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Chanyeol’s foot itches. Blearily, he opens his eyes. There’s sunlight streaming through his window, golden and unfiltered, and Chanyeol groans. Fuck, his head hurts. Everything is too hot, and his mouth tastes like road kill. The source of the itchiness turns out to be the ugly woolen throw blanket that his mom had crocheted, that normally stays on the back of their couch. Chanyeol has a vague memory of arriving home freezing cold and wrapping it around himself before drunkenly collapsing on his bed. Stupid, considering his bed has actual, comfortable bedding, but not terrible in the grand scheme of things. Chanyeol stands up and breathes through the wave of nausea that crashes into him. Water will fix everything. He goes to the sink and drinks straight from the faucet, head spinning, letting the memories from last night slowly come back. He and Jongdae had gone out, and had met up with some friends of Jongdae’s, a group of beta and alpha girls from one of his literature classes. They’d ended up at some weird hipster bar all the girls had wanted to go to, that had sold only house-made, “infused” vodka drinks, filled with flavors and scents meant to mimic the natural scents of wolves.
“Try this,” Chanyeol has a vague memory of the Alpha girl (Joy?) shoving a cold glass into his hand. “Lavender, rose, and honey. I swear, it tastes just the way an omega in preheat smells.” She’d been kind of right. Of course it was way too harsh, with the burn of the alcohol, but it was good, sweet and cold and delicious, and oddly reminiscent. He’d had more. The rest of the night was a blur. Dancing at a club, throwing up on the sidewalk, Jongdae with his tongue down one of the beta girls’ throats. There was a decent chance they’d gotten pizza at some point. Good times. Chanyeol walks back to his bed, meaning to text Jongdae, except his phone isn’t plugged in next to his bed. It isn’t in his coat pocket either, or buried in his sheets anywhere. Fuck. Chanyeol pulls out his laptop. Thank god for Find My iPhone. His phone, it turns out, is at Jongdae’s house. Chanyeol messages him on Facebook messenger, hoping he’s not asleep. Luckily, Jongdae answers almost immediately:
how are u feeling?
like shit. are u at ur house rn?
nope. I told u I was going to that opera thing w my family today.
Jongdae’s parents are really into, like, high culture type shit, self-proclaimed “patrons of the arts,” and have memberships to the local art museum, theater company, and opera. Jongdae’s been in voice lessons as long as Chanyeol’s known him, but he doesn’t seem to mind the way Chanyeol definitely would.
fuck
why?? whats up
I think I left my phone in ur car last night.
Well I wont be back till this evening, but Jongin is at home so he could let u in. my keys should be hanging on a hook in the kitchen?,
Jongin. Jongdae’s horrifyingly cute younger brother. Chanyeol doesn’t really know him, barely ever exchanges more than pleasantries with him, but he sees him all the time at Jongdae’s house. Chanyeol has spent years of his life trying not to stare too much every time Jongin shows up, a constant vision of beauty even in his ratty converse and high-rise skinny jeans. He also spent years trying not to smell him, because Jongin is an omega, and has smelled heavenly since just around the time Chanyeol had discovered what pheromones were and how they could affect him.
There’s a decent chance Chanyeol spent a large portion of his teenage years lurking in Jongdae’s living room, attention only half focused on the TV, desperately hoping to be there when Jongin breezed through the door, sweaty from dance and smelling like ambrosia. Jongin, much like Jongdae, has been in extracurricular lessons since he was a small child, except where Jongdae sings Jongin does ballet. They’re both incredibly talented, and Chanyeol will never admit this, but he’s never minded being dragged to Jongin’s dance performances on occasion, so unlike Jongdae’s boring voice recitals. Chanyeol maybe has kind of a crush. Jongin’s only 2 years younger than them, and it’s partly a blessing and partly a source of never ending misery, the fact that Jongin went to some fancy performing arts high school instead of the local public school with Jongdae and Chanyeol, because Chanyeol probably wouldn’t have graduated if he’d been distracted by Jongin's scent all day.
he didn’t go w u? Chanyeol hopes the question seems innocuous.
no…. he was feeling sick I think
u better not do any creepy alpha shit istg i WILL kill u
So much for innocuous, Chanyeol thinks. He can probably play it off though; Jongdae is easy to provoke.
lmao id like to see ur little beta ass try
careful, though I be but little I am fierce replies Jongdae, and Chanyeol really doesn’t have the energy for friends who say shit that weird in the morning, when they’re not even drunk. He doesn’t respond.
