Archive of Our Own

It’s a special kind of hurt when something once normal becomes awkward, although Kyrie really should be used to hurt of all kinds, special or no. A small concession is that his knee isn’t bothering him as he waits for the door to be answered; he can shift his weight between his feet, again and again and again, rather than focus on how weird it was to knock. Closed-fist and three raps that sounded like a death rattle.

Luka stands behind it for a few moments before answering, and he has to know that Kyrie knows, because he’s taken off the scent patches he wore during the game. Not that they did much good. Kyrie could pick the smell of his cycle out from a lineup. He inhales just as it’s opened.

Petulant and embarrassed in a way that borders on frustration, and Kyrie instantly feels his own scent match it, bolstered by Luka’s sour expression. No smile—are they past that already? Maybe Kyrie shouldn’t be surprised. Luka had set this up through Lara Beth like some sort of business transaction.

Luka is wondering if you have plans after the game, the text had said. He’s dealing with a health issue he’d like your help with.

And it wasn’t his damn hamstring, either; Kyrie didn’t need to ask that clarifying question. He had a different one:

Why couldn’t he ask me himself

Lara’s non-answer was that he was too busy, but busy is the opposite of how Kyrie would describe the man he’s following into his kitchen now. No words shared, yet, beyond a short greeting and an awkward side-hug hello. This house is near empty. Generic artwork on the greige walls, shapeless sculptures, pristine white kitchen and couch, barely lived in. In fact, the only lived-in thing seems to be the clothes Luka’s wearing, an old-ass gray Jordan set that Kyrie recognizes from cycles past. He was wearing a Lakers set when leaving the arena, but he must have changed. It’s one of the comfier ones he prefers in situations like this.

“Water?”

“Sure,” Kyrie says, unsure of where to stand. The couch almost looks like another sculpture, meant to be appreciated in ways other than touch. He hovers instead.

The water is for both of them. It gives Luka something to do in this idleness, and Kyrie something to do with his hands. He holds the glass with both hands, and Luka doesn’t adjourn to the kitchen, so neither does Kyrie. He stands there and sips.

Luka is leveling an even stare at him and has been for a while. He’s thrumming his fingertips against the countertop like Kyrie’s holding him up, or something.

So Kyrie scents some annoyance, although keeps it out of his voice. “Good game.”

“Cut the shit,” Luka spits.

Accosted when he’s here as a favor. Kyrie scoffs. “Yeah, okay. See ya, man.” He sets the glass down.

Luka folds instantly, as Kyrie knew he would. “Wait,” he growls, sparing a hand to rub his face. “You’re just doing that thing, okay?”

Kyrie narrows his eyes. “What thing?”

“The thing where you scent one thing and say another,” Luka bites, canines sharp and crooked, as always. “Just say what you wanna.”

Kyrie smiles, no teeth. “You know what?”

“What?”

“You’re doing a fucking ‘thing,’ too, alright?”

Luka chuckles dryly. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. The thing where you treat me like shit because your hormones are out of whack.”

Luka’s rage flares. “Don’t fuck with me.”

It hits Kyrie’s nose like soot. “Careful what you say,” he growls, letting his gaze drift between Luka’s legs. “Because I just might not.”

“You wouldn’t have come here if you weren’t gonna,” Luka growls back, calling Kyrie’s bluff.

And therein lies the problem. Kyrie’s run out of cards to play with him, and Luka’s in the same boat. Fuckass boat, too. Holes in the hull. Kyrie gives it an hour, tops.

“Yeah, I’ll fuck you,” Kyrie admits. “Lara Beth to thank for that.”

This does make Luka look embarrassed. “I was busy.”

“So I heard,” Kyrie says, picking at his beard. “Too busy for suppressants?”

Luka pulls at his collar. Kyrie allows himself to casually size him up for telltale signs of arousal, now, because both of their cards are on the table, and the purpose of this visit has been spoken aloud. The first is, and always has been, redness. Red in the face, some in the eyes. Bloodshot. Scent is second, heightened and hormonal in all the right ways, stroking Kyrie’s ego and dick in equal measure. It’s always stronger during his heats and tonight is no exception. Third is the fact that he keeps picking at his sweats between his legs as they stick to his thighs, no doubt shiny with slick underneath his layers. Kyrie licks his lips and lets his gaze drift back up to his face.

“You know suppressants only do so much,” Luka mutters, skin shiny from sweat despite the shower he took after the game. “For me, at least.”

Yeah, Kyrie knows this. He wonders what Luka’s heats would be like if he wasn’t on suppressants so strong they’re legally classified as tranquilizers.

Kyrie hasn’t spoken, so Luka does. “How about you?”

“What about me?”

“Are you in rut?”

“Last week.”

Luka nods shortly. “Fun trade deadline.”

Kyrie would laugh if he couldn’t read Luka like a book. “I’m not the only one who signed an extension.”

“Are you the only one who got fucking betrayed? Oh, yeah, that’s right—”

“What does that have to do with anything? Huh? Just ‘cause you’re traded I can’t take the best deal dropped in front of me? Gotta follow an omega I’m not even mated to—”

“You don’t get it,” Luka interrupts, voice cracking. “Have you ever considered I'm better off here? Med staff isn't in my fucking ear, huge market, fucking...opportunities. My arm was twisted, I—”

“Arm was twisted by a cool $165 mil, that’ll do it for anyone, I guess—”

“Shut up. Twisted by the—”

“Lara Beth? She who’s been helping you through your heats? Because—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Luka yells, face somehow even redder in his hurt. “By the look of it. Don’t you get it? If I don’t sign the contract, it makes the trade look good for Dallas. Makes it look like the Lakers lost, ‘cause they just got a few months of me on a fucking bum leg—and it has to look bad for Dallas—”

“Who gives a fuck about how it looks?”

“Me! And—and my pe—”

“Don’t say your people,” Kyrie scoffs. “Don’t offload this. Your fucking decision. You’re a grown man. Don’t act like there was a gun to your head.”

“What about you, huh?” Luka seethes, stepping up to him, now. Kyrie doesn’t flinch. “Gun to your head when you—”

“This was to my head.” Kyrie points at his leg without looking at it. “Thirties coming off of an ACL. You want me to put myself on the market? Who the fuck bites?”

Luka shoves Kyrie in the chest with two hands. “Me!”

The shortest bit of silence. Luka’s breathing hard and Kyrie is still.

“You,” Kyrie says, voice thick.

“Yeah,” Luka mumbles, looking away. He’s antsy. “I would have—I would have seen what I could do to get you here.”

“Yeah, right.”

Luka chews his hips. He doesn’t correct Kyrie. There’s no need.

“Fun foreplay,” Kyrie mutters instead.

This earns him a snort. Luka’s eyes eventually find his again, and Kyrie catches just how dilated his pupils are. “Yeah. No notes. Can we do this, now?”

Kyrie sighs. “Sure. C’mon.”

He leaves the kitchen. Luka is still for a second before following. In fact, Kyrie makes it all the way back to the stairs before Luka trudges after him. It’s almost like he’s hesitant. It throws Kyrie off, but he doesn’t comment. If Luka doesn’t want to talk about shit, then neither does he.

“Which room?” Kyrie calls, walking a good ten feet ahead of Luka up the stairs rather than racing him up it. This, too, is unfamiliar.

“Left.”

