Work Text:
“Hello again, John.”
“Hello, Dutch.”
“We gotta stop meeting like this.”
“… Sure.”
The wind bit at Dutch’s face. He stood on the cliff’s edge. Rocks, grey, dirt, grey, snow, grey, the prodigal son… everything grey. The drop behind yawned wide, a hungry mouth waiting to swallow him whole. There weren’t no salvation there. No chance of survival. No odds. He’d always beaten the odds, beaten everyone – hell, he’d laughed in their faces while doing so – but this wasn’t about odds. This was about choice.
The silver ring felt heavy against his collarbone.
“I’ve got a plan, John.”
The kid groaned, deeper now – a grown man, a real one, “You’ve always got a plan, Dutch.” He sounded strong, confident… and exhausted in that way that was too familiar… the way Arthur had started sounding towards the end of that bygone era.
The blonde's voice, rough, rich, flickered through his mind like a half-remembered dream. The way he'd drag out the vowel every time he said Dutch’s name, pleading, or cursing, wary, or desperate. The older man looked to his left...
but the boy wasn't there. His jaw clenched. That had been a different cliff, a different time. Arthur had been beside him then, breathing hard behind his bandanna, sweat streaking through the dust on his face.
Dutch waved his gun, meaningless. He looked back to John, tossing the metal aside, “… This is a good one.”
John lowered his own gun, “I don’t doubt it.”
“We can’t always fight nature, John,” Dutch started, the same words felt poetic—felt right on his tongue. “We can’t fight change… We can’t fight… gravity.” The string around his neck was too damn heavy. “We can’t. Fight. Nothin’.
Dutch heard the brunette suck his teeth, clearly too tired to listen to another one of Dutch's sermons. The kid knew him well, after all. “Then give up, Dutch.”
Dutch swayed at the cold breeze. “But I can’t give up, neither… I can’t fight my own nature.” He watched the brunette’s frown curl into a sneer at that. They both knew what he was really talking about. Dutch smiled, breathing heavy, “That’s the paradox, John. You see?”
The younger man held back the growl in his voice, clearly trying not to give Dutch the satisfaction, “Then I have to shoot you,” he leveled.
Dutch’s chuckle came out, natural, “When I’m gone, they’ll just find another monster.” The look in John’s eyes clearly disagreed, but Dutch continued, “They have to… because they have to justify their wages.”
“No, Dutch,” John corrected. “Ain’t never met a monster till I met you.”
Dutch’s blood pulsed cold against the skin of his arm. The kid wasn’t wrong.
Dutch stood alone in the snow. He could almost hear the echo of hoof beats – The Count, Silver Dollar, Boadicea – the ravings of the reverend, the shouts of Susan, the ugly, off tune singing of those idiots that could barely pronounce a word of Spanish, the distant shouts of the posse who’d once trusted him, loved him. He’d been a god once, or near enough. Now he was just a man with nothing left to lose.
He looked to the sky. Lord, when had it all gone wrong? Why had it? This wasn't what he'd wanted. It used to all be… It used to all be so simple. When had he changed? Why had he changed?
The hate in John’s eyes looked almost like Arthur’s. But Arthur’s was never quite hate, not really…
Jesus. He missed him.
Blue-green.
“… Gravity…” he whispered. For himself.
He took a step back.
“We can't fight… gravity,” again he parroted his own words from that time… That time.
That had been the first time… the only time he had ever experienced Heaven. When Arthur followed him at those words. No questioning it. And then…
~*~
Blue-green and fear stared into him – into his soul as they plummeted. Fear… but also some last vestiges of trust.
“YOU'RE MAAAAAAD!” That voice, rich, unique. Arthur.
Dutch couldn't help but laugh as he plummeted through air into river.
The water hit like a slap from God himself, cold and brutal. Dutch surfaced gasping, sediment stinging his eyes, but it was Arthur’s face he saw first. Not the rocks, nor the logs, nor the jagged teeth of the cliff above them.
The current carried them; Dutch found land, the odds ever in his favor.
“Come on, Arthur. Take my hand!” The blonde swam as best as he could along the current, his large body clearly slowed and weakened by its curse. “Here. Oh, don't give up now!” Arthur swam to him desperate, a lost child. Hot skin found Dutch’s; he pulled, “Come here, big boy... I got ya.”
He dragged Arthur onto the riverbank, his own muscles still screaming from the impact. The blonde coughed up half the river, chest heaving like a fireplace bellows. Dutch stared.
Water dripped from Arthur’s face; he rolled over, hair plastered to his forehead like a damn golden halo. The boy’s scent was even stronger now, now that the river had washed off the last vestiges of those sharp, cloaking herbs.
