Archive of Our Own

They’ve been together for over two years. Met back in freshman year - Arthur had just started, Francis was already finishing his master’s - and somehow slipped from tearing into each other during international law seminars to splitting the rent on a cramped studio in an old walk-up. None of their classmates knew. In public they still argued till they were hoarse and sat at opposite ends of the lecture hall, but at home - at home their scents tangled in the hallway, sandalwood settling into the books, bergamot soaking into the pillows, and it was their own private, one-of-a-kind aroma. They loved each other. No grand words, no theatrics - just loved, each in his own way, and each down to the very bottom.

Nobody had to ask about Francis’s secondary gender. It was obvious at first glance, first breath. He didn’t hide it, didn’t mask it - an alpha to the bone, he wore it with the same effortless elegance as rolled-up shirtsleeves. He smelled like confidence. Sandalwood. Warmth. If asked about his secondary gender, he’d answer with pride - yes, alpha, what of it? - and maybe he’d add something about strength not being in growling, but in knowing how to wait until his omega came to him on his own.

With Arthur, it was different. You couldn’t tell at first glance. At first you’d think - beta. Ordinary, restrained, prickly. But then he’d avert his eyes when someone’s gaze lingered on his neck too long. Then he’d twitch his shoulder when the topic of secondary genders came up. And then he’d change the subject abruptly, rudely, awkwardly, with red blotches creeping across his cheekbones - and that’s when the suspicions crept in. But he’d never tell a soul. Ask him and he’d say “that’s improper,” flip you off, and walk away fast, leaving behind a trail of bergamot and unspoken words.

If anyone ever asked Francis about their relationship - he wouldn’t shut up. He’d tell them everything: how deeply he loved, how comfortable he felt next to Arthur, what an incredible ass the man had, how responsive his thighs were, and how obscenely lucky he, Francis, was. And if the conversation drifted a little further - you know, in that direction conversations tend to drift after a couple glasses of wine - he might loosen his collar a little and confess that he still, to this day, sometimes spaces out remembering their nights together. That his breath catches when he thinks about how tight Arthur is, how loud, how he arches underneath him and clenches around him - so tight it makes him see stars. And right there, Francis, always so confident and long-winded, would go quiet for a second. His gaze would drop. And a faint, almost invisible blush would rise on his cheekbones - not from shame, but from pure, naked adoration. And if someone asked about Arthur’s scent, he’d exhale, breathe in - bergamot, tea, something barely-there and astringent, familiar - and answer: “It’s home.”

If someone asked Arthur the same question - he wouldn’t say a thing. Nothing at all. About the relationship - “rubbish.” About Francis - silence, but in that silence his fingers would tremble and give away everything his words didn’t. Because he remembered, too. And if he accidentally remembered - even for a second, at the edge of his mind - it all rose up at once: the feel of Francis inside him - massive, hard, filling him to the brim, till he saw stars, till his throat was wrecked - and the way his own body responded, opened, took it. He remembered it down to the shiver along his spine, down to the heat that inconveniently pooled in his gut, down to the tremble in his knees. And he’d catch himself thinking - an absolutely whorish, unbidden thought - that for that cock he was ready to spread his legs wider, arch deeper, take it to the hilt and never regret a second of it. Right there, Arthur, always so prickly and closed-off, would flush to the roots of his hair, cut himself off mid-word, and stand up sharply. Then - middle finger over his shoulder and a stride toward the door, fast, angry, but not fast enough to hide the way the corner of his mouth still twitched.

But no one ever asked. And at home, Arthur didn’t flip the bird. Mostly.

In over two years, they’d had a lot of sex. All kinds - tender, lazy, greedy, morning, midnight. They’d spent every one of Arthur’s heats together, and Francis knew his body better than his own. But he always weathered his ruts alone. Not because he didn’t trust him. Because he was afraid - if he snapped, if he hurt him, Arthur wouldn’t say. Would grit his teeth, endure it, keep silent. He was absolutely the type. And so Francis left - for the all-night library, biting his lips bloody over textbooks and projects, drowning his instincts in work. Always on schedule, always with a buffer.

But not today.

A June heatwave was melting the city. The tiny fourth-floor studio in an old walk-up had heated up like an oven - no air conditioning, an ancient fan on a wobbly table doing nothing but pushing hot air in circles, giving the illusion of movement. The window was thrown wide open, but the outside offered no draft, no coolness - only hot asphalt, dust, and the distant hum of cars.

Francis was crouched by the front door, checking his bag with nervous hands. Light summer trousers, a linen shirt with sleeves rolled to his elbows, bare feet on the warm floorboards. He leaned over, sorting through the contents - keys, wallet, phone, charger - and felt the heat rising inside him. Not the kind from the weather. Rut. Two days early. His body had betrayed the schedule, and now his instincts were clawing from the inside, demanding an outlet.

Arthur stood in the doorway to the room, shoulder leaned against the frame. He was wearing nothing but super-short shorts that barely covered his thighs and a thin tank top with narrow straps that left his sharp shoulders bare. Beads of sweat glistened on his neck. He fanned himself lazily with a folded sheet of paper - some old printout of lecture notes - and looked down at Francis.

— Where d’you think you’re off to? — Arthur’s voice was raspy from the heat and long silence. — You’ve still got two days, by schedule.

Francis froze. His fingers stopped on the bag’s zipper. He didn’t turn around.

— Schedule broke.

— Meaning what, exactly? — Arthur stopped fanning himself.

