Warnings: Violence, dubcon, parent/child incest (whaaat)

The thing Curly liked about roadside dive bars was everything.

There weren't many omegas.

There were a ton of hard up alphas.

And he could wink his way to a drink within ten minutes of crossing through the gunhole-riddled doors.

He liked wearing tight pants of any fabric (the cheaper the better, though—they tended to wind up ripped). He liked wearing shirts with the sleeves cut away and the hem torn just so that when he arched over the bar, anyone looking would get a clear view of his midriff, but not the scar below his stomach. He liked cheap beer.

This particular dive bar sat right off the interstate exit among field and fields of corn. There were hogs lined up from one end to the other, and when he pushed inside, he had to wave away the pervasive cloud of smoke to even see all the leather-clad wolves inside. Most of them checked him out and found him acceptable. They didn't stop him from bellying up, anyway.

He had to sit on some alpha with a big beard's lap to get any booze, but that was fine. He enjoyed leaning back against fat-layered muscle and letting the alpha hug him tight and sniff his neck. He just wrapped some of the hairs of that beard around his finger, and laughed when the alpha growled at him.

But as the night stumbled on, he found himself alone on a barstool, huddle over the bar and nursing an old drink.

Which was when he felt fingers sweep across the back of his neck without any hesitation at all, sending a tremor down his spine. The uninvited touch stopped at his shoulder, when whoever this jackass was gripped him tightly and sat down. "What're you having?"

The voice, steady and worn, yet young—seemed familiar somehow. Curly cocked his head, ready to utter a cool dismissal, when he got an eyeful. Young, yes. But solidly built and handsome like he hadn't seen in a long time. This man had a square jaw, black eyes, and the kind of hair Curly wanted to nuzzle against. Fuck. He was reacting hard.

"Nothing," he finally managed to spit out. He hated when alphas had any effect on him.

"Nothing?" The stranger was amused now, asshole. He clinked his own glass against Curly's. "What's that then?"

Somehow—probably because he had to save face—Curly ended up with a new drink, and in conversation. When he asked what the alpha's (and he was so obviously an alpha, despite his scent being obscured by all the smoke) name was, the man replied, "Runt."

Curly nearly choked on his drink. He met the man's eyes with his own. "Someone actually named you Runt? You're no runt, but you probably knew that already."

The man just stared for a moment. And then his lip twitched, but something about his expression was so devoid of humor that it made Curly shiver all over again. "I wasn't a runt. I was never a runt. But hey, kids right? I somehow ended up with that as a nickname."

"So? What's your real name?"

"What's yours?"

Curly snorted, taking a sip from his beer. After swallowing, he gave his name.

"Curly… " Runt said. "Doesn't sound any more real than mine."

"It's not."

They smirked at each other.

And in that smirk, Curly saw—no, felt —a memory so bone-deep, that he stood up without thinking, nearly knocking the barstool to the ground. Woozy, he cleared his throat, and eyed the door. "Gotta go," he said.

Outside, in the darkness and the night sky, and the whirring of the passing cars, he breathed deeply, trying to get his heart to stop pounding. He walked unsteadily to the far side of the bar, and leaned against the wall as he stared up, wondering.

He heard someone approach. "Gotta puke?" Runt asked, and a lighter clicked, flame illuminating his dark glittering eyes as he lit his cigarette.

Curly wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "Why'd they call you runt?"

"Not cause I was small."

"You said that already. What's your real name?"

Runt sidled a little closer, taking the spot next to Curly to lean back as well and exhale a long puff of smoke. "Real names don't make a difference. Seems like you can find most anyone on scent alone. Did you know that?"

Run. A shot through his mind. A blaring word. He shoved away from the wall, but just as quickly a relentless and merciless grip tightened around his bicep, and he was slammed back with a yelp. A hard body pushed up against his, the cigarette flaring out on the dirt ground. An elbow pressed tight against his throat.

In his ear, Runt's voice was rough. "I wasn't small. I beat the shit outta every last one of them eventually. But they still called me a runt because my fucking useless, goddamn slut of an omega-sire rejected me and ran away."

His hand came up, clutching Curly's jaw as their eyes met. He was breathing heavily, his chest tight against Curly. He stared down, teeth clenched.

