Archive of Our Own

Restless and unnerving, a sticky feeling clings to Andrew’s skin, leaving in its wake an itchiness he can’t quite rub away. It buzzes under his skin, roams through his bones, and settles heavily within his ribs. He has to hold his breath in expectation.

It’s a shattered mirror, a diluted resemblance of the induced mania he could only experience with the pills. His mind drifts and oscillates between a state of hyper-focus and none of it at all, sorting in a bottomless sea of made-up threats that could become a problem for any of his pack members. One could say it’s a hunch. Or more than a hunch, an instinct; the primal kind. It creeps slowly from his chest to his temple, and then to the back of his skull. A warning.

Hyper awareness is an old friend of Andrew's; it waves its unsteady hand hello and pokes around his mind until his hard-granted composure is shaken out of its center. When no real threat is found, the old friend flits, leaving Andrew wired and ready to snap.

It’s a lost cause paying attention to the endless maze of what-ifs—a war against ghosts—, but he can’t shut down the feeling that something is about to happen.

So he stays close.

He keeps a watchful guard on the inner court at night practice, constantly expecting the worst, acting suspicious even of the smallest shadows because something must be wrong, and if he smells rot, the Moriyamas must be close. Nothing actually happens, just as the rational part of Andrew was already aware of, but he stays alarm as if the whole yakuza will pop out of the bottom of an Exy ball’s casket like some twisted bunny-from-the-hat magic trick.

He attempts to be more subtle with Nicky and Aaron, though.

Andrew casually ends up in the same study room Aaron uses for midterms, on the third floor of the campus library, looking soft-edged and warm from the afternoon light that streams through the huge dusty window.

He's reading his —blank— notebook when Aaron approaches. His twin pauses dramatically at the door, takes a step back, then seems to make up his mind and stamps his way to the large desk. He drops his backpack carelessly on the floor while he glares at Andrew, as if daring him to say something, like he isn't the intruder here. Silly, dummy, little brother. Internally, Andrew scoffs at him.

Half an hour later, he drops the act, deciding just to stare at the ceiling with half-open eyes, arms crossed over his chest, legs parted. Lulled by Aaron's soft mumbles, Andrew's eyes give up on him completely, just mildly aware of the dull scrape of the mechanical pencil on paper, the steady tap-tap-tap of the highlighter clicking shut, and the low stream of voices from outside the room.

Andrew also meets with Nicky, not so casually, for lunch.

There’s no real reason for Andrew to be here, since it’s his only day off from classes, but Nicky is too excited to be sharing a sticky lunch table with his precious little cousin to notice.

Andrew stares at him, playing with his plain lunch, while Nicky rambles about everything and everyone, inside and out, up and down, side to side. As soon as Nicky swears that he’s late for his next class and stumbles out of the dining hall—not without whining about Andrew not reminding him about the time—Andrew gets up, grabs his barely eaten food tray, and throws it in the trash bin, then heads off to the dorms to face plant on the beanbags until practice.

Neil doesn't get away from Andrew's attentiveness either. He’s become a second shadow to him at this point; he waits for Neil outside of his classes, they go together to the dining hall to grab a quick lunch, and every morning he fights back the urge to follow him to his morning run, deciding just to wait awake on the couch while the coffee is brewing. But who can really blame him? The man has the ability to get into trouble in less than a second if no one's keeping him in line, and the uneasy feeling in Andrew's chest tells him to keep the reckless alpha at easy grasp —better not risk him ending in trouble without Andrew near to drag him out of it.

But there’s also something off with Neil, like he can feel what's buzzing under Andrew's skin too. He isn't unnerved as he is when he's about to bolt or get lost in mazes of bloody memories. No, he looks prepared to fight back and bite hard, unlike his usual bullet-dodger self. He keeps his stuff close and bares his teeth, alert and paranoid, but never straying away from the pack.

The thing is, Andrew knows it’s utterly ridiculous that he’s experiencing this. He shouldn't be minding other matters aside from getting through his finals before the summer break, how many ice cream pints he can eat before Kevin starts furiously ranting about it, and figuring out a way to survive the boredom that is playing Exy. 

At least he's got Neil's pretty lips to kiss, his even prettier cock to suck, his steady voice to lull him to sleep, and his careful hands to cradle the beating organ secured within his ribs, which he gives so willingly, so trusting. Expecting the worst, almost testing the disappointment on his mouth, but Neil has always managed to prove him wrong.

Still, he pays attention, more than he usually does: to his pack, his family.

His mate.

He shoves the thought away with a flick of his cigarette, gone as quickly as it came. The remaining ashes sharply burn his finger. The small pain lingers more than it should, but it doesn't quite surprise Andrew. Since the past week, everything feels too much and too big for him to fit inside his body; it overgrows him. There's always something to look at, something out of place and demanding attention. Just standing in the courtyard during the science building’s busiest hour is rubbing him raw.

His straying mind doesn't have time to fixate on nothing else when he smells brown sugar, warm and familiar, already knowing who it belongs to before seeing Neil.

He comes to stand in front of Andrew, casual and breathtaking. Backpack flung without care over one of his shoulders, hair wind-tossed and gentle eyes that shouldn’t belong to someone like him, but still they do; just like Andrew shouldn’t be the recipient of such a fond expression, but still he is.

Andrew aches.

“You're gonna burn yourself,” he says. Gentle, oh, so gentle and so sweet that Andrew can almost taste it in his tongue buds. Andrew drags the tip of his tongue on his canine, chasing it.

As soon as his voice breaks into the space around them, everything around Andrew thins out, the world stops being a perpetual threat, and the hyperawareness is a low shimmer under his skin, forgotten for the sake of seeing Neil calmly stand in front of him. His fists uncurl and his shoulders slump down as he breathes in, slowly and steadily, taking as much as he can of that voice, of that presence; finally unloosing the grip on his hypevigilance, allowing the weakness that is feeling safe to settle warmly on his belly. Something fits again. Each piece falls into its place. Andrew can breathe a bit better.

You, you, you.

He blinks at Neil, not finding the strength to give a proper response. Neil blinks back, the corner of his mouth almost curling before it goes back down again, as if getting lost on its way to form a proper smile. Something burns inside his chest. 

Neil is, more than ever, devastating to look at; midday light marbles the sharp edges that characterize him, making him look easy-limped and reachable. The chaotic flow of students on the campus is eclipsed by his presence.

In this galaxy of errant bodies demanding his attention, Andrew can’t take his eyes off Neil—his brightest star, the only one that matters. Andrew, the whole world even, slows down and loosens up just by the sight of Neil existing so effortlessly; there’s no more noise than Neil's ragged breaths. He must have run all the way from the building’s door to Andrew.

Andrew’s unoccupied hand twitches at his side.

Dropping his barely smoked cigarette, Andrew steps closer to Neil, feeling uneasy about Neil staying so far out of his reach. Neil makes a funny face when Andrew grabs a handful of his hoodie and drags him in, but he stays perfectly still, his arms loosely hanging at his side while Andrew pats him, searching for ouchies he won’t find.  He just blinks through it, smelling amused and just a hint smug. Such a good boy. Andrew hates him.

