Kellin Beckett || Rut

He hates playing shows so close to the start of his rut. He’s irritable, horny, and the scent of every omega around him makes him feel like he’s losing control. But what Kellin hates the most is how fans try to throw themselves at him, hoping he’ll go full alpha, primal-brained, and claim them. Such were the problems of the lead singer of one of the most famous bands on the planet.

Ashes of our Youth had done the unthinkable, going from modest Midwest beginnings to an era-defining band, according to Rolling Stone, and he?

Well, he’s a fucking rockstar now.

Kellin Beckett shoves his tattooed hand through his sweaty black hair, taking a long sip from the water bottle Ben had shoved into his hands. The surly tour manager had demanded that each band member finish the whole thing, and Kellin wasn’t about to piss off their Tour Dad — not this close to his own rut. They were all on edge — six alphas nearing the start of their quarterly heats. Ben, ever the master strategist, had planned the break in their tour dates to accommodate their unique schedules, allowing the alphas to slip off to their preferred rut house, the celebrity favorite, Knotty Business, without causing a fuss.

He’s been on edge all day — the familiar itch under his skin having started — that all-consuming fevered heat that sent his pulse racing and the overwhelming presence of his alpha in his mind waiting to be unleashed. The meet-and-greet had been hell — they always were ever since a fan managed to hack their email and discover their tour schedule. Zack did his best to weed out the toxic fans — but it seemed more and more were showing up with fake mate marks in black-market ink or artificial mate pheromones to try to trick their alphas.

Fuck that.

Why couldn’t fans understand they were people too?

And Kellin? He’s not sure he even believes in Fated Mates. Not after her. The memory of Vanessa makes him flinch, Kellin crushing the empty water bottle in his hand as he approaches his bus. He just needed a shower, maybe a shot of whatever Ben left for him, and then sleep. Probably the last semi-decent sleep he’d get until his rut-induced fever broke in a week.

Each of the boys got their own bus during this period — it was expensive, but needed. The last time they had shared a bus, close to their ruts, Kellin and Mikey had almost fallen off the bus during a fist fight while it was flying down the highway.

Ben had laid down an ultimatum: Never Again.

Not that Kellin would complain — privacy was a rare commodity for them, and he’d relish having his own space for a while. He pushes the door open, not registering that it was unlocked as he takes the steps two at a time.

The first thing Kellin notices as he reaches the back bunk area is a scent. Not just any scent. An omega’s scent. But this scent was so much more — it reminded him of those fake black-market pheromones, but better — clean and natural. His pupils dilate a fraction, his alpha growling a low Mate in his head. Kellin bristles at the revelation — his alpha was registering a mate? There were only two known causes of this phenomena-- artificially created mate pheromones or fated mates?

But that was impossible. Because why would the universe give someone as fucked in the head as him a mate designated by destiny?

No — this had to be yet another crazed fan who, drenched in artificial pheromones, had snuck into his bunk in hopes to induce a feral alpha haze on Kellin. “Fuck” he groans, his temper flaring. He’s had a shitty day and now he has to deal with this?

He senses a shift of someone behind the curtain of his bunk — Of course, they’d be there. They’d probably even rifled through his clothes, too. But if they’d touched Mr. Bear, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions.

Standing outside his bunk, Kellin has half a mind to call Zack to deal with it — but the towering bodyguard had left early when his rut started prematurely. He could call Ben, but — nah. “I'll handle it myself,” he sighs out loud, a scowl marring his handsome face.

In one hand is his iPhone — poised to dial Ben’s emergency line should he need it — and the other reaches for the curtain.

Roughly Kellin yanks the fabric back — his icy blue gaze meeting the sight of a figure, curled up in what looked like a nest in his bunk. He spots his leather jacket, his favorite pair of grey sweats, and one of his Off-White flannels, all carefully chosen to make the cozy space an omega craves in heat.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” he asks, a sneer on his face as he stares them down. And yet even as he challenges them, his Alpha chants mate mate mate in his head, setting his futher on edge. He can’t have a Fated Mate — Not, Him.

Fuck ups like him didn’t get happy endings. They only got pain and trauma to write angsty ballads to scream on stage.

This had to be a trick.

“You’re pretty bold, aren’t you? Using black market pheromones on an alpha when he’s near his rut? You know that's a crime, right?” He isn’t sure if it is — the whole issue surrounded forced bonding and artificial pheromones was complicated and rife with old school alpha and omega mindsets on what is proper. But he always did have a way with words.

Kellin’s gaze is fixed on the omega, fury raging behind those pretty baby blues of his. He’s annoyed, horny, confused and worst of all; he’s pissed off.

“You’ve got exactly sixty seconds to explain what the fuck you’re doing here — or I’m calling the cops.”