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According to the internet—and the leaflets Niall got with his prescription—the suppressants are supposed to take a week to clear your system for every month you’re on them. This leg of the tour has been eleven weeks, and Niall’s been home four days, so he’d figured a fortnight more at least. Which would put his heat cycle half-way through the five weeks he and Brez will have together. He’d planned it. There were spreadsheets. But Niall’s body clearly knows he’s about to see his mate, and he’s doubtful there will even be two more days. All the signs are there: the low-grade headache, the feeling that his joints are too big, the way everything smells stronger and thicker and more. The headache will go as his heat comes on properly, his joints will start to feel oiled and sleek, and all his senses will get sharper where Bressie’s concerned, as everything else gets muted. But now, while he’s still home alone, waiting, it’s a constant buzz under his skin.
Around eleven in the morning, as he’s drying off after his shower, he gets a text. So soon now. Home in 5 hrs. Want to cook for you tonight, is there shopping in? There’s not, but Niall loves when Bressie cooks for him, and he’s feeling restless besides, so he heads out to get groceries.
He takes ages at the shops, picking out all Bressie’s favorite things, getting food easy to snack on when they’re huddled up at home together as well, then getting so much beer he has to take three trips from the car when he gets back to the flat. But it’s still forever before Bressie will get home, so once the shopping’s put away, he cleans the kitchen—even though it’s already clean—checks the plants don’t need watering—they don’t—and cleans out the bathroom cabinets.
Which is a mistake. Bressie’s plane won’t even land for an hour, and the smell of all his toiletries is rushing Niall through the pre-heat, sending him into the full clutch of it.
His balls feel heavy, like the seam of his jeans is cutting them in half, his mouth is thick with saliva, and as he walks from the en suite over to the closet to find something less constricting to change into, the slick between his arse cheeks doesn’t feel like sweat. He doesn’t spend much of the time he’s in heat wearing clothes at all, but Bressie has made him a special drawer of clothes for when he does: sweats and stretched-out yoga pants, old shirts of Bressie’s that are soft and come half-way to Niall’s knees. He likes to wear them with nothing underneath, so Brez can just slip his hands up under the hem, play with Niall’s hole, rub his balls, tug his prick, or bend him over and sink his massive cock into the wet, wanting heat of him.
And shit, shit, Niall should not have started thinking about that before he got his jeans undone.
With shaking hands, he strips out of his clothes, then looks at himself in the mirror. Despite how randy he is, he’s not in full heat yet—the hard curve of his dick is deep rosy pink rather than the dark red that heat brings, and his pupils and lips are normal size, but he can feel his pulse in the tight, hot skin behind his balls, and his fingers slip around the rim of his hole where he’s started getting wet. Never mind two days, tomorrow might be pushing it. Bressie might have to wait to cook for him. Niall doubts he’ll be hungry for food by the time his mate gets home.
An hour. And a half, so Brez can get here from the airport. Niall can wait that long. He can wait.
His favourite of Bressie’s shirts is top in the drawer, wash-worn near to gossamer, the guitar on the front so faded it’s mostly memory. Niall pulls it on, sniffing deep as it goes over his head for any hint of Bressie still on it from when he folded it and put it away after the last time they had a break to pass a heat at home together. The scent is faint, but there, or there in Niall’s memory anyway, enough he finds himself grabbing his dick through the fabric, squeezing tight, while the other hand goes white knuckled at the top of the chest of drawers in an effort not to just jerk himself off on the expensive carpet of the walk-in closet Niall hadn’t been able to stop going on about when he bought this place.
“Fucking, arseing travel,” Niall grumbles to himself, taking a deep breath, and another, determined to keep his hands off himself until Bressie gets home.
It would probably be easier if he put some trousers on, or pants at least, but he doesn’t want pants. He wants Bressie. So Niall shuts the drawer again and pulls his phone out of his jeans pocket before kicking this morning’s clothes toward the washing basket. Harry laughs sometimes at how petulant Niall gets when he’s got heat coming on and there’s no time to take the edge off, but Harry’s weird. He likes to deny himself—claims it makes it better when you finally get to fuck. Niall’s never wanted to try it. But today, coming on early, he might just get his chance.
I need you, he sends to Bressie with a flame and a grey moon emoji. Brez won’t have wifi on the plane, but he’ll get it when he lands, and at least know what to expect when he gets home. Niall sends him three more flames and the Xs for eyes emoji for good measure, then goes to get a drink. A beer might help. Cool him down and dull the thrumming want spreading out like hot treacle from the glands in his pelvis that drive his cycles. Which is honestly more detail than Niall really needs about what his body is doing, but Harry likes to know everything, and was very excited to have another omega in the band with whom to share all the facts he’d learned since his first heat revealed his status.
Come home, Niall sends, and flops down on the settee, turning on the telly to help distract him while he waits.
It doesn’t do any good. He flips from football to the cooking channel to a documentary about how clocks work, and he rests his beer bottle on the base of his dick between sips, trying to soothe it with the cold, but he just ends up rutting against it, getting unreasonably turned on by the close-ups of the hands carving tiny gears. He’s just switched over to The Turn of the Screw, a soap he’s seen sometimes in the states, where Trevor has just found out his mate is also his half brother, and the woman he thought was his sister-in-law is his mum, when his phone plays the low chuckle sound that’s his text alert for Brez.
