Work Text:
Waking up in a pool of his own sweat, sheets drenched and feeling like he was on fire, Tucker thought that he was in heat. He hadn’t experienced a heat in several years, thanks to the blockers he used on the road, so he couldn’t remember exactly how it felt.
He was only marginally relieved to discover that he was, in fact, sick with fever, and not, well. That. Marginally, because being sick fucking sucked.
He couldn’t tell which fluids were which in his bed, ranging from sweat to drool to tears to snot. It was fucking gross. He could barely tell what time of day it was – or what day it was in general – and felt almost delirious. Not delirious enough to ebb the pain – and fuck, he wished he had Tyneol or Advil or something but he could barely make it off his bed to use the toilet, let alone down the street to the pharmacy – but enough so that he woke at periods throughout the day, week, lifetime wondering who he was and why he was even here. Tucker, it appeared, was very philosophical when he was sick.
If only philosophy fucking helped.
Once or twice, he thought he heard voices. Familiar voices, but he couldn’t place them. He couldn’t make out what they were saying, couldn’t even focus well enough to see more than a blob of shadows in his otherwise blurry bedroom.
At one point, Tucker was pretty sure one of them had sat him up against his pillows and helped spoon-feed him some soup. He remembered something warm going down his throat, a comforting hand on his back, a soothing voice in his ear. But, laying there in bed, no energy to even blow his nose disgustingly into his sweaty sheets, he wasn’t sure if it had been a hallucination or not.
He was so caught up in the fever that he didn’t realize when it had become a different sort of fever until he awoke in a haze, achingly hard.
Motherfucking fuck.
Tucker might have been unable to recall his age or his address or the amount of toes he had on each foot, but he could recognize the additional fluid seeping down to his sheets to join the rest of his disgusting mess. He wasn’t sure what he could blame for not having recognized his heat sooner: the fact that it had been quite some time since he experienced one, or the illness clouding his senses. However, he knew, if nothing else, that by this point it was far too late to deny it—grinding against his drenched sheet, he whined with the need to be filled.
It was just his luck that this would happen to him when he was at home, sick, with no way to even help himself through it. Tucker did have toys stashed away in his bathroom – he did get horny outside his heats, after all – but his bathroom seemed so far away.
He wasn’t sure how long it had been since he realized that he was in heat. He was still in and out of consciousness with very little awareness besides the aches and pains, all of which now included his raging fucking hard-on.
Tucker was pretty sure he was crying. It hurt, it hurt so much, he just needed to come so bad, he couldn’t…
It must have been another hallucination when he felt the hand on him, rubbing circles into his back. The soothing voice was back, the same one that he had dreamed of before, feeding him soup and taking care of him through the fever. The hand on his back felt good, calming, but it wasn’t enough—Tucker groaned into his pillow, nose dripping annoyingly with the snot that he couldn’t blow, and wished that they would touch him somewhere else.
“It’s okay, Tuck,” he thought he heard. He wasn’t sure he’d heard the words right, doubted that he could have because no, it was not okay in the slightest.
He muffled out a desperate, croaky, “Please,” into his pillow, which surely the other person must not have heard, but he nonetheless felt a hand sliding hot down his back, searing through his clothes and then against his skin as it slipped beneath his waistline.
“Fuck, Tucker,” the voice said, “you’re so fucking wet.”
That came out clear as day to him, ringing in his ears through the drumming of his migraine. Yes, he was so fucking wet—fucking help him.
He felt a finger slip down between his slick-soaked cheeks and press easily into his hole and Tucker couldn’t help the moan that escaped from him. “Oh, look at you,” he heard from behind him, voice still low and soothing as though the person was doing no more than feeding him soup again and giving him a back rub. “That feels good, doesn’t it? God, you must be in so much pain right now,” and fuck, did they have no fucking idea, “but I promise you, Tuck, I’m going to help you feel better, okay? Just relax for me, let me, there you go,” they added as they curled a second finger in beside the first.
Tucker was whining and panting into his pillow, wanting more but unsure if he could even trust his voice to make it to the person whose hands were on him, so he lay there and attempted to push back against the fingers without much luck.
“I’m gonna take good care of you, Tuck, I promise,” he heard as the fingers slipped out of him, causing him to groan again.