“We're okay.” Dutch laughed, heart beating a mile a minute, maybe from the jump, maybe from swimming through rapids and narrowly dodging those life-ending rocks, maybe from that scent… That scent that had been getting stronger the last two days, that scent that had helped Uncle Sam track them down and corner them so quickly in the first place. That goddamn intoxicating smell no one in their right mind would expect from his enforcer. Arthur Morgan, the 6 foot-something strongman with more kills under his belt than half the country's criminals combined. The boy panted. Coughed. Dripped. “… You're okay.” Dutch looked away.
“What a mess,” the blonde wheezed.
“I know… But a mess is what we need.” He didn't explain what he meant. He didn't need to.
Dutch stared at the fast-flowing water, weighing their options. The scent clung to Arthur like a second skin – honey, peach, rosemary – sweet and unmistakable. No amount of river water could wash away what nature had carved into his bones.
Dutch turned, eyes tracing the broad outline of the man spread out over sand and rocks, water still seeping dark from his clothes into the dirt. “Give me your shirt.”
Arthur's head rolled to him, brows furrowed. “The hell for?” His voice was rough, still catching on the remnants of river in his lungs.
Dutch didn't smile, “Faith, Arthur.”
A beat passed. The blonde let out a sigh, then stripped his jacket and peeled the soaked fabric from his shoulders. Dutch took it without ceremony.
He tore the sodden shirt into uneven strips with his teeth, the fabric resisting before giving way with a wet rip. The honey-rich aroma in that cloth was warm, alive. Jesus fucking Christ, so good. He schooled his expression; thank God Arthur wasn't looking, too busy panting into the sky catching his breath, taming his biology.
“They want to follow the scent? Let them try,” Dutch grumbled, tossing one scrap into the churning current where it vanished downstream in seconds. Another he wedged between jagged rocks further upriver, the third he rubbed against a tree branch before flinging it across the stream into dense brush.
Arthur watched him work through tired lids. “Ain't gonna fool 'em long,” he rasped, wiping at the incessant water that continued to drip down his temples.
“Long enough,” Dutch countered, crouching to rub the remaining fabric fresh against Arthur's bare neck - collecting some of that fresher, stronger scent. He paused then, fingers lingering a heartbeat too long on curse-warmed skin.
"Long enough for what… Dutch?"
Arthur’s pulse hammered under his fingertips, fast and insistent, and Dutch wondered if the boy even realized how hard he was breathing.
“Long enough for us to find a way out of this mess,” Dutch said, standing abruptly and tucking the cloth into his pocket for use further up the trail. He offered a hand.
After a beat, Arthur took it, hauling himself up with a grunt.
They moved upstream where the cliffs offered shadow and cover.
Arthur's bare back gleamed soft in the fractured light. Dutch watched the play of muscle under skin, the old scars he'd memorized years ago blending with the flush of exertion. Arthur had always been strong, always acted it. So this, this protective hunch, the way his body curved into itself, this was new.
Or maybe Dutch had just refused to see it before. It had only been, what? Two months? Maybe three since they found out? The boy had spent so long hiding his curse that the truth almost felt alien. Fifteen years. Fifteen years of herbs and perfumes and secrets and lies. Fifteen years wasted. Unfortunately, he understood why Arthur had made that choice. With their rough way of life. With Dutch’s expectations. With the way the boy always seemed so desperate to prove himself, desperate for respect, approval. Dutch's approval.
His boy.
Still, though. He should’ve told Dutch.
“So, we going to get out of here, or are we just gonna wait around for them to come shooting?” Arthur threw his sopping coat back on, decidedly frowning into the dirt. Dutch hadn't realized he was staring.
The older man huffed a laugh, but his throat was dry. “Just making sure you're not drowning on land, son.”
Arthur's scent spiked - warmth, peaches crushed under boot - before he tamped it down again. The line of his shoulders tightened.
Dutch gauged the reaction; it had been a while since he’d called the blonde that – had been hard to ever since… well…
But that look the boy had always given him – like looking at a hero, an idol… that spark had been gone for a while.
Dutch watched Arthur's hands – those big, calloused palms that could break a man's neck or skin a 'coon with equal ease – tremble as he wrung river water from his pant legs. The scent of him was thicker now, unguarded, curling into Dutch's lungs like smoke from Pearson’s cook fire after weeks of cold rations. It made his jaw ache.
“You're shaking.”
Arthur snorted. “The water was damn cold.”
“That all?”