You poor love, it says. Trust you’d be early. Why don’t you get yourself ready for when I get home? There soon.
Niall’s stomach lurches, and his prick, hard for over an hour now despite the application of chilled glass and boring television, leaks through the fabric of his shirt. He slides closed the text and thumbs the button that will ring Brez. “Really?” he asks before Bressie can even greet him. “You don’t want me to wait?”
“Oh, love, listen to you.” Niall can’t deny his voice is shaky. “I’m in the car already. Why don’t you touch yourself for me. Tell me what I’m coming home to?”
“Fuck.” Niall pulls the shirt up slow, whimpering as the wet fabric comes away from his dick. It’s much redder now than it was, shiny, almost sore looking, and he hasn’t even touched it yet. “Fuck, Brez, it came on so fast.”
“It can be like that when you’ve been suppressing,” Bressie says soothingly. “Especially when you’re still so young.”
“I thought we’d have a bit more time to catch up, before I was— That we’d have some time to get used to sharing space again.” In the two years since they’d mated, Niall and Bressie have only got to spend six months together at most, and rarely more than three or four weeks at a time. Despite their bond, Niall always worries that this will be the break Bressie decides he can’t share a house with Niall and his collections and tour souvenirs, that he doesn’t want to be in London, or wants an older omega. Someone who really understands all the things his body’s going through, doesn’t just have internet rumour and a scant half dozen cycles’ experience to go by.
“Don’t be daft. This is perfect. We’ll have plenty of time to get domestic after. Tell me what you look like.”
“I’m a mess,” Niall says. He is. He can feel the wet cling of Bressie’s shirt against his arse and the pre-come-soaked patches on his belly where he’s pulled it up, and his thighs are sticking damply to the wipe-clean leather of his sofa, skin clinging as he spreads them in response to the sound of Bressie’s voice. “I couldn’t even bear to put pants on, so I’m getting this shirt all sticky. ‘M all wet thinking about you.”
Bressie catches a ragged breath before saying, “’s’it one of mine?”
“Course it is.” Not since his first pubescent heats that he got through with his band and his own left hand, has Niall worn any shirts but Bressie’s at the height of his cycle. “Th’ one with the guitar.”
“Can’t wait to see it on you.” Bressie’s gruff voice only cranks up Niall’s need. He looks down at himself, where he’s soaking Bressie’s shirt with sweat, where his prick’s an angry red peeking out from the protective cup of his hand. He’s so lucky to have Bressie coming home to him.
“All sweated through,” he says. “You can see my chest hair. I’ve got more since you last saw me.”
“Bet you smell so good. Can’t wait to see that hair you’ve got. Been driving me wild on skype with it.”
Niall chuckles at that. Last time they’d chatted, Bressie’d made him bring the webcam right up to his chest, rub the hairs the wrong way to make the bristle, then smooth them down again. Niall’d worried, a bit, that Bressie would be disappointed in them somehow. Since they met, he’d called Niall his baby boy, had reassured him a million times how much he loved that Niall was smooth and small and narrow. Now he’s growing muscles and chest hair, he’s not the kid Bressie’d fallen in love with anymore. But Brez being so into it over skype had been reassuring, and most of the rest of his nerves about that are being consumed by his heat.
“Hey,” Bressie says. “I can’t help it if you’re the hottest little omega I’ve ever laid eyes on.”
Another blurt of precome spills over Niall’s belly. Without even thinking, he rubs his fingers through it and brings it up to his face to sniff. “God, Brez. I’m so wet. Smell so dirty.”
Brez groans, low and rumbling, sending waves of heat through Niall’s chest and down his thighs. “How do you taste?” he asks.
Niall licks his fingers, and sex and need and now explode on his tongue. Desperate for more, he sucks them in, running his tongue around and between them, catching his teeth on the middle knuckles, slurping wetly as he tries to get every hint of slick with his tongue.
“Jesus, Niall. Listen to you, lad. Listen. I’m almost there now. Ten minutes.”
“Mmmmm,” Niall moans, fingers still in his mouth.
“You opened yourself up for me yet?” Bressie says. “You want me to fuck you when I get there?”
It’s an effort to pull the fingers out of his mouth—it feels so good to suck on something—but Bressie wants an answer, and Niall wants to give him one. “Want you to open me up,” he says. “Want you to—” he breaks off on a gasp as he squeezes his nuts, gives them a little twist to keep himself in check. “To see how good I’ve been, waiting for you.”
“You’re my best boy. I’m the luckiest bloke in all of Ireland. All of England, too.” There’s a sound like Bressie covering the phone’s mic with one big thumb. A thumb Niall hopes to have wrapped around his dick soon. Or in his arse. Brez has been known to open him up on just his thumbs—one, then the other, then both, rubbing inside and out, then stretching him, hands cupping Niall’s cheeks as he pulls him open, Niall’s hips propped up on Bressie’s knees so he’s got a good view of Niall’s slick, needy hole. He’s always pulled them out before pushing in with his cock, but Niall wonders if someday maybe he won’t. His knot is bigger than the width of them, even at the knuckles, and Niall knows he could take it. He’d like that, he thinks. Feeling Bressie hold him open as he sinks inside, only slipping them out once he’s fully seated, balls heavy against the small of Niall’s back. Like he’s pulling Niall onto him almost, instead of pushing into him.
