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Kiefer knows he’s fucked up as soon as the whistle blows.
The hit on Quinn was clean; his captain back upright and ready to go immediately, but all he can think about is grabbing the nearest Flames player and ripping their throat out with his teeth.
He barrels into Kadri, jaw aching and vocal cords constricted around a snarl he has no real control over, territorial and out of place. His anger is unprovoked, but Kadri fights back—Kiefer knows he’s being irrational but can’t stop himself from growling and spitting out harsh words in defence of Quinn.
His teeth hurt, gums achy and sore in a way that he rarely feels now that he’s old enough to regulate his own emotions—his alpha impulses.
His fangs haven’t dropped unconsciously since he was a teenager still wrangling his hormones, pissy all the time and unfamiliar with his new instincts.
They’re definitely out now though—jutting into his lips, upper and lower incisors too long to sit comfortably in his mouth. Probably glistening with spit on the jumbotron as he snaps at anyone wearing red.
There are a few others in the scrum, but it's mostly just Kiefer trying to strangle Kadri and the refs attempting in vain to scruff him away. He can hear Quinn saying something, talking him down, but he can’t see him with Nazem’s big body in the way.
He shoves at Kadri some more, wrestling with him while the crowd cheers until his captain is there, suddenly, tugging and pushing Kiefer with his own body.
Quinn skates into him, forces him away from the scrum until there’s enough space for the refs can drag everyone apart. He’s riled everyone else up with his outburst, and the ice stinks of hormones.
Kiefer’s panting, skating backwards and still impossibly angry. It’s Quinn’s first game back, there’s no way everyone in the league doesn’t know he’s hurt—that laying hits so soon could make things worse. He tries to tell Quinn this, to explain himself, but all that comes out is another low, distressed growl.
“I know, it’s all good—” Quinn says, placating and grounding as he herds Kiefer towards the bench. “You’re okay, buddy. I’m good, thank you for protecting me.”
Kiefer can feel his heart rate slow at the words, soft and sure and just what his alpha needs to hear. That Quinn isn’t hurt, that he’s fine, everything is fine. He feels hot all over still, like his anger is simmering right at the surface of his skin, ready to spill—but Quinn is helping so much. His words, his pheromones. Faint but there, soothing and balmy. Just barely a whisper of mint and rain, which—no. That’s not right.
Quinn’s a beta, doesn’t have a scent
Notoriously so. He’s one of the only captains in the league to not have a dynamic—most are omegas—observant, supportive, egoless, with the strong urge to guide their team.
But Quinn is the perfect leader. He’s level headed and free from the surges of emotion and instincts that being an alpha or omega entail. It’s what makes him so good at treating the team fairly and ignoring all the scents and feelings around him.
But Kiefer swears—
“Quinn—”
The games not done, but they aren’t stopping at the bench. Quinn corrals him towards a trainer, saying something about his fangs dropping, and Kiefer flushes in shame.
The staff member looks at him quickly, cataloguing, and nods towards Quinn in thanks.
“Kiefer, we’re just gonna head back for a chat, okay?”
He looks to Quinn, who seems concerned but also a little red in the face as well. Like he’s embarrassed for Kiefer, maybe. That he lost control so easily, made a fool out of himself like a pup.
He tries to say he’s okay, that he can go back out, please—but his teeth get in the way and it comes out all lispy and garbled again.
Quinn’s lingering, there’s still 15 left in the third, but he’s not on the ice.
“Kief, it’s alright. I’ll come back after the game, see if you’re good. That sound okay, bud?”
Kiefer forces himself to nod and watches Quinn slide back into the bench to prepare for his next shift, crack open some smelling salts and shake his head at the assault.
The trainer is leading him down the tunnel, and all he can feel is pressure in his mouth and his head. An itch he can’t scratch all over his body. The thought that someone might retaliate and he won’t be on the ice nags at him all the way to the room.
He waits for everyone to get back, even though the doctor told him to leave. It doesn’t feel right—not being here to congratulate them on the W.
The doc said it’s only pre-rut, anyways. Nothing he hasn’t dealt with before. Hell, half the league plays through their cycle up until the day they go under.
He wants to be here for the guys, let them know he’s okay. He’s sure they’ll have questions.
Quinn’s the last one in, caught in the hall for a post-game probably, sweaty and pleased looking as he makes his way to his stall.
