Even from outside the mansion, you could hear the chaos within, the demands of Linda, who was screaming at the housekeeping staff about her bags being misplaced and the storming of feet, which must’ve come from Donna who must’ve argued with her husband, tender loving bastard who was a little too handsy with the female staff, like most of the men in the family were.
The entire family was chaos, and it was delirium that befell the rich souls that were clinging to Harlan Thrombey like little leeches willing to suck him dry.
“Good morning, Mrs. Thrombey.” You slipped through the front door into chaos, greeting one of your employers first while most of the family completely ignored her. “I hope you like roses.”
You showed her the bouquet in her hands, watching her aged eyes and tired smile with fondness and sympathy. Since you’d started working here nearly two years ago, you’d made a point about bringing flowers once a week for the poor woman. You’d also made it one of your goals to treat her like she was a woman still breathing and living, rather than the ghost her family made her out to be.
“You don’t need to bring her flowers,” Donna, the entitled omega with the stick up her ass, who was constantly correcting you, commented from the deep leather chair she was sitting on.
“Good morning, Mrs. Thrombey.” You rolled your eyes when your back was turned and stood straighter, making your way back toward the kitchens and the clatter of pans. You pushed the swinging door open and came into the sight of flour spilled on one of the counters, burnt sugar and the unmistakable stench of an alpha that had previously been in here.
“Oh God,” you groaned as you set the flowers down, “Hugh is here?”
“Yes,” Fran hissed, dropping a wet cloth onto the floor mess to clean it up, “he drove off two omega maids just last week after….”
“I don’t wanna know.” You sighed and set the flowers down to be put in a vase and taken up to ‘Nana’s room later, and then you grabbed a cloth to help Fran.
“Harlan is throwing another party, and all the little vultures have crawled out of their holes,” Fran took a dig at her employers, finding the same irritation with them as you had, only she was more justified in speaking her aggressions than you were. She was a beta, and if she were to hear talking shit about Hugh Ransom Drysdale, the worst she would get was a slap on the wrist. But you…
“Where’s my god damned drink?!” his voice carried through the kitchen door to the pair of you.
“I’ll take it.” You offered, saving Fran the headache of having to clean up this mess as well as deal with the arrogant alpha. “I have to go up anyway.”
“Y/N…” Fran warned, her hand reaching for your wrist, “Hugh is in a mood. Harlan talked to him again about the omega’s-“
“What else is new?” You shrugged and stepped away from the island in the kitchen and moved toward the liquor cabinet and the whiskey glasses.
“Thank you,” Fran exhaled as the cook came up from the dry storage in the basement, a new bag of flour in his arms.
“Curse this entire family,” He grumbled, setting the heavy bag down on the marble top.
“If only.” You poured the drink and dropped the ice cubes in, holding it tightly in your hand as you took your few deep breaths. They calmed themselves and then left the kitchen for the chaos unfolding in the front sitting room. You saw Hugh sitting by the window, his fingers drumming against the wooden side tabletop.
You ignored everyone you could and moved toward him, set the drink down and spun on your heels, moving toward the safety of the stairs. You were halfway up when he called for your attention in the most condescending way.
“Omega,” He spoke gruffly, “I’m talking to you.”
“She has a name, Ransom.” Meg, one of the more reasonable and friendly Thrombey’s, spoke in your defence, “You could use it.”
You ignored him, you wouldn’t look back at him even though he was classically alpha, and despite your best efforts to be as lineally different as other omega’s who would’ve shuddered and compelled themselves to listen to the potent alpha, you wouldn’t allow yourself to.
“Don’t walk away from me.” He was after you to tear you a new one, and you could hear his heavy footsteps coming from behind you.
“I don’t work for you,” you state, your heart pounding as it always did when you were around Hugh Drysdale. You never knew what he was going to do or what foulness he would exude upon the poor omega’s he thought were at his disposal.
“What the hell did you just say to me?” He sneered, his scent changing to reflect his anger. He wanted you to stop, and you started jogging up the steps to get closer to Harlan and the safety his study provided.
“I don’t work for you, Hugh.” You got to to the top of the stairs and felt his hand grazing the sleeve of your sweater. You sidestepped him and hurried to the study, with his long strides bringing him too close to you.
“You will, you little omega bitch. When I get my inheritance, you’ll be working for me.” He slammed his hand against the study door. The power behind his fist and the scent that was being exuded from him, his anger rolling off him in waves, was enough to make you want to bow your head and crater.
“Well,” you pushed his arm off the door and pushed it open, slipping inside, “that will be the day that hell finally breaks loose.”
You slammed the door in his face and turned the lock, still sensing his powerful scent and his raging irritation radiating through the door. You felt Hugh just as quickly as you felt Harlan in his study, and only his presence had provided comfort instead of making you feel as if your skin was going to melt from your face from the weight of his stare alone.
“Your grandson,” you frowned and rested your forehead against the door, “is a menace.”
“Which grandson are you talking about?” Harlan spoke with delight from his chaise near the small wooden game board with the ‘GO’ pieces arranged.
“Both,” you turned around and moved toward the cabinet built into the wall that held your medical bag, “Hugh is a menace.”
“He was raised to believe that he could have anything he wanted without having to work for it.” Harlan tilts his head, watched you grab your medical bag and his pain medication within. “He doesn’t know the value of hard work.”
“He’s not the only one,” you reached into the leather bag and grabbed the needles you’d need and the vials of torridol and morphine, “most people look for the easy way out.”
“Have you finished paying off your student loans?” Harlan questioned you, despite the answer being the same as it was last week.
“The answer is still the same, Harlan.” You smiled small, pushing the head of the needle into this bottle of the torridol, filling the syringe with as much as you needed. “And while we’re at it, no, I haven’t found an alpha. No, I haven’t stopped using my suppressants. Yes, you will beat me at Go because you cheat-‘
“I have never cheated at Go.” Harlan denied the claim, naturally.
“Sure. And I suppose there are random and brief earthquakes in your study that would cause the Go board to fall.” You pulled a face and shook your head.
“I’m making an announcement tomorrow, and I want you to be there.” Harlan drew your attention away from your task of giving him the medication, which was already pre-measured.
“An announcement?” You raised an eyebrow, switching from one need to the next.
“About my will-“
“Harlan Thrombey, you are not dying.” You scolded him.
“I want to see my assets taken care of by someone who will appreciate them.” He hadn’t batted an eye when you pulled the needle out and stored it away in a biohazard bag before placing the medications back in your bag. “Will you be here?”
“You are not dying, Harlan Thrombey.” You reinforced your statement. “But if you are going to choose someone to appreciate your assets, I’d choose Meg.”
“Meg?” He pondered, “why Meg?”
“Meg seems the most redeemable. The most normal. She’s in university; even though Walt calls her an ultra-feminist, she is the most grounded of them all.” Your eyebrows furrowed. “Meg seems like she would be the least likely to ruin your reputation.”
“Unlike Ransom, you mean,” Harlan laughed under his breath and wandered to the game board.
“Hugh would waste your money on women and booze and fancy cars.” You sat on the floor, crossed-legged in front of the board. “Walt would turn your books into cheesy crime movies played on Netflix, Linda….”
You took a pause, hesitating to speak about them further.
“Don’t shut down on me now, Y/N.” Harlan placed a piece, followed by your own.
“Meg has the most hope. She has the best chance to live with such great wealth while being appreciative of it.” You chewed the inside of your cheek. “Or I could be wrong. Maybe she would be worst.”
“Your faith in Meg is refreshing, Y/N.” Harlan placed another piece, trying to block yours. “Meg is young and sheltered; she hasn’t known struggle.”
“And Linda received a million-dollar incentive from you to start her business.” You added, taking his invitation to be bold in your statements.
“Perhaps I was too generous. Perhaps I should’ve let them make it on their own.” Harlan held his piece in his hand, turning it over with his fingers. “Had I ruined them?”