“Love?” Bressie says, hint of worry in his voice like maybe it’s the second or third time he’s said it.
“‘M here,” Niall assures him. “Just thinking about you opening me up for your cock.”
“Won’t have to think for long,” Bressie says. “We’re pulling in now.”
“Get up here, then.” Niall says. He’s at the back of the house, so no chance of hearing car doors, but he can hear the key in the lock, Bressie’s heavy tread, then the thump of his bag, and lighter footsteps as he comes down the hall.
“I’m here,” he says, stopping just inside the doorway so he’s steady on his feet when Niall barrels into him and literally jumps into his arms.
It takes a moment for Niall to get his legs secure around Bressie’s waist, for Brez to gather him close, get an arm under his arse for him to sit on, and another around his back to secure him, but all that’s done with Niall’s tongue in Bressie’s mouth. He kisses him not only like he hasn’t seen him in forever, but like Bressie’s the only source of air in the room and Niall’s been drowning. The buttons on Bressie’s shirt are pinching Niall’s sac, his belt buckle is hard and cold up behind Niall’s balls, his arse is slipping precariously on Bressie’s forearm, and none of that stops him rutting and grinding up against Bressie’s abs.
It doesn’t stop Bressie, either. At least it doesn’t stop him kissing. He’s obviously not convinced the doorway is the best place for their first round of reunion sex, though, as he’s walking them back to the sofa.
“Hold on,” he mumbles with Niall still trying to kiss him. “Just gonna—” the hands holding Niall up let go, but Niall’s clinging to him like a monkey so there’s no chance of him falling. Bressie’s fingers brush his arse, and he has just a moment to think, yes, before he realizes they’re not for him. Bressie’s… oh. He’s undoing his jeans. Which is not disappointing at all.
“Yes,” Niall says, squeezing Bressie’s waist with his thighs and grinding up on him. “Need you inside me.”
“Watch your feet,” Bressie says, and then they’re sitting down, Niall’s knees either side of Brez’s bare hips, his arse perched on Bressie’s bare thighs, Bressie’s cock standing tall and flushed, bumping against Niall’s between their bellies. Niall thinks about that cock a lot, and though maybe he’d been fantasizing it bigger than reality, but it looks massive now, the head peeking out of its foreskin, thick shaft smeared with slick where Niall’s dick has dragged against it.
“In me,” Niall grinds out, unable to tear his eyes away.
“Need to open you up first,” Bressie says, and his fingers are back, but touching him with purpose this time, rubbing over his hole, smearing the wetness over his balls, up his crack, wetting his fingers, but never quite going in.
“In me,” Niall says again, groping behind himself for Bressie’s hand in the hopes of getting those fingers where he wants them.
Brez uses the hand not teasing Niall’s hole to pin Niall’s wrist to the small of his back, but also relents, dipping one finger into Niall’s heat, and when it goes easily, sliding it inside.
Perched straddled over Bressie’s lap as he is, Niall doesn’t have much range of movement, but he can drop his hips a bit, enough to get Brez a fraction deeper, give him the idea that Niall’s not about to break. Bressie gets the picture, only taking a moment to tease with the one finger before pushing in with two. Those he fucks in slowly, advancing and retreating, twisting and stretching, and Niall’s panting, still watching Bressie’s cock bob against his own dick, which is leaking in a steady stream now, the fluid wetting both their shirts, glistening in the lamp’s light.
Restless and desperate on the sofa, Niall’d thought he was in full heat before Bressie got here, but he’d forgotten that it’s not just the need to be fucked, forgotten the way it so completely takes him over. The way he can hardly think. Bressie’s scent—the almost coppery smell of sweat, the hours of travel, his soap and shampoo and the mouthwash he’d probably used in the airport loos when he landed, and most of all the rich tang of his arousal—wraps around Niall like a duvet, and he swoons with it, his thighs spreading impossibly wider, hips easing down on the pressure filling his arse so deliciously, mouth dropping open around a groan that comes from his gut.
“My boy,” Bressie whispers. “That’s my good boy. I’ve got you.” He crooks his fingers, starts rubbing up inside where Niall’s so hot and needy and wanting, and everything else falls away. Niall’s bones, the blood in his veins, his skin and hair and the air in his lungs all become the need to fuck. Forgetting that one hand is trapped, he starts to take his shirt off, barely noticing how he struggles to get it over his head and his arms out of the tangle of it, even after Bressie lets him free. “Ready,” he chokes, kneeling up and fumbling with both hands to get Bressie’s cock between his legs.
Maybe Bressie sees it in his eyes, or smells it on him, maybe he has some alpha sense Niall doesn’t know about, but there’s no arguing Niall needs more prep, no trying to get them in an easier position, he just lifts and helps and then he’s there, the blunt, firm weight of him nudging Niall open.
Niall’s so wet, so wanting, he feels he should swallow Bressie whole, take him in as easily as he took that finger. But even desperate to be filled, his body has other ideas, and he has to work himself on Bressie’s cock, twitching, flexing, his hips in constant motion as he takes a bare half inch at a time, Bressie massaging his hole all the while, keeping him slick and wet, soothing the ache there. Omegas have a reputation for always being ready for even the biggest alpha, but most omegas don’t suppress for months at a time or go whole seasons without seeing their mates. Throes of heat or no, Niall’s still human. It will take a fuck or two before he’s used to this again.
