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Ryland doesn't know how things snowballed to this point.
He's backed up against his kitchen counter, the young mechanic from the apartment next to his crowding him against the surface. He braces both palms against the counter, trapping Ryland in the bracket of his arms and rendering the older man unable to escape. Ryland gulps, trying his best to avoid Driver's heavy, piercing gaze.
How did this happen? Ryland's mind spins dizzyingly as he frantically recalls the events of tonight.
Driver had come over for dinner at Ryland's place, as he did every Friday evening. He'd brought the ingredients as usual — even after Ryland had told him for the umpteenth time that he didn't need to, because he was the guest — and Ryland had cooked. Then, as they always did, they sat on the couch and watched whatever movie was playing that night. It was some romance movie, a typical alpha/omega love-at-first-scent story, and that had got them talking about relationships —
("Have you ever thought about having a mate?" Driver asks unexpectedly. The movie credits are still rolling in the background, the music segueing into some jazzy tune.
Ryland blinks at the question.
"Oh, me?" He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck as he feels the tips of his ears burn. Quickly, just for something to do,he gathers their empty snack plates and gets up, crossing over the living room to deposit them into the kitchen sink. "Maybe when I was twenty years younger, but not anymore. I mean, who would even want an old omega like me?"
The realisation doesn't sting nearly as much as it did, back when he was young. He'd been too preoccupied with PhD applications and then, after being accepted to grad school, furthering his career in academia. And then when that blew up spectacularly, he spent a few years settling into his new calling as a teacher — by the time he finally felt ready to look for a mate, it was already too late. He doesn't regret it, not really, but he does acknowledge that romance isn't really in the books for him anymore.
He turns on the sink tap, letting the water run over the plates and soak them, but then —
"I do."
Ryland freezes. "…Sorry?"
He shuts off the tap and whips around. Driver is staring back at him — and when did he follow Ryland into the kitchen? He didn't even hear him —, eyes boring into Ryland's. He's standing so close, close enough that he could reach out and touch Ryland if he wanted to. His usual leather gloves are absent from his hands.
"I said," he repeats, stepping forward, "I do.")
— and before he knew it…
"W-Wait," Ryland stammers, laughing nervously as he pushes against Driver's chest. The younger man doesn't budge — in fact, he leans even closer into Ryland's space, forcing him to press himself further against the counter. "We shouldn't be doing this —"
"Why not?" Driver interrupts. His voice is quiet, but the intensity underpinning his words makes Ryland flush red, heat creeping into his cheeks. "Is it because I'm too young?"
His pheromones are leaking into the air, now, a rarity for such a controlled man like Driver — unlike most alphas Ryland has the misfortune of meeting, he never flaunts his dynamic. On the contrary, he almost seems to want to hide it, his calm and mild-mannered nature paired with his iron control over his own pheromones leading Ryland to believe that he was a beta when they first met.
Now, though, no one could mistake him for anything another than an alpha — Ryland shudders as the scent of warm leather and suede envelops him, ambery and woody and distinctly masculine, yet tempered with something slightly sweet that reminds him of berries.
It's intoxicating, and he curses himself when he instinctively sucks in an eager breath, valiantly ignoring the way Driver's gaze immediately sharpens.
Control yourself, Grace, he tells himself firmly. You're an adult — act like it!
"Well, yes," he breathes, trying very hard to avoid Driver's stare, "you're, you're turning twenty-eight this year, aren't you? You're still so young, in the prime of your life —!"
He cuts himself off with a muffled gasp when Driver seizes his wrist and drags his hand to his crotch, positioning his palm over the tent in his jeans. Ryland makes an embarrassing sound, immediately recoiling and trying to pull his hand away, but Driver's grip is like a steel band around his wrist, holding him in place and keeping his palm over his clothed cock.
He's hard, the soft denim of his jeans only serving as the thinnest boundary between Ryland's hand and his erection. Ryland squeezes his eyes shut for a moment, because this can't be happening. This must be a fever dream, or some sort of hallucination born from one too many years of celibacy, because this isn't happening — his twenty-eight year-old alpha neighbour isn't pressing Ryland against his living room wall and pressing his hand over his cock, because that's just absurd.
(He's big, a part of his brain whispers, the part keyed to his omegan instincts. Not giant, certainly, but definitely bigger than anything or anyone you've ever taken. How do you think that cock is going to feel in your —)
"You, you, what are you doing?" He hisses, voice hushed like someone might suddenly burst into his living room and come across them like this. His gaze flits all over the place, not daring to look at Driver's face, or anywhere below his collar.