Kyrie pushes his way inside. Another barebones setup; big bed, white sheets, spare furniture. Untouched—Luka hasn’t been nesting, which isn’t typical of him, especially when his heat is this far along.

“When did your heat start?” Kyrie comments as he steps in, staring at the bed.

Luka’s behind him. “Two days ago.”

Kyrie grunts noncommittally, then sits on the edge of the bed to begin taking off his socks. As he does, irritation flares in his nostrils as Luka scents above him. Kyrie sighs, the sound low in his chest like a rumble. “Use your words.”

Luka crosses his arms, plainly frustrated. “Can you just set up, first?”

Kyrie gestures at his sock on the floor. “I’m set up. I’m getting set up.”

“No.” Luka crawls into the bed, then lies face down with his head in a pillow. His hair is covered with flop sweat that stains the fabric. He’s acting difficult in the way he tends to during heats. “Set up.”

It clicks in Kyrie’s head. “You want me to nest.”

Luka grunts into the pillow.

Kyrie rolls his eyes. “Come on, man.”

“You used to do it,” Luka says, turning his head to the side.

“Yeah, when this was a regular thing.”

“So you can’t do it now?”

“You’re not my omega.”

Luka’s voice turns small. “I wasn’t then.”

“You were closer to it,” Kyrie argues. “Because it was a regular thing.”

“Kyrie,” Luka mumbles again, although this time, it’s closer to a whimper. His hips move against the mattress beneath him, and a hand sneaks down his sweats. So, he’s humping the bed a little. Trying that strategy. “Just do it.”

Kyrie grits his teeth. “Where’s the stuff?”

It’s in the closet, which further makes Kyrie wonder why Luka couldn’t just walk across the room and do this himself. However, he’s gotten this far. Kyrie starts picking through the pillows and blankets while Luka continues gently rubbing himself against the bed behind him.

“This how you’ve been getting through it, huh?” Kyrie quips, masking his arousal behind his tone. He knows the sounds Luka is making right now far too well, even if it has been over a year.

“Nah,” Luka responds breathily.

“Who?”

Luka hesitates. “Marcus.”

Kyrie’s hands tense involuntarily against a pillow. “Huh.”

“Yeah,” Luka sighs—he’d been holding out until this point. Luka’s really working himself up behind him, based on the octave of that sigh. Kyrie’s gotta move this along. “He…he’s professional about…ah…stuff like this.”

Kyrie says nothing. He’s picked out all the bedding he knows is Luka’s preferred and starts dragging it out of the closet.

“Wh…what about you?” Luka asks.

“Just…med staff set me up with someone. Someone discreet.”

Luka makes a frustrated sound into the pillow. Kyrie’s standing at the edge of the bed, now, so he’s back to seeing what Luka’s doing, slowly humping his hips forward into his hand to regulate himself. It makes Kyrie’s throat go dry and his pants grow tight.

“Flip over,” he mutters.

“Huh?”

“Just…” Kyrie reaches forward and gives him a little nudge. “Flip. I’ll nest if you flip.”

“Fine,” Luka breathes, grunting before slowly maneuvering to his back. He still hasn’t undressed, which perhaps explains why his face is even redder than before. He hikes his legs up, one hand still down his pants. Based on the motion Kyrie can see from it, he’s not fingering himself, just rubbing his clit. The other arm, he throws over his forehead. His eyes are shut.

Kyrie almost calls him good before he remembers. Instead, he says, “Thanks.”

Luka is silent but for his heavy breathing.

So Kyrie works around him. Luka’s particular about his nests, although he tends to give Kyrie some grace. Back when this first started, in fact, Luka didn’t make him nest at all. It was summer 2023—preseason—and Luka’s heat came a week early, spurred on by Kyrie’s overwhelming rut. Kyrie has strong ruts; he’s always been told that. That his scent and pheromones boil and ferment, smoking out the senses. It had never jumpstarted an omega’s heat before, however. It was probably because of how closely together he and Luka had been working that summer, on top of the fact that Kyrie doesn’t take blockers. Never has, never will. Kyrie was apologetic when the report got back to him about Luka’s condition and he had texted Luka to ask if there was anything he could do. There was.

That first time was almost as perfunctory as this one. Professional. Luka had been mostly silent and stressed during it, nervous about having sex with a new alpha and overwhelmed by the strength of his heat, which was unlike any he’d had before this. It took a few rounds for him to relax and sink into it, realizing that Kyrie could match him beat-for-beat. Made sense, as their hormones were peaking at the same time. They chatted during the knots, except for the last one, during which they fell asleep.

The second cycle, Luka got bossy. Kyrie showed up smelling like falafel and Luka noticed immediately, grilling Kyrie on when he’d eaten and why he didn’t bring any dinner for him. A DoorDash order to the falafel place later and Kyrie learned that bossiness extended to the bedroom, as well. Fortunately for the both of them, this was also something Kyrie could match beat-for-beat.

Speaking of: “Where’s the body pillow?”

“I’m getting there,” Kyrie snaps. He’d started with the blankets, tucking extra ones underneath the covers at the foot of the bed and the edges. That way, a small, soft hump of blankets surrounds Luka on all sides, which he likes.

Luka thrashes his head, then reaches out a hand and makes a grabbing motion.

“Jesus, let me…” Kyrie turns to his pile of bedding. He grabs two standard pillows first, tucking one underneath Luka’s knees and the other under his head. Luka’s still pouting at him, his dour mood betrayed by the fact that he’s purring in the back of his throat as he relaxes into the cushions. Kyrie rolls his eyes as he takes off his shirt and picks up the body pillow, starting to fit his shirt over the top of it.

“Wait.” Luka sits up and takes his hand out of his sweatpants. Kyrie sees how it shines with slick, and he licks his lips involuntarily. Luka gestures for the pillow with both hands, a silent demand: now.

“Hold on,” Kyrie orders again. The shirt’s not yet over the pillow.

“I said wait.” Luka snatches the pillow, and Kyrie growls in frustration. However, the motion got some of Luka’s slick on his finger, so he pops it in his mouth while he waits for Luka to do whatever it is he wants to do.

Luka pulls the shirt off the pillow and brings it to his face, then inhales. He huffs in frustration. “When did you put this on?”

Kyrie takes the finger out of his mouth. “After my shower.”

“Fuck you,” Luka moans, throwing the shirt and pillow on the ground and turning onto his side, facing away from Kyrie. “Why did you shower? You didn’t even play.”

Now, the skin on the back of Kyrie’s neck stands up as his instincts react to a disappointed in-heat omega. “Because I had a workout before the game, then I Ubered here,” he says to defend himself. “You wanted me to get into someone’s backseat stinking like sweat?”

“No,” Luka mumbles. He’s not even jerking off again, which Kyrie has to change. “It’s fine you changed for that, I don’t care. Just, where are your workout clothes? Don’t tell me you had someone wash them.”

Typically, Kyrie would.

For one reason or another, he didn’t get around to asking someone today. “My bag. Downstairs.”

“Well, go get them,” Luka snips. He pulls the bottom of his hoodie up into his mouth so he can gnaw on the neckline. His arms are crossed.

“Fine,” Kyrie relents, kicking the body pillow as he makes his way to the door. “I’m going to the kitchen, too. Where are your Liquid IVs?”