When he’s finished, no harm found, Andrew finally succumbs to this primal need that has been bugging him for the last week and buries his face in Neil’s neck, uncaring of the public display of weakness. Neil makes an approving noise, but his hands stay unmoved at his side, fists clenched as if not to reach out. Andrew truly, truly hates his guts.

Working fast and clean, he grabs Neil’s closed hands and, with a slightly annoyed motion, places them on his shoulder. “There,” he says, almost growling at the end of the vowel. Then a pleased noise escapes without permission from his lips when Neil digs his fingers into his shoulders.

Neil doesn’t comment on that, on any of it really, as though he also needed this grounding moment. They are not the type to do this, at least not this publicly, but for once they’re both careless. He just stares at him with that dumb look of his, and Andrew goes back to his neck to prevent himself from looking at him.

As he sniffs deeper, he catches it. Something in Neil’s scent is different. Not wrong. Stronger, perhaps. Richer. The fresh pine is overpowered by the smell of brown sugar, melted and sweet. Nipping slightly, and he would test caramel, but Andrew refrains from the thought just yet. Instead, he clasps his hands on Neil’s lower back and breathes in deeper. There he picks up another scent, one that makes him nauseous. 

Another person's scent. An omega’s scent. 

He stumbles back, hand reaching up to erase the sickening floral scent clinging to Neil's skin. “You stink,” he hisses. He catches the moment his own scent blooms in disgust, the peach souring.

“I took a shower before class,” he says, disconcerted, and tries to get away from Andrew. He doesn’t let him, though. Neil, the lovesick fool, melts into Andrew's touch.

“You stink like someone else,” he clarifies, snarls.

“Oh,” Neil whispers, blinking as though he just had some kind of revelation. Then he frowns and says dryly, “Tobias tried to scent me, but I dodged him. Maybe his scent still clung.”

Tobias. It’s a known name, much to Andrew's —not-so-hidden— displeasure. A tasteless brunette from Neil’s advanced calculus class. He’s been nagging Neil since the start of the semester, trying to befriend him, claiming Neil would benefit from an omega friend outside of his pack. He seems harmless, so Andrew lets Neil handle him on his own like the big boy he is. But he has noticed the way the insipid-looking omega glared at him every time Andrew came to pick up Neil from his class, feigning innocence once Neil turned around to wave a non-committal goodbye at him.

Andrew just huffs, but he can't quite hide the stiffness in his motion as he places his wrist right onto Neil’s nape, carefully rubbing the tender gland there with his own, until he knows Neil's drowned in his scent. Neil allows him, moving his neck around ever so slightly to give Andrew better access to it, his expression open and welcoming.

Neil explained to him in one of their rooftop escapades that he doesn't catch scents, or at least not as well as all alphas were expected to, the illegal suppressants he took being to blame.

It was a blessing, he said, when others, bigger, stronger alphas tried to overpower him with their scents. But at the same time, it left him vulnerable, not being aware when a dangerous person was approaching until they were too close for a smooth escape. Nowadays is just another irrefutable truth that shapes the boy Neil Josten is learning to become. Just like sunrises, Abram, and death.

Neil can't smell many people. Comically, he still catches Andrew’s scent perfectly; fucked up by the medication, not as pleasant as an omega's scent is expected to be, but Neil seems to be content with it—more like obsessed. There is not a single moment where he is not nuzzling Andrew's neck or belly, or stealing his clothes, or subtly asking Andrew to scent his pillow like the little junkie he is.

Andrew still doesn’t know what to think about it. Though the fuzzy feeling he gets in his belly might be giving away what he’s trying to ignore.

Unlike Neil, Andrew's sense of smell is more powerful than the majority. Turns out that the joy pills didn't only fuck up his own scent but his senses too. While he couldn't retain a single thought for more than a minute, his nose clung to every single smell around him. It made things worse, overwhelming him with unwelcome scents that clouded his mind and left him more powerless than he already was. 

When Neil came to Palmetto with only a duffel bag full of lies and money, what really got Andrew’s attention was his lack of a scent, unusual as it was interesting. Not even a whiff of it got through Andrew's nose. It made him wonder, wonder, wonder. 

What is his scent? Why's he hiding it? Oh, oh, but he doesn’t have any scent patches on him. Hhm. Interesting. Something smells funny, but it’s not Neil. Or maybe it's all him. Contact lenses and no scent. Think, think, think. Something is off!

In that moment, his scentless-being only fed the theories that kept driving Andrew to break into Wymack’s apartment in the middle of the night to steal his mild whiskey and drink until his limbs were numb enough to resemble the closest thing to stillness, his belly empty but warm as his mind spun and tilted back and forth with a million hypotheses. 

When he came back from Easthaven, he wasn’t expecting Neil to have a full makeover, looking so unreal that Andrew started believing that the drugs weren't what caused him to hallucinate about boys wrapped in lies and sorrow. He was about to turn on his heels and shout to the receptionist that being locked up with monsters didn’t help make him less crazy, but quite the opposite. Call the nurse, I'm having visions again!

Neil looked different from head to toe, but carried himself with the same wariness Andrew remembered so well. Same Neil, but so different, altogether. Black dyed hair was replaced with a brownish color, turning copper when sunlight kissed the curls; glacial blue eyes free of tasteless brown lenses; and even a face tattoo! Someone got rebellious when Andrew wasn’t looking. How extravagant, exasperating. Hilarious even. But what really got Andrew’s full attention, aside from the canvas of bruises, was the now perceptible scent on Neil, something Andrew had never caught before: pine and brown sugar. An Alpha. How fitting.

It was dull, like a pup’s. As it was still developing, like Neil hadn’t already grown past the time for his presentation. It just added another piece to the puzzle of lies that formed Neil Josten at the time.

It’s been almost two years since that, and now Andrew catches something he hasn’t smelled before in him, and he thinks, 'You will never stop surprising me?' and maybe he’s getting fond of surprises when it comes to Neil, because he can’t get annoyed by them now. Not when Neil has never smelled like this before. Almost wild, primal. Rich and mouthwatering. Andrew closes his eyes and lets his head drop limply onto Neil’s shoulder, already a bit dizzy with the new scent.

“You good?” Neil asks dumbly, something like worry tainting his voice. He takes one of his hands off his shoulder and places it right into Andrew's nape, mirroring him. His thumb traces a lazy pattern, alternating between small circles and little taps. Andrew is close to doing something as embarrassing as purring in the middle of the campus’ patio, so he steps back. Neil drops his hands.

He ignores Neil’s questions in favor of staring intensely at his hoodie pocket. “What’s that?”

“Oh,” he says again, blue eyes shining with satisfaction, and then he fishes something from the pocket and hands it to Andrew, who grabs the paper bag as if it might blow up at any moment. “I got this for you.”