With gravity and Bressie’s help, Niall seats himself on Bressie’s cock. His arms are draped over Bressie’s shoulders, his face pressed to his neck. It’s so much to be full like this, the burning heat of Bressie up inside him, his restless fingers still caressing Niall’s paper-thin rim, making his belly jerk, his thighs shake, coaxing more slick to drip down over Bressie’s balls and Niall’s arse. “Move, babe,” Brez whispers roughly in his ear. “Know you need a fuck.”
He does. So much. Holding tighter to Bressie’s neck, and flexing his thighs, he rolls his hips up, letting the flared crown of Bressie’s cock drag against all the pleasure spots engorged and throbbing with his heat. “That’s it,” Bressie says. “Good boy.” Niall relaxes, drops down again, more smoothly this time, his body getting used to the stretch, and the extra slick Bressie’s been coaxing from him easing the way. He takes a moment at the bottom to relish the fullness, tightening his abs, squeezing his arse and thighs, before seeking out that delicious drag again. “Good boy,” Bressie repeats, his hands sliding up to grip Niall’s hips.
The next roll of his hips Bressie helps guide him, takes some of his weight, and the next, Brez slumps closer to the front of the cushion to give himself leverage to thrust. When Niall drops down again, Bressie shoves up, and the resulting jolt of pleasure shoots out to Niall’s elbows and down to his knees.
“Please,” Niall begs, finding words amidst the sensation. “Please.” He needs Brez to pound him, hard and fast. Make him feel every centimetre of his cock. Bressie lifts him until just the wide, blunt tip of Bressie’s cock is inside him, and drops him down again, and it’s good, but it’s still not enough. “Harder,” Niall begs.
With arms wrapped around Niall’s back, Bressie lifts and twists, and suddenly Niall’s underneath him, Bressie kneeling between his wide-spread thighs. He’s still hobbled by his jeans, but that isn’t stopping him hooking his elbows under Niall’s knees and driving back inside.
The first thrust he holds back, and the second as well, while Niall’s fumbling to get his hands above his head, brace against the arm of the sofa, but once he’s done that, Bressie gives him what he’d asked for. Hard, fast thrusts, jolting over every pleasure center in Niall’s overheated body, sending spurt after spurt of precome down his dick to soak the tangle of curls at its base, coat his belly where it slaps and slips with every thrust.
It goes on and on, Niall whimpering and whining, making sounds he’s never heard come out of his mouth at any other time than heat, Bressie grunting and huffing and murmuring words of encouragement and endearment.
Niall is nothing but throbbing, burning want, the ache in his arse, the oiled-sleek pumping of his hips, his leaking, desperate cock. When Bressie finally folds Niall nearly in half so he can drive in deep and stay there, Niall’s sure he’s going to get his knot, even though Brez usually waits until the second or third mating of Niall’s cycles.
“Yes,” Niall cries out, “yes, please,” and Bressie engulfs Niall’s prick in one huge hand, bucks into him in short sharp thrusts, driving Niall into his grip until they both come, but he doesn’t tie them together.
With enviable coordination Niall’s never had after orgasm even when he’s not on his cycle, Bressie gets them arranged so Niall’s not getting crushed and neither of them are falling off the sofa, and holds him, rubbing his back and stroking his hair, cupping Niall’s whole arse in one huge hand. In the window before the mindless drive of heat overtakes him again, Niall can feel the irritating scrape of Bressie’s undone belt against his knee, the now-soaking cling of his shirt. “Why didn’t you knot me?” he asks, his voice sounding small against the breadth of Bressie’s chest. “I was ready.”
Bressie’s hand gives his arse a squeeze. “Know you were, Chief.” He kisses Niall’s forehead, the ridge of bone between Niall’s left eye and his temple. “But I’m still half dressed here, and I want to do it proper like. In our bed.”
The words fill Niall with warmth. He knows the bed in the other room is theirs, that they chose it together, but he’s spent so much time in it alone this year, and this flat isn’t where Brez usually comes in his down time when Niall’s not in London, so it’s still something to hear Bressie say it. “Our bed,” Niall repeats. He squirms enough so his dick rubs against Bressie’s abs, already getting interested again. “You gonna take me to our bed?”
Bressie’s smile lights his whole face.
“‘Course I am. You need me again yet, or can I shower off this plane first?”
Niall doesn’t mind the smell of travel on him, but he’s still in that window where he can think, and he knows Bressie prefers it when he can’t smell a load of strangers on himself, so he says, “Yeah. Shower. I’ll warm the bed up for you.”
They get up, leaving Niall’s stained and sticky shirt on the floor, his half-drunk beer on the coffee table, which is not like either of them, but they’ll clean it up when Niall’s heat has passed.
“Be with you quick as I can, love,” Bressie says as they hit the hallway. “Maybe get some waters to have in the bedroom?”
Niall remembers Bressie was going to cook for him. He hopes he’s not too hungry. Just in case, he grabs a couple protein bars with the waters, dumps them all on the table next to Bressie’s side of the bed. He can hear the shower running in the en suite. The temptation is there to go help Bressie wash his back, but Niall’s covered in come and the slick of his arousal, and he likes that too much to wash it off. He only wants to get stickier, dirtier, smell more strongly of his need and his alpha’s hunger, so he climbs onto the bed, stretches out like a starfish before bringing his hands down to caress his prick and balls.