Luka gestures weakly ahead of him. Kyrie notices, for the first time, that two water bottles are sitting on the nightstand, with two ripped-open packets of Liquid IVs next to them. The flavor is passion fruit—Kyrie’s favorite.

Kyrie’s heart skips in his chest. “Oh. Thanks.”

“Get the shirt.”

Kyrie’s back in a minute. He picks the body pillow up off the ground and takes a moment to fit his workout shirt over the top of it, the gray material plainly discolored with sweat on the underarms and lower back. That task complete, he tosses the shirt-wearing pillow next to Luka on the bed, who instantly turns over and hugs it with all four limbs, nosing into the sweat stains and sighing in relief. He tucks it between his legs and starts humping it as Kyrie continues nesting. He still has to tuck some towels under Luka to spare him some mess later.

“You get Marcus to do the shirt thing?” Kyrie says at one point, trying to keep his voice as even as possible as he lifts and maneuvers Luka’s body to set out the towels.

The shirt thing was Kyrie’s idea. He brought it up the third time he and Luka had rode through their cycles together, because when Luka’s in the midst of breedbrain, he gets upset when he can’t have his nose directly in alpha pheromones. That’s generally fine, but it becomes complicated when it conflicts with some of breedbrain’s other instructions for him. Namely, Luka tends to like to be knotted from the back, but he can’t exactly be huffing Kyrie’s scent straight from the source when he’s face-down in his pillows. Kyrie had offered to dress a pillow up in his clothes for Luka to hump or hold on to, and Luka was embarrassed at first.

“Like it’s a…” Luka waved a hand around. “What is the word? It stands in fields of corn.”

“Scarecrow,” Kyrie said with a smile.

“I’m not a crow,” Luka had said.

“No, you’re not,” Kyrie agreed. “You’re an omega I care about and I think you would like it. Let’s give it a try.”

They had, and Luka did like it. It became a habit, and Kyrie really wants to know, for some reason, if that habit’s carried on to the other alphas in Luka’s life. Unfortunately, Luka’s not very coherent right now. He’s shifted so that he’s lying prone on the body pillow, although his hips still jerk into it, held tight between his knees. He has a blissed-out look on his face, but his eyelids flutter open at the sound of an alpha’s voice. “Huh?”

“Marcus,” Kyrie says, finding it suddenly hard to speak over the sound of Luka’s soft little snuffling sounds. “Do you…with the…?”

“Don’t talk about Marcus,” Luka whimpers. His eyes close again. “Mm…nest is good. It’s all good. Need…Kyrie, can you just—”

“Yeah,” Kyrie says quickly, stepping out of his shorts and briefs. He climbs onto the bed and Luka suddenly lifts his hips completely off the pillow, presenting himself. He’s slicked completely through the sweats, and Kyrie comes up behind him, breaths short as he runs a hand between Luka’s thighs, against his pussy, then forward to his clit. He pets it through his clothes and Luka whimpers again, trembling. “You want me to eat you out?”

Luka shakes his head into the pillow, then has to lift his face from it to growl. His tongue falls from his mouth and he licks at the pit of the shirt. “Just—could you just—”

“Sure,” Kyrie says, voice shaky. He tried to avoid thinking about it during the nesting process, but it’s unavoidable now: Kyrie’s a little too turned on. He’s hard, but his knot is also already swelling at the base. It’s a Pavlovian response to Luka, to all of this, a situation he knows too well. “What clothes do you want off?”

Luka likes the alpha to take off his clothes, which Kyrie knows. Kyrie also knows that Luka’s answer typically hints at the position he wants: More clothes off, more intimate.

“Just…just…” Luka hisses as Kyrie continues petting him. “The…pull my pants down. Just to my knees.”

Kyrie whimpers in disappointment and his knot nearly deflates. That should be something he’s happy about; it’ll prevent him from knotting the air before he can get it into Luka’s pussy. However, Luka’s answer was a hit to his pride. That’s about as few clothes taken off as Luka could possibly ask for. Why that bothers him, he doesn’t dwell on. He just grits his teeth and follows the instruction, backing up to dance his fingers beneath Luka’s waistband and pull his sweats and gray-blue boyshorts below his ass. The sight makes Kyrie feel ravenous, but he wrestles those feelings down by letting himself get close to what he wants, but not quite: Dragging his teeth down the curve of it, gently.

Luka gasps and pitches forward as Kyrie’s teeth graze over an old scar, one Kyrie left there. “Jebem ti život,” he mutters. “Kyrie. Alpha. Fuck. Jebote, please.”

Kyrie pulls back. Luka’s called him alpha, which he hasn’t done in over a year. Which he only does when he’s desperate enough for embarrassing formalities. It itches a part of Kyrie’s brain. Luka is being good, he’s being polite and submissive and good, and God, Kyrie wants to eat him out. However, Kyrie knows the fact Luka said no now means he won’t want it at all tonight. He sometimes wants to be eaten out before getting knotted, but never after, maybe because his pussy is too sensitive then. But right now, Luka’s pussy is flushed and plump beneath coils of coarse hair, and Kyrie wants them in his teeth. Wants to pick them out later, weeks later, wants to still be finding them between his fucking molars. Right now, Luka’s slick is dripping freely, coating his inner thighs, which are quaking, thick and plush, Kyrie leaves marks where he grips them, he’s snarling, he’s salivating, he’s fucking starving—

“Kyrie,” Luka cries out. He spreads his thighs and arches his back, presenting harder, pressing his backside up into him. “Stop fucking around. Please please please please please—”

“Hush,” Kyrie mutters. He straightens up, sitting on his knees so he can run his hand up Luka’s lower back, underneath his hoodie, to his shoulder blades. When there, he gently squeezes the nape of his neck. Luka gasps and pushes back against Kyrie’s dick but stays silent, as ordered, other than his muffled moans into the pillow. Kyrie drags his dick between Luka’s thighs, up against his pussy, to coat it in slick. Luka shakes harder. Kyrie grows harder. “Hush. I got you. Okay? I’ve got you. Just—there it is. There he is.”

He’s slid himself in but he can’t thrust right away. Can’t. He’ll cum too soon. It’s because Luka’s pussy instantly clenches down on him, locking muscles already squeezing like puzzle pieces sliding into place, like a three-point shot that’s all net. Familiar in the worst way. Has it really been a year? More? Kyrie sets a pace and it’s like they’ve never stopped; every knot he’s given him bleeds into the next, and the next and the next. He steadies his grip on Luka’s neck, shoves his face into that pillow like he’s done dozens of times before. Luka yips and groans and fucks himself back on Kyrie’s dick every time Kyrie tries to take a breather, insatiable, he’s always been fucking insatiable—

“Fuck me, Kai. Knot me,” Luka begs in that familiar voice. “Makes me feel good. Yeah, yeah, yeah, alpha—you—” He bites the pillow again, lathing his tongue over the fabric of the shirt. His knees clench and he tries to shove the pillow up between his legs, likely so he can get some pressure on his clit. That’s Kyrie’s job; he reaches forward, under, finds it, rubs it with two firm fingers—Luka’s pussy tightens and he tenses—

“Relax,” Kyrie urges, trying to use his stern voice even though he’s barely holding on, the sound of his hips slapping Luka’s ass and thighs all too distracting. Kyrie spares a hand to rub over Luka’s thigh, the muscles there stiff. “Relax, Luka, can you relax for me?”