“What you are now, a kangaroo?” he deadpans, not quite hiding his curiosity. Neil’s huff is exasperatingly fond.

“I didn’t want it to get pencil shavings from my bag,” he explains. Then, hurriedly, “Come on, open it.”

Andrew does as he's told and startles a little. He blinks rapidly as he stares at the muffin at the bottom of the bag. The muffin stares back at him. Andrew looks up, searching for Neil’s face, like it has the answer to why Andrew has his favorite muffin in his hands. A muffin from the cafeteria outside of the campus, the ones that are only on the menu one day a week and vanish in the blink of an eye, looking perfectly soft and still a bit warm. Andrew stares back at the muffin. Surprisingly, the muffin is still there.

“You got this for me,” he repeats, slowly, as if doing so would start to make more sense that Neil probably went all the way to his favorite cafeteria before going to class just to buy his favorite-limited-edition muffin. “Why.”

Neil shrugs, like it's not a big deal, like he’s not rocking Andrew’s world with every single breath he takes. “I know you like them,” is all the explanation he gives.

And that’s a pattern, Andrew has noticed it too. 

Neil keeps bringing him things, unprompted and unapologetic, shrugging off every accusatory look from Andrew’s eyes. Smiling like a goof and kissing him to prevent Andrew from thinking too deeply about it. He’s not as subtle as he thinks he is.

There are other things too, things that are pretty much called dates if one is not lying to oneself, but Andrew is not unfamiliar with the practice.

Like Neil driving them to an aquarium in the middle of the week, with no real explanation behind it. He just lured Andrew into the passenger seat with a promise in his eyes and took them to the other side of Palmetto. It was almost empty; their company was the sleepy janitor and the slow-swimming fish. It felt the closest thing to sacred, with blue light washing over them while they kissed, and with the lonely sea creatures as the only witnesses of this quiet, whereas reciprocated devotion.

It wasn’t a date. Nope. Not at all. Not even when Neil bought the ugly-looking shark plushie for Andrew when he kept staring at it in the aquarium’s gift shop.

Or when Neil took Andrew to the new ice cream shop in Columbia after a night on Edens, leaving behind their hungover pack to be miserable at home. Nope, it wasn't a date either. Not even when Neil bought him the most fancy-worded cone and fed Andrew while they sat on the bench outside.

And many other times, but Andrew refuses to think about it.

He doesn't allow himself to indulge the thought because they’re not the type, shouldn't be the type. Andrew absolutely is not the type. He's too broken and rotted to deserve the mundaneness of a simple life, the simplicity of breathing without hurting. He does not deserve it, but still, he gets it. The universe once again mocks every attempt at a fair game. Nobody gets what they deserve, because Andrew and Neil are here, broken, misplaced pieces that do more harm than good with their rough edges, but still being rewarded with softness.

It's not like he thinks he deserves it, because if he thought so, then that means he wanted it in the first place, and wanting things is a dangerous game Andrew already knows the end of.

But there’s an annoying buzz in his head telling him, reminding him, that they are more than what they deserve, so he takes the muffin and bites. He turns his back so he can’t see the smile Neil flashes at him. Enough practice of accepting undeserved things for the day.

Andrew is fond of logical manners; conclusions drawn by patterns carefully analyzed, hypotheses refuted and discharged, data carefully interpreted. So when Andrew still can’t put a name to the oddness stalking Neil and him, he drags Neil to Abby's office before practice.

She is startled when Andrew and Neil —who drag his shoes on the whole way to her office like a petulant child— enter the small room, the door banging loudly against the wall, the only greeting she gets.

Andrew takes the few steps left between the open door and pulls Neil by his arm until he’s in front of Abby. With his other hand, he points sharply at Neil. “He’s dying.”

A beat passes. The rush of paper stops. The room stills. Neil squirms a bit. 

Andrew can feel Neil's stare boring at his side, incredulous, but Andrew pays him no mind and keeps his eyes to the woman in front of him—one of the few white-coat carriers he trusts.

The silence stretches while a slight frown forms on Abby’s face. She blinks rapidly, once, twice, before sighing and looking up at Neil. She considers him for a moment, then looks back at Andrew. 

“What made you think that?”

"He is sleeping a lot," he says, flat tone while he raises a finger, "he’s eating like a starved man but still doesn’t have any energy." Raises another finger. “And he smells funny,” he concludes, three fingers up. Neil squirms again.

“That sounds like anemia, not like I’m dying,” Neil says, and Andrew can feel more than see the petulant eye-rolling. Andrew shushes him.

They made a deal. Andrew takes Neil to Abby, without complaints, to check that he’s not actually dying, and Andrew runs a new raven drill that Neil and Kevin have been nagging him about. Sealed with a kiss, even.

Abby sighs once more, but schools her expression into something serious. She motions to Neil to get on the stretcher, and Neil goes obediently, not before pitching Andrew on the side. Andrew smacks his hand away, but he doesn’t miss the flash of teeth and the playful scents dancing in the air.

Andrew takes Abby’s desk chair, crosses his arms on his chest, and watches her while she checks his blood pressure and pulse, tests his vision and reflexes, and examines his scent glands, heart, and lungs. Neil does as told and doesn’t complain during the whole check-up. Only sends Andrew a fake pained face when Abby takes the samples, fake pout and all.

When Abby finishes, she sits beside Neil and says, “He’s not dying, Andrew, he’s just in pre-rut.”

Andrew's world spins, tilts to the side, and goes back to its center.

And well, that makes sense.

That explains the past week's events; the constant scenting, the borrowed clothes, the gifts, the protectiveness… it was courting in all its expressions. Proving himself competent, capable for his partner. Proving that he can be a good mate.

It also explains the restlessness in his bones, the constant buzzing under his skin. His inner omega knew one of his pack members’ cycles was approaching, his alpha’s rut. This paranoia from the past week wasn't so uncalled for after all.

Andrew plops himself in the stolen chair, melting on it, willing to become one with it, and exhales, “Ha.”

“I’ve been encouraging Neil to slow down his doses with the suppressant, so it’s not a surprise he’s getting a rut,” Abby says after a moment. She smiles shortly before continuing, “He should be ready to have his rut without troubles. Unlike his presentation.”

She’s referring to evermore, or the aftermath of it.

After picking up Andrew from the psych ward, Nicky had rambled about Neil's new status like hallway gossip, whining about Wymack not giving the Foxes any details, in his usual style and overused excuse of “out-of-his-paywall”. It was his attempt at small talk before catching Andrew up with all he missed when he was out of their sight.

“Which could have gone worse than I expected. He handled it pretty well,” she says, something like pride flashes in her eyes when she glances at Neil, who has been staring at the floor as if it has grown interesting in the few minutes they got in the office.

On a quiet night in the Columbia house, beneath the cover like little kids, trading hushed breaths full of secrets instead of kisses, Neil whispered the truth in the small space between them: He felt secure. He felt safe in that raggy couch that once was the most comfortable thing he had ever slept on, in an apartment filled with the smell of whiskey and cigarettes, and with the embrace of a grumpy old man who promised him that nobody would be able to hurt him inside those walls. It was the first time he felt safe with a man the age of his father in the same room, Neil told him at last, his eyes fluttering before he fell asleep.