Kiefer’s dressed in his street clothes already, fiddling with his phone as he waits, buzzing with energy.
The guys pat his head playfully on their way past, Garly beaming and jovial—boasting about his own fight that Kief missed.
He waits in his stall until almost everyone but Quinn has trickled out. There’s a lot of smells, and he feels his own pheromones start to fill up the room a bit, jaw clenching in response to the stimuli. Some of the guys rib him for it, his thick, needy alpha musk.
He waits, and waits.
And then Quinn is standing over him and smiling nervously.
“Hey, man. How’d it go with the doctor?” He asks. Kiefer notices he’s still a bit pink.
“Yeah—” he says, rough, but clearer without his fangs in the way. “Just pre-rut. Not sure why it was. Uh, so bad this time.”
Quinn looks at him curiously, like he’s trying to decipher something. He’s showered and dressed back in street clothes, but Kiefer can swear he still smells something on him. It could be a new cologne, maybe. It’s way too relaxing to be anything artificial, he thinks.
“Quinn—”
“That’s, yeah, uh—”
Kiefer snaps his mouth shut, and Quinn stops as well.
The room’s hot all of a sudden, and it is March but he’s sure the arena doesn’t pump heat in like this anymore.
“You go?” Kiefer says, tilting his head up to look at his captain. Soft, clean. Checking up on Kiefer like a good—
Captain. Friend.
Quinn shrugs and tugs at his beanie, adjusting. “Just glad you’re okay, you were pretty out of it. Why’d you play if—I mean, you must’ve known you were gonna rut soon?”
Kiefer feels the prickly shame feeling come back but squashes it, doesn’t feel any judgement wafting off of Quinn. Just a gentle, probing curiosity.
“I usually play better, actually. Never had any issues. Guess I just..” Kiefer loses his train of thought for a second. Thinks of how alphas in the league usually play better defensively the closer to their rut they are; focused on protecting and defending, riled up but not out of it until they drop completely.
Quinn nods like he understands, and Kiefer gets stuck on a curl that's poking out from under his hat. Zones out, eyes flickering from the hair to Quinn’s neck—pale and strong, freckled, up to his lips.
Kiefer’s mouth is still an irritating reminder of his pre-rut addled state; his tongue thick and wet as his salivary glands overproduce. He can feel a tiny bit of spit at the corner of his mouth, threatening to spill down his chin.
“Quinn?” he rasps. Kiefer’s not sure what he wants to say, but the blanket of comfort he’s feeling just from Quinn’s presence is impossible to ignore. “Are you—” He swallows, throat clicking.
“You’re not an Omega, are you?”
Quinn looks shocked, panicked for a split second, then incredulous.
“What?” He laughs it off. “I’m a beta. You know that.”
Kiefer does know that. Everyone knows that.
But he can smell Quinn’s anxiety, sharp and acrid.
“I know,” Kiefer breathes. His heart rate is picking up again the longer the two of them are alone together. “I know, but. You smell—Quinn, when I hit Kadri I smelled—”
Kiefer watches the fear on Quinn’s face and feels horrible about it, for being the one to put it there. He wants to take it back, but he’s losing himself a bit again, instincts going haywire. Quinn’s scent is a bit stronger now. He’s sure if someone else were here they’d be able to smell it too; clean and fresh like peppermint shampoo.
“Kiefer—”
He feels the drool drip down his chin first, then the sweat at the back of his neck. Down his spine, cold against his feverish skin.
“Kief, I better take you home. You— I mean,” Quinn stumbles over his words, usually so collected and easy going. He’s starting to worry. “You don’t look so good.”
Kiefer’s fangs drop the moment Quinn leans in to check the temperature of his clammy forehead.
“Ffffhh,” he says, eyes slipping shut as Quinn slides into his personal space.
He can’t keep all his saliva in because his teeth—his fangs—stop his mouth from fully closing, pooling with spit. His alpha knows, even though he can’t be sure.
“Let me drive you home,” Quinn says, this time with more urgency.
It shouldn’t make him bristle, the thought of Quinn taking care of him, but he can’t help whine at the suggestion. The implication he can’t get himself home safely, that he can’t take care of himself—take care of Quinn. He could drive. He could drive Quinn home, or to his apartment. He could take him anywhere.
“I can—” Kiefer protests. “I can drive, I swear. I just—”
Quinn shakes his head and puts his captain voice on for Kiefer. “Not risking it. Come on, Kief. We’ll come back for your car in the morning.”
