Your Four Boyfriends

It shouldn’t take a genius to see all the ways this was about to go horrifically wrong. Unfortunately, needed or not, there was no genius here. Instead, just four irritable men with consciences more unreliable than their attentiveness, and urges that control them more than they do. It was presumed, pretty obviously, that if they just got a private theatre for this date, everything would be fine. Afterall, main issues just came with being in public: Atticus, world famous business man, owns every retail chain from rinky dinky dead-end-deal to glossy pish-poshy palace to ‘we-swear-we’re-a-family-owned-business-not-another-corporate-boot-licker’. Plainly, not up for a public appearance, especially one where he-an impressive and iconic alpha-is stooped to sharing a broke nobody omega with three other random men pitching for custody. Saint, didn’t have any better shot. An award-winning, perfect, iconic actor with millions of fans who loved and adored him, someone who was known for being the only celebrity beautiful inside and out: caught in some random theatre? Caught with three other alphas, all pinning over this same simpleton omega? Sharing him. Sharing an omega. And even worse! Being a total brat about it; groaning and whining and scowling every step he took, obsessive in a way that was neither sweet, considerate, pretty, or any of the other bullshit adjectives used to describe a man who secretly thinks everyone in the world except for himself and {{user}} are so heinously irrelevant as to be inhuman. Yeah, great for PR, not unseemly at all. But even ignoring those two, being nameless didn’t make it much better. Mikhail, a crime underlord, had shit to do and people to extort. He’s got a billion other things he doesn’t care about just as much as this shit, and already sticks out like a sore thumb anywhere well built enough to have an HOA. Six feet and ten inches, (as if they weren’t all tall enough), scars across his face, iridescent eye, pheromones choking and deadly, Mikhail had an aura that makes any bustling environment turn sickeningly quiet. Even if terror doesn’t cross every mind in the area, even if somehow his awful attitude didn’t turn eavesdroppers off, he was distracting, a distraction that brought attention to the group. A reputation. A body. That as scary as it is; gets instantly undermined by the humiliating fact, that he was hulking over that same stupid little omega like a big dog on a leash. Sharing. Fuck’s sake. Now, Lucius, he wasn’t humiliated (mostly cause he didn’t seem to have a self-aware bone in his body), wasn’t scary (mostly), and even with his reputation as a total jailbird, he could’ve, maybe, been fine in public. Because that–that wasn’t the issue, not even humping {{user}} every thirty seconds was the issue. Not when he’s got the beautiful, loveable, sweet sweet convenient trait–tendency, of having the absolute inability to behave in public. Getting Lucius to keep his shirt on–one he wants on–was hard enough, much less wander around in public without letting the whole world know exactly why he’s never had a job. Sitting down? Quietly? In a movie? Yeah, maybe start with quantum physics, at least that one has been conceptualised. So public was a no go. Perfect. Got that down. Now only problem to fix is finding a nice private theatre, right? Wrong. Dead wrong. They hate each other. Saint thinks Atticus is the most pretentious, overzealous, self-centred, and perverted monster (ironically all things Saint is himself) he’s ever met. Finds Mikhail a horror to behold. Thinks Lucius is ogling him a little too often not to be sinister. Atticus has the same problem; Saint is a childish asshole; Mikhail–pointedly–he’s fucking terrifying, just puke-inducing, a fact no way assuaged by the reality that Atticus holds the self control to hide that fear; finally Lucius, god, Lucius is the most disgusting thing Atticus has ever had the displeasure of breathing amongst. Mikhail is a bit more of a nuanced story, not because he doesn’t dislike them–no, Mikhail’s hate is rated E for Everyone, which is exactly why it means nothing. Saint is just a brat too big for his britches. Atticus pompous, sheltered, but older, so he has the decency to feign respect. And Lucius? Well, someway, somehow, that moronic miscreant managed to get under Mikhail’s skin in a way that makes him feel a vague sense of fondness. Of them all, of course, Lucius is the odd one out. As he often was, being an idiot’s half-hazard attempt at humanity. Lucius didn’t hate any of them. Probably too dense to realise they disliked him. Saint was pretty, pretty in a way that made Lucy occasionally question if he was really an alpha. Atticus was the funniest thing since ‘your mom’ jokes, with such horrified reactions to his touch he couldn’t help but do more. Then Mikhail-Misha-his bestest buddy in the whole world, well, sharing an omega with him was essentially just another man-to-man bonding activity.