Arthur's eyes snapped up, wide and blue-green under the mess of his damp hair. The words hung between them. Had the boy really not known how obvious it was? How strong he smelled? For a heartbeat, Dutch thought he might bolt, might actually turn tail and run from him for the first time in twenty goddamn years. But then Arthur's jaw set, that stubborn tilt Dutch knew so well, and he squared his shoulders like he was bracing for an insult.
“I'm,” the boy looked to the ground, “running low on red herb… Been running low… Been out…” he chewed on the inside of his mouth. “I need to head into Valentine and get—”
“We ain't heading near roads or civilization anytime soon,” Dutch leveled. “We gotta find somewhere to lay low till them troops cool down… or you do.”
Arthur swallowed, pushing himself upright. "... Whatever you say, Dutch." His voice was rough-edged, bitter. But he didn’t speak after that.
Dutch knew this particular silence and knew it well. It was the one Arthur used when he knew arguing was pointless.
The older man peered out from the mountain’s curve and scanned the jagged horizon. They’d gotten a good ways away from where they’d been cornered, but not far enough. In the distance soldiers were unintelligibly scrambling over the hills like ants with a disturbed path. Still, they couldn't afford to linger. Every minute they spent catching their breath was another minute for Uncle Sam to pick up their trail.
“East,” Dutch decided abruptly, brushing wet grit from his sleeves. “We gotta curve around, go north and follow the Dakota first; we should stick with it till the end – best cover. After that, we go south east and stay in the woods. There's an old flattened cabin near Moonstone Pond. Still abandoned.”
Arthur's head jerked, water droplets scattering from his hair. “Are you—” he coughed, incredulous. “That's—Christ, Dutch, that… that’ll take days on foot. I ain't—” He cut himself off, jaw clamping shut so hard Dutch heard his teeth click.
Dutch watched the bob of the blonde's Adam's apple stark against the reddened skin of his neck. The scent rolling off him was thicker now, panicked but sweet, cloying – honey gone sticky in the sun.
Dutch exhaled slow. It took everything in him not to step closer.
“You ain't what?” Dutch prompted. He already knew the answer. Knew it in the way Arthur's shoulders hunched forward, heavy with shame. “Spit it out, son.”
Arthur huffed, humorless. “Ain't got days, Dutch.” His fingers curled into fists. Released.
Of course, Dutch already knew that.
“We don't need to go by foot, son—”
"Then what do you suggest?” the blonde spat. “You were the one who had us send our horses away on the other side of that damn river that's now covered in soldiers!"
“Now, watch your tone—”
“We don't even know where Eagle Flies is! He were probably taken an—”
“You are in no position to be worrying about anyone else right now, Arthur.”
“He's just a kid, Dutch!”
'And so are you,' Dutch didn't say out loud. Because it weren't quite true anymore. 35? 36? Something like that. But Lord, was the man far more vulnerable now than he's ever known him to be. This close, he could see the sweat beading at Arthur's temples despite the chill of their soaked clothes.
Dutch reached out before he could stop himself, fingers brushing the damp hair at Arthur's nape. The omega stiffened, the posture of a spooked horse.
The older man’s fingers tightened in Arthur's hair. Anchoring. “Calm down,” he rumbled, “I’ll get us a horse. There's a herd I’ve seen a few times just a bit north of here. We'll travel along the cliffs; there's lots of coyote dens out here; they'll do well to mask some of the scent…”
Arthur’s throat clicked. “You always—” His spine laxed a bit as Dutch’s grip did. “… always got some damn scheme.”
Dutch's fingers lingered, tracing the shell of Arthur's ear with a roughness that belied the carefulness of the touch. “Schemes keep us breathing.”
The scent of Arthur was everywhere now, on Dutch. On Dutch’s clothes. Clinging to the damp air. The leader’s mouth watered in a way no bourbon had ever coaxed. He felt a deep itch beneath his vest, one he needed to scratch. An addict. He felt like a damn addict. But he hadn’t even sampled the drug.
“My horse… better be all right,” Arthur’s jaw tightened as he stared at the dirt. “...Dutch,” he warned, but it came out strangled, a bit more like a plea.
This boy was going to be the death of him.
The herd wasn't there. Dutch could've sworn, hell, he had sworn they'd been grazing in that little dip between the hills the last three times he'd passed through here. But now, the only movement was the wind combing through the yellowed stalks, mocking him. Arthur leaned against a pine, brow furrowing as another wave of rosemary and stress rolled off him.
"Plan B," Dutch grumbled, more to himself than Arthur, but the blonde scoffed anyway.
“Plan B,” Arthur echoed, gruff tone shaking just a bit. “More like E or F at this point.”
"Enough, Arthur," Dutch growled. "I'm doing my goddamn best."