It takes Chanyeol an embarrassing amount of time to get showered and dried off. The urge to put on another pair of pajama pants, forget about his phone and curl up in bed is almost overwhelming—it is a Saturday—but he should probably do his homework. Or start it. Or eat breakfast at the very least. The idea of seeing Jongin is also shamefully appealing, and maybe part of the reason he gets dressed. He wanders through his kitchen, grazing on chips and handfuls of cheerios before finally getting a bowl out and sitting down. His cereal tastes funny and he can’t tell if it’s because the milk is nearly expired or just from the lingering sourness in his mouth post-night-of-drinking. It helps with his nausea though, and by the time Chanyeol gets to his car he feels much better, relatively normal even.
When he pulls up to the house Chanyeol feels the hairs on his neck prickle uncomfortably. Something is off. He can’t see anything but his wolf feels tense, coiled-tight and ready in his chest. For what Chanyeol is unsure, but he’s jittery. He sniffs at the air but everything seems normal. The birds are chirping. Chanyeol looks up and down the street. No one’s outside, but that’s hardly surprising, considering that it’s winter. He’s probably being stupid. He makes his way up the driveway to the front porch and rings the doorbell. There’s no answer. Chanyeol rings it again, stuffing his hands into his pockets while he waits. Still no answer; maybe it’s broken. He knocks his knuckles smartly against the glass, but quickly switches to banging on the door with his fist when that starts to hurt. What the fuck? Maybe Jongin just has his headphones on? Chanyeol kind of wants to just leave, but he really needs his phone, and he can’t shake the feeling that something is—off. It’s probably locked, Jongdae’s family never leave their door unlocked, but he could always try.
The handle turns easily, and for a split second Chanyeol thinks the feeling of foreboding was all for nothing. The house is silent. Chanyeol takes a step inside, opening his mouth to call out for Jongin and then it hits him, comes crashing into him, with all the force of a hurricane. The most wonderful smell, heady, so good his knees get wobbly and he staggers into an end table. Fuck. His head is swimming. Chanyeol should go. Except his legs are carrying him through the living room and up the stairs at record speed, nearly crashing into the railing in his haste. Chanyeol should really go. He trips on his feet as he rushes down the hall and nearly knocks a framed picture of middle school Jongdae off the wall, complete with a horribly embarrassing bowl cut, but he can’t be bothered with it, rushing to the second to last door, where he stops, suddenly brought up short. The smell is stronger here, but Chanyeol knew, right from the start what it was, who it was. Nothing else could smell like this. Chanyeol should really, really, go. He opens the door instead. Jongin.
Chanyeol’s voice cracks when he says the name, but he barely notices it. Jongin is spread out on his bed, dark hair soft and messy, lips plush, panting, tangled up in his white sheet, like the cover image of those kitschy paperback novels that are marketed towards omegas in preheat. Except it’s better, a thousand times better, because nothing about Jongin seems cheap. He’s breathtaking, gorgeous, in the way that better people than Chanyeol say classical art is. God, if paintings could capture even the smallest bit of how Jongin looks right now, Chanyeol might actually go to a museum. Chanyeol is panting too now, but he can’t help it, the room feels stifling. He wants to—he needs to—
“Alpha.”
Chanyeol’s legs carry him forward of their own accord. He should turn around, and walk out the door, and drive very far away, but he’s climbing onto Jongin’s bed and leaning over him, pressing his nose against Jongin’s neck instead.
“Alpha,” Jongin sighs, looking up at him happily with blown pupils “I missed you.”