The fact that Neil’s presentation after Riko flushed his pills down the toilet in Evermore was merely bearable because he had Wymack with him. Andrew was miles away to be able to protect him, with their deal hanging in the air, but Neil wasn’t alone. A single “happy new year” message proved it. Hurt but not alone. That was enough.

So he is not surprised by Neil's upcoming rut, but he thinks, he wonders.

Will Neil spend his rut at Abby's? Will he crash once again on Wymack's couch? Or worse, he would go to a heat room?

Andrew almost gags at the thought of Neil in a room full of plain walls and scentless bedding. He shallows the bad taste it leaves in his mouth, but it lingers on his chest, cautious and unmoving, waiting its moment to lash out again and fill Andrew with thoughts of Neil in pain and more so, alone.

Andrew remembers, because he always does, his first heat after Easthaven. It's not the kind of memory that clings to his skin like sharp teeth, but something kinder, gentler.

Fuck-up by his medication and the non-stopping stress his life was experiencing, his cycle was unstable and unpredictable. Those were the exact words written in his medical records after his stay in Easthaven, what the tight-smile nurse told him he should expect of them. It was a sugar-coated way of putting it, but no less the truth.

They were unpredictable, like in the middle of practice, in the middle of class, in the middle of buying groceries. They were unstable, almost pre-heat like, never actually hitting their peak, gone as quickly as they came. The cramps and the mood swings were unbreakable. His instincts were saturated, conflicted between bearing his belly to the next alpha around to hiding in the darkness of his closet.

When the heat peaked, Andrew would go on long drives alone. Hitting the pedal like it would extinguish the heat pooling in his veins, in his lower belly. After a while, Neil started tagging along, but the first time was a coincidence.

They were getting food for Kevin and Nicky when it hit. Neil noticed, as he always did, and was about to get out of the car, probably thinking of running from the store to the dorms in a fucking heat wave.

“Stay,” he said. Neil, as always, listened.

Andrew would be lying if he said that Neil's presence didn’t help. It soothed a primal need well-hidden in the deepest of his ribs, an unanswered call that thrummed through his veins that had been ignored for so long, but never forgotten. Neil's diluted scent carefully rooming through the car—so careful and gentle it could be nothing but deliberate— satiated the call. At the same time, it increased a hunger that left holes in Andrew's composure, a wave of want so strong he could barely breathe through it.

He didn’t ask for it, and Neil didn’t offer, as Andrew knew he wouldn’t. And that was enough for that moment.

The strikes of heat came and went, other times worse, and sometimes so quickly it was unworthy the mention. Until a real heat approached.

Abby explained to him, those false starts were his body adapting, testing the waters to know if it was safe enough to have the real thing. That it was his duty to protect himself and encourage his inner omega that he was safe to finally have its heat.

So when it finally came, Andrew was ready, and so was Neil.

The night his heat was expected to break, Neil took the Maserati and drove them to the house in Columbia, with Andrew in the back seat curled over himself, shaking and whimpering, drowning the car with his scent.

Neil didn’t get to fully spend it with him. He was more of a guard dog rather than an actual partner, even when Andrew, in his delirious state, wanted nothing more than to have Neil inside his nest, Neil stayed put. He brought Andrew food and water, tidied up their room when Andrew took his showers, and got him warm pads for his cramps.

Even when Andrew called for him, whining for something he didn’t truly want but his body screamed he needed, Neil stood unbothered. At least tried, Andrew could see the huge amount of willpower he held every time Andrew needily called for him from his nest, tone as sweet as his scent dancing in the room, desperation filling the air.

One night, with a clearer mind than in what felt like years, Andrew snuck out of his room to find Neil slumped beside his door, a blanket thrown without care on top of him. Dark circles hung under his closed eyes.

Andrew sat beside him, slumped his head on the extent of his shoulder. He fell asleep counting Neil's steady breaths, and the next morning, he woke up in his nest again, with Neil's hoodie over his pillow that he didn't remember putting in the first place, and a stack of snacks piled on his nightstand.

It was the first time distress didn't fill his heat, but quite the opposite. And the heats that came after that one were almost the same, with Neil proving himself to be helpful in other, more pleasing ways.

Abby keeps talking, but Andrew isn’t listening anymore. Neil in rut. Andrew swings the idea in his head, spins it over, angles it until he’s satisfied with the result.

“This is the perfect time for you to skip your dose,” Abby tells Neil. Andrew tunes back in the conversation and drags his eyes to the pair. “The season is over, and class is about to end, too. You can start using them again when the season starts, so the two remaining ruts don't get in the way.”

Neil nods along absently, but he’s not watching Abby anymore. No. He got his eyes set right on Andrew.

Andrew stares back at him and thinks about his past heats again —the ones he spent with Neil— and the buzzing under his skin stops being an uncomfortable itch. Now it boils through his skin in something close to anticipation—excitement.

Two more nights and Neil's rut should hit completely; those were Abby’s wise words. So the next day after Neil’s check-up, Andrew starts the engine of the Maserati with a goal in mind and takes Neil with him to the nearest mall.

Neil doesn't complain; he just hums quietly the songs streaming through the car’s radio, squeezes Andrew's hand when he drops it on his thigh, and hides his smile while pretending to look out the window.

Weekday as it is, the mall is unsurprisingly empty. Andrew takes it as the opportunity it is and laces Neil’s fingers with his own in a firm grip. Neil traces his thumb alongside his hand in response.

They walk through a long corridor in silence until they arrive at the store Andrew had in mind.

Neil freezes. “Why are we here?”

Andrew throws at him an unimpressed stare. “Rut kit,” he says flatly.

Neil's scent sours, even through his patch. He must be using standard ones. Andrew makes a mental note to buy more of the clinical kind. When Neil doesn't say anything, Andrew tugs his arm slightly and starts walking inside the store to find a cart.

Neil’s previous good mood seems to start weakening the more they keep roaming the aisles filled with blankets, sheets, waterproof sheets, and pillows, millions of pillows.

He pushes the empty cart through the corridors while Neil just looks around like a lost puppy. Andrew notices certain fabrics and items that catch Neil’s attention, but he still doesn't pick up anything. So they keep walking, and walking for what feels like hours, and the little patience Andrew possesses in his body thins out.

Andrew stops the cart abruptly and snaps, “Spit it out, Neil.”

That seems to shake Neil out of his endless walk of sorrow. He pauses a few steps ahead of Andrew and busies himself by touching a soft-looking brownish blanket.

“I don’t have any idea what I’m doing,” he finally says after a moment of silence. And quietly he adds, “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

I know, that’s why I’m here. Andrew thinks and doesn’t say it out loud, but it almost slips from the tip of his tongue.

