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He needs to leave. He knows he does. That he should. An unmated alpha in the same place as an omega in her first heat? He's practically begging for a reactive rut and claiming. He knows how fast this can spiral, how thin the line can be between control and chaos.
He has to leave.
(But he doesn't.)
He's done this before, of course. Helped out an omega in need. Not often -- he's only twenty still, and there's still an uneven divide in the population -- but there'd been a couple of opportunities during his senior year of high school when he'd been in the wrong (right) place at the right (wrong) time and found himself with an armful of wanting and begging teenage girl. He'd never taken advantage, obviously, but he'd never turned down an opportunity either.
But he's not supposed to have an opportunity here, in his own home, and definitely not with his little sister. And he knows he has to give his parents some leeway -- they're betas, after all -- but it honestly boggles his fucking mind that they can't feel how Whitney is fucking everywhere in the house. How her scent clings to the cabinets in the kitchen, and the toed-off shoes in the hallway, and the mess of hair ties in the bathroom. Hell, even the space just outside his door isn't immune given the amount of times she's paused there like she's forgotten where she's going.
His own first time -- first rut -- after he presented as an alpha is a hazy memory but he knows that his parents kept him under lock and key for the duration of it, so where exactly is that lock now?
"Take your pills," he snaps at her, trying to concentrate on the video he's watching and not on the path she's trying to wear into the floor, endlessly pacing off to the side.
She stops, turning on him immediately. "I did."
"Like fuck you did."
"Like fuck I didn't."
He huffs a breath, dragging a hand through his hair, and watches the way her gaze tracks the movement. It's quick, almost unnoticeable, but he catches it, and the way it lands in his chest feels like how it did when their parents caught him standing beside Whitney's bed during his first rut, fucking his fist while she slept.
"Whitney," he says slowly, like it's a warning.
She narrows her eyes at him, but there's something unfocused in it. "What?" she snaps.
He sighs, frustrated, and glares at the TV screen. "Just take your fucking pills, okay?"
She flips him off and it takes everything in him not to retaliate. Gritting his teeth, he turns back to the movie.
His dreams turn on him, torturing him with the idea of her bouncing on his cock, one of his hands on her breast, thumbing her nipple, and his other hand fisted in her hair, her braid twisted around his fingers as he tugs her head back and fucks up into her hard and fast.
And he could maybe cope with that because, yes, sure it's awkward, dreaming about your little sister's heat, but it is only a dream and he can't be held responsible for having an overactive imagination. And especially not when a dream is all it is.
And then he wakes.
She whimpers when he rolls over and finds her in his bed, her eyes glazed with heat and her skin hot against his own. Whimpers and lets him fit himself between her legs, his cock already hard and seeking contact, seeking friction, his mouth claiming the side of her neck in biting kisses that will turn to bruises.
"Mark..."
I've got you, he thinks, rutting against her. I have you, I want you, I need you. But what he says is, "mine."
She sinks her fingers into his hair and drags her nails over his scalp and down the sides of his face; arches into him, her legs hooking around his hips, pulling him closer her. "Yes."
He loses track of everything that isn't her, isn't his cock inside of her and his knot stopping his cum from escaping her and his mouth kissing hers. He has no idea how long they spend locked together in his room -- hours? days? -- or where the fuck their parents are. Just knows that her heat is burning his rut harder and hotter than he thinks it's ever been before.
But the urgency does start to fade eventually, something quieter replacing it that makes it easy to stay close even though there's no longer a blind aching need driving them together. Her hand drifting from his shoulder to his chest and back again in slow, soothing strokes. His hand settling at the back of her neck beneath her hair, his thumb tracing absent patterns against her skin.
"How badly do you think we've traumatised the 'rents?" he wonders out loud, and she snickers.
He grins.
When they do get up, and leave his room, they find a note from their dad saying he and mom have gone away for the long weekend, and there's pizza money in the jar on the fridge, and a reminder to not to burn the house down while they're gone.
Whitney pushes herself up onto the kitchen counter and drums her heels against the cabinet doors. "Feed me."
He scoffs. "Feed yourself."
She throws an oven mitt at his head, and he flicks water from the sink at her face, and he has a moment to wonder if that's it, if everything's going to change back now to what used to be normal for them, but then she looks at him through the hair she has falling across her eyes, and he remembers what it feels like to be inside of her.
They'll never be that kind of normal again, he knows.
"Pizza?" she suggests.
He nods, grabbing the cordless phone. "Pizza."
They devour two pizzas, and take a shared shower that ends only when the hot water does, and after he's pushed her down onto his mattress and eaten her out until she's cum on his face twice more, he runs a brush through her hair and fumbles it into a simple braid.
"Man of many talents," he says proudly, and she rolls her eyes.
"Master of none more like."
He grabs for her, and she squeals, and when he lies back with her, she straddles his hips and grinds against his half-hard cock.
"Again?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.
She flushes pink, and shrugs, striving for nonchalance. "Unless you need to leave...?"
He doesn't.
The End