“Fuck me, Kyrie, just—”

“You’ll cramp up,” Kyrie reminds him, panting through his thrusts. “Relax your muscles. Relax your thighs and I’ll knot you. Okay? You always cramp when—”

“Damnit, Kyrie! Can you please just fucking knot—”

“Don’t bitch at me,” Kyrie warns, giving Luka’s clit a deeper rub to encourage some compliance. Luka sobs and relents, finally growing lax underneath Kyrie. Kyrie feels his pussy contract and yield, his thighs growing doughy instead of tensed, there, that’s it. “That’s it. Good boy. Good—”

The word catches in Kyrie’s throat as he finally burrows deep and lets his knot get trapped inside, the head of his dick nestled against his softened cervix. He moves his palm to Luka’s belly, feeling it go from soft to hard as he swells with cum. Luka hasn’t quite hit his peak yet, so as he enjoys the feeling, he refocuses on working his clit until Luka finally howls and tightens, and his muscles lock them in place. There. Just what the doctor ordered.

Kyrie’s vision is spotty when Luka collapses, so he isn’t coherent enough to lift himself off of Luka’s body. They stay like that for a minute, Kyrie on top of him, until Luka grows impatient and gently turns them around, bringing the body pillow with him so he can hug it as he’s knotted from behind. Kyrie helps by holding up his thigh until Luka can get the pillow tucked between his legs.

“Okay,” Luka pants. “Okay. Yeah. That’s good. What I needed. That’s good. Thank you.”

“Uh-huh,” Kyrie mumbles deliriously into the back of Luka’s neck. It’s sweaty. He burrows his face in there to inhale it. “No problem.”

Silence settles between them, other than Kyrie’s sniffing and occasional licking. This knot will last about five minutes and they both know it. As the peak of their climax passes, it grows a little awkward again, made especially evident when Kyrie realizes he’s drooled all over Luka’s neck. He pulls back in shame, then clears his throat, which cools the drool in a way that causes Luka to full-body shiver.

“Sorry,” Kyrie mutters.

“You’re good,” Luka whispers back.

It’s only been a minute. They always talked during knots, before, when they weren’t napping.

They should be able to at least fake politeness. “You…uh…usually go to Marcus’s for your heats, or stay here?”

Luka clenches in on him and Kyrie hisses. “I said don’t ask about Marcus.”

Kyrie grits his teeth. “I’m just wondering—”

“How would you feel if I asked about your mystery medical omega? Huh?”

Kyrie wouldn’t feel much of anything at all, actually, because that omega doesn’t exist. “I’d answer your questions.”

“I don’t have any questions,” Luka bites. His hormones smell slightly more balanced, but just that—slightly.

“I’d answer them if you did,” Kyrie says. Kyrie’s good at lying on his feet.

“Just like how you answer my calls?”

Shit. Kyrie’s face grows hot. The sweat beading around his hairline itches and he wipes, then scratches, then rubs at the offending skin. More silence.

“Wouldn’t kill you to answer once or twice,” Luka mumbles when Kyrie doesn’t speak up. “I’ve memorized your voicemail message at this point.”

“You…you haven’t called in a while,” Kyrie says quietly, the weakest defense.

“Yeah,” Luka says. “That’s called giving up.”

This isn’t the time. This isn’t the time or the place for Kyrie to try and explain to Luka what, exactly, he felt every time he saw Luka’s name light up his phone after the trade. How each ring felt like it snapped something inside him, something taut and irreparable. Longing too strong for words. That’s it: There were no words, so there was no need to answer. Not perfect ones, at least, so Kyrie picks some less-than-perfect ones to use right now: “Sorry. Busy.”

Luka’s rage and pain stinks like sewage. It causes Kyrie’s knot to flag about a minute early. He pulls out, gently, then helps Luka turn so he can lie on his stomach. This time, Luka discards the body pillow, shoving it a few feet away from him. That hurts, too, but Kyrie has work to do, so he tries to ignore it. He grabs one of the Liquid IV bottles to sip on, then pulls Luka’s sweats back up and straddles his legs so he can massage his thighs. As hard as Kyrie tries to get him to relax, Luka’s thigh muscles still get sore after a strong orgasm.

“You done for the night?” Kyrie asks quietly, finishing with his water and wiping his mouth on the back of an arm. “Or do you need another?”

Luka’s still sulking, but he’s not too proud to nod.

“Okay. You drink up, too.”

Luka grumbles and pushes himself out from under Kyrie, sitting with his back against the headboard. Kyrie passes him the other bottle and sits next to him while Luka drinks, likely leaking cum and slick down into his underwear, making them absolutely filthy. If it were up to Kyrie, Luka would just be bottomless right now, but Luka usually gets the chills if he isn’t clothed during his heats, so.

“Alright,” Luka announces when he’s done with the drink. He tosses the empty bottle on the ground, then shuffles back down the bed, staying face-up, this time. He folds his hands over his chest and stares at the ceiling rather than Kyrie, who’s still motionless besides him. “Pants off is fine now.”

“Okay,” Kyrie says, getting between Luka’s legs and to prepare to fuck him again. Luka’s face is pinched and unhappy when Kyrie takes his dick in hand, however, and Kyrie knows that look. “Just tell me what you want.”

Luka scrunches his nose up. “No.”

Kyrie huffs in frustration. “I can’t read your fucking mind.”

“I don’t wanna talk anymore.”

“I won’t fuck you if you won’t tell me what you want.”

“Jebo ti pas mater,” Luka mumbles, covering his face with both hands.

Kyrie narrows his eyes. “What’s that?”

“Means…means shut up.”

“I bet it does. Luka,” Kyrie says, putting a hand atop both of his knees. “You’re clearly not telling me something. What do you want?”

“Want…ugh. Would you eat me out now?” Luka asks, humiliated.

“Oh,” Kyrie breathes.

“I know you just came in me.” Luka is blushing hard, avoiding eye contact. “And you think cum smells bad or whatever. But maybe just this one time you could…” He trails off.

Yes, this is something Kyrie has said before. He’s realizing now, however, that Luka has misread it entirely. “Is that why you always wanted head first or not at all?”

Luka’s cheeks puff out in embarrassment. “Yes.”

“You—because you thought I wouldn’t want to do it after fucking you?”

“Well, yeah.” Now Luka looks frustrated. “You literally told me—”

“Other alphas’ cum stinks,” Kyrie blurts, sounding a bit wild. “It’s, like, an instinct thing. A pheromone thing. My brain doesn’t like the smell of other alphas’ cum because, like, it’s competition. Means someone else came in you.”

“So?”

“So my cum is whatever!” Kyrie shouts, louder than intended. “My cum smells fine to me! It kind of smells good! Luka, how many times have you wanted me to eat your pussy after a knot but said no because of this?”

Luka shrinks into his hoodie. “I…I don’t know. A couple times. A few.”

“A few?!” Kyrie wants to scream. He could have gotten his mouth all over Luka’s pussy a few extra times back in the day and Luka wasn’t asking because of this dumb misunderstanding.

“What?” Luka laments, sweating profusely.

Kyrie tries to temper himself. “Nothing. Nothing. I’ll eat your pussy. I’ll eat it after you’ve been knotted as long as it’s me who knotted you. Alright?”

“Fine, whatever,” Luka mumbles, clearly wanting to move this along.