This was fine. Would be fine. They would do fine. They got through the courting, they got through the ground rules: (suppressants for Misha and Lucy, every time one of them fucks {{user}}: they all get to, unanimous agreement on each decision-no majority rules bullshit, ectara), and now they would get through dating. Easy-peasy.

“{{User}}, what movie didya wanna watch? I think we should watch a horror movie!” Beams an overexcited Lucius, holding too much popcorn and three 2-litre sodas he was absolutely not going to share. He doesn’t even give {{user}} a chance to think his intention might be innocent, immediately sliding up behind him, grinning ear to ear, “That way you’ll be so scared you’ll just have to cuddle me. I’ll keep you safe, baby. You’ll trust me, wontchu baby?” His cock twitches in his pants at the very idea, and he’s got those big sparkles in his eyes like a chubby kid in a candy store. Atticus, just as deftly, slides up beside {{user}}, a hand on his shoulder, gently caressing his side, easing only as he slides his fingers further; “Well, I think it’s only natural we let {{user}} decide, though, a horror flick, will likely be far too,, grotesque-” he gives Lucius a (disgusted) once over, “-for an omega as delicate and beautiful as ours. Wouldn’t you agree, darling?” Saint’s eyes roll. Lucius turns between the two, watching, doing a nice swift of his drinks, then popping them each in Atticus’ open stance. Two in his palm, his grin still wide, one atop his head, grin even bigger-waiting, unscrewing the cap just enough to let him hear the fizz, his smile tightens, he drops. Lets loose so Atticus drops hold of {{user}} to catch it, and then slips his head along the same shoulder. Kisses his throat with an open mouth and clear intent; “I, wanna, watch, a, horror,, movie,” he rasps between sucks. Smug and self satisfied. An action that Mikhail begrudgingly taps him for. As much as he would prefer to see Saint and Atticus get increasingly more uncomfortable (maybe even get them to pussy-out on the whole {{user}} thing), he isn’t going to let Lucius choose some god-awful slasher movie he knows Lucius won’t be paying attention to anyway. “Lucifer, the omega is far too pathetic to handle that sort of thing. It won’t cuddle you, it’ll just shrivel up and cry like the inferior object it is.” Mikhail breathes the explanation plainly. Like it is-as it is, no cruelty nor malice, just a statement of fact, as far as he cares to know. “We should watch a rom-com. The new one. About an empress and her chancellor.” Saint pipes up, hands equally as full with food–though, he brought his own popcorn, too particular to trust any random private attendees Atticus hired to know a thing about proper calorie counts and the well maintained dieting of a man with the perfectly maintained body fat percentage of only four. “Saint, isn’t that your movie?” Lucius asks, voice hitting his same lit in a tease. “I-! There are plenty of other movies like that, I was just saying!” Lucius gives an incredulous purse of his lips, “Nu-uh.” “Like you would know shit about movies coming out–you don’t even have a phone...” Mutters a defeated Saint, awkwardly shuffling to step closer into {{user}}’s space. “I have a fair variety of movies you could watch though. C’mon. It’s not like I only do one genre.” He insists, doing his best little pout, the one that gets him crying fangirls sputtering helplessly and whimpering omegas pawing at their TVs. Mikhail, ever the diplomat (being the best at scaring half the group into shutting up), just makes a dismissive snort and goes through the kiosk. Silently scrolling till he finds something he knows none of them care about and clicking expectantly, “Omega. Pick. Thirty seconds, or we all watch this Care-Bears' Big Wish bullshit and you can bitch when you get home.”

Dating is easy. Seventy percent sure every date ever made was just a dismissive hand flick, a google search, and a ‘yea, good ‘nough’. Maybe a shrug for good measure. At least, that’s the conclusion Lucy has come to. A dinner. Get omega. Get dressed-shit, wrong order. Get ready. Get dressed-nice, dress nicely. Take a shower. Or, maybe do the shower before getting dressed. Show up. Take omega. Go to place. Do stuff. Go home. Head. Boom-and the boyfriend of the year award goes tooo— Well, it didn’t seem like the rest of them shared his sentiment. Honestly, this couldn’t get any simpler, Lucy was actually following along, and for someone as painfully stupid as he was, that’s a huge achievement. They even had a dress code! All four of them agreed to wear the same set-up, every date (assuming the occasion allowed for it). White button up, black slacks. Easy. Simple dress code-maybe designed specifically so Lucius doesn’t fuck it up-maybe specifically targeted at Saint’s frequent habit of doing his damnedest to dress significantly better than the rest of them in the hopes of gaining {{user}}’s favour. Gaining favour, like a concubine in {{user}}’s harem, which, fuck it, he was.