“I think,” you blocked off his piece, “you should stop feeling guilty for what they chose to do with their lives. You gave them what they needed to succeed, and they tainted it themselves. Just because you have money doesn’t mean you need to give up your ability to speak with kindness and be generous with others.”
Harlan hummed, studying the board before he laid his piece down, cutting you off and winning the game.
“You let me win,” he quipped when you grabbed the piece after he celebrated his win.
“Kindness,” you countered, “can be as simple as letting a man who thinks he’s dying to win a game of ‘GO.’”
“You’ll come tomorrow, Y/N. I need you to hear the will.” Harlan tapped the edge of the board.
“Of course, Harlan.” You put the pieces back in the drawstring bag. “I can’t wait to see what grand plan you have.”
It was Keith’s fault really, and the omega knew it.
But he sure as hell wasn’t fucking admitting that to anyone, let alone to Shiro.
“Keith you’re being unreasonable.” Shiro says as he picks up his 2 year old daughter from the floor and brings her to his lap.
Keith lets out a sigh as he lays down on Shiro and Matt’s couch, slightly annoyed at the other.After spending his week off in heat,the young omega had decided to spend his sunday afternoon at the Takashi-Holt residence. Clearly he had made a mistake.
“Shiro we’ve been over this before. I’m not being unreasonable, I’m being realistic. We would fucking kill-”
“Oh shit, no, I mean fuck, crap-”
“ Keith!” Shiro yells as Kira lets out a small whimper, not liking the annoyance radiating off her father.
“ You know what I’m just going to shut up now.” Keith huffs as he sits up and curls into himself, not bothering with the annoyed alpha sitting across from him. He hears Shiro croon softly at Kira, trying to calm the little girl. A light smile forms on Keith as he rubs his eyes, he always knew Shiro would be an overprotective dad, especially with his first child.
I wonder if Lance would be over protective as well
Before Keith could stop himself, the image of Lance playing with their children appears in his mind. He imagines that Lance would be a playful father but stern when he needed to be. Keith could see Lance playing with their daughter or son. He could see them be a family. He could see-
Keith shakes his head, stopping the images. His inner omega lets out a sob of disappointment as Keith banishes them to the deepest corner of his mind. This wasn’t a fairy tale and he sure as hell wasn’t going to start believing in the impossible now.
Lance was everything that Keith was not. While Keith was moody, Lance was the light of the party. While Keith hated talking to people, Lance was a social butterfly and couldn’t seem to shut up. Lance was vibrant and beautiful. Keith was an impatient mess waiting to happen. The two were like Icarus and the Sun, and Keith was bound to crash and burn. Being fated was a mistake, and Keith would be damned if he allowed Lance to know the truth.
Fear floods Keith’s body at the thought of telling Lance the truth, knowing the Alpha would reject him. Nothing was worse than being rejected by your true mate. Keith had spent hours and hours searching the internet, reading stories among stories about the heartbreak rejected mates had to endure. They described it their heart being cut in half.
Word spread like fire wildfire in a drought that Hugh Ransom Drysdale had already fucked up the first date. The news that the inheritance and the Thrombey/Drysdale’s last hope was in Ransom, and he was failing, had reached the ears of his entire family.
And on a Friday morning following the date, they arrived at the mansion. The mix of alpha’s and beta’s entered the house without giving notice, without announcing themselves, to speak to Ransom.
“You little shit,” his father was first.
“You had one job, Ransom!” His father stormed into the sitting room, wagging his finger back and forth. “One job, and that was to fuck the little bitch-“
“Don’t call her that!” Meg snapped, following his father. “Omega’s deserve more respect-“
“Shut the fuck up, Meg!” Walt was the third to stumble into the sitting room with the thump of his cane on the carpet. “This all comes down to you, Ransom.”
“No pressure, right?” He drummed his fingers against the armrests of the chair he was sitting on, watching the rest of his family stumbling into the sitting room, each with their additives. “Brought the whole family, huh? Some intervention?”
“Ransom,” his mother sat in the chair adjacent to his, “what happened? If you tell us, maybe we can fix it?”
“His unique brand of trust fund playboy bullshit wasn’t enough to sway an omega,” Meg sneered as she moved around the back of the couch to the patterned front, “who could be surprised?”
“Hey Meg,” Ransom leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, “would you do me a little favour and get fucked? Might settle your bitchiness out.”
“Screw you, asshole!” Meg figuratively bared her teeth and fired back.
“Ransom!” His mother yelled, drawing his attention back to her. “What happened?”
Ransom tilted his head and smirked before shrugging with his hands. What was he supposed to say? What was he supposed to tell them?
“The omega’s hot. And she has a history of dating little asshole beta’s.” Ransom answered less than truthfully, but he gave them the answer he wanted.
“Your omega ditched you for a beta?” Walt asked with a laugh, “little fucker.”
“You can’t screw this up, Ransom!” His father slammed his open hand on one of the side tables. “This is our inheritance, you little prat.”
“I don’t remember grandad leaving the money in your name.” Ransom crossed his left leg over his right and watched his face contort in anger, the furrowing of his brow and the curling of his lips into a sneer.
“Ransom,” his mother attempted a soft approach, only to quit before she even started when the rather obnoxious creaking of the stairs was heard.
You made your appearance at the bottom of the stairs to his entire selfish and twisted family. You were caught between Ransom and his family, metaphorically.
They were staring at you, all at once and with curiosity and anger. They’d blame Ransom just as much as you for not making this work. Only if Ransom failed, they lost their last chance for everything.
“Y/N-“ Linda starts again, attempting to reach out to you.
“I am not talking about this; I have an appointment.” You turned on your heel and strode to the kitchen, leaving Ransom among the thick of his twisted, money-hungry family.
“Listen to me, you little shit, you haven’t done one good thing for this family, and now if your chance to prove yourself.” Walt lifted his cane and moved it toward Ransom’s chest, choosing to remain ignorant to the look he was giving his uncle.
“Is it the little bitch?” Donna clenched her hands. “You know omega’s are only right in their head when they’re-“
“You would know, Donna.” Ransom points his finger toward her, his eyes narrowed. “Your husband has a lot of experience with young omega’s, doesn’t he?”
“You’re out of your mind, Ransom!” Walter stuttered and stumbled over his words while his wife looked horrified. “You are an imbecile! You are a cocksucker who doesn’t have the skills-“
Ransom rolled his eyes and drummed his fingers against the arm, listening to his family berate him. The routine was relatively simple; they would rant and rave about their problems, blame them on him, as he was the ‘black sheep, and quite often they made him out to be the scapegoat.
“You are going to cost us everything.”
“Our entire fortune relies on you, ya little trust fund prick.”
His entire family were hypocrites. His whole family was so driven to control the money his grandad had left you, had left him; they were ignoring their faults.
“You’re nothing but a little shit.”
“Ransom…” your voice cut through all the shit. You were standing on the edge of the kitchen, your hands on your hips and your eyes burning into his.
He lowered his right hand from where it was tucked under his chin and watched you as you moved toward him. His family had once again parted, watching you with thinly veiled interest.
“Omega.” He spoke gruffly, his chest vibrating with each beat of his words.
He would never give you the satisfaction of telling you, but damn, were you beautiful.
“I thought you were leaving.” The cook chimed, studying you as you stared intently at the exit of the kitchen. “The back door is waiting for you.”
“I hate this family.” You grumbled and threw your bag on the floor. “Every one of them is little assholes.”
“Where are you going, Y/N?” The cook asked with interest and amusement. “I thought you had an appointment.”
“Who the hell says that stuff to their kid?” You asked yourself as you stepped closer to the exit of the kitchen.
“Are you going to defend him?” He asked, moving a large stockpot from the floor to the counter. “You’re going to defend Hugh Ransom Drysdale?”
“No one deserves to be told they’re useless. No one deserves to be told they’re pathetic.”
“Not even Hugh?”