He idly walks to Neil until he faces him. He grabs the neck of his hoodie and tugs it down. “Listen.” Neil’s eyes move immediately to find Andrew’s. Andrew tugs him closer until the next words are ghosted into Neil’s lips. “Good,” he praises him. “You’re gonna pick the coziest blankets, the stuffiest pillow, and when your rut arrives, you’re gonna fuck me in that pretty nest of yours. Are we clear?”

Neil’s eyes widen, and his face starts tinting with a faint pink. “You’re speeding my rut with me?”

Andrew is about to scoff at him, push him away, and throw a cold remark, but when he really takes in Neil’s expression, he stops himself short. He looks surprised, almost hopeful, but over everything, he looks insecure, as though he thinks he pushed too far just by asking such a question. As if Andrew would go nest-shopping with anyone just for the fun of it.

He uncurls his hand from Neil's hoodie and rests it on his nape instead. He aims for a flat tone, missing his mark when the words softly roll out from his lips as he speaks, “Yes, Neil. I’m spending your rut with you.”

Neil visibly relaxes in his touch, and his early angsty mood clicks for Andrew. He’s brushed it off, thinking it was Neil's regular dislike for shopping for himself and maybe a bit of self-aversion for his own naivety about his rut. Neil’s open eyes, full of devotion and surprise, say otherwise.

“Why so surprised?"

“I thought you didn’t want to,” he whispers, his eyes wandering from Andrew.

Andrew cradles his face with both hands, taps with his thumb against one of his cheeks, asking for his attention back. After a long blink, he does.

“Ah, ah, wrong answer,” he scolds him. “Tell me, Neil, did you ask?”

It’s ironic of him to say that, because he never offered in the first place, but Neil doesn't call out his hypocrisy. Neil’s expression twists in self-reprimand. “No. But I thought-”

“Yes, you thought,” he cuts him in. Andrew brushes Neil’s twisted lips with his thumb. “Stop saying no for me. I didn’t ask for it.”

A moment of silence passes, and Neil’s eyes roam his face until they land on Andrew’s. He sighs and rubs their foreheads together, the words sticking between the small space within them. “I didn’t want to overstep.” He pauses. Licks his lips before continuing, “I just… don’t know how I'm gonna react. It’s my first rut, Andrew.” Lastly, he adds so quietly that Andrew barely registers it, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

There is no way for Andrew to know how Neil’s rut is going to be; he's as lost as Neil himself. But he trusts him, and isn’t that so terrifying? This blind trust. But how can he help it? As if anything that Neil has done to him ever hurt Andrew, like his mere presence didn't make Andrew's existence less of an endless task of counting the seconds before his last breath, like Neil is not the reason he wakes up at all.

Taking a leap of faith for him is as easy as breathing after Neil stayed

Andrew takes a step back so he's able to see Neil's face when he asks, "Do you trust me?”
Neil is quick to answer, “Yes.”

“Then trust me when I tell you won’t hurt me,” Andrew says. With erratic hands, he turns Neil’s face to his own and continues, “Trust me when I tell you I want to be there with you. If you don’t trust yourself, trust me, Neil.”

Neil’s whisper is full of promises. “Yes. Always."

Andrew doesn’t comment on the use of such tricky words, nonexistent as infinity is. But sometimes Andrew aches for it to be real.

“You know how this works, Neil. I can’t say no if you don’t ask. I can’t say yes.”

“My learning curve is horizontal, remember? I need things spelled out,” Neil replies easily, the tension long gone from his body.

“I hate you,” Andrew says. When Neil nods in mock agreement, Andrew adds, “Next time grow some balls and ask me first, asshole.”

Suddenly, a small chuckle slips from Neil's lips and his scent blooms around him in a way Andrew is glad he will never forget: sticky, sweet—happy. Andrew puts a hand over Neil’s mouth and holds his breath. Because he’s sure that if he breathes deeply enough, he would be able to taste the words he’s not ready to hear, not yet.

He's not sure he will be able to survive them, but their taste remains sweet in his mouth.

When his rut broke, Andrew took their bags and pushed a feverish Neil into the back seat.

It was a mirror of Andrew’s heat, months apart. But now it was Neil in the backseat, curled over himself and shaking from the fever, instead of Andrew.

Shortly after dawn, they arrived at the Columbia House. Andrew carried an asleep Neil to their room and left him to sleep through the worst of the fever. He left his medication and a bottle of water on the nightstand before slipping out of the room quietly.

He had groceries to unpack and prep-meals to start, but he took the quietness of the house as an invitation to enjoy the morning and went out onto the porch to smoke, alone with his thoughts and Neil's warm scent still clinging to him—not abrasing, but familiar.

Near noon the next day, Neil found him in the kitchen sorting the rest of the groceries, and with an insecure tug on his shirt, he motioned him upstairs. There, Neil showed him his nest.

It was a mess in a way that only a beginner could manage. Shirts thrown with no real patterns, too much rough fabric inside the nest, and too little support on the sides to help it stay upright. If they got inside, it would fall apart.

Andrew glanced at him and, with a sigh, helped him.

After they finished, Neil motioned for him to get inside. Not to brag, it was a pretty solid nest; with enough soft fabrics, scents well layered, and a waterproof sheet that Neil had forgotten in the first place, it was comfy and safe and theirs.

Shortly, Neil followed him inside, asking yes or no before dropping his head heavily onto his tummy. Neil stayed dead to the world while Andrew threaded his fingers through the soft strings, a single satisfied sound escaping from his lips before falling asleep.

Andrew might have fallen asleep too, because when he opened his eyes, the room was darker and colder, the summer sun’s heat and golden glow long gone.

Andrew stretches, his jaw popping when he yawns. He rubs the spot with half-open eyes.

“You’re awake.”

Neil’s words are muffled to his skin where his shirt rode up. Andrew just hums in response and settles his hands in the back of Neil's neck, scratches his scalp, and tugs lightly at the little hair on his nape. Neil snuggles his nose up his belly, kisses it briefly.

Andrew can’t see his face where he's hiding it on his stomach, but his scent flows stronger than ever, and the agitated motions —hands roaming through the sheets as if not to reach for Andrew, hips twitching into the mattress— say enough: the peak of his rut broke.

Andrew finds himself calm, not shadows of the past looming or hiding in the corners, errant thoughts satisfactorily silent. Instead, a sort of restlessness is brewing on his lower belly, hot as the anticipation burning down his veins. He feels well rested and comfy on their nest, the smell of brown sugar and pine cocooning him, a hint of peach and condensed milk too, that he might have slipped out without noticing.

“You smell so good,” Neil says softly, before ducking and nosing up in the cloth of his sweatpants. He looks up at Andrew through his eyelashes, blue overtaken by a pool of darkness Andrew learned long ago not to fear, but to yearn for. “Can I?”

Andrew leaves out an exasperated sigh, his scent betraying his true sentiments. He tugs Neil's hair before saying, “Yes, you freak.”

