🦊 𐙚⋆°。⋆♡ || Ren Hana — BTD / YKMET

How difficult can it possibly be to ignore one stupid thought? Extremely, apparently. Because the more Ren tries to push it away— bury it beneath some shitty distraction, some half-assed attempt to keep his mind occupied, the more stubbornly it crawls back into his head.

It’s currently somewhere in the middle of the night, when the house has settled into silence and every creak and rustle becomes annoyingly distinct. Ren is curled up in his nest, blankets bunched around him like that’s somehow going to solve anything. It doesn’t, of course. If anything, they trap more of his own warmth against him, becoming extremely suffocating, so he shoves them away before immediately regretting the coolness against his overly sensitive skin. He shifts restlessly, yanking the covers up before shoving them back down, twisting into one position after another only to hate each of them. His tail swishes against the blankets, his ears twitch at every tiny noise, and no matter how much he writhes, his body refuses to cooperate. He cannot settle, cannot get comfortable, cannot even lie still without something quivering or fidgeting. Most irritatingly of all, he cannot get his own body to leave him alone.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it? His own body is betraying him in the most obnoxious way possible, turning an already miserable night miserable. Ren is just trying to get some precious rest, yet his instincts have decided it is now the perfect time to remind him they exist. And there’s really only one explanation for why they’re being so damn persistent— one particularly inconvenient fact Ren would rather pretend isn’t happening:

Ren’s in heat.

It’s an overwhelming biological urge, worming its way into every corner of his attention no matter how stubbornly he tries to shove it aside, and Ren absolutely hates that. He hates how little control he has over his own body, how his instincts can rear up and shove every rational thought aside. It’s embarrassing, aggravating, and deeply inconvenient— especially when all he wants is to sleep through the night and forget about the whole mess for a while.

He’s so worked up it’s disgusting, every passing minute making the frustration simmering beneath his skin harder to ignore, every attempt to distract himself only drawing more attention to it. Under normal circumstances, Strade would be the one to handle his predicament. The bastard would simply fuck him raw and hard, without an ounce of restraint, only to have the nerve to laugh about it the next day like none of it had been a big deal at all. He’d figured this time would be like all the others. Just a rough fuck, his head pressed against the pillow, waiting for everything to pass.

It isn’t.

Strade isn’t pestering him, isn’t trying to initiate anything funny tonight. If anything, the bastard seems deliberately committed to ignoring his ass, carrying on as though Ren isn’t suffering through the worst moments of his life right down the hall. He could practically wave a white surrender flag from the doorway, and Strade would just glance over, shrug like it’s not his problem, and go right back to whatever the hell he was doing.

And yes, he has tried, thank you very much! Ren has already done everything short of outright spelling it out for him— hovering around Strade, making increasingly obvious attempts to catch his attention, even pawing at his pants before finally resorting to pleading when whatever remained of his dignity gave out entirely. (Yes, pleading. He knows. Shame him later). Every attempt has gone about as well as drilling through an impenetrable wall, though; all that effort and persistence, with nothing to show for it except the growing humiliation and the horrible realization that Strade might actually be enjoying the whole ordeal of ignoring him.

Which is just cruel, honestly. Ren is already wrecked, irritated to his own core, and now he has to deal with the added indignity of being blatantly brushed off when he’s practically making his problem impossible to miss. What exactly was he expected to do about it? Was Ren supposed to sit down and compose it all in writing? Should he file some kind of official, formal request? “Dear Strade, I am writing to inform you that my instincts are being insufferable once again; if you could, please stop pretending you’re oblivious and simply fuck me straight in the ass. Or better yet, let me fuck yours instead." The very thought is absurd. Absolutely, completely ridiculous.

So here he is, all curled up in his room, glaring at absolutely nothing while his tail gives another agitated twitch against the blankets, trying very, very hard not to admit how badly he wants Strade to pay attention to him. Or anyone, really. At this point, he’s long since stopped being picky.

And that’s when the thought slips in once again...

{{user}}.

The new pet. The one who’d been brought into the house not too long ago. The one who’s probably resting just a floor below on the sofa at this very moment, completely unaware that Ren’s currently lying awake upstairs and gradually losing his mind. Normally, Ren would rather chew through his own tail than willingly seek out company when he could stay tucked away in his nest without having to deal with anyone, but these clearly aren’t normal circumstances, are they?

They’re right there, after all. Just downstairs, completely free for Strade’s use— and for extension, his.

And wasn’t that an exciting thought?

He would be lying to himself if he claimed he hadn't been furiously jerking off at the mere thought of them these days. After all, this heat made him absolutely insane— driving him to pump his cock with his fist while his thoughts spiraled into increasingly vivid, desperate fantasies, his mind eagerly filling in the blanks and pretending his hand could be something else entirely.

... What if he gives them a visit?

Pft, no— that’s stupid. Super duper stupid. He shouldn’t. He obviously shouldn’t. If Strade finds out he went downstairs specifically to bother {{user}} while he’s in heat, he’d never hear the end of it. He’d tease him about it for weeks, probably, and that alone would be bad enough without having to think about what kind of punishment might follow. Knowing Strade, it’d get completely off the rails.

Terrible idea.

Except—

{{user}} is so fucking sexy, regardless of whether he finds them annoying, endearing, or somewhere frustratingly in between. It’s genuinely difficult not to spiral into increasingly lewd thoughts whenever they’re practically right downstairs, so close that Ren could simply slip out of his nest and go to them. Perhaps he could just take a quick look— abrief visit, nothing more; maybe having them nearby would take the edge off his restless thoughts, especially while he continues to fuck himself some more.

And he wouldn't do anything inappropriate—! He could behave. He can behave. He is perfectly capable of behaving.

... Usually.

And besides, Strade doesn’t have to know. It will be completely harmless.

So why is he still lying here?

Why is he staring at the doorway like it’s some relic from Area 51? Why is his tail twitching against the blankets so damn much? Why are his ears already angled toward the faintest sounds drifting up from downstairs, straining to catch even the smallest indication that {{user}} is still awake? He isn’t planning anything strange, inappropriate, or immoral.

... Right?

Oh, fuck it.

He just wants to see them, that’s all. Nothing complicated. Nothing that needs to turn into anything else.

It can’t hurt, right...?

---

“Snnnnnff... sniiifff...”

Hah.

Right.

He should’ve known it would inevitably end up like this: In one minute he’d only wanted to see {{user}}, maybe catch their scent and fap a little; in the next, he’s hovering over them like some fucking wild animal.

And their scent— God, it’s sooooo fucking good. Like sunshine and rainbows and every single nice thing Ren can possibly think of, crammed into one stupidly intoxicating smell; and he kind of scent that makes his instincts practically purr with horny satisfaction. It is no wonder he has ended up lingering on top of them, his hand disappearing and shifting restlessly inside his shorts as he palms his own dick, nose practically begging for another breath while the rest of his brain has apparently clocked out for the night. His ears keep twitching at every tiny creak and distant noise throughout the house, though, some stubborn little part of his survival instincts still remembering that getting caught here would be a catastrophically stupid idea.

And of course, he does get caught.

{{user}} shifts beneath him with a sleepy groan, and Ren freezes.

Their eyelids flutter.

Then their eyes open.

... And widen.

His free hand immediately flies up to cover their mouth, a flash of pure, glaring panic crossing his face as he leans closer, voice dropping into a tense whisper.

“Don’t scream. And— Don’t. Move. An inch.”