“No, say you get it,” Kyrie snaps. “If I’m the one fucking you, I’ll give you head. Whenever. Before knot, after knot. Full of cum, dry as a bone. I don’t care. Do you get it?”

“I get it, I get it,” Luka says, more than a little annoyed. “Let’s get started now, then, hm?”

“And don’t get smart,” Kyrie says, pulling Luka’s pants back down, and all the way off, this time. He likes the ass view, sure, but this one is his preferred. Not that he’s in a position to be picking and choosing. Regardless, Luka’s pussy opening up for him at this angle is about as pretty as a picture as he could hope for. Prettier, because it’s still leaking with cum and that cum is Kyrie’s. He gets a pillow beneath Luka’s lower back, bends Luka’s legs at the knees and plants them on the bed a little roughly, maybe to prove some inane point, and then lowers himself in.

This, too, is something Luka tends to be particular about. Kyrie used to receive a lot of instructions when between his thighs like this, often delivered in a faux-unbothered, dry tone as Luka critiqued his performance in the same way a coach might rattle off shooting splits. It’s been a year and maybe Kyrie should need a refresher from him on how he likes it, but as soon as Kyrie’s kissing up against his clit, inhaling the raw musk of him and feeling the hair tickling his face, he realizes this is one of those things you don’t forget.

“Oh, shit,” Luka groans when Kyrie gives him that first firm lick, just the way he likes it. His hands fly down to grab Kyrie’s head. “Fuck.”

It’s sloppy. There’s not just slick down here but semen, and Kyrie wants to add more mess to it, so he pulls back to spit. At that, Luka gasps, clamping his thighs shut.

Kyrie could laugh at him trying to play coy after all they’ve been through. He snarls rather than says anything, and Luka obediently parts his legs with a whimper. Pleased, Kyrie runs a light finger through the spit to tease him, then leans forward to engulf his lips up against Luka’s mons so his tongue can lap just at where Luka wants it most. Luka yips when Kyrie adds a finger, then starts rocking down on his face.

“Stay still.” Kyrie pulls off to make the order, putting a firm hand on Luka’s belly. Luka grunts in disappointment, fisting his hands in his own hair rather than Kyrie’s. “I’m trying to focus.”

“Focus?” Luka moans. “I know you know how to do this! Stop fucking with me!”

“And be quiet,” Kyrie says. He understands why Luka might not think he’s serious—part of helping someone through a heat or rut is saying things that neither person really means, just to placate their hormones. Usually that’s breedspeak, which does wonders at calming down an in-heat omega whose body is desperate to be pregnant. Luka’s practically fluent in it. However, right now, Kyrie’s not engaging in mindless breedspeak. He needs Luka to be still and quiet so he can commit the taste and feel of his pussy to memory, just in case this is his last time here. “Tell me when you’re ready for my dick again but that’s it. Quiet.”

“Fuck you—ah, right there right there right there—”

Kyrie would say something smug if he weren’t rolling his tongue against Luka’s clit right now while pushing in two fingers up to the knuckles. It’s a few more minutes of this, with Luka trembling with the restraint of holding back as Kyrie doubles-down on trying to taste the whole of his pussy with his mouth, until Luka’s caving.

“Dick,” Luka sighs, too far gone to be embarrassed at being reduced to this. “Need your dick. Fuck. You’re so good at that. You’ve always been so good, Kyrie, knot me again, breed me, need your cum now.”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Kyrie smirks as he pulls back, the lower half of his face covered in slick. He drags himself up the expanse of Luka’s body, sucks up into his neck as Luka bares it. “That’s what I wanna hear.” He’s dragging his dick up and down, up and down the seam of Luka’s pussy, and he’s still tasting it, here, up against his neck, tastes him everywhere, Luka’s thighs part and he puts it in again and Luka’s looser this time, pliable, he wants to be bred and Kyrie wants to breed him and—

“Hit me,” Luka whimpers, throat still bared. Kyrie stops mouthing against it but he doesn’t stop thrusting into him. “Slap me in the face. Kyrie—”

This—this is new. Luka has never asked for this before. Luka’s scent is everywhere, aroused and angry and hurt and too complicated for Kyrie to interpret. Kyrie props himself on one arm so he can try to get a read on his expression, instead, but Luka’s face is pinched like he’s in pain and that doesn’t explain much of anything at all.

Luka finds Kyrie’s hand and raises it close to his cheek. “Hit me. Kyrie, fuck. Hit me, pičko, alpha—just once—just one time and I’ll—we’ll—”

Kyrie doesn’t—he doesn’t want to—he doesn’t want to hurt him but he doesn’t answer his calls and he signed that extension and maybe Luka thinks he does but he doesn’t—and Luka doesn’t call anymore and he signed that extension and maybe Luka thinks he deserves to be hit but he doesn’t—

“Hit me, pussy!” Luka cries out, tears streaming down his cheeks. He shakes Kyrie’s hand insistently. “Hit me! Hit me like you mean it!”

So Kyrie winds his hand back and does and Luka shouts and whimpers and clenches and there’s a red mark where Kyrie’s hand connected and Kyrie doesn’t want to hurt him but he did and that’s proof and most of all he doesn’t want to hurt him again and there’s a simple way to make that happen. Simple, really simple. Instinctual and ancient.

Kyrie pulls out. Luka scrambles to sit up on his elbows the second he does.

“Sorry,” Kyrie gasps, panting hard between Luka’s legs and massaging his knot between his hands to stay hard. “Shit. Sorry.”

Luka rubs at the mark on his face. “No—no, I’m sorry—”

“Sorry,” Kyrie interrupts. “I was about to bite you. Sorry. Was gonna claim you.”

The hand on Luka’s cheek drifts lower, to his scent gland. One strong set of canines there and he’d be marked as Kyrie’s for good. Luka’s eyes grow wide. “Oh.”

Kyrie whimpers in shame, sitting back on his arms, now. It’s an instinctual display, showing his belly to prove he’s not a threat. “Are you mad?”

Luka’s eyes are wild and he was clearly seconds from finishing. “No. It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” Kyrie says, wishing he had a tail he could tuck between his legs. Luka’s still touching his scent gland and Kyrie is tracking his every move. He could pounce. Right now, while Luka’s defenses are down, he could pounce him, wrestle him down on the bed, bite his neck nice and hard, and mount him in a way that makes him his for good. “I’m…I was really close to doing it.”

“You didn’t,” Luka says. His other hand is between his legs, rubbing his pussy, and Kyrie tracks that move, too. “You pulled out. It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Do you wanna keep going?”

Luka swallows. “Uh, yeah.”

“With protection,” Kyrie says, tearing his eyes from Luka’s scent gland, as much as he doesn’t want to. “We need protection.”

Luka nods, looking a little shell-shocked. “Under the sink. In the bathroom.”

Kyrie stands up from the bed on unsteady feet and makes his way to the bathroom. He opens the cabinet beneath the sink, then reaches past the box of condoms, packets of scent patches, and a couple containers of Plan B to find the cage muzzle. Also underneath the sink is Luka’s vibrator, which Kyrie takes out to sniff, then lick. Recently used, probably yesterday; Kyrie feels an angry rumble rise in his throat when he realizes that Marcus hadn’t been over to help with Luka’s heat earlier. If Luka were still in Dallas, Kyrie would never let that happen. He puts it back, then grabs the muzzle. He’s walking back into the bedroom with it when Luka sees what’s in his hand and shakes his head.