There was a tightening in your belly. The thought of Ransom being spoken to as a child pissed you off. You were already aggravated by them being here, but then they had to try snd get into your business.
“No one gets to call Ransom a little shit,” you rolled your shoulders back, “except me. That’s my right, fuckers.”
You raised your head and took a slow, deep breath. You took the first step toward the exit of the kitchen and waited, trying not to show how assaulted you were by the mixing of their natural scents and their perfume and cologne, all of which was burning your nose.
“Ransom…” All eyes were on you. But the only pair of eyes you cared about was Ransom’s.
You stepped over the threshold for the kitchen and began walking toward him. Your heart was ready to jump out of your chest, and your hands shook with each step you took, but you had to do this.
They couldn’t screw with Ransom. Not anymore. You weren’t going to let them.
“I have an appointment,” you took your time; you walked with purpose, knowing that his eyes were glued to you and the rest of his family wasn’t sure what to expect, “but before I go….”
You stood before him and then slid one hand up to his shoulder to his cheek. You brushed your thumb across his cheek, and then you slowly straddled his waist.
Your eyes were locked as you sank into his lap. Ransom’s hands fell naturally to your hips as he pulled up closer. With one hand on his cheek, you placed the other on his chest.
“I had a perfect time last night, Ransom.” You leaned in closer, brushing the tip of your nose against his, your bottom lip grazing his.
His hands moved from your hips to the curve of your ass, shamelessly squeezing your flesh through your jeans. Before he let you kiss him, he turned his head and drugged his nose along the side of your neck, inhaling your scent. His teeth grazed your skin; the growl that left his lips was possessive. He could’ve marked you there, in front of his whole family. Instead, he moved your head back by his fingers under your chin, your noses touching again.
“I’ll miss you.” You closed the slight distance there was and finally made contact between his lips and yours.
The moment you kissed, Ransom shifted under you and grazed his quickly growing hard-on against your core. His chest rumbled as he made a noise of pleasure when your scent assaulted him, and he yours.
His thick and heavy scent wrapped around you like a blanket, giving you a sense of ease that could only come from an alpha. Despite how irritating he was and the reputation he had for screwing any and every omega he could and being a rich prick, Hugh Ransom Drysdale was one of the most attractive alpha’s you had ever seen.
You could feel his build beneath your hand, even though his sweater. You could feel the complex plane of his chest and the heat radiating from his body to yours.
After you needed to breathe, you pulled away and brushed your lips against the shell of his ear. “If you touch my ass again, I’ll cut off your dick and feed it to you.”
You pulled away and tapped his cheek twice before you got off his lap and righted yourself. You turned and walked back the way you came, smirking at the silence that filled the room.
“You have nothing to worry about, father,” Ransom smirked, a shit-eating grin on his face. “Everything will be just fine.”
It was clear that the Thrombey/Drsydales couldn’t do anything in small measures. Even a 4th of July
Party, an event that could’ve been kept simple and easy, was extravagant and over complicated. The party, which was put in the contract to help bring you and Ransom together, was the first party you were expected to attend together.
Up until this point, all your time spent together was either at the mansion eating dinner together, relatively awkwardly despite what had already conspired between you two, or that dive bar where Jake worked.
After the initial bump and Ransom being made well aware that Jake had his stable relationship, the two of you went back more than once.
Maybe Ransom liked the ease of being in a place that wasn’t uptight and rigid; perhaps he liked the atmosphere that freed him in the sense of letting him take a load off.
But this would be the first official big party. This was one of Thrombey/Drysdale’s most significant events of the year, and while Linda was hosting, it wouldn’t have been entirely exclusive. The whole ‘clan’ of rich vultures would be there.
“Keep your wits about you,” Harlan had warned you, “you think they were ruthless before? This is a perfect storm.”
“What are you talking about?” The two of you discussed the party over his favourite game in his study while you were taking the allotted time between dealing out his medicine.
“The perfect storm,” Harlan repeats himself, “alcohol which Walt will dive into, a busy crowd of alpha’s, beta’s and omega’s, and the desperation that comes from a family who are about to lose everything.”
“You think they’ll do something?” You asked from your spot on the floor with your left leg bent and your arm resting against your knee. Your right leg was extended by the gameboard and the table it was resting on.
“I know they will,” Harlan warned, “the time is closing in. If they are to win the game, that will determine their future-“
Harlan made his point by bending one of the collapsible legs of the table, sending the game board and the pieces to the floor with a softened clatter
“-they will try and cut you off by the knees.” Harlan’s warning had been adequate; it had made you shudder involuntarily while goosebumps rose to your skin.
“I don’t want you to be drinking at that party, Y/N.” he was an old alpha, seen more than most, experienced a great lifetime, yet he still had that ability to command the room.
“Drinking will affect your ability to see what’s coming.”
“Harlan, you don’t think-“
“Don’t drink. Stick to water or virgin cocktails. Every drop of alcohol in your body will leave you susceptible to them. I mean it.” Harlan was looking out for you; you know he was.
He knew what your best interests were before even you did. Although you still didn’t understand why or how Ransom Drysdale was the best choice for you, you respected his decision.
Harlan was an alpha who never did you wrong.
This is why, when he insisted again that you don’t touch alcohol, that you stay sober for the party, you complied.
You promised him.
The mansion Linda and Richard lived in was decorated with Edison outdoor lights hung around the long driveway; a series of cars parked outside were as expensive as the one in front of them or the one behind. It spoke to the wealth they had, the wealth they flaunted, as well as their guests. Everything from the entrance gates to the double doors leading to their home was immaculate and perfection at its finest. It made you already want to turn and leave.
It made you want to immediately hail the cab you’d taken and go back to the safety of Harlan’s mansion that, not that you would admit it without some liquid courage, started to feel like your and Ransom’s place.
You wanted to leave, yet they were waiting for you. The clan of life-sucking assholes who only cared when they needed to, the bastards who had the chance, every chance, to make something of themselves and ended up screwing themselves over.
The only one who had created something for herself was Linda. When you had it all, if you got it all, Linda would be the one who could survive on her own.
The rest were dying fish gasping for air.
“Y/N!” Jodi was the first to greet you, the first to wave her hand in the air when she saw you approaching.
As you passed by the vehicles, you caught the sight of Ransom’s parked along the side of the road. You walked past his Beemer, and that alone had your stomach flipping over the end. You didn’t have feelings for Ransom; you couldn’t have. He was a ‘Grade A’ asshole. You couldn’t have feelings for the arrogant alpha.
“Look at you! You look ah-mazing!” Jodi pulled you into a hug, her scent tainted by her perfume and the alcohol she was already diving into. “I love that dress.”
When she pulled out of the hug, she kept her hands on your bare arms and leaned in, her eyes staring deep into yours. Her greying blonde hair was curled as it usually was, with a few of those curls skewed. She was hunting for husband number 2, now that her prospects were drying up, due to you being willed everything.
“You are so beautiful; you know that?” She spoke condescendingly. “Ransom is so lucky.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t show up with Ransom, Y/N.” Walt’s lips turned into a half-smile, his fingers wrapped tightly around the cane that helped him move. “Trouble in paradise..?”
“I was working late.”
“Working late, huh?” Walt continued.
“Yep,” you stepped out of their circle, “work. I know that word must be foreign to you, but it means physical or mental labour to earn money—something you haven’t had to do in a while.
You turned your back to them and entered the mansion, following the flow of people as they moved throughout the entrance and the mansion layout to the back gardens.
You stepped down that first stone step and searched the crowds for Ransom. Your eyes bounced from person to person, seeking and searching for the alpha you were supposed to be here with. While you were searching, you heard footsteps following you, coming up from behind you.
“You’re so funny!” Jodi’s shrieky laugh irritated your ears, made you wince. “Would you like a drink, Y/N? My treat.”
She winked and looped arms with you.
“No. I’m not drinking.” You denied her, and the claim came almost immediately after.
