“Oh, oh god, Matty, please.”
Alfred's half-whispered, half-moaned words tug Matthew to the edge of slumber. He tries to move in response, sweaty and hot and parched; it's when he can’t that Matthew actually finds himself awake — awake and quickly aware of how snugly his brother is wrapped around him. Alfred’s face buried in his neck, his arm is slung over his torso, and
Matt can feel Al’s cock, hard and hot, pressing into his back, just above the crack of his ass. And as if not close enough already, Alfred’s even managed to wedge a leg between his, twining them further together.
There's a moment where Matt thinks he might just be dreaming — dreaming of his brother with a raging boner, nevertheless — yet it's dashed first when Alfred grips him tighter and makes him gasp, squirming, grinding, against him. Dashed second when Alfred says it again, his name, in a sleepy breath just short of pleading. And third, because third time's the charm, it finally dawns on him what he’s been smelling since he opened his eyes:
“Al, wake up,” Matt says, his voice still thick with sleep. He squirms in Al's embrace, the best he can do with the blonde's sometimes-freakish strength, with his own body beginning to react to the pheromones rolling off of his brother.
Earthy and grounding and frustrating, Alfred's scent clings to Matthew's nostrils. He wiggles again, acutely aware of the mounting arousal in his gut; the spreading dampness between his legs; and how they still haven't talked about this — about how they keep setting off each other's heat, and how it's getting harder to explain why neither of them have found mates yet, and how—
“Al, wake up,” Matt grunts, more forcefully this time, when Al’s hand begins to stray lower, to the elastic waistband of his pajama pants.
“Hmm?” comes Alfred’s mumbled response, felt in vibration more than heard. “‘S wrong?”
Alfred's grip on Matt slackens as he shifts, turning so that they're facing each other. With foreheads and noses nearly touching, Matt’s first instinct is to edge nearer and close the tiny gap keeping them apart. And it really is such a tiny distance with their legs overlapping again; with both of their thick, hard cocks pressing snugly together; and with Matt’s palms flattened against Al’s chest, acting as the only real barrier between them.
Instead, Matthew closes his eyes, taking a steadying, purposeful breath through his mouth — because a deep whiff of Al’s scent right now would snap the tenuous hold he has on himself — and says, on the exhale,
“It’s happening again.”
“I know. I felt it coming this morning,” Alfred says quietly, lips brushing against Matt’s. Al’s bridging the gap for them, fingers wandering over the exposed skin of his lower back and damn it, Matt thinks, he’s not even trying anymore.
“Why didn't you say anything?” Matt groans, shaking with the effort it takes to merely stay still. His fingers curl in Al’s shirt as a rush of wetness leaks out of him, his cock throbbing harder in response to Al’s simple touches. He doesn’t want go forward until they talk about this, but he’s getting dizzy even with his eyes closed and breathing through his mouth isn’t working anymore. He can taste Alfred’s heat and all the blonde has to say is,
“What difference does it make?”
Screwed. They’re so screwed.
"Somebody's going to find out eventually, Al! Jesus," Matt gasps, eyes wide, jerking as Al's fingers dip past his waistband, slide through the slickness between his ass cheeks. He can’t stop himself from spreading his legs for his brother’s probing fingers and a noise, somewhere between exasperated and aroused, bubbles up past his lips— only to be swallowed down by Alfred, who chooses this moment to press their mouths together; who chooses this moment to admit:
Matthew feels his restraint snap like a dry twig, crumbling to dust in the wake of Al’s deep moan and tongue sliding against his own. Tasting just as irresistibly as he smells, Al's heat opens up an urgent hole inside of Matt, carving out an empty space that only he seems able to fill and Matt scrabbles to kick his pajama pants off, to get Alfred’s off, all somehow without breaking apart.
It doesn't work but it doesn't matter either, because he manages to get one leg free and Al's pants to his knees before he's rolling over and Alfred's following, pressing him into their mattress to suck up bright red hickeys across his neck.
Groaning, electric pleasure skittering up his spine, Matthew knows that he's never going to be able to stop this from happening: it's too easy for Alfred to push inside of him, thick and wide and relentless; it's too easy for his cock to be trapped between them, smearing pearly precome over their bellies. Too easy to dig his fingernails into his brother's back and ask for more, more, until he's coming with Alfred bottoming out inside of him, buried as deep as he can possibly go.
And when the readiness for round two is simmering under his skin and Alfred’s heavy-warm on top of him, whispering I love you, Matty adoringly, huskily — it’s perhaps easiest of all for Matthew to hum and say,
“I love you too.”