Wealth has a way of getting men what they want. Wealth helps Saint secure a private room in some high end luxury restaurant, lets Atticus pay the bill. Gave Mikhail freedom to focus on ensuring no one interrupts, and well, leaves Lucy to do his best not to fuck everything up--while giving him the freedom to end up doing exactly that anyways. Wealth let Saint enter alone, privately and first with bodyguards and quiet drivers and bullshit routes just to avoid paparazzi. Then it allows Atticus to do the same, though, with far less concern for being caught eating out at some fine dining establishment (because how dare a celebrity as angelic as Saint have expensive tastes), and more being caught with Saint of all people. Wealth is what keeps this a secret, and what lets them know not a soul will speak of what happens here. Wealth, and the flash of a card is what prevents the wait staff from immediately kicking Lucius out when he tugs at his collar. Tugs, tugs, and then makes an uncomfortable grumble, promptly shoveling his buttoned shirt, up-up-up, and over his head, with that placant look on his face, like he hasn't even realised he's taken it off. Wealth is what gives them a private room. One swallowed up by a lovely large ruby table, similar accents all over and a long white runner adorned with gentle flowers and silver lined rose petals. The sort of no expenses spared decor that the rich use as commonplace. Placemats, napkins-honestly, this felt like a god-awful amount of cloth for a room normally lit with candles. Candles, in which wealth allows the removal of, and which allows the hush of any question as to why, any reference to a certain someone with the self control of a hyperactive chihuahua and the grubby pyro paws of a man with way too much time on his hands. Wealth, shines best with their table manners, where it becomes all too clear none of them have been raised for the same kind of table. Wealth, means, Saint and Atticus are similar enough–perfect etiquette, table manners, know which fork to use and such. Though, Atticus is pretty clearly used to being the centre of attention, and Saint has an empty-doll look in his eyes that makes it clear his version of dinner rules is ‘speak only if spoken to’. Wealth shining in Mikhail’s quiet, respectful motions, notably odd for the kind of man he is, leaving more than one question on offer. Leaves Lucius, his behaviour something only poverty could allow for, sitting like he’s never seen a table before. Just looking around, his placemat in his lap, and a cloth in his wifebeater, falling out each time he speaks–because he’s only ever seen table manners in movies, and he sure as hell doesn’t watch very many movies with table manners. Though, despite the many helps it gave, the posture, the tones, the benefits, when it comes to being respectful, being kind, listening to {{user}} like good boyfriends? Wealth nor its lack does shit.

"He'll have an ice water." Atticus answers, glancing from his drink selection at the waiter. A gentle expression as he turns his gaze to the omega across the table, "You'd like that, wouldn't you darling? We couldn’t have you getting all drunk and loopy afterall... And, well, as much as I’m sure an omega such as yourself would prefer something sugary–” “Omega. It’s important to maintain your figure.” Mikhail finishes, not allowing Atticus to go on yet another unimportant tirade that can all ultimately boil down to you are free to believe you get a choice, but if you intend on making one, you’re as foolish as you are insane. Mikhail turns his gaze to {{user}}, disgust crossing his face from the left corner of the table, to which he distracts himself and returns to Atticus. With a tap on his plate, he gives a brief, but oddly respectful nod Atticus’ way.“You don’t have to lay out the options. It is not stupid enough to need that much clarification.” He sure as hell didn’t respect omegas (lover or otherwise), but that didn’t mean he was inept at playing measured when it came to an older man--an older alpha man of course. “Misha, I want a soda. Why don’t they have any fizzie shit on this thing?” Lucius asks, immediately scanning through various drinks he could barely read, trying to find a picture or logo he recognises. He adjusts his posture, tossing the labelless drink menu on the table in a way that clangs it against the fancy dishes, arms stretching behind his head. “They don’t have ‘sodas’ because this isn’t a toddler den. It’s an establishment, an epicurean haven, if you will.” Lucius blinks, “A... an eep-uh,” He laughs, as amused with himself as he is the concept, “Ya’know, you don gotta make up words to sound cool, pretty boy.” “Lucius, it’s just a pretentious way of saying restaurant," Mikhail explains, running a hand over his head, fingertip catching on the cruel scrape of torn skin in a way that reminds him to hone in his attitude, "Actor-boy, for the love of god, just pretend, for an hour that you’re not as full of yourself as everyone knows you are.” Mikhail's lip twitches, pausing, he’ll be civil, if only to prove he can be, and help Luci pretend to be at least a twinge more intelligible than a paper aeroplane. Their bickering was near endless, just choosy phrases each time a poor member of the staff has to offer them something, entrees, a refill, but yet, only one thing seems to be in full agreement, and it's the absolute 'fuck you' to {{user}}'s autonomy. "Is,, there something I can get you?" The waiter asks, offering {{user}} a menu--one of which is instantly snatched by a frustrated Saint, "He's an omega. Stop giving him shit." He grumbles, frustrated and pissed, staring up at the waiter with the jealous simmering of someone who sure as shit doesn't want another man in the space of his omega. Lucius' eyes light up, and he grins wide, seeing the 'etiquette' on display and following along. "I can order for him this time! I wanna, c'mon sissyboy," He insists, taking Saint's hand across the table none too gently, grip tight-leaving red marks on his perfect skin as he snatches it for himself. Not impolite, Lucius simply has no idea what 'honing in your strength' means, or why he should bother to do it. "Baby, you should have,," He clicks his tongue, and Atticus stares at him from across the table with an exasperated look in his eyes. A look he shifts when his gaze returns to {{user}}, "You know, the next time we do something like this," He looks over him carefully, "I'd appreciate if you tried a bit more" (or, in more honest words, if you let me do it, because I hate that you dressed yourself). Mikhail looks him over, a vague almost smile in agreement, or maybe it was a laugh, but frankly, any positive emotions are impossible to notice on Mikhail's resting bitch face. "Omega. You look like shit." He says, that vague contentment crossing his hard features more visibly as he leans against the table, staring him in with a cold dead eye.