But he knows, just as he knows that Driver knows, that the game is up. Ryland can't hide the way his own pheromones are permeating the air, vanilla and chestnut and cinnamon tangling with Driver's leather scent. They smell good together — like, really, really good — and he desperately tries to ignore the heat pooling in his belly, how his underwear is quickly soaking through with slick.
"I'm not a kid," Driver rasps. His stare hasn't left Ryland's face even for a moment — he looks like he wants to swallow him whole. "Do I feel like a kid to you?"
No, Ryland wants to say, but it's like all his words have emptied from his brain. He swallows harshly, trying to say something in reply, anything; Driver's gaze flickers to his Adam's apple, then back to Ryland's eyes. He leans in even closer, pressing Ryland's hand harder onto his cock, and this time Ryland can't stifle the whimper that leaves his mouth.
God, he's so wet.
"I'm fifteen years older than you," he whispers, giving his final weak protest. He's just had his forty-third birthday last month; Ryland is so far past his prime that it's not even funny. Driver is — he's the kind of alpha that's the whole package: young, handsome, capable, and kind. He's surely got no lack of choice for a mate. Why does he want an old, washed-up omega like Ryland?
His breath hitches when, somehow, the scent of leather grows even stronger. Driver tightens his hold around Ryland's wrist, something blatantly hungry flickering across his expression.
"Yeah," he says, "you are. So you have to take responsibility."
Ryland can't think. He can't formulate a thought beyond the scent of leather and the frame of hard, alpha muscle pressing him against the counter, making his legs weak. "Take…responsibility…?" For what?
He feels Driver's thumb rub small circles on the soft skin on the underside of his wrist, where his secondary scent glands are located. Ryland twitches at the friction of his calloused finger against the sensitive area; the deliberate touch stimulates his scent glands, leaking his pheromones further into the air.
His fingers inadvertently brush over Driver's clothed cock, and a blush floods his cheeks as the younger man groans in response.
"This," Driver replies, low and quiet. "This is what you do to me, Dr Grace."
His gaze darkens. "So, take responsibility."
…Oh no. Ryland swallows harshly.
I think… I think I'm in trouble.
They end up in a tangled mess of clothes and limbs on Ryland's bed, Ryland with his back against his sheets and Driver looming over him, eyes fixed on his face. Somehow, Ryland's shirt has ended up in a pile on the floor, leaving him only in his sweatpants.
Driver, on the other hand, is still dressed in his jeans and henley, the thin cotton shirt stretching snugly around his muscled shoulders and biceps. Even as Ryland's mouth goes dry, it's hard not to feel a little self-conscious, looking at him — Ryland does work out when he can, but he's ultimately still a full-time academic-turned-school-teacher, where the most physically demanding activity he's done in a while is participating in the teacher's 200m sprint on Grover Cleveland's annual sports day. Instinctively, he tries holding his hands up to block his body from Driver's gaze, but the alpha presses them down firmly.
"No," he says, voice quiet but undoubtedly a command, "don't hide from me."
He traces his hands down from Ryland's chest. His touch is gentle, almost reverent, like Ryland is some kind of delicate treasure. He looks — adoring, might be the right word for it. Even worshipful, if the thought didn't sound so blasphemous.
"You're beautiful," he murmurs.
Ryland, beautiful? What's so pretty about a middle-aged man's body?
But his thoughts go out the window when Driver's hands trail further down, hooking his fingers into the waistband of Ryland's sweats. He looks up at Ryland from under his long lashes, an unspoken question in his eyes.
Ryland nods mutely, mouth dry, but a though suddenly strikes him like a lightning bolt. He gasps, reaching for Driver's hand to try and stop him.
"Ah, wait —"
Too late; Driver has already pulled his sweatpants down his thighs.
He freezes.
Ryland winces, dragging a hand over his face.
Driver's eyes are wide, staring straight at — well. Ryland's underwear.
"You're wearing…panties?" He breathes. The word sounds obscene in his usual mild-mannered voice. He's clenching at Ryland's sweatpants so hard that he's wrinkling the fabric, drawing it right around Ryland's thighs.
"It's laundry day today!" Ryland bursts out. "And I wasn't expecting anyone to strip me tonight, was I!" It's not his fault that all his boxers are in the wash, so he had to wear a spare pair of underwear while he waits for his laundry to dry!
He only dares to open his fingers a little, peeking out at Driver from behind the slit. The alpha is still staring straight at Ryland's covered pussy; a vein stands out starkly in his forearm from his continued grip on Ryland's sweatpants.