“You’re not pregnant, are you? God! Could you imagine Ransom being a father?” Joni scoffed before she laughed derisively.
You felt your patience dissolve instantly. You were sick of how they treated Ransom, of how they looked down on him despite being problematic themselves. It pissed you off to no end, the hypocritical bitches.
“No, I’m not pregnant.” You glared at her, your voice taking a defensive turn. “Ransom would be a fantastic father, by the way. I mean, at this point, he’d even be a better mother than you are, Joni.”
You pushed her arm off of you and skipped down the rest of the steps, weaving in and out of the crowd looking for Ransom. You hadn’t seen him yet; you knew he was here. His Beemer was here; he called you when he arrived to let you know his entire family pissed him off the moment he arrived.
He was here somewhere.
“You little bitch-!” A startled gasp left your lips when you felt a hand wrap around your arm, the twisted and enraged face of Walt hanging over you.
“Get off me!” You pulled at him, attempting to get yourself out of his grip, yet despite your best efforts and his limp, he as a beta was still strong enough to jolt you, throw you around if he wanted to.
You were being drug behind him, almost unable to keep up with him as he pulled you back into the mansion through a side door and then up the stairs to a study. He slammed the door and clicked the lock, leaving you standing by the desk and him blocking the only exit.
“You think you’re smart? You think you’re witty, you little whore?” He took a rather aggressive turn for a beta, an angry streak from desperation to hold onto something significant like the publishing house.
“I think I get by.” You were strong; Harlan said you were an alpha in an omega’s clothing, yet at this moment, you were scared.
You were scared, and all you wanted was Ransom.
You could act as challenging as you wanted, but now that you were locked in a room with a beta that was on the verge of unleashing his anger out on you, you were genuinely terrified. You wanted the man who was both your alpha and not your alpha.
“You gave us no choice, Y/N.” Walt came closer, a needle in his hand, a clear liquid inside that you knew, in the deepest part of your soul, would not fare well for you. “You could’ve walked away.”
“Harlan chose me to get everything. You’re all acting like spoiled children.” You slipped your heels off and hooked them on your fingers, knowing that you could have used them to beat him off if needed.
“Spoiled? That is our inheritance!” He growled, a feral sound ripping from his throat as he cut you off once and then again.
You were almost past him on the third attempt to getaway. You were practically free and clear until he used his cane and took you down by swinging the end against the back of your head. You fell to the wooden floor with a cry, your vision blurry as spots danced in front of your eyes. You were too dizzy to move, too disorientated to pick yourself up.
“You brought this on yourself,” he held you down and uncapped the needle before he slammed the sharp edge into your neck and pushed the plunger down, “you’re going to be deep in your heat soon. And with the amount of alpha’s hanging around….”
He stepped back and smirked as the drugs that would’ve countered your suppressants and triggered your heat were starting to set in. They were setting in too fast, and you were too busy trying to make the world stop spinning to cry for help.
“The world will have finally righted itself.”
Blood coated his fingers dripped from his knuckles, and he still couldn’t stop. He had flown into a blind rage when he found you and that alpha.
Ransom had never felt so fucking pissed off before. He had never felt that instinctual rage surging through his body until he caught the shift in your scent as it carried throughout the mansion. He had been looking for you all night, and all night he had been kept away by his father, by his aunt.
And then he found you. He saw you cowering in a corner, your eyes wide and your scent thick and dense, in the throes of heat while two alpha’s were trying to get to you.
Ransom ripped the first apart, or at least he beat him to a bloody, unconscious mess. And the second…
He dropped his body to the floor and wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, the mess in his mother’s study incomparable and uneventfully droll compared to you cowering in the corner, your right hand between your legs and your left hand grasping at your breast.
“Alpha…” You crooned, too far gone to return to your normal state. You were thick in your heat, desperate to feel him. There was only one way out now, and while Ransom was a little shit and a little asshole, he had ignored his want of you until this point.
He lifts you from the floor, his thick arms holding you in his embrace before he moved toward the chaise in the room. He set you down and placed his hands upon your dress, and ripped the red silk clean in two. His darkening blue eyes were roaming your naked flesh; his lips ruptured in a smirk when you reached for his hand and shoved it between your legs.
“Please…” He should’ve turned away, but he couldn’t leave you like this. You wouldn’t get any better without feeling an alpha’s knot, and God forbid anyone else look at you. “Ransom…”
You moaned; you whined and ground yourself against his fingers. He spread your legs and used the hand that was already resting against your pussy, to stroke your swollen, slick-covered pussy lips. Your head was thrown back, and your hands were gripping the chaise fabric, your back arched. You moaned his name; you whined and cried for him.
“Omega,” he hovered above you, his lips attached to your neck where he would place his mark, “are you sure?”
“Fuck me.” You cried. “Please…I can’t take the heat. Please…”
He pulled away and fumbled with the black belt around his hips. He popped the button of his suit pants and unzipped his fly, keeping his eyes locked on you.
Your scent was coming in waves; your scent was radiating. The smell of your slick was like a second drug to him, and he knew, he had to have known, that he would be driven into a rut just as you were forced into heat.
“I’m going to fuck you.” He grunts as he wrapped his hand around his cock and pumped twice, “I’m going to fuck the heat out of you.”
He placed his knees on the sides of your legs, straddling you. Ransom lined the seeping head of his cock against your entrance and slowly started pushing this thick, veiny cock into your dripping, waiting heat. There was only one way out of this, and you knew that.
Even in your heat-filled craze, you knew how this would end.
You had a moment of clarity, a moment of sanity that allowed you to give genuine, concise consent.
“Ransom,” you squeezed his forearms, “you can’t stop. I know this isn’t…I want you to. We know how this will end. Don’t stop. I want this.”
“You need to say yes,” the head of his cock was dripping; your heat-driven lust would overtake the clarity and the sanity.
“I want this. I want you.” You moaned. “Yes. Yes. Yes.”
You were gone again, your head thrown back when the tip of his dick was brushing against your swollen pussy lips. You moaned his name as a mantra while he slowly pushed his thick, heaving shaft into your tight cunt.
He hovered above you, one hand on your hip and the other gripping the back of the chaise. You shrieked when he snapped his hips and plunged his throbbing cock into your cunt, splitting you in two and stretching you farther than you had been before.
“Omega,” he growled against your lips, thrusting his cock in and out of you, “you want to be split open, don’t you?”
You cried your approval, your nails digging into his back, and you raised your hips, your slick dripping down his ballsack and thighs.
“Yes!” You screamed your approval. “God, yes!”
He pulled out and slammed back in, your body jerking roughly from the force, yet it was all you wanted at that moment. He bent down and wrapped his lips around one of your nipples, sucking on your tit like a hungry infant, his saliva coating your goosebump flesh.
Every thrust, every angle change was driving you toward a peak you never thought you’d meet. You were nothing but a mess underneath him, a mix of pleasure sounds that was the soundtrack to your fucking.
He hasn’t even removed the alpha’s from the room, the bloodied and broken bodies of the men who tried to take you against your will. They were laying there motionless, and perhaps they wouldn’t rise again.
“Mark me,” you demanded, your legs wrapped around his waist, keeping him locked in you.
“I’m gonna give you my knot first,” he mumbled against your tit, his hips snapping as he fucked you senselessly. “You want it, omega?”
You came against him, your body shaking and trembling as you reached your first peak. You knew Ransom wouldn’t be far behind. You knew by the swelling of his cock. You knew he was going to cum in you.
“Mark me!” You demanded again, only in this instance, he listened.
He latched onto your neck and part his lips. At the exact moment, as his seed started to shoot into your cunt, you felt him bite down. He bit into your neck and solidified your future together, adding that final nail in the coffin for his family.
You rode another orgasm that came after the bite, further squeezing his cock and creating another mess against his ballsack and thighs, your shared fluids dripping onto the chaise beneath you.