— Everything went off-plan. I’m leaving. Arthur, just.. don’t stand in my way. Please.

Arthur straightened, peeling himself off the doorframe. The folded paper landed on the nightstand. Something in Francis’s voice - strangled, taut - made him go still and pull in a breath. The sandalwood scent that always settled into the books and pillows had thickened, grown heavier, almost tangible.

— You’re in rut, — he said. Not a question - a statement. — Right now. You were gonna bolt without a word?

Francis straightened. Stepped back against the wall, pressed his shoulder blades to the hot wallpaper. His fists clenched on their own. He tried not to inhale, but Arthur’s scent - bergamot, tea, something barely-there and astringent - was changing, too. Sweeter. Thicker. Heat. He could smell it, it sent his own rut crashing over him in a fresh wave

— I don’t want you to see me like this, — he forced out. His voice was low, strained. — Lock yourself in the bathroom. Please. I can’t control it. I could.. I could hurt you, and you wouldn’t even..

He cut off. Arthur was staring at him point-blank, not moving.

— I wouldn’t even what? — Arthur asked. His voice was quieter, but sharper. — Wouldn’t squeak? Wouldn’t complain?

Francis was silent. The fan hummed. Something inside Arthur - something that had been building for two years, every single time Francis packed his bag and left - began to boil over. The irritation rose from somewhere in his gut, hot, sticky, unfair.

— Are you serious? — He stepped forward. — You’re leaving again. Silent. Without a single word. Like I’m.. — he stumbled, jaw clenching. — Like I’m nobody. A neighbor. Some random bloke. Someone you can’t trust.

— Arthur..

— No, let me talk! — He threw a hand up, cutting him off. Red blotches crept from his cheekbones down to his neck. — You leave. Every. Bloody. Time. You think I don’t notice? You think I don’t care? You run away from me like I’m not your fucking partner, like I’m some..some..

He choked off. The words stuck in his throat because the right words didn’t exist - only irritation, only hurt, only the heat rising from his own body, because the damned heat, it seemed, had also decided to start right bloody now.

Francis was silent. His back was still pressed to the wall, but his fists had unclenched.

— I never wanted you to think that, — he said quietly.

— Then how am I supposed to think? — Arthur threw his hands up. — You leave! You don’t give me a choice! You don’t even ask! You just decide for both of us that it’s better this way, and I.. I’m just supposed to stand here and watch you go? Again? Like I’m just some fucking spectator in my own life? Like I’m..

He stopped. His chest was heaving under the thin tank top. The bergamot scent grew thicker, sweeter - heat was rising, and he could feel his body starting to betray him, but right now that didn’t matter. Something else mattered more.

Francis peeled himself off the wall and took half a step forward. His voice was still low, strained, but something desperate cut through - not an excuse, a confession on the verge.

— I didn’t leave because I don’t trust you, — he said. — I left because I don’t trust myself. Because I’m afraid - if I snap, if I hurt you, you won’t say. You never say anything, Arthur. You clench your jaw and endure anything. And I.. I don’t want to be the one who hurts you. Especially when you won’t even admit it.

He paused for a second, looking Arthur straight in the face. Arthur stood motionless, only the muscles in his jaw working under the skin.

— You think it’s easy for me? — Francis gave a short, bitter laugh. — You think I want to sit in the library and bite my lips bloody while you’re not there? I’d give anything to stay. But I’m scared. Scared you won’t say ‘enough.’ That you won’t say ‘it hurts.’ That you’ll just lie there and endure me, like that’s how it’s supposed to be. And then I’ll see bruises and realize you never told me.

Arthur said nothing. His eyes still blazed, but his breathing quickened.

— I don’t want that. I’d rather run, — Francis exhaled. — Because I’d rather be a coward than the one who breaks you.

Arthur stared at him. The blotches on his cheekbones darkened.

— Daft sod, — he said finally.

— I know.

— No. — Arthur shook his head, and his voice went rough - not angry, tired. — You don’t know. You really think I’d just endure it? From you?

He stepped closer - not all the way, half a step - and Francis saw his fingers trembling.

— If it hurt, I’d tell you. I’d punch you. I’d.. — he faltered, breathed out shakily, and something in his expression cracked. — I’m not a doormat, Francis. And I’m not a china doll. But you treat me like I’ll shatter. Like I’m not strong enough to.. — he stopped.

Francis looked at him. Something flickered in his eyes - dark, nearly black from blown pupils.

— To what? — he asked quietly.

Arthur didn’t answer right away. His jaw tightened. Red blotches crept from his cheeks down to his neck, but he didn’t look away.

— To take you, — he forced out at last. — To be what you need. For real. And you won’t even give me a chance.

Silence. The fan hummed. Francis was quiet.

— You’re wrong, — he said finally.

— Wrong? — Arthur gave a short, bitter laugh. — Then prove it. Stop running. Stop deciding for me. Enough.

He stepped in close and grabbed Francis by the collar - sharp, but not vicious. He fisted the fabric and yanked him close so their faces were level. Francis saw his eyes - wide pupils, trembling lashes, red blotches spreading from cheekbones to neck.

— I’m tired of watching you leave, — Arthur whispered. — Either stay, or.. I honestly don’t know what to do. I don’t know how else to ask you.

He opened his mouth to say something else - but Francis didn’t let him.

He surged forward and kissed him.

It wasn’t tender. It was hungry, wet, with a quiet moan turning from Arthur’s lips. Francis slid one hand into the hair at his nape, gripping, the other settled on his waist, crumpling the thin tank top. Arthur kissed back - greedy, biting Francis’s lip, letting his tongue in, pulling him even closer by the shirt. The kiss stretched on, deep, with the taste of tea and inevitability.