Slowly, he releases the grey fabric, hands trailing up to Ryland's thighs. He spreads Ryland's legs and lowers himself to the ground — so that while Ryland himself is still lying on the bed, Driver is kneeling on the ground in front of him by the foot of the bed, mouth hovering over his pussy.
"Can I?" He asks.
"I…sure…?" Ryland mumbles, "what are you — o-oh!"
His voice cracks mortifyingly when Driver licks a hot, wet stripe through his underwear. He whines, high and desperate, as Driver laves the fabric with saliva, licking and sucking at his folds through the thin white cotton — his underwear is completely soaked with Driver's saliva and Ryland's own slick, his pussy leaking traitorously in response to Driver's tongue, and it's all Ryland can do to grip at his sheets, heels digging into the bed.
"D-Driver," he whimpers, because it's all at once too much and not enough — "please!"
He thinks he feels the younger alpha smile, before he reaches up and peels Ryland's underwear off with one fluid motion. He tosses the ruined fabric somewhere on the bed, and dives down again —
"Oh!" Ryland moans, throwing his head back, his hands reaching to tangle themselves in Driver's blond hair. "Oh —!"
Driver's hands, broad and calloused, grip Ryland's thighs, holding them open. Contrary to his usual mild demeanour, he's loud when eating Ryland out, making obscene slurping noises as he sucks on Ryland's clit directly, tongue flicking through his folds and pressing against his hole to gather the slick leaking from it. He's moaning as well, panting desperately and making low groaning sounds that he muffles in Ryland's cunt. Ryland feels his tongue, slick and hot, press inside, and he chokes, eyes rolling into the back of his head.
"Driver!"
His hands lose their grip, but without even looking up, the alpha's hands fly up to cover his own, pressing him back into his hair. Ryland obeys the unspoken request, tightening his fists in the soft strands; his legs tremble around Driver's head, his vision blurring as pleasure sparks through his veins like a live wire. His previous partners had never gone down on him before, at least not like this — Linda had tried once but it'd just felt sticky and gross, and after he asked her to stop, she'd never tried again. It was nothing like this, so intense and almost overwhelming, but so, so —
He cries out when Driver's tongue presses even deeper, stretching his hole around the muscle and thrusting in and out. The heat in his body flares into an inferno, the pressure in his stomach winding tighter and tighter.
"I'm gonna," he whimpers, tugging insistently on Driver's hair, "gonna —"
As if knowing what he means to say, Driver brings a hand to the inside of his thigh, stroking the soft skin there. He drags his tongue out with a wet sound, but before Ryland can register the loss he latches his mouth around his clit, already red and swollen from his previous ministrations, and sucks.
Ryland sobs, legs snapping shut around Driver's head as he cums, his orgasm cresting over him like a tidal wave. It leaves him trembling on the bed, shaky and weak-limbed, hands falling from Driver's hair. Was this what sex was supposed to be like? He can't remember sex with any of his previous partners, alpha or otherwise, feeling this good.
He doesn't know when it happened, but when the sparks fade from his eyes, Driver is looming over him, blue eyes so dark they almost look black. His mouth is red and slick with Ryland's juices, and before Ryland can speak, Driver leans down to kiss him. He parts his lips obediently, breathing in leatherwoodraspberry, moaning when he tastes himself on Driver's tongue. Driver's hands tighten around his waist, and Ryland knows he's going to wake up in the morning with bruises in the shape of his fingers. He shivers at the thought, melting further into the bed.
"You taste so good, Dr Grace," Driver murmurs, voice rough with gravel. Red dusts across his high cheekbones; his pupils are so dilated that they almost swallow his irises, thin rings of pale blue. "Better than I ever imagined."
Better than he imagined? Was he thinking about doing this even before —?
His thoughts are interrupted by Driver turning him over, propping a pillow under his stomach to keep his hips tilted upwards. Ryland tries not to think about how this position resembles a presenting pose, like he's an omega in heat begging for a knot.
He feels Driver smooth a hand over the back of his thigh, caressing the smooth skin.
"Tell me if it hurts," he says. Ryland hears the sound of a zipper, and then a solid, velvet heat pressing against the mouth of his pussy, and then —
It's in.
Ryland keens, panting hot and heavy, every exhale burning his lungs at the agonisingly slow drag of Driver's length inside him, cramming into every crevice. He feels so full; he thinks he can feel Driver's cock in his stomach, thick and heavy and hot.