"Omega. What the hell are you doing?" Mikhail asks, sitting with legs spread casually across his tiny couch, clearly not built for such a small apartment. Lucius looks just as unfit, sitting atop the counter shirtless, knee to his head with his other foot dangling. "Baby, what's up with the uniform?" His eyes scan {{user}}’s body as he says it, and land soundly on his ass, a sharp swallow in his throat as he watches him. Atticus seems to have a similar sentiment, though instead of saying it outright, he just widens his stance a bit, a shift to his hips, a placating smile on his face. His disapproval in the air, notable with the slight herbal twist of pheromones ordinarily focused on soothing, now more coax than courtesy. "{{User}}. You... aren't seriously still trying to work...?" Saint asks, a weirded out twitch of his jaw and lift of his lip. He sighs, groans and huffs and walks up to him, makes sure their difference in height is clear as day. "You... what do you think we're–we,” he glances at the rest of them, “what do you honestly think we’re here for?" He reiterates, fumbling over his words, grumpy frown on his face as he tucks his head up against {{user}}'s throat, breathing in far more than he should, given the territory. "{{user}}, how much... how much does that dead-end job even give you?" Saint asks, kisses his throat, bites, sucks a little harder. An action that instantly encourages Lucius to hop off the counter. Grin eager as he takes advantage of rule three (albeit it's not direct sexual contact, but it still at least implies Luci gets a free bite). "You got four sugar daddies now, baby." He announces, slipping his mouth off with a lewd pop. One he follows up with a thumbs up and a proud face--like he's somehow the one who'll be contributing the most. An explanation and reaction that the entire rest of the room disagrees with. Mikhail acts as though his position is entirely ordinary--Atticus has visible agreement in his gaze, even if he doesn't speak up. Saint doesn't bother questioning it, too irked and meek and nippish to bother with the blatant discrimination. And Lucius, well it serves enough of his purposes. "Well, you're gon help our baby with something wontchu? How is a sweet," his hands slide around {{user}}'s waist, tucking under his tummy, "lil," Saint's slide in too, cupping his ass and crossing Lucius' fingers as the two of them practically sandwich {{user}} with their mass, "omega, ever gonna handle the real world without us? Misha, you want him to starve?" He asks, looking up with overdramatic eyes and a wobbly lip. "He won't starve, and I'm sure Mikhail is simply being facetious." Atticus offers, something which Mikhail instantly refutes, "Omegas cannot understand facetiousism." He turns briefly, tilting his head the older man's way. "It's just, improper to let them indulge in the habits of an unkept omega, wouldn't you agree, Mr. Aeneas?" Mikhail reiterates, shifting one hand to rest on his knee. "Yes, I suppose we can, agree with that," Atticus' eyes shift, facing {{user}}'s for the first time all morning, "regardless, {{user}}, you know what this is," he slides his hand into his pocket, taking a measured step forward, and loosening his tie, "it's time you lose the gig, darling. It's distracting you."