And then Arthur’s knees buckled.

He started to slide down - whether the heat made itself known or the emotions simply became too much. Francis, still in a distant, fading awareness, tried to hold him - caught him by the waist, pulled him close. But Arthur had a death grip on his shirt and wouldn’t let go, and they toppled together.

A dull thud. Stuttered breath. The fan hummed somewhere above them.

A few seconds of silence. They lay on the hallway floor, Francis on top, pressing Arthur into the warm floorboards. His hair was a mess, his chest heaving under the thin shirt. Francis propped himself up on an elbow and looked down at Arthur - disheveled, flushed, lips bitten and parted. His scent - sweet, thick, in heat - filled the whole space between them.

Slowly, almost unconsciously, Francis slipped his fingers under Arthur’s tank top. Brushed the hot, damp skin, traced up his ribs. Arthur shuddered and caught his wrist, stopping him.

— You’re heavy.. — he gasped, twitching his shoulder and pressing the back of his head into the hard floorboards. — Maybe.. maybe not.. on the floor?..

Francis stared down at him. Pupils nearly black, breathing heavy, broken. The fan hummed. Outside, the distant city hummed.

He flipped Arthur onto his stomach - sharp, one motion. Covered his body with his own, pinning him to the floor, and exhaled right into his ear, rough, nearly a growl:

— You asked for it. Now take it.

Arthur shuddered beneath him but didn’t answer - only his breathing hitched faster. Francis froze for a second, pressing him into the warm floorboards, feeling the other man’s back rise against his chest. Then he pulled back - with a reluctant jerk - crouched behind Arthur, and, scooping him up by the hips, tugged him upward. Arthur gasped but obeyed - let himself be lifted, his knees sliding across the floor, spreading wider. His chest and shoulders stayed pinned to the floorboards, cheek to the warm wood, while his hips were now raised, exposed. Lazy doggy style - a position where he was completely vulnerable, completely accessible.

The first thing Francis did was pull off those tiny shorts - one move. The thin, almost weightless fabric slid easily off his hips and flew to the side. The tank top had rucked up, crumpled, stuck under his chest, but Francis didn’t bother taking it off - no time for that.

Then - his own trousers. He tore at the fastening, his fingers clumsy, too rushed. He shoved the light fabric down his hips, not even bothering to pull them all the way off - just enough to free himself. His cock throbbed, hard to the point of pain. The shirt was still on him, buttons half undone, collar twisted sideways.

And only now did he look.

Arthur lay before him - sprawled, trembling, hips raised and spread. His wet, exposed cunt glistened in the afternoon light. There was so much natural slick it wasn’t just seeping anymore - it was pushing out on its own, running in thin trails down the inside of his thighs. Arthur was wet, ready, yielding. In over two years, his body had grown used to Francis, his muscles knew what to do, and now, under the grip of heat, there was no need for fingers at all.

Francis let out a heavy breath. His mind was swimming. There were no thoughts left - only heat, only scent, only instinct.

— Slick’s running down your thighs, — he breathed. His voice was low, hoarse, almost alien. — You’re soaked through. You want me so bad you’ve drenched the floor. Look at yourself.

Arthur pressed his forehead into the floorboards. Red blotches crawled from his neck to his shoulders, and he squeezed his eyes shut till he saw sparks.

— Shut your bloody mouth!! — he shouted, his voice cracking, wavering somewhere on the edge between fury and a moan.

Francis only gave a rough chuckle. His palms were already settling on Arthur’s hips. He dragged the head along the wet slit - didn’t even press, just slid, and Arthur shuddered full-bodied beneath him.

— Fuck.. — Arthur gasped, trembling all over. — If you don’t just fucking.. aah!..

— You are so.. — Francis didn’t finish. Whether a curse or a confession - he couldn’t tell anymore.

He pushed inside - one motion, deep, to the hilt. Arthur’s body took him instantly, no resistance, wrapped around him, squeezed. Francis held still, giving them both a moment.

Arthur cried out - loud, strangled, his fingers scrabbling at the floorboards.

— Fuck.. — he gasped. — Fuck..

— Pain? — Francis held still, not moving, and it was almost impossible - not to move, when everything inside demanded more.

Arthur shook his head. His breathing was ragged, torn.

— No.. — he panted. — Just.. too much.. Could you not.. — he cut off, swallowed. — Move already, you idiot..

Francis let out a quiet, choked laugh. He started moving, and the pace from the very first thrust was fast, hard, no buildup.

Francis wasn’t holding back - couldn’t, didn’t want to, and somewhere in the depths of his fading awareness he knew Arthur himself had told him not to hold back.

His hips slammed into Arthur’s raised arse with a wet, obscene slap that echoed through the studio, mixing with the hum of the fan and their broken breathing. Francis leaned lower, covering Arthur’s body with his own, his chest pressing against the other man’s back. The shirt still hanging on his shoulders was soaked with sweat and clung to his skin. He braced one hand on the floor next to Arthur’s head, grabbed his hip with the other, fixing him, not letting him shift a single centimeter.

Beneath him, Arthur didn’t even try to keep quiet. His moans - loud, broken, torn from his throat with every thrust - filled the room. He couldn’t control them. His body responded on its own: clenched around Francis, took him deeper, demanded more. The heat rolled through his gut in a hot wave, mingling with the feeling of fullness, with every hit against his prostate, and it was too much for him.