The blonde's fingers dug into the tree behind him, knuckles white. Dutch didn't miss how he kept his hips tilted forward just slightly, like he was fighting the urge to press his backside against something.
They covered their trail the old way: Dutch scattering leaves with his boots, tying the remaining bits of Arthur’s shirt to a live doe and a beaver they’d managed to snag quietly. Unfortunately, no birds got too close, but after nearly choking the deer to death while lassoing it, the thing had seemed pretty intent on getting the fuck out of the whole damned country.
Sunset came all too quick.
The cave was shallow and smelled of moss. Dutch was cautious when they’d entered, but Arthur imparted that he'd killed the bear what lived there not three weeks ago.
The blonde collapsed against the far wall, legs splayed, and squeezed his eyes shut as if he could hold back the coming storm if he just pretended it weren’t there. Dutch watched the way that throat worked when he swallowed, the sheen on his collarbones catching what little light filtered in through the entrance.
Dutch crouched in front of him; his hands hovered over the blonde's knees.
“You're burning up,” Dutch susurrated, thumb digging into the inside of the boy’s bone. The muscle jumped beneath his touch, and the blonde pried open an eye.
Arthur's laugh was stiff, fake. Breathy. “Ain't exactly… news, Dutch.” His head thudded back against the cave wall, unintentionally exposing the long line of his throat. The gland there at the side was swollen, the thing white and visible beneath the dark blush of his skin.
Dutch swallowed.
Arthur clutched Dutch's vest, knuckles pressing hard against the worn fabric, but his grip was already weakening, the impending heat sapping his strength. “You need to go,” the blonde gritted out, voice scraping low. “They could come… at any time… And I don't need an audience—don’t need you… seein' me like... this.”
Dutch didn't move. He let Arthur's trembling hands push halfheartedly at his chest, let the omega's breath come in short, frustrated gusts against his neck. “And leave you here?” Dutch's thumb traced the damp hollow beneath Arthur's ear, feeling the frantic flutter of his pulse. “If those soldiers catch wind of you like this, it ain't bullets they'll be puttin’ in you.”
Arthur cringed. The movement dragged a choked sound from his throat, and Dutch watched as shame warred with desperation across his face.
Fuck… Fuck. That goddamn look. Dutch’s scent spiked - fire, arousal, couldn't hold it back. Alpha musk and a quiet, almost imperceptible growl eked from him.
And the omega heard it, felt it, smelled it – consciously or not; Dutch's wolf could feel Arthur's responding, the hum of it, the glaze in those eyes.
The blonde’s next words came out slurred, “Jus'—jus' go, Dutch.” His digits twitched in jumbled patterns, a dying man clutching at salvation.
Dutch caught Arthur's wrist before it could slide off his chest, pressing the boy’s calloused palm flat against his own heartbeat. “Look at me, son,” he ordered, throat like gravel. Arthur obeyed, sweat-damp strands of hair sticking to his forehead. His pupils were so wide they left only a thin ring of blue-green.
“Uhn—” Arthur's breath hitched, brow twisted. His teeth sank into his lower lip. Hard. “Thinkin's... no.” His free hand scrabbled at the cave wall behind him, digging into the damp moss as if anchoring himself against the tide.
Dutch leaned in, lips grazing the sweat-slick column of Arthur's throat. “Then stop thinking.”
The omega shuddered at the words, a wrecked noise escaping him when Dutch's teeth scraped over the heated skin. Arthur's hips canted forward, the warmth of him pressing against Dutch's thigh.
Arthur's body was speaking where his words failed, every tremor and hitch broadcasting need.
Dutch caught Arthur's chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing the omega's gaze up. Arthur's eyes were glassy, unfocused. His mouth moved silently for a moment before any sound emerged, “D'nt... wan'... weak.” The syllables tumbled out unevenly, vowels stretching like cocaine gum.
“You're not weak.” Dutch pressed his forehead against Arthur's, feeling that feverish heat. “You're drowning... and I'm here to pull you out, son... I'll always be.” Arthur's breath came in shallow puffs now, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath Dutch's palm.
Dutch's other hand slid down Arthur's side, fingers tracing the line of his ribs over his damp coat. He could feel every hitch in the blonde’s breathing, every aborted movement as Arthur fought against the rush of his own biology.
Arthur's head dropped forward onto Dutch's shoulder, his brow pressing hot against the older man’s neck. The vibration of his groan traveled through Dutch's collarbones.“Dutjj...” Arthur's voice was wrecked, syllables crumbling at the edges. “Y'r... not…” His fingers flexed against Dutch's back, curling absentmindedly at the silk and vest buckle, the ragged edge of his control slipping away.