"I was run out of town—" Curly wheezed before a sharp slap to his cheek shut him up.

"You coulda brought me with you." A thumb grazed over his stinging flesh. "Instead of leaving me alone with dad and his mate." Runt had bent closer, his gaze clouded as he sniffed around Curly, who turned his face from side to side to avoid touching.

He was shaking. He was hot all over. And he was paralyzed. He couldn't do anything as he watched Runt's teeth sharpen, as he realized that Runt had come here to rip his throat out and end his life. He closed his eyes, knowing he was about to die.

The growling—the murderous growling that had been so clear in purpose, suddenly shifted tenor. It was lower, with more warning than violence. And somewhat confused. A warm breath whuffed against Curly's face, and he whimpered with a flinch.

There was a low rumble, and fingers tilted his chin up. A small, exploratory peck nudged against the corner of his mouth.

Curly gasped with fear, and got a full lungful of alpha. It was pouring off Runt—rage, loneliness, lust, but most off all… alpha. And it was all directed at Curly.

When he pitched sideways, arms wrapped around his middle and pulled him back up. He turned his head again, but Runt just trailed a burning line of kisses down his throat. "You smell so good," Runt muttered. "Smell like mine."

No, no, no— Curly was reacting. He was panting and whining, now exposing his throat for more kisses rather than shying away. But he tried. He shoved his palms against Runt's face, pushing and pushing.

But it was like Runt was humoring him, or cooing at him, or coaxing him along gently as he laid them both down in the dirt. Curly's struggling was useless—rain pounding against stone accustomed to torrents.

Finally, Runt just closed his hand around Curly's wrists and held his arms above his head. He was hunched over Curly, face flush with restrained desire. "You shoulda been settled a long time ago, omega," he said. "Dad failed, but I won't."

"You were going to kill me," Curly said, voice scratchy. He didn't know why he said it. But Runt was above him, eyes so far away—completely flat.

"Yes. I was." Runt slid his knuckles along Curly's cheek. "But this is better." He then snatched Curly by the hair and jerked his head back, exposing his throat. Before Curly could even protest, teeth sank in. His lips parted. He could feel… something he'd never felt before. The buzzing of an alpha's saliva mixing with his wound to make the scar permanent… marking him. Runt was marking him.

"No," Curly whispered as all his dreams of that little pup living a better life than his, of finding a sweet mate to love him forever, ended. He reached up, brushing his fingers gently through Runt's hair.

Those dreams never happened, anyway. Runt had been called Runt. Runt had come to murder Curly. He was damaged.

Slowly, cautiously, Curly spread his thighs and clutched at Runt's shirt. He keened in that special way alphas liked, and heard Runt snarl wordless promises of devotion and protection in return. He craned his head up to kiss along Runt's jaw, demonstrating his submission over and over.

"Alpha," he murmured slavishly.

A tremor ran through Runt, and then he was clawing at Curly's pants, ripping them at the seams until Curly was naked from the waist down. After some graceless shoving, Curly was on his knees, pebbles digging into his skin, and he was bent over for Runt.

He hadn't expected any level of care, so the broad stroke of a hot tongue across his hole made him writhe. The sharp slap across his asscheek made him still obediently. Runt licked him until he was begging for a knot.

The first press of his cock was enough to make Curly white out. He was shaking bodily, and could only whimper and moan as Runt pushed in. He tried to be a good omega for Runt, tried to making everything feel good as Runt's cock thrusted forward relentlessly, and as his knot swelled. Then Curly lost consciousness completely.

He woke up in a dark car, on someone's lap—someone who was lapping idly at the wound on Curly's neck. Oh yeah. He was still knotted.

Runt seemed to sense his waking up. A hand reached around, and gripped Curly's jaw. In his ear, a rough voice spoke. "When this knot goes down, we're leaving here. You're gonna sit next to me like a good boy and not say a single fucking thing. No complaining. No whining. We're going to the home I made where no one knows who you are, and you're going to be my perfect mate." His grip tightened. "Got it?"

Curly nodded, his body going lax.

With a chuckle, Runt patted his cheek. "Good," he said. "Now, move those hips."