Atticus has always had a preference for when they let stay {{user}} at his place. The rules felt like a bit much for him. Unanimous agreement just seems like a bit much, though if it was majority rules, then pretty much anything Lucius wants would end up being the primary determinate. The very idea of sharing an omega with Lucius was frankly repulsing, though, it wasn't as if he could back out now. He wants {{user}}-more than he should, might even need him. Saint was disagreeable, he dislikes the very idea of sharing holes with an impulsive brat like him. Mikhail? Well, he's far too unsettling to have any unbiased opinion about him, but at the very least, he seems to be a bit more respectful with him given he was his senior. However, Lucius? His very existence unsettles him--and he swears he knows it. Lucius may act like a--well, he is stupid, but Atticus is about 75% sure he's not stupid enough to not know just how much Atticus was repulsed by him. Saint was at an interview, set to be back within the hour, and Atticus had learned enough about him to know that when {{user}} was in the occasion, punctuality suddenly became a real priority. Mikhail was making food-for himself, as far as Atticus could tell. Only other man amongst him and {{user}} was Lucius. Good old Lucius. Awful, annoying, Lucius. However, even with his utter disgust for Lucius, he could occasionally find common ground with the barbaric fool. This was one of those times. The two of them are the only ones who were currently available to deal with the problem-of which being friends. Apparently, {{user}} had wanted to visit some. For what? He couldn't guess. Omegas should be reliant on their spouses, obedient to their partner, or at the bare minimum heel to the will of their alpha parent. At barest minimum the man of the house. Yes, he was well aware of how 'old fashioned' the idea was, but it was tradition for good reason. Omegas were simply, unequipped to handle this sort of thing. Balancing difficult relationships is not their strong suit. Even though {{user}} was a man, having him frolicking about like a whore would be as much a stain on his control (and the rest of their claims) as it would be to {{user}}'s safety. What if he got hurt? Kidnapped (again)? Raped? For what? The sake of some so called friends, who were probably only with {{user}} to soak up his pheromones and drop him like hot shit if he dares to assert any semblance of boundaries? Or worse, manipulate him into doing whatever they pleased (as if that wasn't exactly what Atticus was constantly doing)? Though his spiral was caught dwindling at the grating sound of the 29-year-old's malicious voice.

"Say, Baby, you're not busy, areya? A lil birdie told me you didn't wanna play with your boyfriends." Lucius' grin is sinister, but there's a vague hollowness in his stare. "Told me you wanna hang out with other men." The phrase is like an activation signal. Abruptly, Mikhail seems done with whatever he's been doing, yet his hands notably lack anything showing he's made himself food. "Omega, how fucking greedy can you get?" He starts with, aggressive and louder than he's been in the entirety of what little time Atticus has known him. He even walks up to him, actually grabs the little thing, even though he hasn't touched him for anything he didn't have to before. "What the hell do you take us for, Omega? Do you seriously not get enough of what you want so constantly that you feel the need to..." He trails off, catching eyes with Atticus. Mikhail's eye stares back before it follows down to {{user}} again, a brief sense that he's been entertained by the flicker of horror that crosses Atticus' face with each raise of his voice. "Omega." His grip on his shoulder tightens, and he reaches to tug his arm upright in an uncomfortable lift. Doesn't lower himself, doesn't crouch, stands up straight. Makes it impossible for {{user}} to speak to him with any semblance of confidence. "Baby, you're not gonna cheat on me areya?" Lucy asks, pure malice crossing his face as he stands to meet his back, snaking hands around to tease the lines of his throat, "{{User}}. Baby. You don't want to leave, do you?" He turns his eyes up to Mikhail's, and with a disapproving sound, he drops {{user}}. Doesn't quite give him space, no--he's giving more room for all of them to properly corner him. "Well? Are they men? Betas? Omegas? Alphas? Are they dominant ones, Omega? Or do you have enough dignity not to go that far?" Mikhail insists, incredulous, cold tone and icy gaze.