It doesn’t take much to go from half-mast to full hard and leaking again; he doesn’t even grip himself, just rubs idly with his palm. Which gets his hand wet, like before when Bressie had him taste himself, and Niall needs, needs with every cell of his being, to taste his alpha’s cock. He listens for the shower to shut off, but it doesn’t. The sound of the pipes, the spray hitting skin and tile, water, so much water, all of it getting to taste Bressie’s skin. Niall needs to taste Bressie’s skin.
Cock stiff and balls heavy, Niall rolls out of bed and pads over to the bathroom. It’s steamy in there, but the shower’s glass surround is expensive, and it’s clear enough Niall can see through. See through to where Bressie’s massive shoulders nearly fill the space, where his legs are spread while he soaps his cock and balls, the creases of his groin, the crack of his arse. Niall’s mouth floods with saliva, and he groans, a wanting, hungry noise.
“Almost there, pet,” Bressie says, turning to let his eyes rake Niall’s body as he rinses off the last of the soap. “Gonna take you proper.”
Niall wants to say something about how he’s going to suck him, taste him, get his mouth on all that clean skin that’s just for him, but he only groans again, even more desperate sounding this time.
“There.” Bressie turns the water off, opens the shower door. As he steps out, he reaches for a towel, but Niall’s too impatient for all that. He crowds against him, herds him through the door and toward the bed. The waterproof pad is on the mattress, and water is the least of the moisture the bed’s going to see in the next twenty-four hours. Niall can dry Bressie off with his tongue.
“Need to taste you,” Niall explains, when he catches Bressie looking a bit confused. “Need to taste you now.” He pushes, not hard enough to get Bressie to go anywhere he didn’t want to go, but enough Brez gets the idea and falls back on the bed. “Gonna suck that big, gorgeous cock you’ve got.”
“Thought I was gonna put it back inside you,” Bressie says, but he’s moving up the bed, lying back on the pillows, so it’s not an argument.
“Want that too,” Niall agrees. “Want it all. But I need to suck it.” And he’s done with conversation. Bressie’s there, and he wants.
Niall starts with the drip of water nestled in the dip between Bressie’s sternum and his abs, lapping at it before giving the spot a kiss. And he should—there’s nipples right there, the soft undersides of Bressie’s arms, but now he’s had a taste, all he can think about is Bressie’s cock, so he puts a rush on it. He nibbles at the taut skin over Bressie’s ribs, bites the soft swell below his tummy button, and he’s right where he wants to be, Bressie’s cock bumping his chin, the head of it brushing his cheek. Not used, yet, to his heat responses again after suppressing so long, Niall drools a bit as he opens to take in Bressie’s cock.
The way Bressie breathes, “Look at you,” Niall doesn’t think he minds.
And then Niall doesn’t think at all. His mouth is stretched wide, his nose filled with the clean, fresh musk of his alpha’s skin, his tastebuds flooded with the salt tang of his alpha’s slick, and Niall’s sucking, sucking sucking, trying to get more of everything.
Bressie starts with his hands in Niall’s hair, but as Niall pushes himself to take Bressie’s cock deeper into the slick heat of his mouth, they slip down so he’s fingering the hinge of Niall’s jaw, the stretch of Niall’s throat, an intimate touch that brings tears pricking at his eyes even while his heat’s protected him from the tear-pricking reaction of the press of flesh past his normally sensitive gag reflex.
“So good,” Brez murmurs. “So perfect for me.” His thumbs caress the hollows of Niall’s cheeks, and his fingers follow the bulge of his cock even deeper into Niall’s throat. Niall’s floating, high on the tiny sips of air he pulls in on the up stroke, Bressie’s hips a fixed point to hold onto, but everything else a thrumming, vibrating want.
His mouth is so full it’s aching, burning, even under the soothing stroke of Bressie’s touch, and his arse is so empty he could cry. He still wants this, wants Bressie’s taste in his mouth, wants Bressie’s praise and touch, but Niall needs— he needs… something. With a whimper, he pulls off, wraps his hands around Bressie’s cock and rests his forehead on Bressie’s hip, too overcome by conflicting desires to ask for what he needs. There’s so much he hasn’t tasted yet. So much he hasn’t kissed or licked or marked with his mouth, but the urge to fuck again is getting overwhelming.
“You need me?” Bressie asks, sitting up, stroking a hand down Niall’s back toward his arse. “Need me in you?”
Niall arches, realising that he’s had his arse in the air the whole time he’s been sucking Bressie’s dick, like he’s just waiting to get stuffed. “I want,” Niall admits, arching a bit more so Bressie’s fingers stroke into the crack of his arse. “But I want this.” He kisses the line of Bressie’s groin, the top of his thigh.
“What about a plug?” Bressie asks.
Niall’s scrambling clumsily for the bedside drawer almost before the words are out of Bressie’s mouth. He has four plugs, a medium and a large he’d bought for training, because Bressie was afraid of hurting him between heats when they first got together, a small one Harry’d given him as a joke present not long after finding out Niall was an omega, and a stainless steel one a bit larger than Bressie’s cock but a fair way smaller than his knot, that Niall bought last month and hasn’t used yet. He washed it carefully and put it in its satin-lined box in the drawer only yesterday; he can’t believe he forgot about it already.