Neil flashes him a toothy smile, an elongated canine catching in the fabric of Andrew’s pants. He closes his eyes and dives into Andrew's crotch. There he breathes in deeply, and Andrew feels the warmth of his breath when he exhales. he hides a low whine in his palm when Neil kisses him through the fabric, feels the moment slick drops and the sickeningly sweet smell fills the room.

“Good,” Neil mutters out in a breath before going back to leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses on Andrew's clothed cunt. Andrew clenches around nothing, feels more slick, soaking his underwear. A surprised pitched noise manages to escape from his lips when Neil drags his tongue over him. Another breathy moan is ripped from him when Neil scrapes the front of his teeth on his clit.

Andrew can almost feel Neil's grin against him. He tugs his hair again as reprimanded, pushes back into his crotch when he's too slow to continue.

It’s not enough, but he feels so close—it leaves Andrew aching for more. He feels hot all over when he realises he started moving too; his eyes prickle with shame when he presses himself back into the flat of Neil's tongue. Humping him like he’s the one in heat. He tugs harder this time at Neil's hair again, for making him feel this pathetic.

In return, Neil digs his nails into the meat of Andrew's thigh and breathlessly says, “Easy.”

Andrew softens his hold and drags Neil up by his neck. Their noses bump on the way up, and Neil's chuckle is drowned out by a hungry kiss. They keep kissing until the urgent press of hungry lips melts into something slower, sloppier.

Neil pants against his lips, his eyes tightly closed. “If you don’t stop moving, I’m gonna come.”

Andrew stops moving abruptly; he hasn't realized he started again in the first place. But now, without Neil’s kisses to distract him, he feels the heavy and hot outline of Neil’s cook pressing in the fold of his thigh. He sighs shakily and says, “Fuck me.”

Neil stops breathing altogether, brushes Andrew's hair out of his face, and kisses his forehead, a soft peck that lingers more than necessary, so Andrew shoves him aside, and with a startled noise, Neil ends up on his back. Andrew is quick to follow him, straddling Neil's hips with shaky legs.

Taking in the moment, Andrew stares at Neil beneath him, breathless and beautiful painted in moonlight, pliant and soft under Andrew's touch, eyes blown out with transparent trust and something so close to adoration—to worship.

Andrew's curled fists tremble with the force of his desire, of his want for this man, spilling out of him with no way for him to stop it. He doesn’t think he wants to stop it, anyway. Baring his vulnerabilities is easier when it comes to Neil, because there's that unsaid understanding that they won't turn it against each other. Neil proves Andrew right when he closes his eyes, his breath shaken. Just two humans full of a burning want inside them, just as afraid of it as they long for it. Scared to hurt, to suffocate the other with the overwhelming size of this shared desire, but just as a moth to a flame, they can't help but reach blindly for each other’s heat.

After sharing careful breaths, slow intakes of air filled with the smell of home and safety, with exhales full of promises and easy reassurance for the other. Neil opens his eyes, a question hanging in his mind that he quickly expresses, voice soft in a way they shouldn't be able to achieve, but they manage either way when it comes for the other. “Yes or no?”

With a trust so big it overtakes every space of his body, expands his skin, and takes his breath away, he replies, “Yes. You can touch everywhere.”

The late insecurity is now replaced by urgent hands that never stop being careful, and between awkward bumps of limbs, of cloth getting stuck in uncomfortable places, and with suppressed giddy huffs that for them are the closest to laughter, they manage to strip. The used clothes are now forming part of the nest. Andrew glares at Neil when he takes his ruined underwear and places it on top of everything.

The heat behind it fades when a soft noise escapes his lips after Neil, with a strong grip, moves Andrew further up, the tip of his cock almost catching into his slick cunt.

Andrew clings his nails on Neil’s chest, and yelps when his finger brushes just slightly over his clit. He gets him off like that, on his knees and without a place to hide his pleased groan beyond a weak attempt to muffle it with his own shoulder. He's left trembling and leaking, feeling his own slick sticking between them.

“You look so-”

Before he can finish what Andrew knows will be a dumb observation, Andrew starts moving, rubbing himself all over Neil's length, lubing him up. Uncaring of his own overstimulation. Perhaps longing for it. Neil chokes on his own breath, clasps his hand tighter onto Andrew's hips.

He starts squirming beneath him, his breath quickening by every swing of Andrew's hips, low whines falling out of his flushed lips.

“Andrew, Andrew, I’m close. Andrew-”

Andrew stops abruptly, failing to stifle a smirk when Neil whines pathetically, eyes tightly shut.

“Don’t think so.” he taps his finger on Neil's cheek, urging his attention. He opens his eyes shortly after. “You’re going to come inside me from now on. You’re going to be a good alpha for me and do as I say. Right, Neil?”

All Neil does is whine again; his face flushes with a cute shade of pink. He tries to move his face aside, but Andrew stops him just in time, with a firm grip on his jaw. “Not a single drop wasted, right puppy?”

Neil stills suddenly, and Andrew thinks he may have pushed too far, but Neil's reply, even if breathless, is anything but unsure, “Yes, Andrew.”

Andrew's smirk grows into something meaner, nevertheless still proud. “Good puppy.”

Neil’s face gets redder, but he doesn’t tear his gaze away from Andrew as he grabs his dick, hard and leaking, and sinks into it. Andrew watches with keen attention the way Neil's face crumbles with pleasure as he takes every inch of his cock, the way his eyelids flutter when Andrew squeezes around him, the way a single teardrop falls from his closed eyes when Andrew meets his pelvis.

He doesn't wait for Neil to regain his breath to start riding him, dull nails clinging to his bare shoulder for leverage. He uses all his strength when he raises, letting the gravity work in his favor on his way down, slamming heavily onto Neil. The sounds of slick skin slamming against each other fill the room along with Neil's groans, a whimper escaping from time to time whenever Andrew bounces just the right way.

His muscles strain after a while, and he loses his pace, mostly grinding down on Neil now. He collapses on top of Neil, muscles taunt, and labored breath puffs against his neck. He feels a kiss on his head as Neil runs his hands down his back and squeezes the fat of his ass. Andrew melts further into Neil, embraces him, as though they could flush their bodies together, their souls. One beating organ for both.

He does not refrain from his own greed, not anymore. Not when it’s met with the same hunger from Neil. His hands roam and pet and grab at every inch of skin Andrew has to offer, backing up obediently when Andrew tells him to, his touch hot and abrasive, but it is what Andrew expected, what he longed for.

He gets on his forearms and he kisses Neil, a languid brush of lips, before saying sweetly, “Help me? I’m getting tired, Alpha.”

A low growl thrumming from Neil’s chest, and he’s quick to provide, using his grip on Andrew’s hips to start fucking into him. A warm feeling settled on his lower belly, his chest swelling his pride for his mate. He feels a smirk tugging at his lip, a short moan slipping through them when Neil sharply thrusts into him one time, and then again and again.

He feels dazed and drunk in all of it: their mixed scent filling the air, Neil's focused frown, and his messy hair against the pillow, and his strong grasp and Neil’s now louder moans and easy praises slipping from his lips. Only for Andrew.

