амега (peterick)

sept.

Within a week, after numerous private makeout sessions, both at home and in the various nooks and crannies of Reine Loups, Patrick and I have become quite the celebrity couple.

The Alphas reserve me a front row seat for every performance, and never bat an eyelid when my Omega suspends himself over the edge of the stage to grind up against me. Surges of them back up with their arms outstretched, like policemen attempting to control a rowdy festival crowd, barricading the squealing fanboys from clambering onto the stage and disrupting his well practiced choreography. As long as there's no excessive touching or fondling with the hands, nobody complains. In fact, the newly possessive act between the two of us drives them wilder than ever, and if they do so happen to be jealous, they hide it well.

Buzz now even lets Patrick sit with us at the bar (again, so long as there's no funny business), and in return I promise to tip him extra for all of my drinks in future. If I were anybody else, he'd be giving Patrick a scolding for getting so close to the customers while in costume, but he lets it slide, because I'm not exactly his client. Furthermore, he's under my guardianship now, and with a heat around the corner he's going to need all the care and attention he can get.

I can't say I'm looking forward to it; he's only barely gotten through his last one, which, if I remember, only lasted a couple of days. Triggered heats can go on for as little as a few hours, but real heats typically last between one to two weeks. Right now, Patrick is experiencing what most people refer to as the preheat, the "purging" stage of estrus where the Omega's digestive and endocrine systems clear and prime themselves for reproduction. Common symptoms include: A; excessive weight loss, B; lack of appetite, C; fatigue, and D; general neediness, and as it stands currently, Patrick's body is virtually screeching with: E; all of the above.

Not only had he seemed more strained than usual when dancing, but he's been especially clingy tonight, glued to my lap and refusing to interact verbally with anybody but me. That being said, his responses are sparse and rarely combine more than two words at a time, which makes my job of looking out for him more difficult than necessary.

When he wants something, the exchange can go down one of two ways: Either, I can't hear a word of what he's trying to say, meaning I can't figure out what it is that he wants, which results in him whining and complaining; or, I assume he wants something - food, a cuddle, something to fiddle with so he's distracted from fiddling other things - and he whines and complains and pushes it away. In short, there's a lot of whining and complaining.

Nonetheless, he's behaving himself, and for the most part remains quiet while I chat to the boys - i.e. reluctantly answering inappropriate and personal questions, all while trying to balance a man sized child on my knee.

"Have you had sex yet?" Buzz demands.

"No."

"Have you bonded?"

"No."

"Then what the fuck have you done?"

"We've shared... intimate moments." I grumble as I shift Patrick's weight from one thigh to the other. His hair, matted with dried sweat, tickles my chin as I talk, and I have to blow against it between every other sentence to stop it from poking my eyes. "It's my first time. Give me some breathing room, will you?"

In a not-so-modern life, Patrick and I would be that couple; the couple that would never stand a chance. We hit it off for a few months, receiving invites to fraternity parties every weekend. Everybody wants to be our friend. Everybody wants to know if we've fucked, where we've fucked, and when under the circumstance that we haven't yet, because chances are we definitely have, despite wanting to keep a low profile. Inevitably, after a number of weeks, fame starts to weigh us down. We stop showing up to the parties; our fake friends forget we exist; the universe assumes we fell too young, too soon. After all, our firsts are never our lasts.

Unfortunately, we no longer live in an olden age.

Whether it be through arranged marriage or unadulterated instinct, most Omega/Alpha couples who get together stay together, at least until they mate. It isn't so easy for some, though; genetically, the dominant and submissive work impeccably together, but many Alphas can be extremely possessive, which can cause relationships to become abusive. Beta relationships are at far less risk in that sense, but their lives, though lively, are ordinary. It's no wonder to me that Buzz found himself attracted to an Alpha. They are imperfectly perfect for one another. I wish I could say the same about me and Patrick, but it's too soon to say. Indifference is still apparent - I've never had a "type". How can I be certain at this stage that Patrick is the right Omega for me?

"Petey," the boy whines urgently. He clutches the neck of my shirt with his fists, rolling his hips steadily against mine, not forceful enough for me to feel any friction, but enough for his clouded eyes to roll to the back of his head in gratification.

"What is is, Allie?" I ask, tucking a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

"Give me attention," he squeaks.

Buzz sniggers. "Somebody needs a fuck," he sing songs.

With that said, I clear my throat, sliding a five dollar bill out of my back pocket and slamming it down on the bartop. Buzz inspects me amusedly as I unhook my jacket from the back of the barstool and wrap it around Patrick's shoulders. "C'mon, honey," I murmur, leniently pressing his head into my chest. I stand and turn away from my friend without so much as a goodbye. "Let's get you home."