Kiefer can only nod, swallow some of the spit thats building up again. Quinn looks so tired, Kiefer doesn’t want to argue. If this is what he wants, to take care of his team, Kiefer can let him.
Quinn’s car is really nice. Clean and comfortable. Quinn looks good driving it too; his hands slender and capable on the wheel, his side profile so handsome as Kiefer tries and fails not to stare from the passenger seat.
He only lives a few blocks from the rink but being stuck in a vehicle with his captain like this, it feels like hours. Kiefer knows he smells like desperation, and arousal, and a whole whack of other shit that he can’t control. Quinn’s got both their windows rolled down but its still cloying and heavy in the small space.
“Sorry,” Kiefer whines as he watches Quinn breathe shakily through his mouth.
Quinn shoots him a pitying glance and frowns. “Hey, don’t—” He starts.
“Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault.”
Kiefer nods but can’t help but squirm a little in his seat to try to get further away.
“It’s a lot, I could’ve drove myself—”
“It’s okay, seriously.” Quinn glances over at him again as they pull into his building’s underground parking. “You don’t smell, like. Bad or anything.”
Kiefer’s jaw clenches at the words, shivering with pride and something dirtier, at the thought Quinn likes how he smells.
They park, and Kiefer can’t help himself from pushing.
“You smell like omega,” He says. “I’m just— confused?”
Kiefer waits for Quinn to take his hands off the wheel, to turn his red face towards him. He feels wetness again, dribbling down his chin.
Quinn reaches a hand out and catches it before it drips onto Kiefer’s legs, or his leather seats. Swipes at his leaking mouth and stares, fixated.
“Does it hurt?” Quinn asks. He’s still cupping Kiefer’s face, so all he can answer with is a confused noise.
“Rut,” Quinn says. “Are you—does it hurt, now?”
Kiefer isn’t hurting, he feels really good actually. Being this close to Quinn, being touched by him. It’s soothing, but he does have this ache still. In his mouth, and also in his dick.
“Little,” he says. “Mostly when I’m alone.”
Kiefer barely contains a whimper when Quinn pulls his hand back, shiny with slick spit. He gulps and sits there patiently, anxiously, while he waits for Quinn to shoo him away and leave him to ride things out in his empty apartment.
“Can I come up?”
Kiefer stares, bewildered.
Quinn looks embarrassed but also intrigued. Like he can’t help but want to ask more questions about Kiefer’s rut, which isn’t uncommon but usually saved for before or after. Not during.
“Yes,” is all Kiefer can manage, teeth in the way again. “Please.”
When they get upstairs into Kiefer’s apartment, he’s expecting Quinn to sit them down at the kitchen table and maybe pull out a notebook or something. Interview him about his symptoms maybe. How old were you when you presented? Can you explain how it feels to pop a knot?
He doesn’t do that. Instead, Quinn asks him for a glass of water and sits on his couch. Kiefer rushes to get it for him, presents it eagerly and watches as Quinn swallows it down.
He takes the empty cup back, refills it, watches as Quinn does the same thing again.
“Thanks,” he gasps. He’s a bit sweaty, cheeks pinker than usual. Kiefer tries to ignore Quinn’s scent, but the longer he’s near him the stronger it gets.
“Hungry?” Kiefer asks, standing by the couch and lingering, waiting for Quinn’s next request.
He just shakes his head but smiles his soft little grin, and Kiefer’s alpha rumbles with satisfaction.
“Sit down?” Quinn says. He pats the spot next to him and Kiefer follows his instruction instantly. He’s breathing heavily, he knows, panting almost. He’s never been this close to rut with someone he wasn’t planning on spending it with before.
“I—”
“Why’d you do that? For me, I mean.” Quinn says. “On the ice.”
It’s really not uncommon to fight for your captain, or just defend a teammate in general. Kiefer’s confusion must show because Quinn shrugs. “It was a clean hit.”
He struggles to put it into words, why he lost it. His brains a bit foggy and his tongue is still awkward in his mouth but he tries, for Quinn.
“Just, like. You’re my captain. And, he—” Kiefer huffs. “You’re hurt.”
“I’m cleared for contact,” Quinn reminds him.
“I know. I know that, I just.” Kiefer says. “You smell like—”
Quinn shifts and blushes and Kiefer knows he’s an omega, can smell his nerves and his fear and his curiosity.