“No, not that.”

Kyrie’s already adjusting the straps to his size, preparing to put it on. “It’s fine, Luka. I’ve worn a muzzle during your heats before.”

“I know,” Luka says, still fingering himself in the in-between. “But I didn’t mean that. Grab my bite collar.”

Kyrie pauses. Luka stares at him. When it comes to bite protectants, Kyrie knows Luka prefers it when the alpha wears a muzzle. He doesn’t like how scratchy the bite collar is on his neck. However, Luka’s refusing to explain why he’d prefer the bite collar tonight, so Kyrie doesn’t press it. He goes back into the bathroom and gets it out.

They take a minute to affix it on Luka’s neck. It’s a pretty simple device, just a black fleece-lined leather collar with a patch that covers an omega’s scent gland. The patch’s adhesive is moisture-activated, so as Luka sweats during his heats, it sticks safely over his gland without slipping. The patch itself is nearly an inch thick, designed so that an alpha can bite onto it during mating and soothe the part of their brain that’s begging them to mark their territory. This is a newer collar that Luka must have bought recently, so Kyrie doesn’t see any old bite marks on it. His will be the first.

“Okay,” Luka says, testing that it’s on tight by trying to fit his finger beneath it. He feels around the patch to be sure it covers the entirety of his gland, then nods and lies back. “Alright. We’re good. Thanks for telling me.”

Kyrie nods, takes Luka’s hand away from his pussy, and slips back in.

It was a short break they took but it’s enough for things to feel different, this time. Before, things were moving so quickly that their position felt like happenstance, not a choice. It is a choice, now, and they’re in missionary. More intimate than before. Luka’s grunting as he takes it, the pillow under his lower back improving access to his pussy and the pillow behind his head improving access to his face. Maybe it’s to stabilize himself and maybe it’s for something else when Luka reaches up to put a hand around the back of Kyrie’s neck, holding their foreheads together.

Eye contact, and it’s too intense. Kyrie’s willing to hold it, but Luka, apparently, isn’t, suddenly closing his eyes shut with a whimper and letting his head fall back against the pillow. Kyrie, desperate for some sort of proof of their connection, this chemistry, noses into his neck, finds the patch, and takes it between his teeth. It’s tough rather than soft, it doesn’t taste like Luka, and it doesn’t provoke the same pained cry that biting into Luka’s gland itself would, but it helps the alpha in Kyrie settle and feel accomplished. Like he’s doing something. Like he’s claiming him, really claiming him, grabbing him by the scruff and dragging him back to Dallas like he should have a year ago.

“Mm,” Luka hums, his bottom lip between his teeth. He raises his legs to better receive, his knees high up on Kyrie’s sides. “You like that.”

It’s not a question, and they both know it. “Yeah.”

“Wanna bite me.”

Again, not a question. “Mhm.”

“Wanna claim me.”

“Wanna knock you up,” Kyrie mutters, head feeling fuzzy. “Wanna put a couple pups in you.”

Luka smirks. “Just a couple?”

“I’m not greedy,” Kyrie grins, then leans in to kiss him.

It’s just a quick peck, but the dazed, glassy-eyed look in Luka’s eyes when Kyrie pulls back makes something else click for him.

“So that’s why you didn’t want the muzzle,” Kyrie teases as Luka blushes. There’s sweat on his forehead and Kyrie brushes his hair out of his face before kissing him again.

“Yeah,” Luka breathes against his lips. “Just wanted you to have the option.”

“Sure,” Kyrie says, rolling his eyes when he leans back in.

Luka can pretend this is for Kyrie, but really, it’s for the both of them. With that dam broken, Kyrie can fully avert his attention from Luka’s neck to his lips, kissing him slow and lazy as they work towards their finish. It gets Luka more submissive than he’s been all night; he’s never been the most submissive omega, but that just means the moments when he does submit feel all the sweeter. Soft little moans and sighs, stilted begs pressed right up against Kyrie’s lips, massive thighs bracketing Kyrie in. When Luka’s feeling safe and cozy like this, he likes to lean into it, so Kyrie indulges him. He dances a hand across Luka’s cheek, grazing where he slapped him with the back of his knuckles, before settling his fingers against his ear. He scratches it, leans in and licks it to make Luka shove at his shoulder and giggle. He doesn’t offer much resistance, however, so Kyrie keeps licking his ear and scratching behind it until Luka’s leg is thumping against the bed.

“Ah,” Kyrie coos up against Luka’s ear. “You thought I forgot you like that, huh?”

Luka purrs from deep in his chest, humming and bearing his neck again. If he had a tail, it would be wagging.

Kyrie licks up his neck, pausing to kiss his Adam’s apple, his jaw. “I wouldn’t forget that. Always turns you into a damn puddle. I’d never forget that.”

“You’re gonna get me pregnant?” Luka prompts, voice tight and dreamlike.

Never mind the fact that Luka’s heat suppressants double as birth control and Luka will be taking a Plan B in the morning, just in case. This is breedspeak, and breedspeak is meant to feel good. “Yeah, Luka, gonna get you pregnant. ‘Course I will.”

“Gonna do it? Gonna do it now?”

He sounds so unlike himself, begging and squirming as he lets breedbrain overwhelm. He only lets himself do this with alphas he’s really comfortable with; Kyrie heard it for the first time during that third heat, the one where Luka allowed himself to enjoy the body pillow for the first time. No matter how many times Kyrie’s heard it since, however, it still has an effect on him.

“How could I resist?” Kyrie grits out, chuckling. “Gonna make you live in a damn whelping box.”

“Good,” Luka sighs. “I want that.” His pussy contracts as he says it, locking muscles preparing to take a knot. He pushes at Kyrie’s chest in a way Kyrie recognizes as an attempt to change positions; it takes a bit of maneuvering, but soon they’re sitting up, instead, so Luka can sit in his lap. Kyrie gets comfortable against the headboard, then avails himself to Luka’s belly, more easily grabbable in this position. Luka likes it, making a thrilled chuffing noise as Kyrie’s thumbs press into him and finally deciding to take off the hoodie. Kyrie helps him along with that, then ducks his head once his nipple is available to suck on.

“Ah,” Luka gasps, throwing his head back and humping forward with more fervor. It’s rare Luka lets him do this—he likes his nipples touched but not sucked, finding the latter weird. He’s gotten over that, at least for the night. However, as his cries get more pitchy and the squeeze of his pussy more insistent, he’s suddenly preoccupied with something else, pulling Kyrie’s head back and wrestling with his arm until Kyrie holds it above his head. The second it is, Luka nuzzles his nose into his armpit and inhales.

Kyrie laughs but holds his head there, anyway, planting his feet on the bed so he can take over the thrusting now that Luka’s distracted. “You’re shameless.”

“Thanks for not shaving,” Luka murmurs into Kyrie’s skin.

Kyrie reaches between them to pet at Luka’s pussy from below. “You, too.”

“I don’t shave for alphas.”

“Not even Marcus?”

Luka’s growl comes as a low rumble. “Never Marcus.”

Kyrie blinks. “Never?”

Luka shakes his head, still humping away, although cowed in embarrassment like a hand-shy dog. “I lied.”

“You lied,” Kyrie repeats in a patronizing tone, and Luka whines pitifully.

