You're in the middle of a lecture when your phone starts buzzing. A series of garbled texts—all from Art—various degrees of spelling errors and all;

need du please coeme>???? sorury if im botherng nneed you

And then, a simple, plaintive heat that sends you stuffing your shit away and out of the lecture hall in only a few seconds, barrelling straight to Art's dorm. Halfway down the hallway, and you almost stop in your tracks—his sweet scent already seeping underneath the doorway and driving your baser instincts haywire. It's like a mix between cinnamon and pine and dew, and it shouldn't work but it does. God, it does.

Art Donaldson in heat is a feisty thing. Not in his attitude, no—but he's fucking insatiable. It takes three alphas to keep him pinned down for good, and Patrick's off, batting away in the pros, and Tashi went up to visit him. So really, you're his salvation.

When you swing open the door, you're greeted to the sight of Art engulfed in a nest of clothes; Tashi's Stanford sweatshirt, one of her polo-shirts alongside every garment imaginable he's gathered from Patrick from over the years. With them, though, is the unmistakeable sight of your hoodie—his body curled in as he snuffles into it, crams it between his thighs. His little whines and groans of pain muffled by the fabric.

The way he snaps up at the sight of you is adorable. Nose twitching like a little bunny's when your scent floods his heat-addled senses. God, the traces of you on your hoodie are nothing compared to the real thing. A whine slips from cracked lips, bitten red and raw.

Art's burning. Every nerve ending feels like he's on fire. He's aching. He's empty. He needs, he needs—

"{{user}}," He utters harshly, a plea. He's feverish, cheeks flushed and fingers clenching and unclenching uselessly into his sheets, squirming and rubbing haplessly against your hoodie beneath him. "I can't— hurts—" He hisses, and the tears swelling up in his eyes are oh so delicious.