Wordlessly, he pulls it out, holds it up for Bressie to see.
“Jaysus, Chief,” Bressie says, voice rough. “That’s a thing.”
“Put it in me?” Niall asks, getting back on his elbows and knees, arse up, but towards Brez this time. “Been waiting for you.”
“Jaysus,” Brez murmurs again, but he caresses Niall’s arse cheeks, runs his thumb down the crack, pushes in with it when Niall spreads his knees wider at the touch. “It’s gonna be so heavy. You ready for that? How it’s gonna drag so deep with your arse in the air?”
Niall can only whimper eagerly, push back on Bressie’s thumb. He’d liked how it looked, liked the idea of something so unyielding, but he hadn’t really thought about the weight of it. He won’t be able to forget it’s there, that’s for certain.
With a thumb still in Niall’s arse, that hand squeezing one cheek, Bressie starts to stroke the plug’s tapered tip through the slick at the base of Niall’s balls, twisting it, getting it proper wet before pushing it up against Niall’s rim. It’s cold, the chill of it sending shivers all up his spine but doing nothing to cool the waves of heat coming off his body. And then Bressie’s pushing it in, not quite mimicking Niall’s thumbs-plus-cock fantasy from earlier, but close enough to make Niall twitch and dribble precome down his thigh.
Brez was right about the weight of it. A bare centimetre in, and barely past the narrowest point, Niall can already feel the pressure, how it wants to slip in faster than Bressie’s letting it, how it’s going to force him open and hold him that way and no amount of clenching or wiggling can stop it. It feels like it wants to find the core of Niall’s heat, rub up against it, make itself at home. And christ, Niall wants that.
With an animal growl, Niall presses his chest to the bed, arching his spine impossibly, to force his arse back on the plug. “Woah,” Bressie says, petting his flank, trying to settle him, but Niall won’t be settled. He wants to be filled, stuffed, stretched and opened, then get back to Bressie’s cock, his balls, his thighs and belly and arse.
God, Bressie’s arse. Niall wants to get his face in there, lick and lick and lick him until he’s feeling even a tenth of what Niall feels when Bressie touches him. Until he’s shaking and whimpering and calling Niall’s name. Niall’s urge to fuck when he’s on heat is close to nonexistent, but he’d eat Bressie out forever.
So long as his arse has something in it to occupy him while he’s not getting fucked.
“In,” he moans, desperate. He’d needed careful earlier, on the sofa, but his body remembers how to do this now, and he just needs to fuck. “In,” he whines, even as Bressie’s letting it slide in, deeper, wider, heaver, foreign and alien and cold, not at all like Bressie’s cock, but satisfying nonetheless, hitting all those spots calling for attention, making him feel wanted, needed, used. “In,” he gasps, as the widest point forces him impossibly open, making him fear he might split in half for the flash of a second before his rim is allowed to close around the stem at the bottom.
And then Bressie releases the base, letting Niall’s arse take the full weight of the plug. It feels huge. So much. More than Niall can take. But he moves, and it shifts inside, and Niall never wants to take it out.
Experimentally, Niall lifts his chest, goes up on his elbows, then his hands, and instead of dragging in, it’s dragging forward, toward his prostate, toward the largest of his heat glands, sending wave after wave of pleasure through his belly, down his legs. He couldn’t describe the sounds coming out of his mouth if his life depended on it. He needs Bressie to kiss him now.
Somehow, he must say something to that effect, because Brez gathers him up, turning him round and draping him across Bressie’s chest—making the plug rock and shift amazingly—and sucking Niall’s tongue into his mouth.
He’s intent and focussed with his kissing, though his hands move restlessly, over Niall’s shoulders, his back, his hips and legs, avoiding coming too near the plug, but touching everywhere else he can reach. It brings Niall back into his skin, makes him feel less like he’s spinning into some kind of void, makes him feel like he can breathe again.
Bressie tugs him back by the hair and looks him in the eye. “You good?” he asks, and Niall nods.
He’s good. And he wants to eat Bressie out before Brez knots him. “I’m good,” he says. And he gets his knees and hands under himself and edges back down the bed.
Crawling with the plug in isn’t easy, but it’s easier now Bressie’s kissed him, now he’s more used to it. He manages, between gasps and pauses as the plug shifts and settles, to get Bressie turned over and get between his thighs. As he leans in to kiss the crease where Bressie’s bum becomes his leg, the plug rocks forward again, and he ends up moaning into the meat of Bressie’s arse cheek.
“You gonna come just from that?” Bressie asks. Niall shakes his head, face still pressed to Bressie’s arse, but he’s not actually sure. The taste and smell and feel of his mate surrounding him, flooding his senses, unyielding steel—hot now in the clutch of Niall’s arse—he might.
“Would it be okay if I did?” Niall needs to be sure Bressie’s not jealous of the plug somehow.
Bressie reaches back and gives Niall’s cheek a gentle squeeze. “You’ll come again on my cock, pet,” he says. “And again when I give you my knot. What man’s gonna say no to his lover coming with his tongue up his arse?”
Niall turns to give his palm a kiss, then spreads his cheeks with both hands. Bressie hitches his hips up to give him better access, and Niall leans in to taste.