“I missed you too,” says Chanyeol, and it’s not a lie even if he’s just realizing it now. He’s probably been missing Jongin his entire life.
“Mmm,” Jongin bares his neck, and Chanyeol feels himself growl, low and rumbling in his throat.
“You’re gonna knot me, right? I’m ready. I’ve been waiting for you for so long.”
Yes. Chanyeol’s wolf is purring in his chest. Pretty omega. So, so pretty. Perfect mate. Chanyeol’s going to knot him, breed him, sink his teeth into Jongin’s neck...except it’s Jongin. Jongin is not Chanyeol’s mate. Jongin is Jongdae’s little brother. No. No, no, no, no. Fuck, he can’t. Chanyeol needs to go, needs to not do any stupid, creepy Alpha shit. Jongdae might actually kill him. He sits up.
“No, Jongin, I can’t. I’m not—I’m just here to get my phone—I can’t.”
“Please,” says Jongin, and Chanyeol can smell the confusion and nervousness on him now. It grates at him unpleasantly, every instinct telling him to comfort the omega in front of him.
“Jongin I can’t, you barely even know me.”
“No,” says Jongin, “you’re my Alpha. Need you.”
“Jongin,” says Chanyeol again, lost for words. He tries to stand, but Jongin grabs his wrist, and the sharp, sweet smell of slick intensifies. Jongin’s hand is covered in it; Chanyeol’s wrist is now too. Jongin must have been touching himself, he must have been—Chanyeol should not think about that. He feels insane, animalistic and consumed with his desire. Even as he tries to focus, Chanyeol can feel his eyes changing, turning red, pupils turning to slits. God, he really, really, really needs to leave, but every time he tries Jongin gets more desperate, grabbing at Chanyeol’s T-Shirt with slick-covered hands and rubbing the inside of his wrists on the tops of Chanyeol’s thighs to scent mark him. It’s so potent, Chanyeol will probably never be able to wear these jeans again, no matter how many times he puts them through the washer, but he really can’t bring himself to care.
“Alpha, don’t I smell good?” murmurs Jongin, and apparently Chanyeol is better at controlling his pheromones than he thought, if Jongin can’t tell how he’s affecting him. It’s heavenly, even with the creeping desperation that permeates his scent more and more each time Chanyeol rejects him.
“You do,” says Chanyeol croakily “you really do.”
“Why don’t you want me then?” Jongin looks Chanyeol straight in this face, raising his head up so his neck isn’t bared anymore. He seems nearly cognizant for the first time since Chanyeol walked through the door. It’s good. It helps Chanyeol focus.
“I can’t, Jongin, I’m not your Alpha. I’m Chanyeol, Jongdae’s friend. You know me. You’re just confused because you’re in heat.”
Jongin’s bottom lip trembles dangerously and his fingers tighten in Chanyeol’s shirt. Fuck, is he really gonna cry? So much for cognizant. Chanyeol’s wolf is desperately try to break out, the site of a tearful omega apparently too much for it to handle, but Jongin takes several deep, shuddering breaths before laying back, eyes miraculously dry. Thank god. Except Jongin’s hand comes down to trace over his pants again, except it’s higher this time, and Chanyeol is suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he’s painfully, achingly hard in his jeans under Jongin’s fingers. He can’t control the growl that leaves his throat, fails miserably to stop the wave of possessive arousal that he emits, and it’s like he’s experiencing everything in slow motion, the way that Jongin’s nostrils flair slightly, the way his pupils dilate even more, the nearly cloying scent of fresh slick soaking into the sheets.
“Alpha,” says Jongin again, and they’re back to square one, or maybe even worse, because Jongin looks nearly crazed and tearful with desire. “Put it in” Jongin whines, nearly sobbing with want. “Please alpha, I need it, please, I’ll be so good for you.”
“I can’t, baby, I can’t.”
“Alpha,” says Jongin again, “my Alpha,” and there it is. Chanyeol isn’t Jongdae’s friend Chanyeol to Jongin right now, he’s Alpha Chanyeol, just someone with a knot, and it would be horrible to take advantage of him when he’s like this. Chanyeol can’t knot him. Jongin doesn’t even know who he is. He clears his throat.