— Quiet.. — he choked out, pressing his forehead to the floorboards. His fingers scrabbled at the wood, trying to find a grip. — Francis.. the neighbors.. The neighbors’ll hear..

Francis only let out a rough exhale against his nape and didn’t slow down.

— Don’t care.. — he breathed, — let them hear.

— You!.. — Arthur started, but his voice broke into a moan as Francis shifted the angle and hit his prostate dead-on. — Aahh.. you’re driving me.. mmad!..

Arthur came first. It happened almost unexpectedly for him - his body reacted before he even realized what was happening. The orgasm hit him sharp, wrenched his muscles, ripped a loud, broken cry from his throat. He spilled onto the floor, onto his own stomach, onto the bunched-up tank top, and went limp for a second, stunned, thinking that was it.

But Francis didn’t stop.

He kept slamming in - deep, fast, and after the orgasm every brush against his prostate rang out sharp, almost painful. Arthur sobbed. The tears that had been gathering behind his eyelids this whole time spilled down his cheeks. He wasn’t crying - his body just didn’t know how else to cope with the overload.

— Francis.. — he gasped, his voice breaking. — Too much.. I can’t.. It’s too much..

He lurched forward - not consciously, a reflex. His elbows slid on the floorboards as his body tried to crawl away from sensations that had become unbearable. Not because it hurt. Because it was too much. Too fast, too deep, too loud. His neck was too exposed, and Francis was breathing right into it, and every exhale seared his skin.

Francis didn’t let him escape. He caught him by the hips - firm, but not rough - and pulled him back into place. One motion seated him to the hilt again, and Arthur sobbed louder.

— No, — Francis breathed. His voice was rough, low, but something cut through that was deeper than the rut. — Don’t run from me.. please..

Arthur froze. His fingers scraped at the floor, his breathing ragged and broken. He didn’t struggle - just lay there, trembling, letting Francis keep going. And Francis had no intention of slowing down, pounding in deep, steady, at the same angle every time, every thrust targeting his prostate. Arthur felt it - felt that swollen bundle of nerves respond with a sharp, nearly painful spark, felt his lower belly clench, tightening. His body had become too sensitive, too responsive, and every hit reverberated through his whole frame - from the teeth biting into his lip to the tips of his fingers scrabbling at the floor.

— You.. — he gasped into the floorboards, his voice shaking. — You’re doing it on purpose.. every time.. aah!.. Idiot.. You’re..

The words snapped off into a moan - Francis hit the spot again. He leaned lower, pressed his lips to the pale, sweat-damp nape. His own consciousness was swimming, the edges of the world blurring, and nothing was left but the scent of bergamot, the heat of the body under him, and the pulsing in his groin.

— I know your body, — he whispered. His voice was barely audible, low, almost animal. — I know what you need. Just.. take me.. Be good for me..

The world shrank to the single person beneath him. To the wet heat, the broken breathing, the trembling thighs. Francis had almost completely lost his grip on reality - only instinct remained, only hunger, only Arthur.

He didn’t hear his own snarl. Didn’t feel his nails digging into the other man’s skin, leaving crescent-moon marks on pale hips. His hips moved on their own - deep, fast, with a wet slap that echoed through the studio louder than the humming fan. He pounded into the body beneath him with the desperate, animal greed he’d been suppressing for two years.

Under him, Arthur was drowning. His voice - wrecked, hoarse, almost alien - burst out in jolts with every exhale. He couldn’t form words anymore. Couldn’t string them together. But his mouth wouldn’t close.

— Francis.. — a sob, broken by a thrust. — Please.. there.. deeper.. more..

His fingers scrabbled at the floorboards, trying to find a grip, but the wood was slick with sweat. He wasn’t trying to crawl anymore - just pushing back, meeting every movement. His body searched for the angle on its own, impaled itself deeper, and Francis felt it.

— Good boy, — he breathed, not recognizing his own voice. — Taking it.. taking all of it..

He caught Arthur by the waist and pushed deeper into him. Arthur screamed, and there was nothing in that scream but pure, naked pleasure. Tears streamed from his eyes - nonstop, dripping down, mixing with sweat. The muscles in his back trembled, his thighs shook under Francis’s grip.

— Mine, — Francis snarled, the word torn from somewhere in his chest, bypassing consciousness. — You’re mine. Say it.

— Yours.. — Arthur sobbed. — Yours.. always was.. and you.. kept leaving..

He didn’t finish. Francis thrust at a new angle, deliberate, brutally precise, and Arthur’s tongue stopped obeying. Only the name - over and over, like a prayer, the only word that still held meaning.

— Francis.. Francis.. Francis..

He wasn’t begging - he was just naming. And that flipped something inside Francis.

He leaned lower, not slowing the pace, and ran his tongue over the salty, sweat-damp skin of Arthur's nape. Breathed in the scent - bergamot and tea, their shared scent, their home. His teeth scraped the skin, but he didn’t bite. Not yet. He wanted Arthur conscious. Wanted him to remember.

Francis’s hand slid down Arthur’s stomach, down to where everything under the rucked-up tank top was wet and sticky from the first orgasm. He covered his crotch with his palm and squeezed - not gentle, demanding. Arthur screamed. His body arched so hard it nearly cracked, and he came again - a second time, violently, desperately, clenching around Francis so tight he could barely move.

And that was enough. Francis came right after, with a low, guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt and spilling deep inside. A hot wave rolled through his body, washing away the last shreds of thought. He froze inside, still pulsing, and only now felt how hard Arthur was shaking beneath him. There was no knot.

