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It sneaks up on him, the coiling brand between his legs. He thought he’d be too old to feel the curling brand in his gut, too broken. It’s almost been long enough that he’s forgotten what it feels like. Heat. It’s smooth and warm, and it spreads like hot water through his body. It’s taking effort to keep his mind afloat, but he tries to remember the trick to it, remember how his mind tends to drift into soft nothingness, and he hooks his fingers into it, keeps it locked in place so that he doesn’t lose himself.
The stirring heat rolls through him and his cunt grows slicker. Izzy’s breath quickens and he feels the muscles in his cunt tense, contract around nothing, and the longing to be filled sets in. It’s just beginning, and it’s already enough to make his thighs tremble, the twinge of desire turning into an ache, a desperation that makes him squirm and gasp, his hand seeking out his cunt of its own volition.
At the touch to his cock, thick, and almost as long as his hand, Izzy wakes from the dream. His cock is hard and twitching under his touch, but the true ache resides within him. His hand dips to where the slit to his cunt used to sit, just behind his balls, and finds a thin scar instead of an opening, long since shut. His erection flags.
With a sigh, he removes his hand. He shakes the dream from his mind as best he can and goes about his day.
He’d been an omega when he was young. On the Ranger, it had made his life hell, and perhaps he should have been happy for the change.
Hornigold had made him into this, decades ago. It had been a lark to him, Izzy thinks as he watches over the crew lugging barrels of fish below deck. To old Hornigold, it had been something to pass the time once he’d grown tired of Izzy’s cunt, once he’d decided that it would be such a curious thing to watch an omega change into something not quite a beta, not quite an alpha.
Bile is rising in his throat, and Izzy pushes the thought from his mind. They’re docked at a port, and he needs to focus on the job.
Besides, he should have gotten over it by now. He’s grown comfortable in this body of his, and the dreams have grown less frequent, the scents less intolerable in the years that have passed. Still, Izzy aches on occasion. Whenever an omega near him is entering heat, there’s a ghost of it mirrored in Izzy. The muscles in his abdomen have changed, and he used to worry about the shadow of a heat, when the impossible urge to get filled, sated, satisfied became almost as unbearable as a real heat had been.
The doctors he’d bothered to see had all looked at him as a freak, a thing to be studied. They’d told him that it wasn’t possible to be changed in this manner, that he must’ve been born with a defect or that he must be imagining the change, and after the third set of intrusive questions and inspections, Izzy had stopped wasting his money.
It was fine, after all. He could lock himself in his cabin when it grew too much. Could think his way back to his cunt being filled, the relief when a knot would stretch him out, when the frantic energy of his mind was replaced by that soft, cloudy sensation of a heat fading away.
It was fine. Not like there were many omegas at sea to remind him of what he used to be.
Of course, then everything changed. Bonnet arrived, bringing with him a ragtag combination of alphas, betas, and omegas, and Izzy had been forced to learn their scents.
Before Bonnet’s insane band of misfits had intruded on his life, he’d been happy to push the sensation away, happy to avoid dwelling on it, and he’d never thought to seek out the source of his anguish.
These days... heats are frequent on the Revenge. There are more omegas here than there have been on any ship that Izzy’s ever been on, and with that, the heats are frequent enough for Izzy to worry about it. It had reached the point where Izzy had voiced his concern once. Bonnet had quirked an eyebrow at him, had asked him if he’d never been around groups of omegas before, and sudden, ridiculous embarrassment had made Izzy’s face warm. He’d realised that despite having been one, Izzy had never bothered learning much about how omegas worked. Faced with his inadequacies, Izzy hadn’t stuck around long enough for the man to offer an explanation.
It didn’t matter either way—no one on the crew seems unhappy or ill at ease with the frequent heats. Quite the opposite, they revel in them.