“God, Jongin, do you even remember my name right now?” Omega heats range in severity, and while Chanyeol’s helped with quite a few he’s never seen one like Jongin’s before, completely delirious and needy beyond reason. He wants to pretend that it doesn’t matter, doesn’t phase him, but it’s a lie. God, Chanyeol should be better than this. It’s archaic, the way that Jongin’s heat-drunk begging makes something deep inside him come to life, urging him to claim and knot like he’s more wolf than human, throwing thousands of years of evolution out the window in mere seconds. Chanyeol can’t do that though. He tries again.
“Jongin, baby, what’s my name?” Jongin whines piteously, shaking his head.
“Alpha.”
“No, baby, try again.”
“…Alpha,” says Jongin, like a broken record. “Alpha. Knot me. Please. Mate me.”
“God,” says Chanyeol “Fuck. I shouldn’t be here. I never should have—“ He takes a deep breath through his mouth, trying to focus. Jongin’s scent is overwhelming. Chanyeol hasn’t even lifted the blanket but he can tell the sheets are soaking wet. Fuck.
“Please,” says Jongin again, like his vocabulary has suddenly been reduced to approximately five words. Somehow it still sounds like poetry.
“Tell me my name,” says Chanyeol. “Come on baby, I just mentioned it. Tell me you know who I am.”
“My alpha,” says Jongin again, but then he inhales deeply, closing his eyes, “Chanyeol.”
“Yeah,” Chanyeol breathes out, irrationally proud. “That’s it, yeah, that’s me. I’m here.”
“You gonna knot me, Chanyeol?” murmurs Jongin, and fuck, it’s a thousand times worse to hear Jongin say his name like that, breathy and soft and intimate.
“I can’t, baby. I’ve told you. I can’t.”
“But you’re my Alpha,” says Jongin, “I told you your name. I know you. You’re Chanyeol. I’m yours.”
“Yeah,” says Chanyeol, head swimming, “I’m—yeah.” He’s weak. Chanyeol isn’t Jongin’s Alpha, and he certainly can’t knot him, but maybe, for a little while, he could help him, could hold him. Maybe he could—would it be so bad if he just—what if he just—
Chanyeol sits there, every muscle in his body tensed, strung out and nearly shaking. It feels like a million years that he sits there, breathing through his mouth, hyper-aware of Jongin wriggling and whining softly in the bed beside him. He’s paralyzed, knows he should tell Jongin he can’t, should say something, but his desire is all consuming. Jongin speaks first.
“It hurts,” says Jongin “You’re my alpha. You have to help me. It hurts.” Chanyeol crumbles.
It’s too easy. The second Jongin gets wind of the fact that Chanyeol is trying to un-tuck the blankets he shoves them off, scrambling around clumsily on the bed until he’s on his knees, face down and ass up. It’s beautiful, how messy he looks. Chanyeol is overwhelmed by the nape of Jongin’s neck, the graceful arch of his back, his thighs, shiny and obviously slippery to the touch.
“You’re so wet, baby,” he says, quite unnecessarily. It’s beyond obvious, but Chanyeol’s brain is short-circuiting. Jongin preens anyway, and releases a wave of happy pheromones. He smells like sunshine.
“Finger yourself,” growls Chanyeol, and he’s vaguely aware of how forcefully he says it, voice rough and low with Alpha command. He can’t control it though, can barely focus on anything, now that he’s decided to allow himself a little indulgence. He yanks his jeans and boxers down to mid-thigh, dick slapping against his stomach as soon as it’s freed. His knot is already swelling at the base. Knots are weird things. Technically they’re only supposed to form when an Alpha is mating an omega, a reaction to the natural lubrication they produce, but sometimes, in rare cases just the scent of an omega is enough to trigger it. Like now, apparently. Chanyeol moves forward, realizes somewhere in the back of his mind he’s still wearing his sneakers, but he can’t be bothered with them now, has passed that point ages ago. He maneuvers himself until he’s right behind Jongin, who’s fingering himself clumsily and making little whimpering noises. He trails his thumb down side of Jongin’s ass, watches, smiling, as Jongin’s fingers falter, hand shaking when Chanyeol touches him.