On the next thrust, Andrew meets him in the middle. He hides his smug grin on Neil’s neck when he whimpers in response, scrapes his teeth on his scent gland to quiet down his own whiny breaths, and the thought of sinking his teeth harder, just enough to break skin and make Neil his forever, where everyone would notice, floods his mind.

He doesn't have time to dig into the thought when Neil slurps, “I’m close, ‘Drew. Can I come inside? Can I, Andrew? Andrew.”

Who is Andrew to deny him? When he asks so sweetly, with his name rolling out his lips like a prayer, devotion pooling in his mouth.

Andrew nips a final time on his scent gland, feels Neil's knot at his entrance, but never catching, and says, “Yes, Neil. Don’t knot me.”

Those words are all it takes for Neil to come, hot spurts filling him up. Neil slips out of Andrew in a shift motion before his knot has time to sink.

As soon as Neil is out, he gets on his knees and fixates on the way white, creamy cum starts streaming down his thighs. There’s so fucking much of it that an incredulous huff escapes Andrew’s lips from the sight. Before more of it goes to waste, Andrew stuffs himself with his fingers.

He nearly whines when he curls his fingers. He feels so full and spent, but it’s not enough. Staring at Neil through his eyelashes, he begs, “Touch me.”

Neil does instantly, so eager to please. He traces his clit and presses hard with his thumb just like Andrew likes it. The bite of pain mixed with hot pleasure makes him shake, and he comes once more with a strangled cry inside his throat. He plops on top of Neil, aftershocks roaming through him.

Neil kisses the top of his head, runs his hand through the sweat-sleek skin of his back, kisses both of his hands, and cleans his dirty fingers with his tongue.

With the side of his face squished against Neil’s rapid heartbeat, Andrew regains his breath. There, Andrew recognizes the swell of Neil's knot against his belly, and just to be mean, he squeezes it with his fist. Hides his smirk in the extent of Neil’s shoulder when he hiccups, and prepares himself for a long week. He sighs contentedly anyway and leaves a feather-like kiss on Neil's jaw.

“fuck,” Andrew grits out, rubbing his face on the mattress. He bites down on the fabric when Neil sharply flicks his tongue on his hole and then pushes it in, and nearly screams when Neil starts slurping, spit adding to the mess of slick dropping from his neglected pussy.

Neil slows down, parts his ass-cheeks, and exhales a hot breath on his hole. He kisses both cheeks as Andrew squirms, nips softly at the tender spot beneath the curve of his ass. Shaking and desperate, Andrew shoves his hand behind and pushes Neil back onto his asshole. He almost falls under his own weight as Neil continues to eat him out, thighs shaking and head spinning from lack of air, but Neil's grip keeps him upright, chest down and ass up. Andrew bites down on his other hand to prevent an embarrassing noise from escaping.

It just takes one last drag of Neil's hot tongue from his pussy to his ass before he's coming, shaking and lips agape in a silent whimper. Neil leaves a last kiss on his cheek before rolling Andrew on his back.

He tucks his face in the fold of his arm, and for a moment, he just breathes in and out, deep and slowly. Neil allows it, tucks his scent in, and only rubs his hands softly on his twitching hips. Andrew hates him for knowing exactly what to do.

When his breath evens out, he finally lets his arm drop on the bed and glances at Neil. he looks wrecked, still on his knees with spit and slick shining on his cheeks and around his mouth, puffy and flushed. His hair is a mess from Andrew’s grip, his chest going up and down in shallow breaths. He smiles when Andrew keeps staring at him. In response, he bumps his side with his knee.

He doesn't think he can take Neil’s cock right now, even when it looks so mouthwatering. Flushed and heavy, a small drop of pre-come hanging on the tip. So he offers the next best thing he can think of—his thighs.

He closes them and hangs his ankles on Neil's shoulders. Neil looks confused until Andrew uses the slick on his folds to lube the inside of his thighs with his fingers.

“Andrew…”

“Sh, sh. Just take what you want,” he says weakly, and claps his thighs further together until he knows it is perfect for Neil.

Neil gets to work shortly after, lining himself up. He tenderly kisses his ankle before he starts moving. All sharp motion and brutal force. Andrew keenly watches the way his cock disappears between his thighs, how Neil leaves only the tip in before sharply thrusting back in. Andrew arches his back and sticks his thighs closer, a small whine tears off his lips when Neil thrusts again. He hadn't thought it would feel this good for him; he hadn’t imagined he would feel this lightheaded and dizzy. So drunk in lust and pine and caramel and Neil.

Neil lowly groans when he comes, his tip flushed between his thighs, the heat of his come warming Andrew all over. He sighs contentedly when he feels Neil's warm cum running down his thighs.

Neil pries his legs open and stares at his crotch with something close to awe. “Fuck.” is all he manages to say before rubbing, so slightly, Andrew's clit with his own cum. He yelps off the bed, over sensibly.

When Neil leans down, Andrew stops him with a hand over his mouth. Neil frowns, his scent almost hurts. Andrew hisses, “You had your tongue in my ass not long ago. Go wash your mouth, junkie.”

Andrew jabs his hand away when Neil licks his palm. He rubs off the wetness on Neil's face while glaring at him. And Neil just grins while he gets out of bed easily.

“Bossy.”

Andrew just huffs at him, watching how his bare ass jiggles before he disappears into the bathroom, a pleased smile tugging on his lips.

When he comes back, he falls back onto his stomach, right between Andrew's legs. Neil nudges his jaw onto his thighs, the stubble that managed to grow in the past days making him shiver. An almost sensation sparks there, and then he’s gone; Neil knows better than to tickle him.

He helps Andrew clean up then. He licks off the mess on his thighs and the little that fell onto his cunt. he eats him out again, slower this time, reverent, until Andrew comes quietly, curling over himself and tugging at Neil's hair. When he finally kisses Andrew, he tastes them both on his mouth—caramelized peaches.

Andrew manages to lure Neil into taking a shower alone while he makes breakfast. He's waiting for the coffee to be done while he cracks one last egg into the pan, when he smells pine and melted brown sugar.

He leans onto Neil's bare chest as he steps behind him, and Neil takes the permission to touch freely. He embraces his waist and drops his head heavily onto his shoulder, snuggles his nose onto Andrew's scent gland, and exhales, “smells good.”

Andrew absently continues to stir the eggs in the pan, paying Neil no mind while he keeps touching him. He's fresh from his shower and still smelling like Andrew’s soap; nevertheless, the heat radiating from his skin is undeniable. The fuzzy feeling that has been following Andrew since Neil's rut started settles warmly on his belly once again.

He turns off the gas and moves the scrambled eggs to a plate on the counter, Neil still glued to his back, hands roaming through his clothed chest. When he's done assembling Neil's breakfast, he blindly hands him the plate. Neil grabs it and steps out of his space to take the plate to the dining table. It's just a few seconds, but Andrew finds himself aching for his heat.