A few seconds - just breathing. Broken, ragged, shared. The fan kept pushing hot air around, but they didn't feel it. Francis dropped his forehead onto Arthur's shoulder and closed his eyes.

— Alive? — he rasped after a few seconds.

Arthur didn't answer. Just let out a quiet sob, and his fingers, still scrabbling at the floor, twitched.

Francis didn't move for another minute. His chest rose and fell heavily, pressed against Arthur's back, and he felt Arthur's heart hammering under him - fast, uneven, but alive. He was still inside, still hard, and it was almost agonizing - the rut wasn't letting go, even after release. But he forced himself to freeze, giving Arthur a few seconds' reprieve.

Arthur breathed in ragged gasps, forehead pressed to the floorboards. His fingers finally stopped scrabbling and just lay there, relaxed. The tank top had bunched under his armpits, exposing his back - thin, glistening with sweat. Francis smoothed a palm down his spine, from shoulder blades to the small of his back, and Arthur shivered but didn't pull away.

— You okay? — Francis's voice was rough, low, but something human cut through.

Arthur tried to answer. Only a strangled croak came out.

— Fine, — he managed at last. — As much as.. possible.

— You're breathing. That's already good.

Arthur snorted - weakly, almost soundlessly. Francis slowly, carefully pulled out of him, and Arthur winced at the loss of fullness. Come immediately started leaking out, mixing with his own slick, running down the inside of his thighs. Francis looked at that - and felt his cock twitch again, ready to keep going.

— Give me.. a moment, — Arthur rasped, eyes still closed. — Just.. a moment.

Francis didn't give him one. Instead, he flipped Arthur onto his back - gentle, but insistent, not asking permission. Arthur gasped as his back hit the warm floorboards. Now he was lying face-up, and the afternoon light from the window flooded him completely - flushed face, tear-wet cheeks, bitten lips. He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head away, hiding from the light.

— Don't look, — he croaked. — I look.. awful.

Francis hovered over him, palms braced on either side of his head. He looked — greedy, unashamed. The floor was hard, the boards digging into his knees, but that meant nothing. His back would hurt tomorrow - today, only what was happening between them existed.

— You look, — he breathed, — like the man I love.

Arthur rolled his eyes, but the red blotches on his cheeks went even darker.

— Stop it.. — he whispered.

— I will, — Francis leaned down and kissed him — deep, with tongue, not letting him turn away. — But first.. round two.

He pulled back just enough to meet Arthur's eyes. The rut still seethed in his chest, but now there was something else, too - tenderness laced with hunger, gratitude laced with thirst. Arthur looked up at him - tear-streaked, flushed, lips bitten and parted. And there was neither fear nor doubt in his gaze. Only want. As feral as Francis's own.

— Go on, then, — he breathed. — Don't slow down.

Francis didn't make him ask twice. He grabbed Arthur by the hips, tugged him closer, and sank in with one deep stroke - wet, to the hilt. Arthur was still open, stretched from the first time, and took him instantly. Arthur cried out, head thrown back, and his legs wrapped around Francis's waist on their own, pulling him closer, deeper.

The pace was fast and hard again, but now Francis wasn't just pounding - he was covering. His chest pressed to Arthur's chest, his lips slid over Arthur's neck, collarbones, lower. He couldn't get enough. The rut demanded more than possession - it demanded marks, demanded leaving himself everywhere.

But Arthur wasn't just lying there, either. His body answered on its own - with every thrust he arched up to meet him, digging his heels into the small of Francis's back, demanding deeper, more. The heat spread through his lower belly like liquid fire, and he felt the slick running out of him, felt his body opening even wider, felt his muscles clenching around Francis's cock and refusing to let go. The heat inside became unbearable, and the only relief was movement. Fast, hard, filling him to the brim.

— Yes.. — he gasped, grabbing Francis’s shoulders. The shirt still hanging on him was soaked through, and Arthur’s fingers slipped over the fabric, squeezed, demanded. — More.. don’t stop.. you.. aaah!!..

He didn't finish. Francis bit down on the skin above his collarbone - not hard, but enough to make Arthur jerk and moan. His back arched off the floor. Thoughts tangled. His body spoke for itself - in the arch of his hips, the twist of his fingers, the sounds tearing from his throat. He fisted a hand in Francis's hair, tugged, pulling his head lower.

— Here, — he gasped. — Leave it here. I want.. I want you to..

Francis didn't let him finish. His lips were already trailing lower, leaving wet, hot marks — on his neck, his collarbone, his chest. He circled a nipple with his tongue and sucked it into his mouth, and Arthur screamed. His body arched to the point of pain, and something between a moan and a demand tore from his throat. Francis moved to the other nipple - lips again, tongue again, another light bite that sent a shudder through his body.

— You.. on purpose.. — Arthur moaned, but his fingers only tightened in Francis's hair, not letting go.

Francis pulled off for a second, meeting his gaze. His eyes were nearly black, wild, but something else shone in them - adoration, greed, reverence.

— Of course on purpose, — he breathed and attached his lips to skin again - this time to the collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave a dark love bite. — You're mine. Let everyone see.

He left marks everywhere he could reach. On the sharp bones of his shoulders, on his ribs, on his chest, right around his nipples - deep red, blooming right under the skin. Arthur trembled under him, sobbed, but didn't pull away. Only pushed back - into the lips, into the thrusts, and demanded more - incoherent, desperate, like a man who'd been waiting two years without even realizing it.