“Squeeze your legs together,” Chanyeol says, voice still authoritative, as he slips the tip of his cock between Jongin’s slippery thighs. Fuck yes.
“Oh,” says Jongin, trembling a little. Chanyeol doesn’t miss the way Jongin’s fingers press more desperately into his hole, the way more slick leaks out of him. It’s so hot. Everything is so hot. He pulls back and thrusts forward again, desperately trying to control the urge to rut, rough and fast. This is so good. Chanyeol wants it to last for a little while. The outside of Jongin’s legs are dark but the inside are completely smooth and hairless, like he was secretly made to be thigh-fucked, right down to his DNA. Everything is perfect, perfect and so, so wet. Chanyeol can feel the knees of his jeans getting damp, is aware of the fact that he’s kneeling where Jongin has left the bed soaking with slick, but all he can focus on is the obscene noises his dick makes between Jongin’s thighs, squelching and slippery like trashy, cheap porn. God, the friction is so good. Chanyeol speeds his thrusts a little, making the bed rock against the wall. Jongin whines “Are you not—You’re not gonna put it in?”
“No, baby, I keep telling you I can’t.” Jongin apparently dislikes that, and tries to wriggle, pushing his ass back like Chanyeol might let his dick accidentally slip inside somehow. The attempts are ineffective. It’s not that Jongin isn’t strong, he’s got all the lean muscle of a dancer and then some, but he’s got no leverage in his current position, on his knees with one hand inside himself and Chanyeol’s grip tight on his hips. It’s cute.
“Behave now,” says Chanyeol “I know you can get off on your own fingers. You’re doing such a good job,” and Jongin wails, but goes back to fingering himself all the same. He gets restless quickly though, resorts to begging and wriggling to be fucked every thirty seconds, filthier and more desperate each time, until it’s a continual stream of sloppy pleading Chanyeol can’t begin to correct.
“Baby,” says Chanyeol, still thrusting between his thighs, “you know I can’t do that.”
“No,” says Jongin, “breed me, please Alpha. I need to be bred, I need—I want you to—.“ He doesn’t even stop fingering himself, and Chanyeol thinks that maybe Jongin’s just saying it because it turns him on, fully knowing that Chanyeol isn’t gonna give in. Or maybe he’s just saying it to kill Chanyeol, to ruin sex with anyone else forever, because it kind of feels like that.
“Fill me up,” slurs Jongin “Please Alpha. Fill me and knot me till I’m carrying your pups. I want everyone to know I’m yours. I want everyone to know…fill my stomach with your come.”
“Christ,” says Chanyeol, with feeling. There’s nothing else to say. He can’t control the burst of desire that he lets out in his scent, thick and heavy; can’t even bring himself to be ashamed of it. Jongin’s reaction to it is a surprise though. He stops begging instantly, relaxes suddenly in Chanyeol’s grip, smelling euphoric and sated. It’s like all this time, even more than Chanyeol’s knot, all Jongin needed was to know that Chanyeol wanted him, and that’s something that Chanyeol can finally do, easily, guiltlessly, naturally as breathing. He stops controlling his scent, relaxes, letting Jongin know how much Chanyeol wants him, how he’s nearly consumed by it. Jongin basks in it, moaning softly and smelling like pure elation. God, Chanyeol meant to go slow, tried, but the more of his scent he lets out the less he can control his hips. He pistons forward, ignoring the bed frame slamming against the wall and the way Jongin whines as his face is rubbed roughly on the sheets. He’s so close. They’re beyond words, and Jongin barely manages to stay upright for Chanyeol to thrust between his thighs. All it takes is a single drag of the rough pad of Chanyeol’s thumb over one of Jongin’s nipples to have Jongin convulsing into the sheets, collapsing into a boneless pile as he cums all over his own stomach, fingers working desperately inside himself. Chanyeol, dizzy with desire, grabs his dick and pulls on it harshly, once, twice, and then he’s finished, knot swelling to full size as he shudders and comes all over Jongin’s ass.