Driver folds himself over Ryland's back, a searing line of heat against his body. Ryland feels him mouth at his nape, canines pressing into the sensitive skin — Ryland stiffens, but Driver, intentionally or not, makes sure to avoid his scent glands on the sides of his neck, leaving the indentations of his teeth on his nape that Ryland is sure will form a map of hickeys tomorrow.
"So good," Driver moans, voice a little breathy. "Dr Grace, you feel so good. You're…clenching so tight around me."
Ryland whimpers. He buries his head into his pillow; he tries to grind his hips backwards, expecting to press himself flush against Driver's torso, only to gasp when he only manages to feel more of Driver's cock entering him.
Surely that's it? Surely he must have bottomed out already?
"Is that," he pants, trying to look over his shoulder, "is that all of it?"
Driver lets out a soft coo, fond and adoring.
"No." He presses a kiss to one of the bite marks littering Ryland's skin, soothing the sting. "I'm sorry — just a bit more, I promise."
More? Ryland sobs; he doesn't think he can get any fuller. His cries are muffled by Driver's mouth, who drinks in the sounds he makes like a man dying of thirst.
"It's okay," the alpha murmurs sweetly. "I know it's a lot, Dr Grace. You don't have to do anything — I'll do it for you, okay?"
Ryland's eyes widen.
"Wait, Driver —"
Driver grips Ryland around his waist again, calloused fingers digging into his flesh and pulling him backwards, dragging him deeper onto his cock. Ryland chokes on a whine, lashes fluttering as his eyes roll back in his head. It's so long and thick, carving its way so deep into him he can almost taste it, grinding mercilessly against the ring of loosened muscle inside him.
"Oh —"
Driver gives him a few moments to adjust — and then he begins to fuck him at a fast, uninterrupted pace, sharp, targeted thrusts that have him shivering, the ridged veins of his length scraping against his spasming insides. Pathetic, needy noises leak from his lips as he clutches at his bedsheets; it's been a while since he's been with anyone other than his right hand and knotting toys, and now that he's being given the real thing it's so overwhelming.
And then Driver angles his hips just right, hitting that spot inside Ryland that sends sparks of sensation jolting through his body, and he moans loudly, clenching harder around Driver.
The alpha's breathing picks up. "Did I find it, Dr Grace?"
He gives a few more thrusts before somehow managing to find the right angle again — and then directing every thrust to that single spot, grinding mercilessly against it with every snap of his hips.
"A-ah, nngh…"
Ryland can't even speak properly, reduced to wordless whimpers and cries. He unconsciously turns his head, smushing his cheek against the pillow and biting on his lower lip to forcibly stifle the sounds he's making.
"Don't do that," Driver tells him, "you'll hurt yourself." He cups Ryland's lower jaw with a large hand, coaxing his lower lip from his teeth and slipping two fingers inside his mouth to replace it, and Ryland latches on without even thinking. He moans, tongue swirling around Driver's deceptively slender fingers as drool trickles from the corner of his mouth, hands uselessly trying to grab at Driver's wrist.
The younger man's cock slides in and out with an obscene sucking noise, hollowing out Ryland's insides, and he moans quietly.
"Hnng," he slurs, mouth wet and drooling around Driver's fingers, face damp with tears. "P-Please…"
It's so humiliating, hearing the loud squelches, sloppy and thick, each time Driver fucks into him; strings of slick squirt from his sloppy hole each time Driver's cock sheathes itself fully, drenching his thighs and the sheets beneath them, and his cheeks burn with shame even as he unconsciously rolls his hips to meet Driver's every thrust. He can barely breathe, and the lack of air fizzles out his mind, thoughts melting into a syrupy mess.
The air is heavy with the scent of their pheromones and lovemaking. All Ryland can smell is leather and wood and raspberries, the scent so strong that he knows everyone around him is going to smell Driver on him for days. He thinks of Driver's scent being so intertwined with his that it's impossible to separate one from the other, of his colleagues almost forgetting what he originally smells like because all they can detect is Driver's claim on him, and he shivers. He selfishly hopes that Driver will smell of him too, that all his coworkers and every customer at the automobile shop where he works will be able to smell Ryland's scent.
And suddenly, it's not enough. He wants more. He wants —
"Driver," he mumbles, "want to see your face…"
In the ensuing silence, he hears Driver's breaths grow heavier. His hold on Ryland's hip tightens.