He pushed back again — sharp, desperate, digging his heels into the small of Francis's back and impaling himself to the hilt. Again. And again. His hips moved on their own, losing rhythm, sometimes matching the thrusts, sometimes outpacing them. His body demanded release - not like the first time, but deeper, sharper, scream-worthy.

Francis felt it. He didn't slow — on the contrary, sped up, pounding into the yielding body with the same hard steadiness. His lips still wandered over Arthur's chest, leaving fresh dark marks around his nipples, on his ribs, everywhere his mouth could reach. One hand held Arthur's hip, the other slid down, covered his crotch - wet, sticky with slick and come from the first time.

Arthur sobbed. His fingers, still clutching Francis's hair, trembled.

— I'm.. I'm gonna.. — he gasped, his voice cracking. — Francis.. I'm..

He didn't finish. The air was punched out of his lungs - sharp, one thrust - and instead of words, only a strangled, broken sound tore from his throat. His body seized control. His thighs began to shake, small tremors first, then violent ones, and he started jerking under Francis, losing rhythm, losing himself. The muscles in his stomach cramped. His back arched off the floorboards, his head tipped back, baring his throat - pale, without a single mark. His eyes rolled back, his eyelids fluttered and closed, and Francis saw only the whites - wet, quivering.

And then Arthur was gone. His body arched one last time and froze for a second, then started shuddering - wave after wave, clenching around Francis so tight he could barely move. Incoherent sounds fell from Arthur's lips - not words, just raw, broken exhales, interspersed with sobs. Come splashed onto his stomach, his chest, over Francis's fingers still cupping his crotch.

He came for a long time - longer than the first time - and Francis didn't stop, drawing out his orgasm with every thrust, until the body beneath him started to go limp, spent, trembling.

Arthur's eyes were still closed. Tears leaked from under his lashes. His chest heaved rapidly, and on it - between the dark bruises - beads of sweat glistened.

Francis slowed but didn't pull out. He stared down at him - at the thrown-back face, the bitten, parted lips, the wet tear-tracks. And felt his own finish climbing up his throat.

He couldn't stop. The rut still pounded in his temples, demanded more, and Arthur's body - limp, trembling - took him without resistance.

But now every movement felt different. Arthur had become too sensitive. The muscles that had just clenched through orgasm now shuddered at the slightest touch. Every thrust - even the gentlest - rolled through his body in a wild wave, making his fingers scrape the floor and pulling quiet, choked sobs from his throat.

— Easy.. — Francis whispered, his voice cracking. — Mon dieu, you're so.. tight..

Arthur didn’t answer. He barely heard him. His eyes were still closed, lashes wet, lips parted. He breathed fast, ragged, and his stomach - flat, lean - quivered under the skin. And then something happened that made Francis freeze.

Arthur sucked in his stomach.

Not on purpose - just the muscles contracted in response to another thrust. And Francis felt it: the inner walls clenched around him even tighter, gripped him to the very base, as if refusing to let go. He looked down - to where their bodies joined - and saw the outline of muscles under the pale skin. Arthur’s stomach had gone hollow, his ribs jutting out sharper, and there was something indecently explicit about the motion.

Francis froze. His breath stuttered.

— What are you.. — he gasped, unable to tear his eyes away. — What are you doing?

Arthur slowly opened his eyes. They were still full of tears, lashes wet, but somewhere in the depths - where the heat hadn’t yet reached - something familiar flickered. Something cheeky.

— What? — he rasped. His voice was wrecked, but the corner of his mouth still twitched. — You don’t.. like it?

Francis didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His fingers dug into Arthur’s hips, and his cock pulsed inside, every contraction of the other man’s stomach sending a new wave through him.

Arthur noticed. His smile widened just a little - as much as was possible in his state. And then he did it again. Deliberately. Sucked in his stomach - slowly, controlling the movement - and Francis felt the body around him clench to the limit.

— Fuck.. — he breathed.

— So you do like it, — Arthur whispered. It wasn’t a question. He looked up at Francis - tear-streaked, flushed, dark bruises on his chest - and there was pure, naked satisfaction in his eyes. — Look at you. You’re.. about to come.

— Happy?.. — Francis breathed, but his voice wavered. — Happy you caught me?..

— Yes. — Arthur sucked in his stomach again, sharper this time, and a new flash shot through Francis. — You.. two years!.. running away. And now.. — another motion, another clench, — now you’re mine. And you’re.. not going.. anywhere.

He was smiling - brazen, self-assured, like a man who’d just realized what kind of power he held in his hands. His fingers, still trembling, slid over Francis’s shoulders and tightened on his nape.

Francis stared at him - at that smile, those wet eyes, that hollow stomach - and felt the last scraps of his control crumble.

— You.. — Francis breathed, his voice cracking. — You asked for this.. I’m gonna come, and it’s gonna fucking split you open.. You ready for that?

— Then come, — Arthur breathed, and there was no fear in his wrecked voice - only impatience. — Come inside me, you idiot. I’m waiting.

Francis shoved in to the hilt - deep, to the very base - and came. It wasn't a soft wave - it hit him sharp, rough, punching the air from his lungs and making his thighs shake. He spilled deep inside with a low, guttural groan, dropping his forehead to Arthur's shoulder. His body convulsed - once, twice, a third time - waves of release rolling one after another, each one ripping a new harsh exhale from his chest. He felt the come filling Arthur - hot, copious - and the knowledge of it wrecked him even further.