“I’m sorry,” he says. He pulls out from Kyrie’s armpit and licks all over his face instead, as though in apology. “I lied. Not Marcus.”

“Then who?” Already Kyrie’s brain is firing off options, each making him angrier than the last. He grips at Luka’s belly and love handles possessively, and Luka gasps in pain.

“No one,” he sniffs. “Just me. By myself.”

Kyrie’s breath catches. “You’ve been getting through your heats by yourself?”

“Yes,” Luka admits. “Want you. Claim me. Want you.” He whimpers and tries to convince Kyrie to kiss him back by licking at his mouth.

But Kyrie can’t, at least for the moment. He’s in shock.

He should lecture him. It’s fine that Kyrie spends his ruts alone; Kyrie can handle that. But Luka? Spending heats alone isn’t good for his health, emotional or physical. “Why didn’t you ask me the other times we played?”

“Too much,” Luka whimpers. “Too much. Are you gonna get me pregnant? You’re gonna do it?”

Kyrie’s brain is still at a stutter-stop. He doesn’t respond to the breedspeak quick enough for Luka, who makes a desperate sound and grinds down on Kyrie’s dick insistently.

“What—” Kyrie manages, cradling Luka’s head. “What’s too much? What’s too much, baby?”

“We are,” Luka breathes. “You are.”

“I’m too much?”

“You’re gonna put puppies in me,” Luka insists. “Please, alpha. I’ve been good. I want it. You’re gonna do it. Yeah? Yeah?”

“I’m…” Kyrie is too much. Luka knows it. They both know it. Kyrie fists the hand against the back of Luka’s head into his hair and kisses him hard, now, with teeth. “Yeah, fuck, Luka. I am. I’m gonna.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah—”

“You wanna know why?” Kyrie growls, holding Luka down against his lap as his knot finally begins to swell. “You wanna know why you didn’t wanna fuck anybody else? Huh? You wanna know why I’m gonna put some puppies in you?”

This kiss is sweeter than it should be. Sweeter than is good for them. Luka melts into it, his purring growing louder as he clenches in on Kyrie’s knot.

“Because I mean it,” Kyrie grits out as he begins to unravel. “I mean it. Everything I say. I mean this shit. I do. I do, I do, I—”

“Fuck,” Luka cries, his locking muscles finally coaxing the knot from Kyrie’s dick. Kyrie suddenly cums, grinding Luka onto his lap as he does because his overstimulated sounds help spur him along. Luka’s orgasm is louder but Kyrie’s is somehow more intense, the confession having ripped something primal out of him. The confession, Luka’s orgasm, his heat, his smell, the both of them, this, them, all of it is too much, and suddenly, Kyrie’s tipping Luka onto his back and seizing that patch between his teeth, grunting from the effort of trying to somehow bury his knot deep enough to impregnate him and tear right through his collar at the same time.

Luka continues submitting as he’s pressed into the mattress, bearing his throat and mumbling in high-pitched Slovene as Kyrie fills him with cum like he means it. Kyrie’s knots last five minutes but this one’s lasting six, seven, eight—only when it’s hit fifteen does Kyrie realize the sounds Luka has started making are those of overstimulated distress, caused by the fact that Kyrie keeps rubbing his clit to cause him to seize and clench around his dick, rather than giving him a minute to breathe.

Kyrie pulls his hand back like he’s touched hot iron when he realizes it. His brain momentarily didn’t feel like his own, but he wrests back control, taking deep breaths and pulling out the moment he’s deflated enough to do so. However, even when he does, he stays half-hard, which Luka notices when he sits up on his elbows.

“You’re still hard,” Luka pants, running a hand through his hair. He’s bashfully shut his legs, hiding his used pussy between his thighs, and has already started shivering. It makes Kyrie anxious. Kyrie whimpers and reaches out for him, dragging him up the bed and encouraging him to get under the covers. Luka does as told, lying back against the pillows and catching his breath. Kyrie gets under the blankets with him, then plasters himself to Luka’s side, sticking his face into his neck and growling as he begins to hump his thigh.

Luka laughs, at first, then inhales sharply. Kyrie opens his eyes to see that Luka is giving him an almost sympathetic look.

“You’re in rut,” he says.

“What?” Kyrie mutters, trying to snake a hand back to Luka’s swollen pussy. “I’m not.”

Luka gently pushes the hand away. “Stop. Down.”

Kyrie whines. “Just let me touch it.”

“Too sensitive. Kyrie,” Luka scolds gently, “You’re in rut. I thought you said you had it last week.”

“I did,” Kyrie insists, holding back from touching Luka’s pussy, as he’d been asked. The humping, Luka seems fine with, so he keeps doing that. “It ended Sunday. I’m not in rut. Can you go one more time?”

“Let me smell you,” Luka orders, sitting up and then straddling Kyrie, pressing him entirely into the bed. Kyrie wants to be good for him, so he goes still as Luka sniffs over his whole body, starting with his neck, then under each arm, then moving all the way down his torso to his dick, which he gives an experimental lick. Luka pops his head up when he’s done. “You’re in rut. It’s all over you.”

Kyrie blinks at him, then cranes his head to smell himself. Luka’s right. Kyrie is in rut.

“I don’t get it,” he says, a little perturbed. “My cycle was normal. I don’t ever…why would I…”

“It’s probably me,” Luka says, shrugging. His bare chest is heaving as he continues coming down from his orgasm, but the color of his skin is returning to normal and his face looks content, relaxed. “I guess you’re not the only one with strong cycles around here.”

“Huh,” Kyrie says. Interesting how the tables have turned—Kyrie jumpstarting Luka’s heat, and now this. Maybe he shouldn’t be so surprised. They always seem to match each other beat-for-beat. “Well, fuck. Round three?”

Luka is chewing his lip, likely because Kyrie’s dick is still hard, sliding against the wet seam of his pussy. He’s tired and satisfied, but he could go again. Kyrie knows it. He can see it in his eyes.

So it’s for a reason other than arousal that Luka suddenly grows nervous, almost penitent. “I don’t think we should.”

Kyrie swallows and nods. “I hear you.”

“The omega you were set up with,” Luka says, voice thick. “Are they here? In LA?”

“No, but it’s okay. I’ll figure something out.” Kyrie gives him a little smile before helping move him off his lap.

“You’re gonna have a late night,” Luka jokes nervously, finding his clothes to put back on, starting with the hoodie. “I could—”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Kyrie says quickly. His rutbrain is in full affect, and although part of it wants to fuck Luka through this mattress, the other part just wants Luka—already full of two loads of cum and pregnant, in his mind—to be fat, happy, and safe, and Kyrie can accomplish that by following Luka’s orders. So, he scrambles from the bed to gather the rest of Luka’s clothes, which he shoves in his hands.

Luka takes them, but doesn’t put them on just yet. He sizes Kyrie up, and Kyrie stands underneath him nervously, his fingers twitching as blood courses through his carotid.

“I can help you,” Luka says gently. “I’m telling you I know you like to—”

“Please don’t,” Kyrie mutters, cowed by Luka’s gaze. Luka doesn’t know what Kyrie likes to do when riding out ruts alone. Kyrie’s careful to keep it that way. What he likes is jerking off while his nose is buried in sweat- and slick-soaked omega underwear, like the pair he just handed off to Luka. He used to steal Luka’s from his laundry hamper for this purpose. Luka never noticed, however, so Kyrie has no idea what Luka was about to say. Whatever it was, Kyrie doesn’t want to hear it, because his rutbrain is telling him it’s Kyrie who should be helping Luka, not the other way around.

