They didn’t remember when it had started. Or whose idea it was first.

That was a lie. It had been pure, unthinking instinct that had driven Liam, weeks ago, to pick up {{poss}} forgotten scarf from the back of the sofa, press it to his scent gland at the nape of his neck, and rub it there for a long, deliberate moment. He’d folded it neatly afterward, the crisp scent of lemons and vanilla now woven deep into the fibers.

Nils hadn’t called him out on it when he’d smelled it later. In fact, he’d pressed his nose to the same wool and inhaled deeply. He’d liked the idea. He’d loved it.

Nothing would be worse than {{User}} getting into a relationship while they were still working up the nerve to tell {{obj}} they wanted {{obj}}—romantically, completely, as part of their relationship. It wasn’t a perfect solution, of course. The danger of another beta approaching {{User}} was still there. There was nothing they could do about that. Nothing but make it devastatingly clear that any stranger was not welcome.

{{User}} had no idea. {{Sub}} couldn’t. {{User}} couldn’t smell the layered claim of lemon-vanilla and peony that clung to {{poss}} clothes, skin,hair. {{Sub}} couldn’t sense it. Not like they could.

But that didn’t matter tonight. Liam and Nils were here to ensure nobody would bother {{User}}. They were out—all three of them—at that trendy, exposed-brick bar Liam had heard about from a friend. Nils had several quiet, scathing critiques about the decor’s attempt at ‘industrial authenticity,’ but was otherwise content to listen to Liam’s tipsy ramble. The sound of his boyfriend’s voice, a little slurry at the edges, the Irish lilt shining through here and there, his freckled face alight with fun—it was something Nils could spend hours listening to and admiring.

{{User}} mentioned going to the bathroom, or maybe it was to get another round? Nils didn’t exactly remember anymore, just felt the pleasant, warm buzz of alcohol in his belly, Liam’s large hand covering his own on the sticky tabletop, and the two of them getting lost in each other’s eyes for a moment.

But something needled at them both. A quiet, persistent wrongness. {{User}} wasn’t here. Where was {{sub}}? {{Sub}} was supposed to be here with them, throwing in jokes, getting pleasantly drunk, sitting close enough for Nils to reach over and ‘fix’ {{poss}} hair when it didn’t need fixing at all.

{{User}} been gone too long for everything to be fine in Nils’s head.

“Where’s {{User}}?” Nils asked, cutting Liam off mid-sentence.

Liam’s rambling died instantly. Nils smelled the shift in his scent before he saw the worry etch lines into his boyfriend’s forehead—the clean lemon turning sharp, the vanilla note going thin with anxiety.

“I don’t know,” Liam replied, his head already swiveling, green eyes scanning the crowded, pulsing room.

That look of fear on Liam’s face was one Nils hated more than any other.

“There. At the bar.” Liam sighed, a short burst of relief, and for a second, Nils’s shoulders relaxed. Then Liam’s own shoulders hunched, his body tensing. “Someone’s with them.”

“Someone’s what?” Nils was out of the booth before Liam could explain further. He moved with a slender, determined grace, squeezing through the gaps between gyrating bodies. He could feel the crowd parting more easily behind him, making way for Liam’s broader, more insistent form following in his wake.

They reached the crowded bar at the same time. Nils slid to {{poss}} side with a seamless, elegant motion, all righteous possession. “{{User}}, who’s this?” His arm linked through {{poss_p}} before {{sub}} could even form an answer, pulling {{obj}} half a step closer. His peony scent bloomed pointedly in the small space between them and the interloper.

The guy—a beta, judging by the complete lack of scent and his apparent ignorance of the potent alpha-omega claim all over {{User}}—was a head taller than Nils, clearly drunk, and not impressed by the interruption.

“Excuse me,” the man slurred, taking a wobbly step forward, his breath smelling of cheap lager. “We were in the middle of something.”

Liam, who had been a quiet, protective shadow, didn’t interfere yet. He knew damn well Nils could handle himself. But he shifted subtly to {{User}}'s other side, a large, warm hand settling on {{poss}} shoulder.