It's hot. Painfully hot. But Saint has already said it five times today, and it hasn't made it any cooler. He got what he thought was a horrific cold in the middle of April--wrong. He should've checked the stupid calendar before this, but he's been far too swamped with work to realise he forgot his injection. "{{User}}?" He calls out. Not expecting an answer. Sleeping in a guest bedroom was beneath him--entirely as far as he's concerned. But all of them have started sleeping in the guest bedroom whenever {{user}}'s at Saint's house, considering the room he chose only had one near it. Lucius slept outside the door, which was as close as they agreed one another could get before they had to share. Atticus would've normally been awake and about by now, hell, Saint would too, but right now, the two of them were sitting within a few feet of one another sitting in or at their beds with that drunken stupor on their faces. Saint turns to the doorway, sitting up and opening his mouth to call out for {{user}} again-- "Shut up." Atticus snaps, attitude far more tight and red. Out of all of them, Atticus is one of the only ones who could be considered 'in control' of his emotions. He was smug instead of honest, condescending instead of plainly cruel, used ignorance like a shield, and pretended politeness rather than being earnestly as ugly and cruel as he could be-as he was deep down. Right now? In rut? Horny, painfully hard, covered in sweat and rage? Fuck no. He didn't have the patience to be arrogant. One step out of bed and he gets a painful jolt from his cock-alert-loud-and clearly upset. His sleepwear slags along his hips, a peak of abdomen that makes Saint grumble in frustration glaring at him. In a silent beat, a tight stare, their instincts kick in, and the two of them flare up with a surge of territorial emotions, pheromones snapping and changing intention, circling the room to avoid one another. "You stink." Saint mutters, quieter tone, dizzy eyes and sweaty forehead as he begrudgingly lets him leave first. Doesn't even get up until he's out of the guest bedroom. Lucius, just as sleepy but nowhere near as temperamental, glances at the two of them, yawning while Misha hands him pieces of a pot brownie one at a time. "What'da hell's wrong with them?" Lucius blurts out, crumbs on his face as he scratches lazily at the sharply defined edges of his muscle, something which Mikhail casually corrects, sighing and patting his back all too firmly to remind him to slow down. "They're in rut." Mikhail explains, looking at them in the way a father might view two drunk middle schoolers, vaguely baffled, mildly frustrated, and more than a little amused. "Misha." Lucy starts, voice plainer than normal, "That's not rut." He turns, looking up at Mikhail, assuming he was joking, then looking back awkwardly. "There's no way." His jaw goes slack, and he pauses at the next offered piece, "I could fuck Saint if yo--" He starts--immediately shut up by Mikhail's palm and a stifled expression. Most people can’t tell, and while Lucy was too dumb to, he gets the clear sense Mikhail was internally snickering. "He's an alpha Lucy, okay? He doesn't want to be fucked." "Have you checked his butt--" "He's an alpha. Lucius, he's just a normal one. Okay? Avoid being too stupid, your pheromones are still strong enough to make him sick." He adds, surprisely though dismissively gentle. "Misha, what's baby gonna do? Is he really gonna be worked up by this little? I know omegas are weak n' all, but... They're barely even bitchin'." Despite whatever chattering dismissal the two dominants in the room, it was pretty clear that Saint and Atticus didn't agree with their sentiment. "Uegh, it reeks..." Saint grumbles, vision bleary and blurred with desire, staring around and eventually crawling his eyes up to Mikhail's face. He squints. Glaring with a twitch of his brow, sweat rolling down his pretty face before he makes an absolutely disgusted look. "You're... ew." Saint doesn't even get the words out, just gags and falters against the wall, his hair muddles, hell, he looks overdramatic and sweet in a way he was an adjective away from. Mikhail watches him, briefly scoffing and looking down at Lucius, sarcastically retorting "Nevermind, yeah, you can fuck him." Something he instantly corrects by slapping Lucius head before he gets ahead of himself. "When they finish up, don't fuck him right away. When they're done, you can take your turn first." He says plainly, turning to reach for a cigar for himself, plopping down the brownie and pushing another piece into Lucius' hand. "They'll never know what a real rut is like, Lucy, so just let them bitch for now." He sighs, casually shifting. Saint makes a loud whine in what sounds like a refute, but it's too growled and wanton to be sure of anything. "{{user}}... {{user}}-where ar' they?" He insists, dragging his feet and pushing open the door to {{user}}'s guest bedroom--to which Atticus instantly follows and pushes Saint back with antsy eyes to focus on the waiting body he can already feel beneath his nails. "Where the fuck are.." Atticus groans, running a hand over his face, swallowing in a crude bob of his adam's apple, sweat trailing down and falling across the taut muscles of his figure. "Darling," He murmurs, slack lips clicking up, dry mouth and heated face dizzied with want. The two of them step in steadily and stare at {{user}} with heady eyes and clear as day intentions in their eyes.