Now, though… the scent of heat on the air is unmistakable, and Izzy’s abdomen aches. They’ve finished loading the cargo on board, the crew are hoisting the barrels below deck, and his part of the job is done until he needs to inspect the knots keeping the barrels in the hold securely in place. It’ll take a while before he’s needed again.
He finishes coiling the length of rope into a tidy roll and dumps it to the side of the deck, his attention shifting to the scent of spice and desire overwhelming the stink of the port.
He needs to find the culprit.
Izzy prowls the deck and surreptitiously sniffs the air. He tries to be careful, tries to be sneaky, but after a quarter of a bell has passed, Lucius rolls his eyes.
“It’s Roach,” he says, and Izzy’s jaw clamps shut. “He’s below deck.”
He nods, sharp and jagged, and stomps towards the stairs.
It’s curious, the way the crew has accepted this… quirk of his. He’s not sure if they know what he is, or if Edward has told them. Perhaps they just think it’s a kink of his. Either way, after Bonnet had returned and tugged Edward away from the destructive precipice he was hurtling towards, Izzy had dared to relax somewhat. The first time a heat had started on the Revenge, he’d tried to avoid it, had tried to hide away, but he’d been found out more or less immediately.
He’s not needed to hide since then.
When he reaches the kitchen, the scent is almost unbearable, and Izzy’s nostrils flare. Frenchie is exiting just as Izzy arrives.
“’bout time, mate,” he says and raises his cup of coffee in a mock salute. “Sort him out before he needs to start dinner, yeah?”
Izzy lets out a gruff hum in reply, his mind zeroed in on the scent from the kitchen. Thinking is difficult when he knows that just beyond the bulkhead—
He shakes it off. It won’t do to get ahead of himself. Since this whole thing started with the crew, Roach hasn’t been in heat, and Izzy’s unsure what the cook will think of Izzy propositioning him. Worry gnaws in his gut; the thought that Roach will reject him burns harsher than if it had been any of the others, Izzy realises as he makes his way through the mess. He doesn’t spare a thought for wondering why that is, just clenches his teeth and steps closer, as if drawn towards the cook like a fish hooked on a line.
He needn’t have worried.
“Izzy! Hold on a moment, man,” Roach exclaims once Izzy’s hovering in the entrance to the kitchen. He’s crouched down, fiddling with the oven, it seems. He extracts a few loaves of bread, sets them to cool on the stove before he turns around to face Izzy. “Right. Hoped you’d show up. Your place or here?”
“I—” Izzy falters. He’s still unused to this arrangement, despite most of the other omegas on the ship being enthusiastic about it. “Mine, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure thing, little—” Roach takes a step forward, and it’s only because Izzy’s moved closer, his legs carrying him towards the scent without him noticing, that Izzy catches him. “Fuck,” Roach mutters, held tightly in Izzy’s embrace.
The scent is overwhelming now, heady, and thick, and it fills Izzy’s throat. Roach’s heat is further along than he’d thought it would be, something sweet and heady permeating the room. “Why—” his voice breaks, and he clears his throat. “Why’d you not go lie down? Or-or call for someone?”
Roach rolls his eyes. “I needed to finish the bread,” he says, as if that explains everything.
“You can barely stand, man!” Izzy knows that his tone is reproachful and nagging, but there’s something infuriating about the way the man has set aside his own needs for bread.
With a charming grin, Roach shrugs. “Knew you’d come around at some point.”
“Right.” Izzy shakes his head. He licks his lips—he can taste the heat in the air, can taste the sweet notes of it, and his hand moves to Roach’s abdomen. “Fuck, you’re—” he bites off the words and shifts his grip, gets a hold of Roach’s long limbs and lifts him to the counter, steps between his spread legs. “Can I—”
“Not so fast,” Roach says, and then his hand is on Izzy’s cheek, tilting his head upwards, and oh, his lips are softer than Izzy expected, the stubble tickling, but not unpleasant. The kiss is sweet and chaste, but it still makes Izzy gasp and tighten his grip around Roach’s thighs.