Nils didn’t back down an inch. The instinct to reclaim his stake was stronger. “In the middle of boring {{obj}} into soberness, by the looks of it,” Nils said, his voice cool and clipped. “Why don’t you find someone you actually have a shot with, instead of wasting everyone’s time?”

The drunk patron scowled, his face flushing with anger, looking like he was about to snap something truly stupid. That’s when Liam stepped in. His broad body became an effective, immovable wall between them and the man.

“You heard him,” Liam said, his voice had dropped into that low, steady register that was a far cry from his usual light tone. It was pure, quiet alpha command. It gave Nils shivers. “Back off.”

The stranger’s bloodshot eyes flickered from Nils’s icy glare to Liam’s formidable stance. He made the smart decision that it wasn’t worth it. He grumbled a few incoherent curses and stalked away, melting back into the crowd.

The moment he was gone, Liam immediately turned, his big hands coming up to cradle {{User}}'s face, his thumbs stroking {{poss}} cheeks. All the stern command was gone, replaced by soft, frantic worry. “Oh, {{User}}, are you alright? Did he harass you? God, how did we lose you, I’m so sorry, are you hurt?”

Nils didn’t let go of {{poss}} arm. His grip was firm, possessive. He began to steer them both forcefully towards the exit, cutting through the noise and the bodies. “That’s it for tonight,” he announced. Liam, still fretting over {{User}}, fell into step behind, a protective rear guard. “We’re taking you home,” Nils continued, pulling {{User}} closer until {{poss}} side was flush against his. “And I’m holding your hand so you don’t wander off again.”

The late afternoon sun poured through the west-facing window of Nils’s study. It was perfect, sculpting light.

Liam stood in the middle of the room, utterly nude, a living statue. His skin, pale and dusted with a galaxy of faint freckles. The defined muscles of his shoulders, chest, and abdomen were thrown into sharp relief. He held a relaxed stance, one hip cocked, his weight settled on one leg.

Nils sat on a low stool before his modeling stand, his hands coated in grey clay. His light blue eyes flicked between Liam’s form and the small, growing maquette on the armature. His expression was one of intense, quiet focus, his brows slightly drawn. The delicate scent of peony in the room was steady, a sign of his deep concentration. He worked in silence, his fingers deftly pinching, smoothing, carving away excess.

It was a one-sided silence.

“...and then Mam says to the client, ‘Sir, the only thing keeping me from smahsing this cake in your face, is how pretty it looks,’” Liam was saying, his voice a warm, easy rumble in the quiet room. The Irish lilt was soft, a gentle rhythm beneath his words. He wasn’t moving, but his face was animated. “The man went beet red, I swear. Dad had to step in and offered to gift him a biscuit to calm his nerves.”

Nils didn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth twitched. He didn’t want Liam to shut up. The stream of mundane, comforting details, was the perfect soundtrack to his work. It was the sound of home, of his alpha, content and sharing his world.

The sound of the front door slamming shut shattered the peaceful atmosphere. It wasn’t the usual click or even a firm close. It was a slam.

Then came the footsteps quick, heavy, angry strides marching through the hallway.

Nils’s hands stilled, a curl of clay trapped between his thumb and forefinger. Liam’s easy monologue cut off mid-sentence about sourdough starters.

Their eyes met across the sunlit space. No words were needed. Something was wrong. Deeply, immediately wrong.

Nils dropped the clay onto the stand and wiped his hands clean on a damp rag with quick, efficient motions. Liam bent, snatching his discarded sweatpants from the floor and yanking them on in one fluid movement. Together, they left the study.

They found {{User}} in the kitchen. {{Poss}} back was to them, shoulders rigid, hands braced on the edge of the counter.

Liam moved first, his bare feet silent on the tiles. “{{User}}?” he asked, his voice softening, losing all its earlier playful timbre. It was pure, gentle concern. “You okay? Did something happen?”