It’s too much. Chanyeol has never knotted outside of someone’s body and his head spins, stomach roiling. The pleasure is overwhelming and terrifying. Both of his hands slide down to grasp his knot, holding onto it tightly, trying to simulate being inside something. He’s loosely aware that his dick is still leaking a steady stream of ejaculate from the tip, that Jongin is saying something in the background, but his ears are ringing. God, Chanyeol has never come this hard in his life, and he doesn’t know if it’s because it’s Jongin, or the unnatural knotting, but it’s all-consuming. He focuses on breathing, whole body still shuddering. Eventually the sensations soften, and the ringing fades. He opens his eyes to find Jongin’s chocolate ones a foot from his face, looking concerned.
“Chanyeol,” says Jongin “are you okay?” Chanyeol shakes his head experimentally. It feels like ears are full of water. What the fuck.
“I’m so sorry,” says Jongin “I didn’t realize you would—is that normal? Are you—good?”
“No,” says Chanyeol, cringing when his voice cracks loudly. God, what’s wrong with him? “Don’t be sorry, I mean. You didn’t do anything wrong. Fuck. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—“
“Chanyeol,” Jongin cuts him off, “Really, don’t be sorry. I’m not upset. Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m okay. It was just…intense there for a second.”
“Good,” murmurs Jongin “I was really worried.”
Chanyeol looks at him. He wants to apologize again, but Jongin is gazing at him intently, and Chanyeol feels like Jongin won’t let him. They sit in awkward silence instead, because Chanyeol can’t think of anything else to say. He stares at Jongin, fully aware that Jongin knows he’s staring but powerless to stop it. He’s so pretty. Chanyeol’s seen his face a thousand times, but seeing him like this, flushed and soft and post-orgasm is like seeing him for the first time all over again. He’s beautiful. Chanyeol’s chest aches. He looks down, admiring the way the morning sunlight from the window falls softly across Jongin’s tan skin. Everything about him is so mesmerizing. Chanyeol should go. He stands up, swaying slightly.
“Don’t go,” Jongin says, and Chanyeol wants to stay but he feels horrible, disgusting, and ashamed. His dick dribbles out a little more cum, like it’s trying to prove his thoughts right. Jongin laughs.
“Look, Jongin, I’m really sorry. You were in heat, and I fucked up, and I know you didn’t really know what you were asking for or who I was, and I should really leave, I’ve got—“
“I knew, Chanyeol” Jongin’s voice is soft, but it’s impossible for Chanyeol to miss the words. Chanyeol doesn’t say anything. “I knew it was you from the beginning,” says Jongin again, slightly louder this time. “I’m—I’d be okay. If you stayed. I meant what I said. Everything I said.”
“Jongin” Chanyeol trails off, lost for words. “You were in heat.”
“Am in heat,” says Jongin “I’m still definitely in heat. It’s coming back right now. But that’s not the point. I’m asking you to stay.” Chanyeol stares at him blankly. Jongin suddenly blushes, fidgeting.
“I—what I’m trying to say is—I knew. Jongdae texted me this morning to let me know you were coming over. I could have told him to tell you not to, but I chose to—I wanted you to…”
“Yeah?” croaks Chanyeol. He can’t breath. It makes sense now, the unlocked door. Jongin wants him here. He couldn’t—he really shouldn’t—but it’s intoxicating, the idea of having Jongin, of holding him, kissing him, fucking him. Chanyeol could knot him. He’s suddenly aware of how good Jongin smells again, of the way it’s building steadily in the room. Jongin’s thighs are still wet, he's still leaking, Chanyeol can smell it. Jongin’s hole—he could—Chanyeol is lightheaded. He needs to sit down.
“I’m serious,” says Jongin “I’ve always liked you. Chanyeol. Alpha. I like you. Please—if you want—please stay.”
“Okay,” says Chanyeol.