Bressie tastes amazing. Is amazing. The clean, musky heat of him is sharp and strong—both from Niall’s heightened senses and Bressie’s alpha responses to Niall’s cycle. The way his muscles yield to Niall’s eager fingers, to the press of his tongue, the sound he makes as Niall licks a stripe from taint to the padded point of his coccyx, is everything Niall craved. Wanting to savour every moment, Niall plans to go slow, but his heat won’t let him.
He aborts his second lick as the tip of his tongue catches Bressie’s hole, probing with it instead, coaxing at the ring of muscle there, trying to get his face closer, though his nose and chin are already buried in Bressie’s crack. “Brez,” he moans, nothing but a broken sound, muffled in the join of the slippery push of his tongue and the twitching muscles of Bressie’s arse, and he redoubles his efforts.
With the plug satisfying the aching hunger of his arse, it’s almost easier to concentrate on what his mouth is doing than it had been sucking Bressie’s cock before. Niall laps and licks, sucks and nibbles and kisses, gets his fingers in, two at once tugging at Bressie’s rim, his thumb rubbing up behind Bressie’s balls, getting his tongue as deep as it will go until the root of it aches. Bressie shouts Niall’s name, hauls his knees up under him and pushes his arse against Niall’s face. Intent on his task, Niall just keeps going.
Keeps going and going until Bressie’s thighs are shaking, until he’s making sobbing, desperate noises into the pillow, clutching at the sheets, Niall’s elbows, his own legs. The whole time, Niall’s rocking his hips, squeezing his arse, making the plug bump against his pleasure spots, reminding him how full he is, how much fuller he’s going to be when Bressie finally ties them together.
And that’s the thought that finally overwhelms him, makes the orgasm he’s been riding the crest of since he made Brez cry out shudder up his spine, spill onto the sheets between his knees. He bites the taut globe of Bressie’s arse, pushes himself away so he can gasp much-needed air into his lungs. “Fuck me,” he says, or something close enough, anyway. “Fuck me.”
As soon as Bressie starts to move, Niall turns and presents himself like he’d done for Brez to put the plug in, elbows on the bed, arse up in invitation. Bressie growls when he sees, hauls Niall closer by his hips. He lays one hand heavy on the small of Niall’s back, a steadying pressure keeping Niall still as he pulls the plug out with the other hand. With the heat, it doesn’t hurt coming out, orgasm just making him ready for more instead of turning him brittle and oversensitive, and his dick spasms again as the fat base spreads him wide.
And then it’s gone, and he’s empty. Distantly, he hears the plug hit the floor, but Bressie’s already spearing him on his cock, snapping his hips forward as he hauls Niall up against his chest.
He gets deep like that, so deep, Niall caught, suspended in his arms as Bressie mouths at his neck, bites his shoulder. Then Bressie’s tipping them forward, laying Niall out so he can fuck him hard and fast and perfect, pinning him between his weight and the come-wet sheets, one arm still wrapped around Niall’s waist, the other hand twined with one of Niall’s, holding on like he plans to never let him go.
Niall comes again in minutes, and Bressie fucks him through it, past it, harder in the aftermath but slower, dragging out and slamming back in. He catches Niall’s blood-hot prick in a come-slick grip. It’s so much, so much, Bressie seemingly tireless in his alpha rut.
Almost without warning, Niall comes a fourth time, howling, tears wetting his face, the sheets under him soaked with jizz and sweat and the slick his wracked and overheated body keeps making, Bressie crooning in his ear words about how good he is, how close Brez is to coming, how he’s going to tie them together and never let Niall go.
It’s all Niall wants, but he’s not sure he can take it. Even in heat, four orgasms in under two hours is a lot, and Bressie’s so big already, relentless, a hot heavy friction turning Niall’s whole insides to liquid. But, “Please,” he begs, arse clenching around the cock holding him so impossibly open. “Please.”
He drags their twined hands closer, mouthing at their knuckles, knowing he’ll need something to bite on when Bressie’s cock starts to swell. “So good, my love. So good,” Bressie says. His thumb strokes across the head of Niall’s dick as he presses a last fraction deeper, and Niall feels it start.
It’s slow at first, like Bressie easing the plug in earlier, Niall’s body opening, making room to take it. But then Bressie starts coming, hips and arse and fingers twitching as he pumps Niall full of his seed, and his knot grows, and grows, forcing his arse wide, then wider, making him gasp, bite down hard on the fingers in his mouth. He spreads his legs as if that might make room, tilts his hips into the pressure. “Please,” he says again, a thready, barely-there moan. He’s never been this full, never taken so much. Surely Bressie’s gotten bigger in the months since he’s seen him. Niall is nothing but a hole carved out by Bressie’s knot.
Then, even as Bressie’s abs still jump against Niall’s spine with his orgasm, he starts to wank Niall off.
With his omega hormones, and Bressie’s alpha pheromones surrounding him like a fog, Niall’s body reacts violently to the sensation. Heat rushes through his belly, down his legs, all his glands sing at once, and he feels as though Brez could grow forever. As though Niall’s capacity to take him is limitless. His body shakes as a fifth orgasm gathers in the pit of his belly, at his core where Bressie’s filling him completely. “Come for me, love,” Bressie whispers. “Got you so full up. Need you to come for me, now.”