“Quinn, I want to take care of you, I don’t know why I just—you’re my captain. But whether or not you’re a beta, or what, you’re still. Fuck, I want to—”
Kiefer can smell the moment Quinn slicks up, pleased and turned on, undeniable.
“Quinn.” He groans.
“I’ve been on suppressants since I presented, I—” Quinn says, panicked.
At being exposed, vulnerable now that someones knows his true dynamic.
“I don’t know how this happened, but when you hit Kadri for me I just. Fuck, Kiefer. What the hell?”
Kiefer may be rut-stupid, but he knows he needs to calm Quinn down, somehow. Needs his scent to be satisfied, safe. If all it took was him baring his teeth for Quinn’s omega to fight through his suppressant, he knows they’ve failed him as a team. They should have been doing this every game, every hit on Quinn, every bad call. They should be playing so much harder. Taking minutes off Quinn's shoulders, blocking shots that only he seems to make it to.
“I can take care of you, please Quinn?” Kiefer’s voice is weak, and he’s a bit delirious at this point. He’ll feel the shame tomorrow, begging for his captain like this. For now his only focus is making this Omega—neglected, suppressed, confused—happy.
His fangs drop without warning again, and he squeezes his eyes shut to block out some of his senses.
“I’ve never—” Quinn says.
“Do you usually use a rut partner?”
Kiefer sucks in a breath. “Not since the trade. Just—toys. Sucks. Shred my sheets up.” He’s too worked up to be embarrassed by the admission.
“I don’t want to take advantage of you.” It’s a quiet, barely audible confession that has Kiefer opening his eyes again to glance over at Quinn. He’s taken his beanie off, hair a mess.
“I’ve wanted you since I got here. Before, maybe.”
Quinn’s surprised, which is classic. As if Kiefer hadn’t been following him around like a puppy, lapping up his attention for months.
“How can I help?” He’s nervous, still. Smells shy and sweet, and Kiefer feels a stab of arousal at the question. He doesn’t want to come on too strong though, and traces his tongue over his fangs carefully.
Kiefer grabs a small throw pillow and holds it out to Quinn, who’s confused at first but pulls it up to where his shoulder and neck meet when prompted. “Can you hold it, like that? I just—need to.”
He crawls over to Quinn and hesitates only a moment before sitting down almost on top of him. Quinn’s curious and willing though, adjusts himself to accommodate Kiefer’s size. Doesn’t seem to mind his obvious arousal and desperation. “Just need to—”
He leans forward, closes his eyes so he can image the pillow’s not there while he sinks his teeth in. Pictures Quinn’s bare neck, clamping down on it and holding him in place. Kiefer groans and jerks at the sensation of biting, the smell of omega under him. The pillows just a proxy, but it’s something, and his alpha is urging him on—pushing him to thread his fingers through Quinn’s hair and keep him there.
Quinn’s quiet, but he’s breathing heavily and Kiefer can feel his hands shake where they have come up to grab his hips. He pulls away from Quinn’s neck, the pillow, after about a minute and throws it to the side. He’s satisfied for now, at least in terms of that specific urge. He’s got a lot more, though. Kiefer’s not sure which ones Quinn’s okay with helping out with.
He tests his luck; shifts slowly against Quinn’s thigh, careful not to spook him. Quinn lets him, watches in awe as Kiefer grinds down and pants open mouthed like a dog. His cock has been hard for probably hours, and the feeling of hard muscle underneath him is enough to send a spark of gratification down his spine.
Quinn’s face is enthralled, like he’s never seen anything like this before which—he probably hasn’t. An alpha in rut, or pre-rut like this, is something you only usually see if you’re sharing it with them. Or maybe in specifically curated porn videos. Kiefer imagines Quinn searching for that, picturing himself as the omega, pent up and yearning to let himself go and Christ—
What a thought.
He growls, drowning in the sensations. The visual, the smells, all of it heightened to 100.
Quinn strokes his back, unsure of what else to do. Kiefer tries to tell him how good it feels, but all that comes out is a groan. He can smell slick, knows Quinn is wet, and the thought drives him insane. He snuffles into Quinn’s neck just to block it out, but his scent gland is finally producing like it should—sweet, clean musk of an aroused omega. It's almost worse.