The older man wrapped an arm around Arthur's waist and thigh, crowding him and pulling him onto his lap, chest to chest. The omega went pliant against him, limbs loose and wobbly, head falling back against the cave wall with a dull thud. A broken, confused sound emerged as Dutch's tongue lapped over his pulse point.
The alpha’s teeth prodded and squeezed over the blonde’s lymph node, a nip, just enough to make the boy jerk against him with a strangled noise. Arthur’s hand flew up, digits tangling in Dutch’s dark strands, gripping too tight, desperate, mind at war with itself.
Then that smell.
Brine. Honey brine.
Slick.
The scent exploded between them, thick as molasses, sweet and suffocating. Arthur’s aroma times twenty. Dutch growled against the blonde’s carotid, and Arthur’s stomach jumped, stuttered.
Yes. Something in Dutch had always known. Even before they’d all learned the boy’s secret. Always. That Arthur would always follow, no matter how much he complained. That he would always be there, obedient. And the way he grew, strong but soft in his eyes, in the way he moved. Even though he’d hidden it… Always.
“Nuh... no—” Arthur choked out, vocal cords stripped. His fingers twisted in the curls, tugging hard enough to hurt scalp. “Dutch, please go—”
That sound, raw and unraveling, shot straight through Dutch’s veins. Opium. The older man pulled back just enough to see Arthur’s face – flushed, dewy, lips parted around uneven breaths, pretty – and something primal in his chest snapped.
He hauled Arthur, crowded over him, the blonde’s back dropping in one rough motion. Arthur gasped as his shoulders hit the cave floor, legs spreading instinctively; Dutch didn’t give pause. One hand pinned Arthur’s wrist above his head.
Arthur’s free hand scrabbled at Dutch’s shoulder, blunt nails catching fabric.
Arthur's breath punched out of him when Dutch's weight settled on top – solid, unmovable. His thighs shivered over Dutch's hips, the thick fabric of their trousers doing nothing to muffle the heat from both of them.
The boy keened, low, lost. Such a beautiful goddamn sound.
Dutch hummed, bottomless, the tone eking against Arthur's throat and merging their vibrations into one. “That's it,” he coaxed, fingers skimming down Arthur's ribs, feeling the way his breath hitched at the touch. “Let go, son.”
Arthur's back arched off the cave floor, his hips grinding down against Dutch's thigh with a desperation that would've embarrassed the blonde to no end if he could think straight. His mouth hung open, gasping, as Dutch's calloused palm slid beneath his coat – scorching where it mapped the trembling planes of his abdomen. “Nnn... Duh—” Arthur slurred, breath fogging, “Al...pha.”
Dutch growled at the word, animal.
So much heat in his damn head.
Jesus, he'd wanted this for so long.
His boy.
His.
His.
The threads gave way with a harsh rip – Dutch’s fingers hooking into Arthur’s coat collar and yanking downward until seams split and buttons pinged off the cave walls. Arthur gasped, but the sound dissolved into a frayed moan as Dutch’s mouth crashed against his throat again, teeth scraping over goosepimpling red skin. There was no finesse left, just the raw, pulsing need to get to him, to strip away every barrier between. Arthur’s hand fluttered weakly at Dutch’s shoulder, but his resistance was performative at best – fingers falling down and curling into the shredded remains of his own coat as if to hold himself together even as his body begged to come undone.
Dutch didn’t think. His claws slid down Arthur’s chest, his stomach, mapping the shuddering planes of muscle beneath skin, before gripping the waistband of Arthur’s trousers. Another rip, another choked noise from Arthur as the fabric tore open, tore more, exposing the fevered heat of his thighs. Dutch’s nostrils flared – the scent was thicker here, musk and slick and Arthur; his fingers dug into the omega’s hips hard, to the bone, to bruise. Arthur twisted beneath him, a broken sound wrenching free from his throat as Dutch’s fingers slid beneath the gaping material, squeezing that plush, hidden flesh
Clothes became obstacles – many were torn, several pieces spared – it was all a blur. Flesh met flesh, scorching in the places where they pressed together. Dutch could feel the frantic pulse of Arthur’s heartbeat where their chests aligned, could taste the salt on his skin when he laved a rough stripe over that soft chest, up the column of Arthur’s throat.
Arthur’s hands found Dutch’s hair again, fingers twisting in the dark strands to anchor himself. His hips rolled upward, a wordless plea, and Dutch answered with a snarl, pinning him harder against the cave floor. The omega whined – high, desperate – but Dutch silenced him with his mouth, bruising, swallowing the sound as his tongue pushed past Arthur’s parted lips. The blonde’s maw was hot, yielding, and he melted beneath the older man with a shudder, body going pliant in a way that sent a greedy thrill straight down Dutch’s spine.