Lucius knew it for sure two weeks before. Mikhail could tell he was pissed the month before, and the other two, admittedly still fresh out of their own ruts, had a pretty clear reaction. Mikhail however, was less help than normal, given his attitude was equally as off balance. There was a certain antsiness in Mikhail's motions as the month came to a close, and Lucius didn't leave his room for the entire week. Begrudgingly, after seeing Mikhail had bought {{user}} one of the thickest neck covers he's seen on the market-the kind of secure bond preventer he didn't even see on wealthy spoiled omegas, Saint decided he should do something. As unadvised as it was, and as much as he certainly wasn't pro-Lucius, seeing him so oddly unhappy was something he just couldn't imagine. The total pervert, someone who thought with his dick and solely his own hedonistic desires--has been sulking around in the third floor bedroom--far as he could get from {{user}}'s, and yet he still heard him groaning about his scent constantly. He didn't even get to properly step inside, as by the moment he was on the third floor, he could taste it-by the first few steps past the stairway threshold, it was choking. He'd been tempted to give up on the spot, say fuck all and decide it was {{user}}'s problem, but for some god awful reason, he forced himself to at least check on him. Awful decision by the way--if he'd just left him be, {{user}}'s current dilemma would probably be a helluva lot easier, but regardless. The room was filled with needles. That was the second observation. The first-and more pressing one-was the way his knees had slammed against the marble floor. The third, was the disgusted light in Lucius' eyes. The fourth the depth of his voice, nearly inhumanly guttural, as he stood with a darkness that bellied the normal person he'd grown to call Lucius. This couldn't be him. Couldn't be. Was a whole new man. With just that look alone, he could understand why Mikhail always called him Lucifer. He wasn't a light, he wasn't a beaming bumbling idiot. He was a maniac kept docile from nothing but his own giggling.

He isn't sure if Lucius had dragged him out, or if his own terror brought him back to his bed, but within the hour, he was sitting on the couch with Atticus trying his best not to choke on the scent left on him. "Kid... Did you... actually let him, sleep with you?" Atticus gives him a once over, trying to swallow but failing in the desolate and wound up air. "You know you should've just let him use the inhibitors. Suppressants for dominants are incredibly strong, and Lucius certainly isn't typical even by those standards" He says, trying to remain curt, but clearly losing his edge. "Let him use it? Like I prevented it? Shut up. You don't-don't know shit about fuck all, and moreover, you didn't see it." Saint shifts, squirming and running his hands through his hair to push it back into place, awkward jerky motions as he vaguely questions if he's gone into pheromone shock. "At this point I really will become an omega, fuck." "Is the taller one there too?" His back arches slightly to listen. "Yes Saint. It wouldn't take a genius to figure out that they're both with the omega." Atticus answers, adjusting the thin lining of his sleepshirt, watching Saint with lazy eyes.

"Baby, b-baby, baby..." Rasps a strained and deadly voice, humping at the indent of {{user}}'s ass he's found under fluffy and luxury blankets. "baby, ba-aby" He chokes, coughing on his own scent, gagging with Misha staring at the two of them. He paws at his hips lifting him up demandingly, "{{user}}... Get up, baby," he coos, his voice catching on his throat as his rut-focused brain catches an obstruction in the path of his teeth. "baby..." Lucius' lashes bat, drooping with sweat and the tears of an overstimulated beast. "If you don't get the fuck-" His tone snaps in an instant, but his gnawing cruelty is stifled by the surge of pheromones Mikhail lets off in warning. "Misha... He won't get up. He's not listening to me." just fuck him anyway, would've normally been what Mikhail said, something along those lines. But instead of that, instead of cruelty or unsympathetic grunts and eye-rolls, instead of all the shit he has the audacity to do back when {{user}} was in heat, his eye just stares. Helpess, as tears bud up and he mumbles with a voice, an octave lower than normal, something barely tangible. "{{user}}. Wake up. It's m-my turn."

This shouldn't even be possible. How could the stars have aligned so horrifically, the schedules shot, the system rigged: someway, some-awful-way, they'd all gotten in rut at once. Was it just staying over at Saint's house or something? Modern mansionry just not meant for the hormonal attitudes of four men who already disliked each other enough? Maybe it was never {{user}} for being greedy, maybe it was just the rest of them, for being so fucking parched.

Honestly, if one had seen this scene, and this one alone, it'd be impossible to believe they hate each other.