It’s the stuff of Kiefer’s wet dreams. He’s drooling all over Quinn’s shirt, but the sight of it makes his cock twitch in satisfaction. He’s going to reek of Kiefer’s rut when he leaves.
Kiefer could come like this, no problem. He’s just about to let Quinn know this, when he speaks.
“Can I,” he starts. “Can I see? Is that okay?”
Kiefer stares at Quinn for a moment, takes in his nervous brows and his intoxicating eyes.
His pants are off in seconds, tugged down his hips and onto the floor where he stands, naked and willing to give Quinn anything he asks for.
Quinn bites his lip and lets his eyes wander, and Kiefer flushes with pride. He lets Quinn look for as long as he wants, watches him lean forward and lick his lips. Kiefer’s cock is heavy and red, the base thick with his knot ready to form under the surface.
Quinn looks until he’s satisfied then meets Kiefer’s gaze. He can hardly hold back from gripping himself in his hand and jerking off, quick and desperate all over Quinn’s face.
Quinn’s hard too, he can see the bulge in his pants—and fuck, is he ever wet. The smell of slick has Kiefer’s knees buckling, and he lets himself drop to the floor in front of Quinn.
On the carpet, he tries so hard to get the words out without slurring them.
“Wanna taste you,” Kiefer groans. “Please?” He rests his hands on Quinn’s thighs, and then his head.
Quinn jerks under him, shocked. He can practically taste him this close. “Please.” Kiefer begs, unashamed.
“Kiefer—” He can hear the excuse coming so he does the only thing he can think of, and tilts his neck up towards Quinn, presenting.
“Please, Omega—”
Quinn jolts, groans above him, thighs twitching under Kiefer’s strong hands. He feels fingers slip into his hair and tug, follows where they lead him mindlessly.
He lets Quinn move him out of the way so he can slip his own pants off. Kiefer whines in excitement, feels like an overeager pup but doesn’t care; he gets to see the way Quinn tents his briefs, the wetness not only at the front but also underneath his balls, where he’s leaking through onto Kiefer’s couch.
Kiefer nudges his face into Quinn’s crotch without any grace, laves his tongue over the fabric separating him from the source of his intoxicating scent. Quinn keeps his hands in Kiefer’s hair, guiding but also possessive in a way that makes him feel like jello. He would stay here, at Quinn’s feet, forever if he could.
“Come on,” Quinn urges softly. “Take what you need.”
Kiefer looks up at him, his beautiful, strong, resilient captain. He presses a wet kiss against Quinn’s dick, then another, and another, until he’s basically sucking it through his boxers. Quinn moans at the sensations and ruts his hips up against Kiefer’s face like he can’t help but chase the feeling.
Kiefer needs skin, needs the salty taste of Quinn’s cock inside his mouth so bad it’s all he can think about. He pulls his underwear off and lets Quinn kick them away, finally free to see him free of fabric. He’s gorgeous, and Kiefer wastes no time before taking Quinn into his mouth eagerly. Quinn bucks up into his mouth with a gasp, and Kiefer thinks of how it’s probably the first time he’s felt someone’s mouth on him.
Kiefer grips the base of his own cock quickly, suddenly way too close to coming. The thought of Quinn’s lack of experience should not turn him on so much. He feels bad for the sick satisfaction that brings him—his alpha pleased with being Quinn’s first.
He takes Quinn into his mouth, hollows his cheeks and uses his body’s impressive accumulation of saliva to make things as wet as possible. He feels it leaking from the corners of his swollen lips, lets it drip down Quinn’s cock and all over his balls.
Quinn is trembling under him and trying not to shout, little aborted words leaving his mouth as Kiefer sucks him off.
He wants to make him come, but more than anything he needs to taste Quinn’s slick thats slowly dribbling out onto the couch wastefully. Kiefer pulls away and ignores Quinn’s groan of protest, listens to it shift into something deeper as he’s yanked further down the couch so he’s on full display.
Kiefer leans forward and buries himself between Quinn’s legs, tongue lapping at his hole without any preamble. He and Quinn let out simultaneous moans, Kiefer’s grip on his thighs strong as he eats him out. The taste is dizzying. He’s lost in the feeling of licking into Quinn’s tight hole, coaxing more and more slick out as he teases at it.
Quinn sounds confused and overwhelmed by the sensation, has probably never been this wet in his entire life by the sounds of it. He’s letting out feeble little cries every time Kiefer licks deeper, shaking as he’s taken apart.
