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You stare at the box.
You bite your lip, fidget your weight between your feet, and blink at the box. You had put the box on the table, but you’re not sure if that’s right – if that’s where it should go. If that’s where you want to do this. The bed would make much more sense; it’d save carrying all the unboxed contents then to the bed. But, as much sense as that makes, something about it just feels way too soon. Because what if – there was a chance you wouldn’t even like what was in the box. And then, dumping all that onto the bed, into your nest, with pre-heat simmering low in your belly – well. The whole reason you even had the box was to help with your heat. The very real possibility of starting off the week with a bad nest kept the box right on the table. Unopened. Still taped up. Discreet, but addressed to you. There was no mistake. The box was yours. Which, of course it was, you’d ordered the damn thing. Clicked on some ad on some website during a moment of weakness, of morbid curiosity. And then, as a joke (you’d told yourself, anyway), gone ahead and filled out the little questionnaire. Some were multiple choice, such as designated second sex, or what your preferred mate would be (which shouldn’t have been as hard as it was to fill out, but you’ve never really given it a whole lot of thought). Were someone ever actually interested in you, like seriously so, you wouldn’t let something like their second sex get in the way of a potential relationship. As it was, you’d selected Alpha, because that was just…natural. Easiest. And then there were the fill-in-the-blanks. Questions about what scents you enjoyed, and which you despised. In the end, it asked about your own scent, which felt a bit weird, considering such a thing shouldn’t matter. You were on a website for a company that supplied care packages to help alleviate the effects of going through a heat or rut alone.
It wasn’t a dating site. You’d triple-checked. Right before saying fuck it, and jumping off the deep-end with a single, damning right-click.
“Maybe the couch…?” You mutter to yourself, one arm curled almost protectively around your middle, propping up the elbow of your other arm, so that you can run a thumb along your bottom lip. In thought, in hesitation, in…anticipation. Whether you liked it or not, you were opening that box. There was no reason not to. Either it would achieve its intended purpose and provide some much deserved relief, considering the last few heats you’ve suffered through, or it’d all just end up in the trash. No big deal. You’ve survived all your other heats with minimal help, surrounded by nothing but your own scent, and maybe a t-shirt or two from those you could consider friends. So…maybe it was just that you kind of, really, wanted it to work. Would be a waste of money, otherwise. “Okay. Okay,” you drop your arms and nod to yourself, determined and courageous. The way your toes wiggle in your socks give away the nerves, though. “Couch it is.” Before you can sike yourself back out, you pick the box up and quickly shuffle on over to the sofa in the space you’d designated as your living room. Technically, it is also the dining room. And the office. And some extra storage space.
The bedroom, at least, is only a bedroom. One of the few little luxuries you manage to afford.
You settle on the middle cushion, criss-cross applesauce, with the box a decent weight in your lap. You give the perimeter a tentative, cursory sniff, but only come back a little surprised at how well sealed the contents are. The only scent coming through thus far is the dull, familiar one of cardboard and packaging tape. And the slight tingle of neutralizer. Slowly, carefully, you start to pick and peel away at the tape. You could have, should have, grabbed a knife, or a pair of scissors, at the very least, but – if you got up to get them now, you might chicken out. So, bitten and blunt fingernails it is, until your fingertips are tacky and the top of the box is free. You don’t mean to, but you hold your breath. Your fingers curl around the lip of the lid, and while they work their way up and under, you sink the point of a fang down into your lip. A vein in your mouth pulses with the quickened beat of your heart. It’s so stupid, to get so worked up over something like this, but then – The lid is off of the box, and dropped down onto the cushion beside you. You still don’t breathe, but you do peer down into the package’s innards. You weren’t exactly sure what to expect other than fabric, so the sight of a striped sock with a kitty paw on it is…surprising, to say the least. Adorable, amusing, and – ah. It’s kind of hard to laugh without breathing, without inhaling, and the scent that smacks you right between the eyes does so with the force of a freight train. It sends a hard shiver from your head all the way down to your toes, and collects saliva on the center of your tongue. Fuck, fuck, holy fuck it’s good. It’s so good. It’s something floral and dark, with a smoothness to it; invigorating, yet all the while relaxing. Enticing in its coziness. You don’t realize you’ve closed your eyes until you’re blinking them back open. The base of your spine itches, and your thighs clench, and - and that sock is bunched up right beneath your nose. That should be gross, and it is, it is, but it could also be worse, because the sock seems clean, just heavily scented. And, it’s not like it doesn’t make sense for a sock to be in there. After all, ankle glands are a thing, and they work just as well as all the other glands. Still, it takes an embarrassing amount of effort to drop the sock, and start to sift through the rest of the contents. There’s a couple of shirts; a dark gray tank top and a low-cut black tee with long sleeves. Then there’s a pair of what could either be sweat pants or pajama pants, covered in…spiders. Itsy, bitsy, black spiders, with yellow eyes, and again, you can’t help but chuckle. Digging a little deeper, you find the other sock, a light gray scarf, and last, but definitely not least, a throw blanket. It keeps with the whole monochrome theme (excluding the socks), a soft gingham slashed through with a bright, baby blue. All in all, not bad. Not bad at all.
The exact opposite of bad, actually. You’re only regret is having not been brave enough to just upturn the entire box onto your bed, because now you have to gather each and every item up in your arms, and make a happy, hasty retreat to your bedroom, which just seems way too far away with the way your body is now thrumming, blood silently screaming to nest, nest, nest! You manage though, because of course you do, and realistically, it’s not a far or hard walk at all.
Though, it is a little bit wet. Slimy and sticky and warm, and only getting warmer, down between your legs. You’re still in pre-heat, so nothing hurts – yet. You have plenty of time to build a nest and enjoy it, before you lose your mind to it all. To the desire, the hunger, the need, the ache; the loneliness, and now…the fantasy. “Thank you, kind, smelly stranger,” you whisper with a little laugh, just as your knees meet the mattress of your bed. There’s a fleeting flicker of guilt; it almost feels wrong to be doing this, using a stranger’s scent to get off for a whole week. But then, you realize, it’s really no different than watching porn. Whatever Alpha stuffed that box full of their belongings had done so willingly. Consentingly. Caringly. So, you let that feeling go as you set about pushing and shoving, folding and tucking, wrinkling and kneading everything into place, items both old and new. In the end, you make a haphazard circle, but the shape doesn’t matter nearly as much as the feel does. The smell.
And it’s only then you realize why that website might ask for your own scent.
You’d left it blank. But, as you slowly sink down into all your hard work with a purr, you can’t deny it. You smell good together. You and this Alpha. So much so that you find yourself nosing even deeper into it, into your own pillow and a stranger’s shirt, nuzzling nose, cheek, neck. Your toes are wiggling again, stretching and flexing, curling in utter delight. When your hands start to move, it’s with minds of their own; one to smooth up under your shirt and along your chest, thumbing around a nipple, while the other slips straight down between slick thighs. Your scent is a bit of an…acquired taste. You don’t smell bad or anything, but depending on who you asked, opinions ranged from ‘household cleaner’ to ‘fancy dessert’. Personally, you always thought you drifted somewhere in the middle, like a lemon drop or something. But here and now? Together, you smell like lemon and vanilla, lavender and coffee – like tiramisu and a latte. You want to bite down on it, lap it up, ‘it’ being the stranger’s neck, an Alpha’s scent gland, your Alpha – at least, the Alpha that had anonymously decided to take care of you for the week. Alas, your pillow will have to suffice. As will your fingers, until too soaked and too frustrated, you will have to trade for a shirt and a toy. There’s no neck, and there’s no knot, but still, still. While picturing a hundred different hot, beautiful ways this Alpha could look, could sound, could touch – call you ‘mine’… It’s, admittedly, the best heat you’ve ever had.