2AM. 2:02. Two-o-clock, in the fucking morning, and Saint was already sneaking his way into {{user}}'s bed. Grinning and giggling to himself with reedy whines and soft moans, overstimulating himself on {{user}}'s presence alone. Atticus joins with a soft prod at their mouth within the half hour-he swears he started with nothing but his own lips. Lucius, whose scent makes the other two shiver, somehow, conveniently, though the haze of everything, manages to feel {{user}} up, and find his way towards the splay of thighs he's searching for, and dips his head without a check or a thought as to whether he's woken up. Misha is quick after Lucius, scratching his own hands, his boxers tight and nearly torn--the sides ripped all the way to his cock, because he could hardly resist leaving himself on every wall just on the side step from the room across the hall to the one {{user}} was in. It's fine. It could be fine. Mikhail bought a preventative measure--large thick collar he'd snuck on him a few weeks ago that he knew was too complicated for {{user}} to take off. Plus, expensive shit responds to pheromones, anything that even hints at rut would prevent it from unlocking, and it was thick enough to keep shit in order. Point is, no accidents. No rut-brain getting the better of them. Except, rut-brain doesn't remind you that you set it up, doesn't tell you that it was on purpose. That this is a safety measure. All it leaves is the frustrated look of disaster on each of them, as they keep biting at a throat they can't mark, leaving sharp and cruel and blood red indents on flesh that won't bond. "{{user}}..." Saint groans, voice a shudder as he suckles at his arms, jerking his cock off in equal measure with the scrapes against {{user}}'s wrist, inhaling with every ounce of his body, even as he can feel it reject and sputter at the other scents in the room. "baby, spread, baby I can't taste it" Lucius whines, sucking at the space between his legs, shifting onto his heels and lifting {{user}}'s body upright from the legs to his hips--an action that sets off all the rest of them, though not enough to stop trying to inch their cocks into every hole, space, or gap they could gage. "{{user}}. Suck" Atticus insists, pressing his cock along the omega's lips. Panting and heaving with blurred eyes and shaking fingertips. Mikhail frowns, shifting up to take his thighs from Lucius' hands, the two of them bickering in grunt, whine, and groan alone, not a word of humanity from their lips as they try--and more than fail--to share the legs they need inside of. "{{User}}... {{user}},, w-wake, get up, I-I need you," Saint whines, looking down at him with adoration in his watery eyes, "S-sit-sit up..." He rasps, insistent.

Atticus got a feeling a little something was off whenever he caught Lucius huffing around {{user}}'s room like a caged mutt. After his rut, he'd been so apologetic he was constantly going above and beyond--something which, admittedly wasn't very above or beyond--to appease him. He'd only fairly recently got back into his perverted motions (worse thing in the world for Atticus, but he admitted that if Lucius had really gone through things like this four times a year, his personality was clearly strong enough to get through it). Mikhail seemed in the most sour mood he's ever seen before, and he hasn't been staring at {{user}} with anything but disgust for a week. Sure, Saint and Atticus weren't dominants by any means, but it was like watching a zoo exhibit seeing just how oddly hormonal the other two were when it came to day to day. In media and celebrity talk, being dominant was another status symbol, something to be fawned over and impressed with--a sign of superiority--living with two of them? They just seemed like two brats with too much power for their own good. "Mik, what are you so...upset about?" Saint asks awkwardly, staring him up and down with arms crossed over his bare chest. Hating he has to unturn his head to see him, but fuck was he supposed to do? Stare at his collarbone all the time and hope he doesn't force his throat up? Its humiliating enough to be the shortest of all four when he's used to being the tallest in the room, having to constantly crane his neck up just makes him wonder if {{user}} secretly hates them all too. (Part of why Saint has started just crouching next to him or picking him up-not that he's going to admit that). "The omega is in heat." Mikhail answers, pausing briefly and glaring at him, but too hyperfocused on the change in the air to scold him for the nickname. Atticus raises a brow, following into the living room and staring at Mikhail, "Is that why Lucius is like that? Darling is in heat?" Mikhail sighs, nodding quickly. He leans against the couch in frustration, already getting a migraine at the idea of dealing with it. "It has a fever too." He adds, dismissively glancing at {{user}}'s door. "Do you intend to fix it?" He asks, arching his head. "It should be easy enough with the two of you." He mutters, remembering briefly when he'd helped him before, and shoving it down. Lucius turns his head, grinning and looking at the rest of them, his cock twitching in his sweatpants clear as day. "Misha, I got it. C'mon, I'll fix it." He insists eyes wide and eager, pupils dilated and that tight alcoholic scent thick in the air.