Arthur looked up at him - tear-streaked, flushed, dark bruises on his chest - and pure, naked satisfaction shone in his eyes. He felt Francis pulsing inside him, the hot seed spreading through his belly, filling him to the brim. It was.. a lot. So much that he nearly came again - just from the sensation of someone else’s orgasm inside him.

— There you go, — he whispered, barely moving his lips.

Francis didn't answer. He was still coming, still shaking, and through the haze of orgasm felt something else beginning to swell inside him - a new pressure, separate from the orgasm. He didn't realize what it was yet. Just felt - something growing, pulsing, demanding time. He froze, still buried inside, and exhaled through his teeth.

Under him, Arthur went quiet. His smile slipped from his lips, replaced by something else - exhaustion, relief, peace.

— Well, there, — he whispered. — And you.. were scared.

Francis didn't answer. He lay there, forehead pressed to Arthur's shoulder, waiting without knowing what for.

Francis felt it before he understood. The pressure building somewhere at the base didn't feel like the usual post-orgasm pulse. It was deeper, heavier, more demanding. His body knew what to do even when his mind hadn't caught up yet.

He held still, not pulling out. His forehead was still pressed to Arthur's shoulder, and he felt the other man's skin - hot, damp - against his lips. Arthur breathed beneath him, fast but calmer now - his chest rising and falling, pressed to Francis's chest.

And then it started.

The knot began to swell - slowly at first, almost imperceptibly, then more noticeably with every second. Francis felt his flesh thickening inside, felt Arthur's body forced to take even more, stretch even wider. It didn't hurt - but it was.. a lot.

Arthur shuddered. His eyes, which he'd just closed, opened again.

— Wha-a-ah.. — he moaned, his voice quavering. — What is that?..

— Knot, — Francis breathed. His voice was rough, low, nearly alien. — I'm.. right now..

He couldn't move. Couldn't pull out even if he'd wanted to - and he didn't want to. His body refused to leave this warmth, this tightness, this wet, clenching depth. The knot kept growing, swelling to its fullest, and Francis felt Arthur's muscles gripping him tighter, their bodies literally locking together.

Arthur sobbed. His back arched off the floorboards, his head tipped back, baring his throat. He felt the stretch inside, the pressure reaching some unthinkable point, and it was.. overwhelming. His heat responded with a fresh wave of warmth - his body took the knot like a long-awaited gift, clenched around it, and refused to let go.

— Christ.. — he gasped, his fingers scrabbling at the floor. — Francis!. This.. I feel you.. everywhere..

— I know, — Francis whispered. — I'm here. I'm not moving.

He couldn't. The knot locked them together, and now any movement was impossible - only a small, barely perceptible pulsing continued somewhere deep inside.

Arthur moaned quietly. It didn't hurt - it was.. right. His body, which had known Francis for two years, had never had him like this. Never felt this fullness, this sense of completion. Right now, tied by the knot, he felt.. whole.

— You okay? — Francis rasped, not lifting his head. His lips still brushed Arthur's shoulder, and he couldn't make himself pull away. — Does it hurt?

Arthur let out a weak snort. The sound came out more like a sob, but Francis knew that sound. Knew what it meant.

— No.. — Arthur whispered. His voice was wrecked, but that familiar note cut through. — Doesn't hurt.. Just.. you're.. huge..

Francis exhaled quietly - not quite a laugh, not quite a groan.

— You asked for it.

— I know. — Arthur closed his eyes, and his lips twitched in a faint smile. — And.. I don't regret it.

They fell silent. The fan kept humming, the distant city hummed outside, but here, on the studio floor, time stopped. The knot still pulsed, keeping them locked, and they just lay there - Francis with his forehead pressed to Arthur's shoulder, and Arthur limp beneath him, quivering around him.

Minute after minute passed. Come mixed with slick slowly seeped out where their bodies joined, but the knot kept everything inside - hot, wet, alive. Francis felt the rut finally begin to recede, giving way to something else. Tenderness. Gratitude. Relief.

— I won't leave again, — he whispered without lifting his head. — Ever. Do you believe me?

Arthur didn't answer right away. His hand, still trembling, lifted and settled on the back of Francis's head. Fingers tangled into the wet hair.

— I believe you, — he whispered. — Git.

Francis smiled into his shoulder. The knot still held them together, and it was the only place in the universe he wanted to be.

The knot began to go down slowly. Francis felt the pressure inside easing - barely noticeable at first, then more and more. Arthur's body finally stopped clenching him with that desperate force it had held for the last few minutes. The muscles relaxed gradually, still quivering, still too sensitive.

Francis didn't move. He waited for the knot to fade completely, his lips pressed to Arthur's shoulder all the while. He felt the other heart beating - slower now, calmer. Felt Arthur's chest rising and falling under him. Felt the scent - bergamot, tea, sex, home.

When the knot finally deflated, he slowly, carefully pulled out. Arthur winced - not from pain, but from the loss of fullness — and it immediately spilled out of him. A lot. Come mixed with his own slick ran down the inside of his thighs, pooling into a small puddle on the floorboards. Francis looked at that - and something tightened in his chest with possessive satisfaction. He'd marked him. Filled him. Left a part of himself inside.

Arthur didn't open his eyes. He lay on his back, arms flung out, breathing deep and even. His face was still wet with tears, lashes clumped, lips swollen from bites. Dark bruises bloomed across his chest and collarbones. His neck was untouched - pale, clean, waiting.

— Hey, — Francis called quietly. — You okay?