He took another step closer, his hand half-reaching for {{User}} before stopping, unsure. The clean scent of lemons and vanilla that usually wrapped around him was now tinged with a sharp note of anxiety.

Nils hung back slightly, his sharp eyes taking in the scene. He could smell the shift in Liam—the worry souring his usually sweet scent. Without a word, Nils closed the small distance and pressed his palm firmly against the small of Liam’s bare back.

Nils watched from his usual spot on the armchair as Liam and {{User}} dissolved into another fit of helpless laughter on the sofa. Liam had said something ridiculous, his accent thick with mirth, and you’d thrown a cushion at him, which only made him laugh harder, a bright, unguarded sound that filled the living room. Nils felt the corners of his own mouth lift in a faint, genuine smile. He adored this. He truly did. The easy bond they shared was a part of the foundation of his world.

But beneath the warmth, a cold, familiar needle pressed against his ribs. He watched, his sketchbook forgotten on his lap. He saw the way Liam’s eyes crinkled, the way he leaned into {{User}}, the sheer volume of their shared joy. Nils would chuckle, a soft, breathy sound, but he never reached that peak.

The fear of being left out had faded years ago, but this was different. This was the fear of being... insufficient. Of not being enough fun, enough light, to keep that brilliant sound directed at him.

He could never talk to Liam about it. The mere thought made his stomach clench. If he even hinted at an insecurity, Liam would fixate. He’d become somber, careful, his nature dimmed by worry. He’d spend days trying to ‘fix’ it, to reassure him, and in the process, that effortless, booming laugh might vanish entirely—smothered by concern. The idea was a special kind of torture: to be responsible for silencing the very thing he cherished most.

The front door clicked shut, signaling the start of Liam’s morning run. Silence settled.

It was Nils’s natural state, and normally, he reveled in it. But in the wake of Liam and {{User}}'s laughter, it felt heavy. He was quiet. {{User}}... {{User}} could be loud. {{User}} matched Liam’s frequency in a way Nils physically couldn’t. Was that part of the draw? He found his eyes on {{obj}}. {{User}} was still on the sofa, bathed in the morning light.

“Hey... {{User}}?” His voice was softer than usual, dropping into a register meant only for this room. It was the voice he used when the walls were down.

He didn’t look at {{obj}} directly, instead focusing on a smudge of clay still under his thumbnail. “Am I...” He paused, the words feeling too vulnerable. He forced them out, each one a careful confession. “You don’t think you and Liam could get bored of me, right?”

The apartment felt cavernous, hollow. {{User}} was gone for the weekend. What had initially been a shared, moping silence had quickly morphed into something else entirely. Nils’s peony scent, normally delicate and mild, had begun to deepen, sweeten, and bloom with an intensity that made the air thick. It was a siren song that made Liam's mouth water and his head spin.

Heat. Nils was going into his heat.

Relief had washed over Liam. They’d both of them agreed they weren’t ready for {{User}} to see this yet—the raw, unvarnished need, the loss of civilized control, the sheer primality of it.

But the relief was short-lived. Nils had been in the bedroom for hours, a whirlwind of frustrated, whimpering energy. The bed was supposed to be a nest, a sanctuary. Instead, it was a source of agony. Liam watched from the doorway, his heart cracking, as Nils meticulously arranged blankets, pillows, and stolen items of Liam’s clothing, only to let out a choked sob of pure devastation and tear it all apart again. Three times. The sweet, beckoning scent was now laced with the sharp, sour tang of distress.

It was torture. His omega, the person he was biologically wired to protect and satisfy during this time, was in torment, and he couldn’t even get him to relax enough to think about being touched. Nils was all jittery limbs and tear-filled eyes, consumed by an itch he couldn’t scratch.

When Nils moved to destroy the fourth attempted nest, a guttural, broken sound ripping from his throat, Liam’s patience snapped. His alpha instincts roared to the surface, a desperate need to fix this, to provide.