When he pulled his mouth away from your neck, he gave you tender affection that seemed so out of place for him. He kissed your forehead, grinding slowly and gently against you, loosening the last bits of his seed that would’ve spilled into you.
It was inevitable. You and Ransom were now mates. You were bound together.
The morning came with a haze that lingered for a few moments before dissipating like fog. He was well aware of the body pressed against his own, just as he was aware of your fingers digging into his biceps and his arms wrapped tightly around your waist. You were holding onto him with all your willpower, and Ransom felt a rumble in his chest, an inevitable surge of possessiveness that made him squeeze you tighter.
You were his now. You were his omega, his light. You were this innate goodness that was infiltrating him, that was encapsulating the only hope he felt he had.
You were the only good in his life. Among all the shit snd the trauma, the lack of affection and love, there you were.
And you were his. You belonged to him, and he belonged to you.
He was a playboy, a trust fund prick. He was an asshole; he was a monster. Or at least that’s what he thought of himself
You showed him there was more; you showed him the throes and the pleasures of domesticity, and that came from only one day in the kitchen with you. That came from one day where you weren’t trying to go at each other.
He got a taste of something good, something pure.
Then his uncle tried to destroy you. Then his uncle drugged you and left you to be raped, to be assaulted and torn apart by two alpha’s who were ready to fight over an omega in a forced heat.
All for the pursuit of money and power. His uncle was willing to throw you away.
Ransom was dejected to admit that he would’ve too; he would’ve thrown you away for money and power. Before this, all happened before you two started growing closer, before he started to let himself loose to you.
He would’ve done the same.
Which could’ve explained why he was enraged by his uncle. Because you weren’t just anybody, you weren’t just an omega he could dick down and ditch; you were his omega.
You were HIS omega. And his uncle threatened you.
His uncle threatened what belonged to him, and that pissed Ransom off to no end. It was one thing to try and go after him, an alpha who could handle himself, but to drug an omega, to set her up to be violated…
“Your family is downstairs,” the very first few words you spoke after waking in a strange room, with Ransom hovering close, “we should leave.”
“No,” Ransom denied you, “no we’re not leaving. I have a few things that need to be said.”
He watched you roll over to face him, he watched your exhaustive state starting to lessen as the morning came, as your rapid firing heat had dissipated. Your hand was tucked under your cheek, your fingers grasping at the pillowcase with near full strength. He could see the fright in your eyes, he could see the apprehension that came after the events of last night, after the trauma almost inflicted on you, were settling at the forefront of your mind.
“Get dressed,” Ransom tossed you one of his sweaters he kept stashed here, “we’re going downstairs to confront them.”
“Ransom I don’t-“
“No,” his voice took on the kind of command that made omega’s obey, “you’re going to hear what I have to say and so will they. Now get dressed.”
You buckled; you caved. His mark on your neck was fresh, it was still raw. Even if it had healed, you would still have complied. He was your alpha, and although he hadn’t wanted to use that tone of voice often, he would command you when needed.
This was one of those times. You needed to hear this. So did his family. A line had to be drawn.
You were up and dressed within minutes, enveloped and wrapped in his scent, a pleasing thought for an alpha who was already on edge. You were surrounded by him, by his scent and by claim. No one would doubt that you were Ransom’s.
He stormed down the stairs, his family speaking quietly amongst themselves in the sitting room in his mothers house, one that greatly resembled the one at the mansion.
“You really think you did something? You really thought that by putting Y/N in that situation, I would be charged for assault and attempted murder?” He was a man who was encroaching on a beast. He was an alpha who was imposing and physically threatening on the best of days but now…
“Ransom what are you talking about?” His mother feigned ignorant wife, or maybe she really had been ignorant of what happened.
“Don’t act like you don’t know, mother.” Ransom scowled. “He drugged her and left her to get torn apart.”
“Are you serious? You would stoop that low?”
“You lying bastard-“
“Why don’t you ask Y/N what happened? Hmm? You ask her who drug her to the study, who assaulted her with his cane.”
“You will be charged, you little asshole!” Walt came on the defence, immediately. He held no fear of Ransom, like an idiot.
He laughed and it was unsettling. He laughed as he took slow calculating steps toward his uncle. He had no second thoughts about expelling his rage onto the man who had arranged for his omega who be torn apart by alpha’s chasing an omega on a drug induced heat.
“The omega defence law,” Ransom drew closer, his eyes blown wide with rage, “obviously you haven’t heard of it because you’re a whiny, little beta bitch.”
The whimper from your mouth has almost made him turn back, and yet when he looked over his shoulder and saw the state you were, his animosity grew.
You had a bruise covering your cheek, your head was still sore from where you’d been hit by Walt’s cane, and Ransom, driven into a rut by your sudden heat, had fucked you senseless when you needed tenderness.
“The omega defence law will prevent an alpha who is physically defending their mate from being punished. I could’ve ripped him to shreds and I should have, and I wouldn’t have faced punishment because my mate-“
“You didn’t mark her.” Walt sneered.
“I marked Y/N last night, you know after you drugged her and left her to be assaulted.” Ransom snapped. “I marked Y/N when I found her.”
Another whimper and another brief moment when he almost turned back.
“You threw my omega into a situation where Y/N would’ve been attacked and left for dead for the sole purpose of killing her and sending me to prison but you’re such a piece of shit who is so moronic that you weren’t even aware of the law.” Ransom watched his uncle squirm. He watched his uncle sweat bullets as the enraged alpha drew closer to the one threat against his omega that still stood.
“I’m not going to prison, you little fucker. But if you, if any of you,” he looked at his family pointedly, “come near me or my omega again, I’ll rip you to shreds.”
He turned back and grabbed your hand. He led you out of his mother’s house without another word, intent at leaving it where it was, but still unsettled.
The argument hadn’t been enough. The charges that were going to be laid, hadn’t been enough.
He was smug. He was confident that his lawyers would sweep this all under the rug.
Ransom knew he was wrong, but it still wasn’t enough. The instincts coursing through him were calling for physical ramifications.
The courts of law could only go so far.
Ransom shifted on the bed. He turned his head and studied the peacefulness of rest, the soothing ease that befell you as you rest comfortably, safe in his presence.
Then he saw the bruise. His blue eyes got caught on the bruise on your cheek, the result of falling from the force used, and Ransom became flooded with vile, poisonous anger.
He seethed, unable to find sleep like you had. He needed to feel his uncle’s body breaking under his fists.
He lift the covers and pulled himself from the bed, from the warmth and the comfort. He slipped from the bed and stood, reaching for the pair of jeans he’d kicked into the corner, swiping them from the floor. He shoved his legs in and yanked them up his body, nearly getting them completely done up before he heard you shift on the bed.
“Ransom,” you mumbled and rolled over, your eyes barely open yet recognizing the departure of your alpha, “where are you going?”
You were so beautiful, so perfect. He almost didn’t think he deserved you. He almost didn’t think he was worthy of you. Someone like you, should’ve been with someone who wasn’t so tainted and screwed.
Ransom turned back to the bed and slowly placed his left knee on the mattress, feeling it dip beneath his weight. He placed his right hand on the mattress near the curve of your backside, stabilizing himself.
He leaned in and brushed your hair behind your ear. He pressed a soft, quick kiss to your forehead. “Go back to sleep. I need to take care of something.”
“Now, Y/N.” he ordered you. And he would apologize in his own way for it later.
But for now, there was only one thing on his mind. And he wouldn’t stop until his uncle felt the same sharp fear you had.
He wait until your breathing has evened out before he physically left the house. He wait until sleep became you, until you had drifted back into peace before he start the Beemer and took off, gravel spitting behind his tires. He knew exactly where his uncle would be at this point of the night, where he would be hiding out.
His uncle tried to make himself seem like a family man, like the man with the perfect wife and the well put together child, but that was only a carefully crafted image. The real truth was that his aunt was neurotic, he cousin was a nazi and his uncle was a pervert.