Before he has time to turn and join him, Neil is back, flushing himself against Andrew. His touch is hotter than ever, but it’s been a long time since Andrew stopped pretending he is not willing to burn himself in the flames of Neil's desire.

“Andrew…” he whines at his neck. He clings even tighter to Andrew, the outline of his hardening cock pressing on the fat of his ass. he kisses his neck once, twice, pants against him, hot huffs of air, his hips twitching forward, rutting himself against Andrew. He gasps as slick drops down his thigh. “Can I-”

“Yes,” he replies before Neil has the time to finish.

Andrew shivers when Neil's hands slip beneath his shirt, bites his lips when he grabs his unclothed hips, and pushes their legs closer together. Neil makes a questioning noise when he meets bare skin, shoving himself further into Andrew, his cock sliding into his cheeks through cotton fabric.

“You stole all my underwear," he whispers weakly, his voice losing the reprimand he tried to achieve when a stray hand lands wetly on his pussy.

Neil nips at his neck, drags his tongue in the small hurt, and then sucks in, and Andrew shakes on his hold. Neil asks, “Yes or no?”

Andrew answers by pushing his chest onto the counter, clutter falling on the floor from his desperation. He gets on his tiptoes, hiding his face on his crossed forearms, and arches his back. He feels his neck getting warm with embarrassment at being in such a pathetic position by his own device. Neil's caught-up breath makes it worthy.

Not soon enough, Andrew feels Neil's heat behind him again. He drags the tip of cock against his wet folds, and before Andrew has time to hurry him up, he’s pushing inside in an easy slide. Andrew feels so full like this; he feels Neil so deep inside, stretching him the right way. He’s sure he would be able to feel him if he put his hand on his belly. Neil lets Andrew get used to the stretch, caresses his twitching hips, and when Andrew gives him the green light, he starts moving.

He fucks him like that, on his belly and his ass bare to the room, he slams into him in short thrusts, the sound of him bashing into the counter, the squelch of his soaked pussy, and Neil's groans are enough to make him feel filthy—desired. They’re fucking like animals, just like the beasts brewing in their guts.

With labored breath, Neil drops his head between his shoulder blades, kisses the slick skin there when his shirt rides up, and grinds down, nearly just humping into him.

“Neil,” he grits out, asking for more. And in a weak attempt, he pleads, “Alpha…”

Neil slips out and cuts Andrew's protest short when he thrusts back in, harder this time. “Yes. Just like that,” he slurs out, spit falling from his open mouth, a few tears streaming down his flushed cheeks. He squeezes around Neil when he slides back in, and takes pride when Neil swears under his breath.

Andrew starts shaking against the counter when Neil touches his clit, his thrusts never losing their tempo. He drops his head over Neil's shoulder, blindly looking for his lips. Neil meets him halfway, and the kiss quickly dissolves into pants against each other’s parted lips when Andrew comes. Shortly after, Neil follows him, his cock pulsing hot inside him. Neil slips out before his knot has time to sink.

Andrew plops into the counter again, his cheek wetly hitting the cold granite. Light-headed and drunk in pheromones, Andrew whines, “No…”

“What?” he says out of breath, his scent picks up in worry

Andrew just glares at him over his shoulder, but he doesn't think it has enough heat in the state he’s in; Neil’s cum is still streaming down his thighs.

“Next time you're gonna knot me.”

Neil rubs his face with his hands and loudly groans. “You’re going to kill me.”

Both of them agreed that Andrew is going to take Neil's knot on his back. After a long conversation about the risks, what the other should expect, and soft reassurance, they get into it.

Neil runs his hand through his thighs, warm and familiar. He scratches inside his thighs with the dull of his nails, goosebumps rising at its wake. Neil has made him come already, too many times to count, with his fingers or with his mouth, claiming it was for Andrew’s benefit, but he knew it was likely for Neil as much as it was for Andrew.

Maybe he needed the reassurance that he can make Andrew feel good, that his touch is not damned, that he won’t hurt Andrew.

He glances at Andrew, his thumbs tapping a nervous pattern on the inside of his thigh. “You’re still sure?”
Andrew is still breathless from his last orgasm, but he finds the strength to roll his eyes at Neil. “Yes, Neil. I’m ready.” Before the words get caught in his throat, before he chokes on them, he adds quietly, “I want it.”

Neil breathes out shakily, tension crawling off his body. He kisses Andrew briefly and then nips at his neck. Andrew arches out the mattress when Neil sucks in at his scent gland, a plea almost slipping out of his lips. A plea for Neil to finally sink his teeth in, to break the skin and bond them together for a lifetime. Neil just keeps biting softly, not enough to fulfill what Andrew truly wants. He jabs at Neil’s ribs at the thought of him holding himself back from mating Andrew.

“What was that for?” he asks with a high-pitched tone.

“Nothing,” Andrew replies easily. And before Neil can dare to comment on Andrew's hurt scent darting in the air, he grabs the inside of his knee and shoves his thighs against his chest. Presenting himself for his alpha. And for the cherry on top, he lets out a breathy whine, “Hurry up, Alpha.”

Neil seems to short-circuit, his eyes zeroing in on Andrew's pussy, flushed and shiny with slick, waiting and fluttering around nothing, begging for a knot. Neil’s approving growl makes Andrew feel warm, and more slick drops right onto the mattress.

“For God’s sake,” he breathlessly says and lines himself against Andrew’s hole, bottoming out in a slick motion.

Neil fucks him like that, on his back and his legs thrown over his shoulders. He falls on his forearms with shaky arms, diving himself even deeper into Andrew. His vision whites out, and a long moan is ripped from his lips as he comes, clenching around Neil and scratching his back.

Neil doesn't stop his thrusts, and soon his knot starts forming. It catches at Andrew's entrance, and he deliriously touches where he’s stretched around Neil's cock.

“Fuck. You’re so tight. So good for me. My perfect omega,” he pants the words against Andrew's lips. Then, he hitches up Andrew's hips before saying so quietly that Andrew is sure it wasn't his to hear, “Just like that. It has to take.”

Andrew shuts his eyes tightly and sobs, legs jerking and clinging harder onto Neil’s shoulder, when the knot slides inside, lacing them together, stuffing him full with cum. A tiny orgasm shakes through him; it makes him squeeze around Neil, milking him dry.

As an afterthought, Andrew pokes at his belly, where a small bulge is visible. Then he lets out a genuine giggle, knot-drunk and dreamily, a loud purr vibrating from his chest.

He feels Neil's eyes on him, but he contentedly keeps his eyes shut. He feels Neil’s kisses all over his face—his forehead, his eyelids, his cheeks and jaw, and lastly his lips. They kiss and kiss, tongues sliding together. Minutes, hours, days pass between Neil’s soft touches and his scent, a comfortable blanket cocooning him, aftershocks still running through his pliant limbs.

Soon they would have to get out of their nest and slip back into reality, but for now, Andrew has Neil to himself and something close to happiness within reach.