He moved on, feet carrying him down the hall toward {{User}}’s room. A confused whine followed him, but he didn’t stop. He felt a deep wrongness invading {{User}}’s private space like this, his stomach twisting with guilt. But the sound of Nils’s suffering was louder.

He pushed the door open. The room smelled faintly of {{User}}. It was a scent devoid of the complex pheromonal language that ruled his and Nils’s world. His eyes landed on a worn, soft hoodie tossed in the corner. He snatched it up. He couldn’t bring himself to take more. This felt like theft enough.

When he returned, the hoodie held out, Nils’s entire demeanor shifted. The frantic energy stilled. His light blue eyes, glassy with building lust and frustration, locked onto the grey fabric. He took it with reverent, trembling hands and placed it in the center of the chaotic pile of blankets. It wasn’t perfect. The nest was still mostly Liam, with only this one piece of {{User}}. But it was enough. Nils immediately buried his face in it, his slender body curling around it, his nose pressed to the collar as he inhaled deeply. The tense line of his shoulders finally slackened.

Liam released a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Finally. He could help.

“Are you happy now?” he murmured, his voice gravel-soft as he sat on the edge of the mattress. The scent of peony was pure sweetness again, beckoning, without the acidic edge of panic.

Nils nodded into the hoodie, then turned his head. His eyes were heavily lidded, pupils blown wide with lust, his fair skin flushed a pretty, feverish pink from his cheekbones down his throat.

Liam smiled, his large hand came to rest on Nils’s bare thigh, stroking the heated skin. “What? No words for me?” he teased, his smirk widening. “How will I know what you want, then?”

Nils, stripped down to pure, instinctive need, let out a frustrated, choked sound. He shuffled closer, pressing his flushed face against Liam’s arm. “Please don’t do this to me now, Liam,” he begged, his voice raw and stripped of all its usual cool composure. “I need you.”

That was it. The raw, pathetic need in Nils’s voice shattered the last of Liam’s control. His cock, already hard and straining against his sweatpants, gave a painful throb. “That’s all I wanted to hear,” he growled.

He stood just long enough to yank his clothes off, kicking them aside. Then he was climbing into the nest. Closer now, the scent was overwhelming. His cock twitched eagerly, already leaking.

Nils didn’t wait. Impatient, driven by the ache inside him, he got onto his hands and knees, his back arching. His hole was glistening, dripping slick down his inner thighs, clenching and fluttering around empty air.

“You’re so beautiful,” Liam mumbled, caught in a moment of pure, awestruck reverence for his perfect, desperate omega. He leaned down, unable to resist, and licked over the slick trail on Nils’s thigh. The taste was musky.

Nils shivered violently, a full-body tremor that made his knees buckle for a second. Liam chuckled, the sound dark with promise. “So eager...”

Nils looked over his shoulder, his expression a mix of pleading and impatience. He pushed his ass back more insistently against the space where Liam hovered. “Don’t be mean...”

Liam’s expression softened, just a fraction. He leaned over Nils’s body, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss against his damp temple. “I promise, I won’t. I’ll help you feel better. Do you want that?” His hand slid from Nils’s waist down the flat plane of his belly, fingers curling to cup his small, weeping cock.

Nils gasped, his hips pushing forward into the touch. He nodded frantically, his hair sticking to his sweaty forehead. “Please. Just do it, I can’t wait anymore!”

Liam didn’t need more proof. He was at his limit too. His hand left Nils’s cock to grip his hip, holding him steady. With his other hand, he guided the thick, leaking head of his own cock to Nils’s slick, inviting hole.

He pushed in with one firm, steady press, sheathing himself to the hilt in the tight, dripping heat. Nils cried out, a high-pitched moan that was pure relief.

Liam’s chest pressed against Nils’s back, his mouth finding the side of his neck, licking and sucking at the sweat-damp skin up to his temple. “You take me so well... fuck, you feel perfect.”

Lost in their private, scent-saturated world, in the rhythm of Liam’s deep, claiming thrusts and Nils’s ragged, pleading cries, they didn’t hear the front door click open.

...