His uncle liked screwing barely legal beta’s and omega’s. His uncle liked screwing beta and omega whores who made him feel good about himself, who made him feel like he wasn’t a washed up piece of shit.
He sought approval from women paid to act like they enjoyed his cock.
He was nothing but scum.
Ransom knew where he was. Ransom saw his vehicle parked outside the cheap motel he always frequented. The same place and the same room, with his chosen bitch of the night. Ransom could see his reflection though the window, his blood relative would tried to take the only good thing Ransom had in his life.
He opened his driver side door and slammed it behind him. He shoved his keys into his pocket and approached the rickety wooden staircase that would take him toward his uncle. He placed his right hand on the railing and took the stairs two at a time, his long legs bringing him further toward his target within mere moments.
The second he set foot on the second level of the motel, something intrinsic and brutal took hold of Ransom. He wasn’t seeing his uncle in that motel room, he aww a predator who had tried to attack his mate; who tried to destroy what belonged to him.
This primal urge, this primality has transformed Hugh Ransom Drysdale into a beast. He was a phantom, a creature of animosity and violence that craved blood for his only innocent.
He approached the door and kicked it in, the door splitting from the frame, the door slamming against the cheap tobacco stained carpet. Ransom could hear the shrieking of the little whore his uncle was fucking, but he hardly spared her a thought. Instead, he turned on his uncle.
He stalked toward him and grabbed him by his arm, yanking him from the bed. He spared one glance at the half naked bitch and growled a single warning to leave.
She scrambled away, screaming and shrieking, leaving Ransom alone with his target.
“Ransom-!” His uncle was thrown from the bed to the floor, landing against the nightstand that sent over the alarm clock and toppled the lamp.
“You think you’re gonna get away with this,” he seethed and landed the first blow, heard the first sickening crunch of bones breaking, “you twisted bastard.”
His uncle tried defending himself, but he was no match to the pissed off alpha. He was no match for all those years of pent up anger, all those scathing comments about how useless Ransom was.
Punch after punch, blood coating his knuckles and dusting his face. The sickening crunch of bones breaking and snapping under the force of Ransom’s fists driving into his uncle’s body.
He didn’t stop. He didn’t stop when his uncle pleaded, he didn’t stop when his uncle was more blood than not, he didn’t stop when his uncle fell unconscious.
He only stopped when he heard your voice echoing in his head. He only stopped when the dulcet sound of your words cut through his rage. And then, he stood back and wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand.
“Come near her again, and I won’t stop until you stop breathing.” Ransom turned away and left the motel as quickly as he had arrived.
When you’re excited about something and putting in work to make it good but you’re also doubting yourself every step of the way. I really want to share more of this and get this written. But I’ve been sitting on this for a year and I’m scared to finish it. What if nobody will like it?
Based on the following prompt:
In the AU, Tony had a mate with a pup on the way, but they died. Until Civil Wars happened, and he saw that they too were a victim of the WS besides his parents. Team IM/Team CA separate (no cryo) go their own way until Tony becomes too suicidal during one mission gone wrong. Team CA comes back, but Tony is just done with their backstabbing and lies (Team CA falls apart after learning what really went on in Siberia). Bucky, wrought with guilt and wanting to make up for his past murders of Stark’s parents and dead mate and pup, somehow through his jacked up mind, figures that the way to Tony’s good graces is… become Tony’s mate and having his pups.
It’s another three hours and two incident reports before a squad’s distress marker lights up the holotable. It’s not as far as he originally expected, though much closer to the senate apartments than he prefers. And judging by the speed they’re moving at, they’re probably on foot.
Fox forwards the information to their commlinks, hooking the tranq kit Splint had brought onto his belt.
“Cody, pull out your squads,” he says, not waiting for a response before he half-jogs, half-runs outside to the waiting speeders, Thorn already waiting for him. Luckily, it’s one of their squads that manages to find the man himself. Unluckily, it’s one of Thire’s squads.
He connects the call, bracing himself as he pulls his speeder into the streets after Thorn’s.
“Sir, we found him,” a harried voice comes through. “Pursuing now.”
He glances at the identification code. Jek. Fuck. He’s one of their best heavy gunners, following in Thorn’s footsteps, but Thire’s gone through ARC training. He hits, and he hits hard, lethal intentions or not. Thire’s usually the one that fulfills his requests for a spar, matching him blow for blow until it’s dark and they’re both covered in bumps and bruises.
And occasionally broken noses, much to Splint’s displeasure.
(Thire wheezes from the ground, chest heaving, hand cradling the ribs Fox had just landed a rattling kick to. “Did that get everything out of your system, sir?”
“Yes,” Fox pants, bracing his hands on his knees, watching sweat drip off his nose onto the padded floors. His body was one continuous bruise, but his thigh aches the most, Thire diverting what would’ve been a crippling hit to just an explosion of pain had him crumpling on impact. But they managed to avoid drawing blood this time, which, small mercies. Though a cleaning droid would still be useful, he thinks. “Thanks.”
He stumbles over to Thire and plops onto the ground, landing in an ungraceful heap. Splint was going to have a conniption when he found out just how hard they went, even though he’s ninety-percent sure neither of them broke any bones. Fox rolls his shoulders, tests joints, and pushes himself into a deep stretch, groaning as his muscles burn with the movement.
Thire follows from the ground, hooking a hand under his knee to pull it up and—
“Kriff,” he breathes. “I’m going to feel this for days.”
Fox snorts as he coaxes his ankle into obedience, massaging at the joint. “You and all of Tooka’s partners,” he deadpans.
There’s a choke, then a splutter, and Fox takes in Thire’s curled up form as he turns to his other ankle, massaging the tendons. Too easy.
“Fox, why—” Thire’s voice is muffled by hands covering his face, as well as what was surely a beginning blush when he speaks again, growing to a wail.
Why? Did he just ask why? Of course, Fox isn’t going to let such a delicious opportunity get away when the mood strikes. He leans in towards Thire’s ear and whispers, “because you’re so predictable.”
It’s only by sheer luck that Fox dodges the flailing hand aimed at his face and he rolls away, snickering.
“Please save that for when you’re seducing General Vos,” Thire begs.
Fox thinks about it. For all of two seconds. “Maybe I will,” he agrees.
Fox does, just to humor him. That, and he’d rather not deal with a choking Thire just because he told him in no uncertain terms that yes, he’s already used that exact whisper on Vos to varying degrees of success. Subjective success, at least.
Silence stretches between them, more restful than peaceful, and Fox takes in the dim gym as the remaining adrenaline in his blood bleeds away with each breath. It’s rare to have an opportunity to let go, to sink into the ruthless streak Alpha-17 dragged out of him, and he had pounced on it when the Senate decided to end their bickering early.
“So,” Thire pipes up a beat later, tugging at his damp shirt. “Tooka or Splint?”
The question takes a few moments to register but Fox just huffs in acknowledgement, reaching over to pat his foot. “Definitely Splint.”
And sure enough, Splint barges through the gym doors only two minutes later, with a medkit in hand and a murderous look on his face.
“Brace yourself,” he says under his breath.
Thire stifles a giggle, giving Splint a wave. “Hi—“
“You two,” Splint growls, leaving no room for argument, “are coming with me.”
Outrunning Splint was difficult on a good day, and after beating the living snot out of each other, their odds were looking very, very poor. Shame. He could do with a nice chase every now and then.)
If Fox has any guesses on what kind of state he and the others were in while under, it’s very likely that everyone’s an enemy in Thire’s eyes.
And they don’t stand a chance.
“Keep your distance, do not engage,” Fox orders. “Do you copy?”
“What? But sir—”
“Jek. Have you ever won a spar against him?” When no answer comes back, he barrels on, nearly clipping a stack of crates with his speeder that were definitely not supposed to be there.
“Don’t make me add you to my Remembrances,“ he threatens. “Do. Not. Engage.”