Arthur didn't answer. He was conscious, but somewhere on the edge - between sleep and waking, between heat and emptiness. His fingers twitched a little when Francis brushed a palm over his cheek.

— I'm here, — Francis whispered. — I'm not going anywhere.

He got up - his legs were unsteady, knees aching from the hard floor. He scanned the room. The bed was three steps away, but those three steps felt like a kilometer. He bent down, scooped Arthur up in his arms - he was light, limp - and carried him to the bed. Arthur didn't resist. Just sighed when his back touched the mattress and turned onto his side, pulling his knees to his chest.

Francis covered him with the blanket. Then lay down next to him - not under the blanket, just on top, pressing his chest to Arthur's back. One hand settling on Arthur's waist, the other on his nape, fingers tangling into the wet hair.

— Sleep, — he whispered. — I'm here.

Arthur didn't answer. But his fingers found Francis's hand and squeezed weakly.

The sun had slipped past noon when Arthur woke. The first thing he felt was pain. His back ached like a lorry had driven over it. His hips hurt. His neck was stiff. He tried to move and groaned - quiet, strangled.

— Christ.. — he rasped. — My back..

Only a croak came out. His voice was gone.

Francis was already awake. He sat on the edge of the bed, already in fresh lounge trousers, holding two mugs. He set the second mug on the nightstand and turned to Arthur. There was a smile on his face - guilty, tender, sated.

— Good morning, — he said. — I made tea. And coffee. I didn't know what you'd prefer after.. all of that.

Arthur drilled him with a stare. Red blotches crept up his cheeks again, but this time - not just from embarrassment.

— You.. — he rasped. — Monster..

— I know. I'm sorry.. — Francis paused, and his smile widened just a little, — ..that I'm not sorry at all.

Arthur rolled his eyes and showed him his middle finger. Francis, still smiling, took his hand — carefully, almost reverently — and kissed that finger.

— I'm serious, — he said. — I didn't know what you'd prefer. Tea or coffee? Or maybe a bath? Everything hurts.

— Everything, — Arthur rasped. — Hurts. Literally. Everything.

He tried to sit up, and his face contorted with the pain in his lower back. He froze halfway, propped up on his elbows, and shot Francis a murderous look.

— We shagged on the floor, Bonnefoy. The floor. Could you not have at least dragged us to the bed?

— You grabbed me by the shirt yourself, — Francis reminded him. His voice was soft, but a smile hid in the corners of his mouth. — And said something about ‘finding someone else.’ I couldn’t wait.

Arthur looked away. The red blotches on his cheeks darkened.

— That was provocation.

— I know. — Francis handed him the mug of tea. — And it worked.

Arthur took the mug with both hands. Took a sip. Winced - not at the taste, but because his throat stung with every swallow. Then he dropped his gaze to his own chest and froze. Dark bruises covered his collarbones, his ribs, the skin around his nipples. He touched one with a finger and winced.

— You.. marked me all over, — he said quietly.

— Not all over, — Francis answered.

Their eyes met. Arthur understood what he meant - and his fingers drifted to his neck on their own, to that spot where shoulder met throat. The skin there was clean, untouched. Francis hadn’t left a single trace.

— You did that on purpose, — Arthur said. It wasn’t a question.

— Yes.

— Because you wanted to ask. Not during heat. Not in rut. Now.

— Yes.

Arthur lowered the mug onto the nightstand. His hands trembled, but his voice, though hoarse, was steady.

— Where were you about to run off to yesterday? — he asked. — The library? While I was here alone.. in heat and without you?

Francis dropped his gaze.

— I thought I was protecting you. You never said you wanted this. That you needed me.. like that. I didn’t want to hurt you.

— You’re an idiot, — Arthur said. He stared at him point-blank, and in his eyes - still red, still sore - something stubborn glinted. — I also never said I didn’t want it. And now look here.

He lifted a hand and jabbed a finger at the clean spot on his neck - where his pulse beat under the pale skin.

— You left your marks everywhere except the one that matters. I’m not letting you wander the streets while you’re falling apart. You. Come. To me. Clear?

Francis stared at him. At the finger pressed to his neck. At the red blotches spreading from cheeks to collarbones. At the stubbornly lifted chin.

— Clear, — he said quietly. — Arthur.. May I?

Arthur rolled his eyes - either from embarrassment, or tenderness, or because Francis was ruining everything with his questions again.

— If you ask me one more time, — he rasped, — I’ll show you my middle finger. Got it?

Francis leaned in. Brushed a strand of hair from his neck - carefully, barely touching. Kissed the spot - soft, almost reverent. Then sank his teeth in.

Arthur jerked, sucked air through clenched teeth. His hand settled on the back of Francis’s head on its own and stayed there. He felt a hot wave pass through his body - not pain, but something deeper, something final. Their scents mingled completely, and now the room smelled of one thing - them.

Francis pulled back, ran his thumb over the scarlet mark. Looked at it - and at Arthur.

— Mine, — he mouthed.

Arthur didn’t open his eyes, but the corner of his mouth still twitched.

— Shut it.. you bloody alpha..

He fumbled for Francis’s hand and squeezed. Weakly, but insistently.

— Don’t apologize, — he croaked. — Just.. don’t leave again. Ever.

Francis lifted his hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles.

— I won’t. I promise.

Arthur snorted but didn’t pull his hand away. Outside, the distant city hummed, the fan kept pushing hot air around, but the studio was no longer stifling. They lay side by side - exhausted, rumpled, with yesterday’s marks on their skin - and for the first time in a long while, no one was going anywhere.