“Fuck,” Izzy murmurs once Roach lets him go. He’s dazed for a moment, torn between the sweet air around him and the remnant of Roach’s lips on his.
“Come on, now, Izzy,” Roach says with a wide grin that almost distracts Izzy from the trembling of Roach’s hand on his neck. “I’ve heard good things about you; how about you show me?”
Izzy nods, his hands sliding up and under Roach’s shirt. He makes a mental note to let Wee John spend some time mending the crew’s clothes soon; the Swede’s trousers were also looking ragged the last time Izzy had seen him. The thought is pushed from his mind when his fingers slide over Roach’s side, the soft skin and padded muscle under the surface enough to make his breath hitch.
He shoves Roach’s shirt up. Roach gets the hint and gets rid of it, and Izzy’s mouth is on his collarbone immediately, licking a long stripe along the bone. “You smell so—”
Roach inhales sharply and leans his head back, giving Izzy access to his throat. “Smell so what, little man?”
Izzy groans against Roach’s throat, licks and nips at it for a moment. “Delicious. I want to fucking eat you.”
“S-so why don’t you?”
With a laugh, Izzy pulls back a bit and bite-licks his way down Roach’s chest. “Desperate already?”
“Mate,” Roach moans once Izzy reaches the waistband of his trousers. “I’ve been waiting for you all morning.”
“Didn’t take you for the sort to be content waiting.” Izzy wrenches Roach’s trousers down, the scent of him hitting him like a wall. “Fuck, you smell amazing—”
Once the trousers are out of the way, he spreads Roach’s legs, sets his feet on the edge of the counter, and leans back a moment, taking in the image in front of him. Roach holding his long limbs open, his hard cock nestled in dark curls, his inner thighs glistening with slick, and his cunt—Izzy feels his cock jump.
“Fuck, but you’re soaked—” Izzy leans down and touches a finger to the slit just behind Roach’s balls, feels it parting easily beneath his touch.
Roach whines at the touch, his fist flying to his mouth, muffling the sound. “Oh my g—fuck, I didn’t—didn’t think it’d be this—oh—”
He tastes better than Izzy could have imagined, Izzy thinks deliriously when he gets his mouth on the slit, when he licks it open, feels it quivering on his tongue. He pulls Roach closer, arms wrapped around his midsection and licks into him deeper. Something is knocked off the counter, but Izzy doesn’t pause to see what it is, cutting off Roach’s complaint to watch it, little man when he fucks his tongue into him.
Roach’s cock twitches at every movement but Izzy ignores it; the need to taste, lick, devour is all-consuming. It’s easier to ignore the pull of the faux heat now, when he’s buried in someone else’s, and he groans against Roach’s cunt.
Izzy pushes two fingers into Roach while he mouths at his balls, and he feels the cook trembling and growing taut, feels his balls tighten. After a moment, he can smell the come on the air, the tangy bitterness of it mingling with the sweet scent from Roach’s cunt. Izzy grins and curls his fingers, feels Roach twitch around him.
“Fuck—” Roach’s voice sounds far away, dim, and muffled. Izzy doesn’t let up. He remembers how the heat ebbed and flowed through him, remembers how the initial crest did nothing to satisfy the urge, not when his cunt was still empty, still clenching around nothing.
Roach comes again, a mere shiver this time, before Izzy pulls his fingers out. “No, come on—” Roach whimpers, and Izzy raises an eyebrow at him.
“Patience,” he says and pushes his trousers down to his thighs. “I’ll—I’ll give you what you need—” The words sound silly on his tongue, but Lucius had given him so much shit for being too quiet during sex last time, and while Izzy doesn’t care what the scribe thinks of him, he’s suddenly afraid of disappointing Roach. The embarrassment sends a coil of heat through him, and gasps with it, reels under the wave of unbearable fog clouding his mind. He wills the pseudo-heat back, clamps it tightly back into place, unwilling to lose control.