One beat passes. Two. His comm crackles to life again.
He cuts the call, opens a new channel to Cody. It’s somewhat of a miracle that he hasn’t crashed yet, as he fumbles his comm controls.
“We’re heading to this location,” he says, linking him to his tracker and marking the coordinates. “Have Stone establish a perimeter and evacuate any citizens.”
“On it. Reinforcements?”
No. Yes. No. They don’t need to risk any more troopers now that Thire’s been located, he thinks. According to Jek, he’s been fairly non-combative, barring some rather impressive acrobatics and bruised egos. Though it could change at any moment.
(When Fox digs deep enough in the blanks of his memories, he can feel one command rise to his skin:
Eliminate all interference.
Jek and his squad likely don't pose a real threat to him, so long as they stay out of range. Or at least, he hopes they don't.)
But Thorn makes a sharp bank before he can respond, and he’s forced to put both hands on his speeder to follow, swearing under his breath.
“Sorry!” Thorn calls back.
Fox waves him off. “All clear.”
“Fox, I swear to Prime’s hairy—”
“Do not finish that fucking sentence,” he growls, ducking a bundle of low-hanging wires.
“Are you driving right now?” Cody shoots back.
Some days, Fox would love nothing more than to murder his batchmates. Mildly. Just a partial manslaughter. Deep breaths, deep breaths, Splint’s voice rambles in the back of his mind. His blood pressure is high enough.
(According to Splint, anyways. The day he admits it is the day he’ll lose all peace from him, not that he was getting much of it to begin with.)
“Why is that your problem?”
Little stars, he’s actually going to need someone to help him hide a body. Probably Thorn. Stone can be their getaway driver, he likes piloting.
“No, I’m not driving,” Fox lies shamelessly, “and no, we don’t need any more collateral damage. If you need something to do, then keep the area clear.”
“Wolffe’s gonna laugh his ass off if you crash.”
He can practically hear the smirk on Cody’s face. It’s only gotten worse since Cody—once Kote, before he changed it out of spite—was promoted to marshal commander.
(“Different chains of command,” Cody snorts, raising his drink in a toast. “Can’t tell me no anymore.”
Fox begrudgingly raises his, tapping their cups together. “Stop making more paperwork for me,” he grumps, “and I’ll stop telling you no.”
Cody pauses, then laughs before throwing back the rest of his drink. “Even if we survive this war, there’s always going to be paperwork. Karking paperwork.”
“Karking paperwork,” Fox echoes, swallowing the remnants of his poison—some of Thirty’s mystery homebrew. It burns a neat line down his throat, tasting of blasterfire and singed jogan fruit, and how Thirty’s managed that is beyond his imagination. “Can I just space my pile of datapads?” he mutters into his cup. “Or I could incinerate it. The Senate’s got a fancy furnace just for that.”
Sadly, it doesn’t respond.)
“As if you won’t,” he snarks. “Get off my channel and go help. Or don’t, see if I care. Stone will be just fine without you.”
“Roger roger,” Cody says, cutting the connection before he can respond.
Fox sighs, settling against the worn padding of his seat. For how infuriating Cody can be, he hasn’t let a batchmate down.
(“Get your head into the game, Fox. You know how this works.”
He does. The countdown timer ticks down in front of him, steady and ominous. But for once, he’s not vibrating with extra nervousness.
Fox shoves any extraneous thoughts into a box at the back of his mind. A distracted trooper doesn’t get to go home, wherever that is.
He double-checks the power packs in his blaster, then tightens the tibanna tank. It’s incredible how much destruction is packed into a gas cartridge the size of his hand, giving life to their blue blaster bolts.
He cycles through his HUD channels, even though it looks the same as the last two times he’s checked. They’re a riot of information, bombarding his senses. But it’d only taken a week to become accustomed to it. Quick, for natborns. Standard, for clones.
They’ve run this simulation countless times now, new obstacles popping up with each repetition. But the overall goal is still the same, and they all know what success looks like. And now, it’s his turn to lead the charge.
Cody’s on his left, legs slightly too tense as usual.
Wolffe’s on his right, loose and limber.
Bly’s bringing up the rear, hovering on the balls of his feet.
Alpha-17’s scrutinizing them with a keen eye, arms crossed over his chest. But Fox can feel a trickle of pride leak from his façade, and he’s not about to betray that expectation.
The buzzer sounds, the gates lift, and Fox jumps without a second thought, plummeting from the platform.
Let the games begin.)
“Thorn!” Fox barks.
“On it,” he acknowledges, peeling off at a fork in the alley. “We’re going to have to do this the hard way,” he muses in his ear.
The chance of them hitting each other with stun shots was too high in close quarters, especially with a target like Thire. Better to avoid the possibility of friendly fire from the start, especially since they're already at a disadvantage. It takes a few tries, but Fox eventually cuts Thire off at an intersection, Thorn blocking the other end of the alley.
Even brainwashed, Thire takes one look at him before turning on his heels to charge at Thorn, pulling out an electrobaton. Fox isn’t sure where Thire’s blasters have gone—perhaps Jek’s squad had something to do with that—but he’s not about to question it, when it makes their job that much easier.
He strikes with a viciousness that rattles Thorn’s teeth, the flickering prod skimming his side as he knocks the baton aside. It clatters against the wall—and explodes into a burst of sparks—but he doesn’t even get half a breath before Thire’s on him again, jabbing at his throat.
Thorn lunges to the side, takes one step back, dread settling in his stomach like a shot of bathtub brew as his mistake dawns on him. He’s seen this exact scenario play out during past training sessions. Only this time, there’s nothing stopping Thire. Nothing stopping that powerhouse of muscle and plastoid from slamming into him, and he goes down.
His helmet cracks against duracrete, sending a burst of pain down his neck, and only muscle memory has him tucking into a roll, hauling Thire’s weight with him in hopes of a pin. But Thire’s the brawler between them, and he stops their tumble on top, legs straddling his waist.
That’s definitely a concussion, Thorn thinks distantly, trying to blink the tears from his eyes. But even through his blurry vision, he can see Thire twist around, pulling something from the holster they’d thought was empty, and his blood turns to ice.
Thire has a blaster. And it’s pointed at their commander.
“Get down,” Thorn barks, pushing through the fog filling his mind. He surges upwards, reaches for the outstretched arm, and—
He knocks it off target just as Thire presses the trigger—to kill, not stun—and the bolt ricochets off a durasteel pipe mere inches from Fox’s head. If he’d been a few seconds slower—
Thorn doesn’t want to think about it.
He doesn’t have to, because the sudden movement makes his head spin and he fights a wave of nausea while Thire’s already moving like an endless well of energy. But given that Thire’s only been running for the past few hours, Thorn doesn’t expect the impact to his gut, nor the sickening sensation of durasteel.
Thorn gasps, just loud enough for Fox to hear over comms. And there’s a strange quality to it, hinting at something other than pain. Shock. Fear. Certainty.
But it’s the opening they’ve been waiting for, and Fox ignores the alarms in his head in favor of tackling Thire to the ground, pinning him with a knee in his back, and slamming a hypo into the meat of his neck. He strains under Fox’s weight, one last attempt at escape, before slumping to the ground.
Fox heaves a sigh of relief, silently hoping that the tranquilizer sticks. Thire's already going to wake up with a hell of a hangover after that cocktail, adding stun shots into the equation could only result in suffering.
“Thorn,” he calls. But when there's no response, he looks up and immediately freezes.
Red. There’s so much red. Thorn’s stomach plate isn’t painted red, not like his, and yet, it looks like a poor imitation of his armor.
“When did he get a knuckle plate,” Thorn finally groans, stumbling against the wall like a drunk losing his feet.