Embarrassment flickers in Ryland's chest. Why did he say that? Gosh, what if Driver thinks he's too needy —
Driver's fingers slip from his mouth, and he pulls out entirely, flared crown catching on the rim. But before Ryland can protest, he squeaks in surprise as he feels Driver's arms wrap around his stomach, before flipping him once more so he's in the same position he originally was: lying on his back with his legs wrapped around Driver's waist. He feels like a toy, the way Driver manoeuvres his body with no resistance, and the thought makes him shudder, thighs clenching as another dribble of slick oozes from his cunt.
Driver looks disheveled. His hair has fallen out of its usual slicked style, a lock of it falling into his eyes. His shirt is creased and stained with Ryland's slick, Ryland's scent and pheromones from his most intimate place embedded in the fibres of the fabric, and his eyes are bright and fervent, fixed on Ryland's face. His chest is heaving slightly.
"Dr Grace," he says, looking a little frenzied, "you're so..."
He pushes back in immediately with a wet squelch, filling Ryland up again. He slips one arm over to thumb at Ryland's clit, and Ryland sobs, desperately trying to buck into his touch. But Driver only holds him down with his other hand, rubbing his clit in languid, even circles. It drives Ryland crazy.
"More," he cries, and Driver obeys. His other hand reaches up to palm Ryland's chest, thumbing at his pebbled nipples to hear the choked whine he makes, writhing in his arms. "Driver, please, I, I need to, I need to cum —"
"Am I making you feel good?" Driver pants, voice ragged. He sounds desperate. "Am I being good for you, Dr Grace?"
"Yes!" Ryland claws at Driver's shoulders and back, wanting to touch him so badly. "Yes, Driver, you're making me feel so good — you're such a good boy, ah, for me…!"
"Casey," the younger man pleads, punctuated by another thrust of his hips that has Ryland scrabbling to hold onto him. "My name…please, call me by my name —"
Ryland doesn't even have the time to register what Driver has given him, because he thrusts in again, and — oh, the broad head of his cock pops through that softened ring of muscle, dominating the deepest part of Ryland with a sloppy noise. Ryland keens, high-pitched and broken, body instinctively trying to break free from Driver's grip and failing because it's too much, he's too full and Driver's too big, he's going to break him —
"Casey," Ryland sobs, "Casey, baby, you're so g-good for me…!"
Driver — Casey — draws out only to inch back in, the ridged veins of his heavy girth dragging against the inside of Ryland's belly as his cock goes deeper, and Ryland's mind once again goes blank, falling over the precipice. His toes curl against the sheets, mouth going slack, heat sizzling up his spine. He squirts again, a useless spurt of liquid that wets his thighs.
He feels Casey's hips stutter, his thrusts growing harder and sloppier.
"Dr Grace," Casey groans, gasping his name over and over again like a prayer, "Dr Grace, Dr Grace, Ryland —"
He pulls out just in time, snarling as he fists his cock at the base and knots his hand. He cums in thick white stripes across Ryland's stomach, some of it landing so high up that it streaks across his chest. Ryland's pussy clenches at the sight; half out of his mind, he wonders what it would feel like to have Casey come inside him. He came so much; if he hadn't pulled out, if he came inside Ryland's womb…Ryland would definitely get pregnant, right?
Casey leans down and kisses Ryland, soft and tender, all wet and slick and messy. Ryland melts into the kiss, eyes hazy and body weak with exhaustion, purring in satisfaction as Casey coaxes his tongue into his mouth, fingers tracing patterns on his hip. Ryland watches him sleepily as he takes off his shirt and uses it to wipe Ryland clean, before tossing the shirt onto the floor and pulling up the blankets crumpled at the foot of the bed to cover the wet spot they created.
"…You called me by my name," Ryland murmurs. "You called me 'Ryland.'"
Casey pauses. "…Sorry."
Inexplicably, the image of a puppy in a waterlogged cardboard box, its fluffy yellow ears drooping sadly, appears in Ryland's mind. He laughs quietly, nuzzling against Casey's cheek and delighting in the quiet, almost inaudible purr that vibrates through the alpha's chest in response.
"What are you sorry for? I liked it." He kisses Casey's cheek, watching in amusement the subsequent firey blush that erupts across the alpha's face.
Cute. How is he blushing harder from a chaste kiss, compared to when he was fucking Ryland dumb just a few minutes earlier?
"Call me Ryland," he continues. "Since you gave me your name, it's only fair."
He wraps his arms around Casey, coaxing him into lying down beside him. Casey follows him obediently, curling around Ryland and burying his nose into Ryland's nape, clearly scenting him.
"Okay," he mumbles quietly, "Ryland."
Ryland laughs again at the quiet shyness in his voice.
What a cute puppy I've brought home, he thinks.