When Dutch finally pulled back, Arthur’s lips were swollen, smeared pink – blood tinged – chest heaving. His eyes were hazed, gone. “D-Dutjjj,” he slurred, voice so fuckin’ pretty, but Dutch didn’t let him continue, didn’t want to hear whatever half-formed protest the little thing may attempt. Instead, he leaned down, mustache brushing the shell of Arthur’s ear,
“Mine.”
Arthur's entire body locked up, not in resistance, but something deeper, instinctive. A full-body shudder wracked him as the alpha’s musk, command, and need overwhelmed him, drowning out the last rational parcels in his heat-fogged mind. His fingers spasmed on the alpha’s scalp, blunt nails digging crescents in skin, as if trying to claw his way inside the man.
Dutch’s fingers curled around Arthur’s dripping little member.
The blonde jerked violently, a pierced inhale hissing from his throat as Dutch’s grip tightened, just holding the overheated flesh. Arthur’s hips stuttered helplessly, chasing friction that wouldn’t granted. “Khh aahnd-t-t-n—”
Dutch consumed the sound, a bruising, toothy, hungry kiss, swallowing the omega’s whimpers as his thumb swiped over the head of Arthur’s prick, smearing all that wetness down the shaft.
Arthur’s back arched off the cave floor, tongue swelling up, glossy, his thigh quivering rattlesnake-rhythmic where it rested over Dutch’s hip.
Every movement was desperation given form.
Beautiful.
Dutch stared, his own bones shaking, jaw jittering. So damn hungry.
His free hand slid lower, fingers tracing the crease of Arthur’s thigh before they pressed inward, finding him sticky, overflowing, and clenching around nothing.
Arthur’s entire body jerked at the contact, a wrecked sob escaping him as Dutch’s fingers probed deeper.
The boy began to pant – faster than a dog – little gasps pulsing his stomach up and down too quick. Eyes half-lidded, drugged, Thirsty. 'Hurry', they begged.
This was Arthur, strong and stubborn and proud, unraveling beneath him like spun sugar in water.
Dutch’s digits dug into the meat, spreading him wider as he ducked his head down between the omega’s legs. His mouth flooded with saliva.
Arthur’s hips jerked off the cave floor when Dutch’s tongue touched him – a hot, wet stripe from tailbone to the base of his little sack that had the omega gasping like a gutted fish. Dutch pressed in closer, nose digging into Arthur’s trembling seam as he licked deeper, tasting, the slick heat of him coating the older man's tongue like fucking honey. Peaches and musk.
Arthur made a sound then – high and shattered, fingers scrabbling against the cave floor. His legs quaked, muscles jumping, each inhale turning into a wine.
Dutch growled against him. He could feel the omega’s tight sack twitching against his nose, the faucet above leaking too damn much.
He pressed his tongue inside, and the omega's back arched, his hips tilting up instinctively to take the alpha deeper; something inside Dutch snarled at the sight.
Dutch didn't remember moving. One moment he was tasting, the next his fingers were clawing Arthur's waist as he flipped the omega onto his stomach. The wind was pulled from Arthur’s lungs, his chest scraping against the cave floor as Dutch hauled his ass up, exposing him completely, wet and begging for it without saying a damn word. The scent was thick enough to choke on - more fog than air, suspension in a cloud. Dutch's vision blurred as he fumbled with his belt, fingers shaking like a goddamn greenhorn.
The omega moaned into the stone beneath, low and broken when Dutch's dick slid between his thighs, rutting against that slick heat, smearing himself in it like some starved animal.
Dutch's hips jerked forward reflexively, the blunt head catching against his boy’s entrance, and Dutch felt more than heard the way the blonde’s lungs jolted, body tensing for a brief moment before melting open.
The wolf swallowed him, no patience - Dutch's hands vise-tight on Arthur's ass as he shoved in halfway with one movement – stopping only when Arthur's back contracted brutally, a wail tearing from his throat.
Dutch froze, panting, sweat dripping off his nose onto the dip of Arthur's spine. “Fuck,” he gritted out, the word mangled. Arthur was burning around him, tight and sopping and clenching in erratic pulses that made the older man’s knees nearly give out.
His boy’s fingers clutched at the floor’s ridges, shoulders trembling. “Pl-pleeease,” he slurred, the morpheme cracking down the middle. His hips jerked back weakly, trying to take Dutch deeper, but the alpha held him still, just for a heartbeat, needing this satisfaction – this moment – watching the way his boy’s ass shook with the effort of holding himself up.
Dutch snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt with a roar that he didn’t recognize.