Kiefer wants to touch himself to the sounds, but he knows he’ll shoot off as soon as he does—his alpha would be miserable if he came anywhere but inside Quinn.
“Kiefer—” Quinn gasps, tugging frantically at his hair. “Fuck, I don’t—I’m gonna—”
He doesn’t get to finish his sentence; it’s overtaken by a loud whine, voice cracking halfway and wavering as he comes. Kiefer feels his body tense and his hole flutter as it gushes more slick, preparing itself for a knot. Quinn’s cock jerks on his stomach, pumping out come, pitiful and untouched. Quinn looks down at him with glistening eyes, wrecked, and Kiefer’s up off his knees in a moment.
“Okay?” He can’t manage anything else, so far gone he’s not even sure it came out as English.
He’s cupping Quinn’s face, and yeah he’s crying a bit, but he looks so relieved.
“Good,” Quinn pants. “I’m good that was—fuck you did good, Kiefer. Thank you.”
The praise lights him up inside and he’s sure he looks like an idiot, face dopey and pleased, dick still rigid hard.
“Let me.” Quinn says. He bullies Kiefer back onto the couch, pushes him on his back.
Kiefer lets himself go, lets Quinn arrange him where he wants and settle between his hairy thighs.
“Don’t judge me, okay? I’m new.” Quinn jokes, leaning down on his elbows to come face to face with Kiefer’s cock. He let’s out a strangled laugh, so, so fond of his captain.
Quinn looks at his cock with a bit of trepidation at first, which is understandable. Alphas are built different than omegas or betas, built to fuck and fill with come. To keep it inside until it takes. He’s big and his knot is basically halfway there from eating Quinn out, and it’s probably an intimidating dick for your first blowjob.
He gentles a piece of hair out of Quinn’s eye, and waits patiently for him to lean forwards and give a tentative lick.
The sight of it is what rips a groan from Kiefer’s throat—Quinn’s hand around his base, gripping his knot carefully. His dark lashes and pretty cheekbones from up above.
Emboldened, Quinn licks him again, long and hot along his shaft. He toys with the thick crown of it, suckles the tip into his mouth. Kiefer feels like he’s going to die of a fever, the feeling of Quinn touching him at all is enough to send him barreling towards orgasm.
He takes Kiefer an inch or two inside his wet mouth, unsure, and pulls back to try again. It’s tentative but he’s good with his hand and using a lot of spit to glide his lips down, and its Quinn. His captain, his omega.
Kiefer soaks up the attention for as long as he can, the feeling of Quinn stroking and teasing him unintentionally with careful swallows. He’s desperate to come, but the thought of shooting his load in Quinn’s mouth or on his face makes him whine in distress.
His body and his alpha want the same thing—to give Quinn his seed, fuck it deep into him and watch him grow fat with pups. Anything else would be a waste.
But Quinn’s not his mate. He’s not anyones mate, and probably wont be for a long time. He’s a hockey player, an amazing hockey player. Kiefer’s selfish, rut addled alpha is delirious, and he squashes down the thought of a satisfied, pregnant, omega Quinn.
It’s hard, but he takes what he can get, more than he ever thought he would.
He lets Quinn explore, pull him apart slow and hot until he feels a familiar throbbing at the base of his cock. His knot pulses, and he warns Quinn with as many syllables as he can muster.
Quinn keeps going, looks up at Kiefer expectantly with his dick in his mouth and that’s all it takes for him to start to come. He floods Quinn’s mouth, which he probably should have warned him about, and watches as he tries to swallow as much as possible, the rest dribbling down his chin.
Kiefer’s orgasm is long, his body taut and riding wave after wave of euphoria. Quinn keeps hold of Kiefer’s knot through it all, like he’s done his research on how to make it good for an alpha. He milks out the last spurts of come from his cock and gives it a careful kiss at the end, lips shiny with Kiefer’s release.
Quinn looks pleased, and the scent of satisfied omega is almost enough to make Kiefer hard again.
“Thanks,” he gasps. “For—taking care of me.” Kiefer’s chest is heavy with feeling, his heart still hammering.
Quinn smiles, and wipes at his face self consciously. "Yeah, you too." he says.
They sit in sticky silence for a few minutes, catching their breath before Kiefer speaks.
"Hey, uh— you busy for the next few days?"