He didn’t have to wait long before he felt a breeze over his ass, the warm, sweat-soaked boxers being peeled from his overheated skin. Not that the boxers did very much for him, seeing as he sweat and slick right through them, but he felt his entire body shiver as they were removed. He was both too hot and too cold all at once, and still so achingly fucking hard, seconds away from begging the person to touch him again.
“Poor baby. Don’t worry, I’ve got you.”
And there it was—through the feverish haze, he could feel something warm press against his wet hole. Tucker moaned as he felt his hole stretch around it, taking the head of what was clearly the other person’s cock inside of him, so fucking slow but so wonderfully filling.
He gripped the sheet beneath him as the cock pressed deeper, a hot hand coming to his shoulder to hold him in place while the other returned to his back, rubbing gently as it had been before. It was evident, even when he could barely figure out what was happening – even when he had no idea who the voice, the hand, the cock belonged to – that the person was trying to comfort him, but all Tucker wanted was sweet relief—to be fucked, to be knotted, to be filled, to be bred. He wanted to rock back against the hips behind him but didn’t have the energy.
When the hardness inside him bottomed out, balls hot against his wet ass, and stopped moving, Tucker couldn’t help but cry. He wanted, needed more.
“It’s okay, Tuck,” the voice said again, softly. Soothing. “I’ve you,” it repeated.
And that’s when the onslaught began.
Tucker could barely focus on anything besides the cock moving in and out of him at a brutal pace that contrasted the hand still attempting to rub his back softly, making choked sounds whenever it hit that sweet spot inside of him. The person was whispering to him, but he couldn’t make out the words anymore, hearing nothing but the sounds of slick against skin and the thrumming of his own heartbeat in his ears.
He felt as the knot began to swell against him, and wanted nothing more than to beg for it to slip inside him, but couldn’t figure out how to form the words.
It seemed that the person to whom the cock belonged understood exactly what Tucker wanted, needed, because it was only a few thrusts later before the drummer was biting into his pillow, ignoring the taste of both fresh and dried snot on the fabric, as the still swelling knot breached his hole. The thrusts became more shallow then, cock unable to move as much when locked in place, but that didn’t matter—Tucker felt so wonderfully full, and when the hand on his shoulder tightened and the cock inside him began pulsing…god. His teeth were so sore like the rest of his body, but he couldn’t help biting the pillow harder.
The orgasm inside him was still ongoing as the hand that previously rubbed his back slipped down beneath him to reach Tucker’s own hard, leaking cock. He barely needed to be touched before he was crying out, adding another fluid into his gross, damp bedsheets.
As the energy in the room calmed, Tucker could hear little more than his own breathing. The knot was still swollen inside him as Tucker, so exhausted, was pretty sure he had slipped back into delirium – or possibly sleep – again.
He woke again later, more movement, more thrusting, more aches and needs. Another orgasm. More soothing sounds. Another slip into the darkness.
Geoff sighed as he slipped out of the small man beneath him for what must have been the sixth or seventh time, wiping a hand across his own sweaty brow. He wasn’t as bad as Tucker – the poor drummer looked absolutely soaked in all manner of fluids as he breathed heavily, deep into sleep as his heat finally began to ebb – but even Geoff had managed to exhaust himself. Knot finally deflated and rut finally over, he collapsed on the bed beside Tucker, continuing to rub a hand on his back soothingly as the man was probably still too feverish to cuddle.
He hadn’t intended any of this, but he couldn’t help it when he walked through the drummer’s door to check on him, scared after how delirious the man had been with fever when he had been there days earlier, to find him deep in the throes of heat.
The vocalist was there to help, and Tucker needed his help.
Later, when the other man was awake again, Geoff would help him into the bath and scrub him clean, perhaps wash his sheets while he was at it. In the meantime, he watched as the drummer’s chest rose and fell, listened as he struggled to breathe through his stuffed, runny nose, marveling that they hadn’t done this before. He always knew Tucker was an omega, but he’d never seen the man in heat before and his scent…oh, his scent…
Geoff wanted to claim him – wanted to make Tucker his – but there was a limit to what he would do while the man was so delirious. He could be patient.
Still, he couldn’t help but imagine it—the two of them, Tucker filled with his pups…
Leaning forward, Geoff pressed a soft kiss to the back of the man’s neck, listening as his breath hitched a moment, before rolling back over to his side of the bed, succumbing to his exhaustion and allowing sleep to claim him.