole body a ringing note of ecstasy that won’t fall silent. It crests again and again, blood trickling down his collarbone from Dutch’s bite as he croons guttural into the wound. Arthur can feel the mark taking, the dark violet bruise of it beginning to settle into black. He isn’t sure how long it goes on, but when Dutch finally knots him his vision whites out, static in his ears and throat raw with how loudly he’s been groaning.
When the world is no longer a riot of noise and bliss Arthur blinks his eyes open; Dutch’s knot has them locked snugly together, hot pulses of come filling his belly every now and then as he presses gentle kisses to the teeth etched into Arthur’s throat. An alpha’s mark, there for all the world to see.
Arthur isn’t crying anymore, but he thinks he might, again. Dutch croons, a low purr that has him unwinding, muscles loose under the press of Dutch’s weight on top of him.
“Perfect. You did so well for me, darling. How are you feeling?”
He isn’t quite capable of words, right then. Arthur whimpers and reaches back, grabbing at whatever part of Dutch he get his hands on; a fistful of his shirt. The fabric of his pants. He holds on tight, cunt clenching around Dutch’s cock as it twitches in him, Dutch and Arthur shivering together with every fresh burst of come.
“It’s all right. I’ll give you everything you need, son. Take care of you like I always do.” Arthur nods, the tide of his need finally fading for the moment. His belly is full, and warm, and it makes his eyelids feel heavy, and breathing gone deep and even. “Rest a while. I’m right here.”
The last thing he remembers with any clarity are Dutch’s fingers in his hair, brushing through the tangled strands with a gentleness Arthur’s never seen, and only felt.
When his heat pulls him from sleep Dutch puts him on his back, hands hooked under his thighs, and takes him until he’s sobbing with relief. Knots him again and again, and nothing else is ever going to be good enough.
Arthur was a fool to be afraid of this; it’s everything he’s always needed and more. Dutch’s mark is on his throat, and Dutch’s knot is keeping them together, just like Arthur wants.
When Dutch’s scent changes a few hours in, shifting into the musky tones of a rut, Arthur’s chest hurts with the joy of it. An omega’s heat drawing an alpha into rut isn’t a rare thing, exactly, but it doesn’t always happen.
It means Dutch wants him, savagely.
His heat drags on for days, lingering when it should have long since faded. Dutch coaxes his mouth open and makes him drink water. Urges him to sleep in between waves of want, knotted in Arthur more often than not, their scents mingling like they might never unravel again.
When Arthur finally comes out of Dutch’s tent, teeth inked into his throat like a brand, he feels like he got hit by a train.
Feels ten feet tall, and bulletproof. Nothing can touch him.
Nothing, and no one— just Dutch.
He saddles up his horse and rides out.
There’s still work to do.