Arthur's entire body locked up, a soundless scream twisting his wet face as Dutch bottomed out. The omega's fingers curled into claws against stone, his back bowed so sharp Dutch could count every vertebrae beneath his skin. For a second, neither of them moved. Then Arthur's body rippled around him, a full-body convulsion that traveled like electricity through every fiber.
Dutch felt it too.
Slowly, the alpha dragged his palm up the sweat-pooling dips of Arthur's back, feeling the heat that sent steam into the cool cave air, feeling the way his skin jumped at the touch.
A lamb trapped beneath his claws.
Dutch pulled out just an inch – that clinging tightness wouldn’t allow for any more – the drag slow enough to make Arthur sob, before thrusting back in with a snap of his hips that drove the boy forward. Arthur's arms buckled, his chest hitting the stone with a choked-off moan; Dutch set a brutal pace, each thrust punching another broken sound from Arthur's throat.
The cave filled with the slick slap of skin, Arthur's pretty sounds, Dutch's own growls – primal, unrestrained.
Arthur's nails shredded on rock as Dutch yanked him back onto every thrust. The omega's body was pliant, taking everything Dutch gave with shuddering gasps and hitched noises, his little cock dripping between his thighs, excess slick soaking the back of Arthur’s thighs and fronts of Dutch’s.
Dutch leaned forward, pressing his chest against the blonde’s spine, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “My boy,” he growled, voice rough with want. Arthur whimpered, his head dropping forward. “My good boy.”
Arthur fell apart at the words, a keen from so high and long, it practically made Dutch's heart break, or, it would, if he still had one. There were tears on the boy's face, eyes lost, spit in a string down his mouth to the floor as he gasped and bounced from Dutch's cock.
Dutch couldn’t fucking breathe.
Pretty. So pretty.
Fuck.
Jesus Christ.
Mine.
Mate.
Mate.
Mate.
He ducked his head, teeth scraping over Arthur’s nape, and the omega shrieked, his body clamping down around Dutch like a vice.
“That's it,” Dutch rasped, thumbs petting over the blonde's smooth Venus dimples. “My boy... I got you.” He barely slowed down, adjusting his angle, pressing Arthur’s ribs hard against the floor to keep him from shaking apart as he began to circle, grind, roll his hips deep at every press.
Arthur’s moans liquefied into breathless sounds, one hand clawing uselessly at his own chest. Dutch’s hips pistoned forward, relentless, each thrust punching another shattered noise from Arthur’s throat - high, long, desperate.
Dutch couldn’t get enough of that music. Never heard Arthur sound like this before - broken open and raw, every filthy little gasp and cry scraping Dutch’s nerves raw. The omega’s thighs vibrated against Dutch’s hips, slick dripping down his heat-pink legs, pooling beneath them.
Fuck. Dutch groaned, temple pressing between Arthur’s shoulder blades. The scent was pure insanity, delirium, it flooded all folds of his mind. He nestled against that neck, scenting it, his mustache prickling the skin on that precious, taboo area, and Arthur babbled, tried his best – for Dutch – his hips jerking back onto his alpha’s cock.
Dutch’s sight was fuzzy. Red. His hands slid up Arthur’s intercostals, claws digging into the omega’s sternum as he hauled Arthur upright against his chest.
Arthur’s head lolled back against Dutch’s shoulder, jolting with every move, mouth slack, lips glistening and puffy.
Pleased… Dutch’s wolf was so damn pleased. His mate – not yet, should be, will be, WILL be – was so good for him. Such a good one. So pretty. So strong. So obedient. Dutch's fingers lighted towards the blonde's stomach, nails catching on his navel as they pressed into that flesh, “… Pups... gonna give me pups,” Dutch claimed.
Arthur’s stomach shuddered beneath Dutch’s fingers, his muscles twitching from a live wire. The omega’s breath caught – a thick, wet, stuttering sound – when Dutch’s nails dug deeper into his belly, dragging downward, possessive.
Dutch growled against the shell of Arthur’s ear, teeth scraping the thin skin there. “Gonna fill you up,” he rasped. Arthur whined, his fingers clutching Dutch’s forearm as the alpha’s grip tightened around his waist. “You want that, son? Want me to put a litter in you?”
Arthur's answer was a garbled mess of syllables.
“Yeah, you would,” Dutch answered for him. He sped up, brutal. The omega's body convulsed, his knees clamping around Dutch's leg behind him as if trying to keep him inside even as the alpha pistoned into him with ruthless precision. The cave echoed with the wet slap of skin, Arthur's wrecked cries bouncing off the walls like gunfire.