“Mmm,” Roach murmurs, and when Izzy positions himself, there’s a wry grin on Roach’s face, a bit of himself back in his voice. “Bet you will.”
Izzy’s cock is rock hard when he pushes it against Roach’s cunt, when he sinks into him with a groan and a whimper. It’s slick and warm, a glide as smooth as one of Bonnet’s goddamn robes, and Izzy has to pause when he’s fully seated, the front of him plastered against Roach, the two of them breathing in unison. Izzy mouths at Roach’s sweat-slick skin, breathes in his scent, and lets it wash over him.
After a minute, he draws back and fucks into Roach, carefully, gently. Roach’s hands are on his shoulders, long legs wrapped around Izzy’s waist, and he’s panting hard, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.
“Alright?” Izzy asks as he shifts a bit, lifts Roach off the counter and positions him so that he can sink deeper into him. “Need—need anything?”
Roach cracks open an eye. “I need you,” he says, slow and drawn out, “to fuck me like you mean it. I’m in heat, man, you know what I need.”
The ferocious tone makes Izzy chuckle, and he nods, more than happy to loosen his grip on the shroud of the heat, the urgency. He lets it in, relinquishes his tight grip on himself, and oh, the burning sensation in his gut is back, the scent of sex and desire in the air enough to make his breath stutter.
Izzy moves faster now, his hips working as a piston, and there’s no space for thoughts in his head, no space for wondering if the way Roach’s hands are scrabbling for purchase is good or bad, no time to hesitate when Roach wrenches his face up again and mashes his mouth onto Izzy’s. There’s a loud sound that might be the counter banging against the bulkhead, but Izzy’s not sure, can’t focus on anything but Roach, and the way the cook is coming undone before him, the way his limbs tighten and tremble and finally turn lax.
Izzy’s stomach is slick from sweat and come, and he feels his own crest nearing, feels the spot where his cunt used to sit contract and tremble, feels the surging want, need, urge overcoming him, and then he pumps into Roach a final time. His balls tighten and draw up. He feels a light tickle within the tissue where his slit once was, and then he comes, buried to the hilt in the glorious heat of Roach’s cunt.
Before he has time to do anything other than pant uselessly into Roach’s chest, footsteps come nearer.
“Aw, come on.” Izzy hears Frenchie’s voice from the entrance. “Really? Right where you cook our food?!” Izzy turns his head, sees Frenchie shaking his head as he saunters to the stove. “And you broke my second-favourite mug!” With a grumble, he pours himself another cup of coffee. “Didn’t expect this from you, Izzy.”
“Frenchie.” Roach’s voice is soft, and Izzy can feel the rumble in his chest. “Fuck off.”
With a snicker, Izzy closes his eyes for a long moment, listens to Frenchie shuffling off.
“Hey.” Roach pokes Izzy’s side and Izzy peers up at him. “You done?”
Izzy straightens, grimacing as their skin unsticks. The urgent edge of the heat has dissipated, the need to fuck and be fucked vanished like morning dew under the scorching sun. What’s left is a low hum of pleasant want that Izzy can ignore far easier. “Yeah. You?”
“Mmm, yeah, the worst of it is through.” When Izzy nods and pulls out, carefully so that he doesn’t cause any discomfort, Roach lifts an eyebrow. “So, you don’t want to go again?”
“I—” Izzy pauses, his trousers only pulled halfway up. “No, I do.”
With a wide grin, Roach grabs him by the lapel on his shirt—which Izzy realises that he never shed—and pulls him into another kiss. There’s tongue and teeth and a smile that Izzy wants to drown in, even without the heat egging him on.
“Good. How about we actually use your room this time, yeah?”
Izzy nods, and helps Roach down from the counter, the feeling of the cook’s hand in his own sending a thrill through him.
“Yeah, alright,” he says with a soft smile.