Choking on sobs, his arse milking the last of Bressie’s load from his cock, his fingers nearly crushing Bressie’s much larger ones, Niall comes. His orgasm’s bigger than the first four combined, and goes on and on until finally the sparks behind his eyelids go black.
When he comes back to himself again, Bressie’s rolled them so they’re lying on their sides, Niall curled around his own prick, Bressie’s knot tying them together like a lock. It’s an ache Niall feels in his arse, in the small of his back, at the base of his dick, but it’s not uncomfortable. He moves his leg, and Bressie’s hand comes up to stroke his face. “Lost you there for a second,” he murmurs. Niall twists his shoulders so he can reach Bressie’s mouth for a kiss. Brez goes up on one elbow to help with the angle.
“Not lost,” Niall says against Bressie’s lips. Gingerly, he clenches around the knot holding him to his mate. It’s still there, still huge, still plugging him completely. “Never lost when you’re here.”
“I’m here,” Bressie says, and takes Niall’s mouth again in a hot, clinging kiss.
**
Niall’s heat lasts almost forty hours, and by the time it’s done, he literally cannot open his eyes. He’s vaguely aware of Bressie wiping him off with a warm cloth and wrapping him up in a clean sheet, and then everything is blackness.
He wakes up again eighteen hours after that, stiff and sore, still stinking of sex, and so hungry he could eat a horse. At the very least, one of those steaks they give you in Texas for free if you can finish it in the allotted time. Sun is shining through the bedroom window, and the flat smells amazing: like bacon and sausage and fried bread and coffee. He eases himself to sitting, and unwinds his cotton cocoon.
“Chief?” Bressie calls, and then he’s there, in the doorway, apron over a tight, blue t-shirt and faded jeans, holding a fish slice in one hand and a mug in the other.
“Head,” Niall says fondly, his voice cracking in his dry throat. In under three seconds, Bressie’s at his side, tea and kitchen utensil abandoned on the side so he can crack open a bottle of water. He lets Niall take it, but keeps his fingers brushing Niall’s hand in case he can’t keep steady. “I’m good,” Niall says after gulping half of it down, and his voice does sound better already.
“The best,” Bressie agrees cheekily. “Breakfast in here, or at the table? There’s time for you to get a shower first.”
“Table,” Niall says. He’s had plenty of bed in the last three days. Though it does at least seem Bressie’d managed to get under him to change the sheets. “Shower sounds amazing.”
“You’ll finish this water first, though,” Bressie says, encouraging it back up to Niall’s mouth. Niall doesn’t argue.
The shower’s even better than he expected, and by the time he’s out, Brez has brekkie all laid out.
Niall was right about the sausage, bacon, and fried bread, and there’s also beans, mushrooms, eggs, tomatoes, potatoes, and black pudding. A pot of tea waits under the cozy Niall’s nan sent him when he moved to London, and a cafetière awaits plunging.
“I bought you food to cook me supper,” Niall says, sitting down and pulling a piled-high plate towards him, spearing a mouthful of potatoes, pudding, and mushrooms. “Where’d aa’ ‘is ‘ome frah?”
Bressie laughs and shakes his head. “Who taught you manners, lad?” He gathers up his own, much smaller, bite of breakfast, chews it and swallows pointedly before speaking again. “Amazing thing about London. You can get almost anything you’d want delivered.”
“Beauty,” Niall says, then stuffs his mouth again. There’s not much more talk during breakfast, because they’re both too busy eating.
After, though, you can hardly shut them up.
Niall sets Bressie up at the breakfast bar with the last of the pot of tea, and sets to the washing up. He makes Brez—who’s not great at talking when they’re on the phone—tell him tales of his trip to Toronto and Calgary, and the gossip from back home in Mullingar, asks for news of the house Brez keeps in Dublin, and wants to hear what he’s been up to with his music. In return, he elaborates on the best stories from tour, tells him about his favorite new golf courses, and shares the worst of the jokes Harry’d collected from the American crowds. It seems Bressie’d used just about every pan they own—which considering Niall’d nearly cleared out the kitchen section of John Lewis stocking his cupboards, is an impressive feat.
Though he’d made an impressive feast, so that’s fair.
“What’s the plan for today?” Bressie asks, once Niall’s dried the last saucepan and put it away.
Today, Niall would like to curl up on the sofa and cuddle. But they’ve four and a half more weeks before Brez has to go back to Ireland, and One Direction’s off to Japan. That’s a lot of time for adventures. “I made a spreadsheet,” he admits, going a bit pink. He’s used to the boys making fun of him for his spreadsheets. “Things we should do together. Friends we should see.”
Instead of taking the piss, Brez gives him a smile and holds out his hand like maybe Niall’s got it in his back pocket right now.
Since he’s no papers to hand over, Niall inserts himself between Bressie and the counter, waits for Brez to settle his arm around Niall’s back. “It didn’t plan for my heat this early. So we’ll have to make some changes.” Niall traces the line of his mate’s mouth with a fingertip, brushes his knuckles through the scruff coming in on his cheek. He plans to make the most of every second they have together.
Brez brushes Niall’s fingertips with his lips, then presses Niall’s palm to his face. “Maybe I could help you do that,” he says, then leans in to give Niall a proper kiss.