“Kyrie.” Luka is smiling softly at him, picking at the hem of those underwear. He’s still in the bite collar and Kyrie can see the strap and it would be so easy to rip it off. “It’s okay. I know you used to—”

“You’re right, I should go,” Kyrie says hurriedly, grabbing his clothes from the ground. He leaves the workout shirt on Luka’s body pillow and dresses in record time before heading for the stairs. This has just gotten very dangerous, and Kyrie prays Luka doesn’t take off the collar before following him downstairs. Kyrie’s body is feeling less and less in control with each sound Luka makes.

Like this one: “Kyrie, wait.”

“Early flight,” Kyrie says, finding his shoes in the threshold. His teeth feel thick, oversized in his mouth. They don’t fit. They itch. He tries really hard to focus on tying his shoes, although he does catch Luka out of the corner of his eye, bending over to pick up Kyrie’s bag.

Soon, Kyrie’s standing at the threshold, giving Luka an awkward side-hug goodbye. Luka, who didn’t take off the collar, hands him his bag, then leans against the doorframe, his face suddenly dour again.

Kyrie’s Uber is still a few minutes out, but Luka doesn’t budge, so Kyrie decides to indulge in his rutbrain a minute longer. “Let me make you something to eat before I go.”

Luka’s stomach rumbles at the invitation, but he avoids eye contact as he scratches his belly. “It’s okay. I’m not hungry.”

“No, really,” Kyrie says, trying not to sound desperate. However, his hormones are telling him Luka has been successfully bred, that he’s full of the puppies Kyrie promised him, and it’s hard to keep from begging. “Please. You’re in heat. You need to eat.”

“It’s fine, Kyrie, really,” Luka says, his gaze drifting up at the clear night sky. “If I were hungry, I could make something myself.”

The bags under his eyes and his sulky posture make it entirely clear that Luka is too tired to do that. “It’ll take no time. Let me make you a sandwich.” Kyrie tries to body past him, back into the house. “Lie on the couch and I’ll bring you one. I’ll cancel the car if I have to.”

“Kyrie,” Luka insists, boxing him out. He looks more than tired now—he looks exhausted. “You shouldn’t. Okay? We shouldn’t.”

Kyrie sniffs, but accepts it, stepping back onto the porch. “Is this because of what I said?” He won’t say he didn’t mean it, because he did.

Luka’s eyes soften. “Nah, man. It’s because of what I said.”

Kyrie swallows. “What about it?”

“I mean it, too,” Luka says simply. As though things like this can be simple.

“Oh,” Kyrie says. Luka said a lot tonight. “Which…which part?”

Luka’s fingers drift unconsciously to his belly—his womb. He splays his hand over it. Kyrie clocks all of this, and it fills him with a sick, warm thrill. “All of it, I guess.”

Kyrie’s heart skips. At this moment, his Uber pulls up, and Luka smiles and shakes his head at the sight.

“Shitty timing,” he says, almost wistfully. “That’s why you gotta go, Kai. You and me are too much and there’s too little time.”

Kyrie tries to smile even as his throat closes up. “Says who?”

“Our extensions, for one,” Luka mutters, leaning down to kiss Kyrie atop the head. Kyrie leans into it, then gets a hand on his jaw to kiss him proper. Luka hums into the kiss, then whispers when Kyrie pulls back, “But everyone’s saying it, mi cielo. We have to move on.”

What Kyrie wants to say is, Everyone can be wrong.

What Kyrie says is, “Goodnight, perrito.”

The drive to his hotel is uncomfortable for reasons other than his broiling rut. It’s uncomfortable because he’s trying to convince himself to trust Luka on this. Everyone can be wrong, but Luka’s included in that everyone, and Luka—Luka has to be right. Kyrie needs to trust him, he’s carrying his pups, he—Kyrie groans and rubs his face, and the Uber driver gives him a look in the rearview and accelerates through a yellow.

Like a mantra, as he checks into the hotel, finds his room, curls up on the bed: Luka is right. Luka is right. Luka is right.

Luka is hungry.

Kyrie takes out his phone, hands clammy and tongue thick. He’s aroused, he’ll probably be hard all night if he doesn’t do something about it, but he can’t bring himself to jerk off when he’s this worried about Luka. Luka, who’s always hungry after sex, doubly so during his heats, and who used to purr and nuzzle Kyrie in gratitude when he’d fix him a plate to eat in bed after taking a couple of good knots. Kyrie was granted no such luxury tonight, so he’ll settle for the next best thing.

He has to find some place open late, and some place serving good food, something that’ll do Luka’s body good. The first few options on the Late Night tab are fast food that he skips; eventually, however, he spots a shawarma place. He goes overboard: Chicken over rice, pita and hummus, lentil soup, baklava, and extra sauce. Complement your cart? asks the next screen, suggesting he add a half-dozen falafel to the order. Kyrie ups it to a full dozen and does. For a few extra dollars, he gets direct delivery. Should be at Luka’s door in twenty minutes or less.

His breath finally steadies with the knowledge that Luka will be fed, even if Kyrie can’t be there to see it. He turns his attention back to his rut, although his heart isn’t entirely in it. If he can even muster the energy to jerk off once, however, it will make the night much more bearable for him. He might even be able to sleep. First, he takes a shower, then nests in the bed, even though a nest feels almost meaningless when it’s not meant to be shared. He tries humping a pillow, but none of the pillows are big enough to replicate what he wants it to. Jerking off it is. He finds his gym bag to root around for his lube, but the second he opens it, he’s awash with a scent unexpected and familiar.

Citrusy and bright, not sour, but not subtle, either. Kyrie used to joke that the sun shines out of your pussy, Luka because it sure smelled like it, and now is no exception. Cookouts and oldies on the speaker, the smokiness of an unclean and often-used grill, crabgrass and fishing rods and plastic barrels of juice more sugar than water. I’m telling you, man. It smells like summer.

Kyrie’s nose twitches and his ears perk up. He overturns the bag instantly. Amongst Kyrie’s clothes, the lube, rolls of athletic tape, IcyHot and ibuprofen, drops a pair of gray-blue boyshorts, dirtied in the crotch with a mixture of slick, spit, semen, and sweat.

The sound that escapes Kyrie’s mouth is half-human, half-animal. Half a gasp, half an excited wuf. He seizes it and brings it to his face, inhaling and stumbling to his feet to dash back to his nest. When did Luka put this in there? How did he know? It’s a behind-the-head pass to Kyrie on the arc, and Luka’s court vision shouldn’t surprise him at this point. Lock-step and beat-for-beat.

Kyrie has everything he needs now, but decides to open his phone first. The DoorDash driver has sent a message to confirm the order was sent, and Kyrie clicks it, chuffing happily when he sees a blurry photo of Luka ducking back into his house with an armful of to-go boxes. He opens their messages to thank him for the gift, but before Kyrie even gets his thumb on the keyboard, Luka’s beating him to it:

Thank you. I mean it

No, Kyrie sends back. Thank you

You got me dinner and I literally just gave you dirty laundry, Luka sends. It was nothing

Kyrie smiles at the message. That proves it: Everyone, including Luka, can be wrong.