Dutch's fingers pressed deeper into the soft swell of Arthur's belly, imagining the way it would bloat with his progeny, round and taut beneath that work-roughened exterior. The thought alone had him snarling, hips stuttering as he drove into the blonde harder, chasing that perfect angle that made the omega's back curl so pretty.
“Here,” Dutch growled against the shell of Arthur's ear, reveling in the little sound that escaped the omega as he felt the knot begin to swell. His hot, tight insides began to curl, rub, suck. Uninhibited. Begging to be fed.
Dutch’s forming knot caught at the rim of Arthur’s stretched entrance – not quite locking in, but the promise was there. The threat. Peach and rosemary spiked. Moisture gushed between them. The alpha could feel Arthur’s body trying to adjust around him, pulling, clenching, jittering in irregular pulses that made his vision blur.
“Mmu... ffnn—Al-lpphh—"
Dutch panted against the—against his omega’s nape.
His fingers dug bruises into Arthur’s supple ass, holding him still as he rocked forward, forcing the half-formed knot past that snug, sopping, swollen ring of pink.
Arthur howled.
The sound ripped through the air, raw and unfiltered, his back bending so sharp Dutch worried for a second he might snap in half. The blonde's fingers clawed at Dutch’s wrist leaving red scratches and a faint amount of blood in their wake, but his body took it, clamping down around Dutch’s knot in erratic, pulsing waves as it grew.
He watched it, watched the swell of it, the shape of it in Arthur's stomach as it bulged. Full. Of him. Only him. He bent the boy back down to the floor, pressing his sternum into the dirt, and his omega presented perfectly, as he should. So good for him.
Dutch's fangs found Arthur's nape, not at all gentle. The brutal clamp of jaw sent the boy's eyes rolling to the back of his head, his scream turning silent.
Blood bloomed on the alpha's tongue, thick and fated, and Arthur's body convulsed around him like a dying thing, slick gushing between their locked bodies. The omega's hand scrabbled back at Dutch's hair, digits tugging, confused and desperate, but his hips jerked back instinctively, taking the knot deeper with a sob that sounded more like surrender.
“Mine,” Dutch snarled against the torn skin, the word mangled by the flesh between his teeth. Arthur's answering whimper was half-muffled against the cave floor, his cheek pressed into the dirt as Dutch's hips stuttered forward, forcing himself impossibly deeper. The omega's body suckled around him, milking him with frantic, involuntary twitches that had Dutch seeing stars. He could feel the exact moment Arthur's instincts overrode his fear – the way his muscles went liquid beneath Dutch's grip, his scent spiking with something saccharine and submissive.
Arthur's mewl vibrated through Dutch's teeth where they still gripped his nape. The omega's spine rolled, his shoulders humming as Dutch's seed flooded him in thick, relentless pulses. Dutch groaned against Arthur's skin, his own body shuddering with the force of his release, hips jerking forward like he could bury himself inside his mate forever. Arthur's limbs quavered in exhaustion, his little cock twitching between his legs, dripping onto the stone beneath them with each wave of his own untouched climax.
Dutch finally released Arthur's nape with a wet sound, licking lazily at the mark.
The claiming bite was ugly, ragged and bleeding. The scent began to change. Just a bit. Something familiar to it. Soft. Home. Arthur's body trembled around Dutch, bowing lower, instinctive, taking every last drop with soft, dazed noises; it made something possessive in Dutch's chest purr. And he was – he was purring. Like a damn panther. Stated, happy, the cat that got the cream.
He dragged his tongue over the wound again, tasting iron and salt, and Arthur's entire body jerked like he'd been branded.
“Shhh,” Dutch murmured against the rose-gold skin, hummed against it. Breathed it in. All of it.
The soldiers never came; the soldiers never found them. Dutch spent the next thirty hours filling up his boy and consuming him like a starving man at banquet, licking up that sweet slick until his jaw ached and his tongue went numb. The cave stank of sex – of them – their scents tangled together so thoroughly even a bloodhound couldn't have separated the two.
By the time Arthur had come out of his heat enough to understand the full weight of what they done, what he'd done, it was too late. And no matter how much Arthur fought him in the following weeks, he could never deny what they were.
~*~
Dutch could still remember that taste even now.
John stared down at him from the ledge.
The first rockface hit against Dutch's shoulders, his head – almost enough to knock him out cold. But it couldn't take away that flavor. He savored it in those final seconds.
Offhandedly, he wondered if Arthur would feel this, when he died – if the boy was still alive himself. He wondered how much it would hurt him, how much it would tug at his soul, their inescapable bond.
He closed his eyes. The scent of Arthur sat creamy on his tongue.
He didn't mind going to Hell.
He'd already had Heaven.
—Thud—