In any other scenario, Fox would have laughed. Thire’s love for knives, blades, and anything pointy was unparalleled in the Guard, and it’s been a long-running joke among the officers that Tooka pays him off with illicit knives. He’s seen the collection himself, even has a short vibroknife tucked into his boot courtesy of it. But there’s nothing humorous about the scene in front of him.
He barely hears the footsteps a few blocks away as he launches to his feet, catching Thorn under his arms when he wavers, hooking a limb over his shoulders.
“Why didn’t you stay down,” Fox hisses, “I know you have more braincells than that, you mudworm.”
“Was going to—” Thorn starts, pausing to inhale shakily. “Back-up,” he finishes lamely.
Back-up. Fox hopes Thorn will survive, if only so he can crush him in a headlock before shunting him off to Splint for a crash course in common sense. But the pounding grinds to a halt behind them, and a new voice interrupts his thoughts.
“Did you get—oh kriff.”
Fox agrees wholeheartedly. Thorn grumbles into his shoulder, something that sounds vaguely like I’m fine, and no, he very much isn’t.
“Where’s Trip?” he demands.
“Here sir,” Tripwire calls, nudging his way to the front of the pack. Good. He hasn’t ignored the mods Tripwire’s installed on his squad’s speeder for no reason, though this isn’t the scenario he hoped to be using it in.
“I don’t care how many traffic rules you have to break,” Fox says. “Get Commander Thorn to medical as fast as you can.”
He can already visualize the grim smile under Tripwire’s visor as he nods and grabs an arm, Honey taking the other. They double-time it to their speeders, dragging an increasingly limp Thorn between them, and it takes everything to tear his gaze from their backs.
“He’s in good hands,” Jek says, sidling up to him.
He knows. He knows, and yet—
(The last time he watched a squadmate be carted off, they didn’t come back. He still has their glove hidden in the back of his locker, stiff with dried blood, a scribbled number erased by time but seared into his mind.
He’s tired of watching his squad march ahead of him without a backwards glance, and some days he wishes he could catch up to them but catching up would mean—)
Fox turns back to Thire's prone body, shoving the thoughts into the overflowing box in the back of his mind, and swallows his fears.
Ransom stepped foot in the kitchen to see a mess littering the counters, tipped over bowls and you, this barefooted omega, looking confused while staring at a recipe in a cracked and aged cookbook.
He leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest and his eyebrows furrowed. The frown on his face had almost morphed into a smirk when he saw you blow hair out of your face, revealing the slight dusting of flour on your forehead.
“This shouldn’t be this hard.” You groaned and started mixing the ingredients in your bowl haphazardly, spilling flour out onto the counter.
“What are you doing?” Ransom pushed himself off the door frame and strode into the kitchen, bringing himself closer to you.
“What does it look like I’m doing?” You snipped, not bothering to raise your head or look at him. Your attention moved back and forth from the bowl with your dry ingredients flying out and the recipe to your right. “I’m cooking.”
“You can’t cook.” Ransom came to your side and looked down at the bowl of dry ingredients that looked like a mix of whatever you found in the cupboard.
“I can too, cook!” You finally raised your head, glaring at him.
“No, you can’t.” He countered, his arms crossed over his chest.
“Oh, and you can?” You faced him, one hand on your hip and the other resting against the dirty counter.
“Better than you.” He countered, studying the disaster in the kitchen.
“Bullshit, you can.” You matched his stance, with your arms crossed over your chest and your hip jut against the edge of the island. “I’d like to see you try.”
He cocked his head to the side and wiped his hands on his jeans. He glanced around the kitchen toward the mess, with the knowledge that he would be making you clean your mess and do your dishes.
Ransom grabbed the spoon from you and the bowl and proceeded to dump all the ingredients out. When he was done, he turned back to the island and set the bowl down on the counter.
“What the hell?-“ he turned you around and led you to the sink full of dirty dishes.
He set you in front of them before he reached for the yellow and green sponge to your right and plopped that in your hand.
“You can start by cleaning up your mess,” his husky voice reverberated in your ear, “you have a lot to do.”
He wrapped an arm around your waist and pressed his nose to your neck, to the very spot where his mating mark would eventually go. He inhaled slowly, letting your scent fill his nostrils and stir some primal archaic reaction that was inevitable. He rubbed his nose against the side of your neck, getting his scent on you as much as yours was getting on his.
He was addicted to you.
You were his drug, your scent and your warmth was everything he needed, everything he wanted.
Or at least that basest part of him that was an alpha wanted you. Maybe he was too stubborn to admit it; perhaps he was trying to put up a front because you were one of the only people in his life who cared to insult him, cared to defend him, cared just for the sake of caring.
No one but Harlan.
“What are you doing?” You were stiff in his arms; the internal struggle he was facing was also addicting you. You didn’t know whether you wanted to push him off or sink into his embrace.
“You smell good.” He mumbled against your neck, grazing his teeth against you.
“I thought I had dishes to clean.” You nudged him off, your eyes dilating from the extended contact.
“You do.” He straightened himself out as if nothing happened.
“What if I don’t want to?”
“Ransom-!” You squeaked when he smacked your ass with a firmness that sent shockwaves through you.
“Don’t argue. Just do it.” Ransom returned to the island, re-preparing everything you had once made; only his creation would probably be better than yours.
As you kept your back to him and started the task of doing the dishes, scrubbing everything you’d used clean, you hummed under your breath. You hummed a melody that you’d come across a time or two ago, not quite remembering the words but carrying the tune.
You finished with the dishes and started wiping down all the counters and islands, moving around Ransom. You occasionally tried to spy on him, trying to see what he was doing, but anytime you would look, he would shoo you away.
“Why can’t I see?” You asked, your arms crossed over your chest.
“Why can’t you keep your nose out of other people’s business?” He asked, raising a brow eyebrow.
“Fine,” you mumbled and turned away from him, “buzz-kill.”
You cleaned the long stretch of cupboard across from the island, and when you were done, you rinsed out the cloth and set it back on the edge of the sink. When you were finished yet didn’t want to leave the kitchen, you rest your lower back against the edge of the cupboards and face Ransom. The heels of your hands were resting against the edge of the counter, your ankles crossed.
“Ransom…” you asked softly, unsure if you ever wanted to broach the subject. “C-can I ask you something?”
He raised his head and cast his eyes upon you, a few strands of his dark hair falling against his forehead. He didn’t say anything, didn’t verbally confirm, but retained eye contact.
“I…uhh…I’ve been getting a few texts….” You frowned and chewed the inside of your cheek.
“From who?” His eyebrows furrowed, his lips formed into a scowl.
“From Meg,” you swallowed, “Meg’s been asking…well, she’s been wondering if I could help pay for her school….”
He dropped the mixing spoon into the bowl and turned toward you, his hands on his hips. He was a massive man, even if he wouldn’t have been an alpha, but adding that ‘class’ had only made him seem more foreboding and deadly.
“Has Meg been harassing you?” He questioned, turning back to his task while watching you from the corner of his eyes.
“No,” you hesitated, “but she seems desperate. And I’ve been trying to ignore her, but the texts are getting a little more frequent.”
“Tell Meg to fuck off.” He looked back at you. “You have no problem telling other people to fuck off; why not Meg?”
“Well…” you sighed, “I don’t know. I don’t know what I want to do. Harlan thrust this whole thing on me when all I wanted to do was do my job and live my life. And now-“
“Now you’re stuck with me?” He challenged.
“Yeah,” you made a noise, “now I’m stuck with the most irritating alpha around Boston. Trust fund playboy.”
“You could choose someone else,” he dumped the contents of the bowl into a Dutch oven, mixing it before he placed the matching lid on top. “You could choose another alpha.”
“And you could take another omega.” You felt uncomfortable; you felt a little strike of envy and jealousy hitting you. It was a quick setting, yet powerful enough to almost wind you.
There was silence, uncomfortable and awkward.
“Why’d you do it?” Ransom asked you after he set the Dutch oven in the conventional oven.
“Do what?” You weren’t close enough to each other to touch. There were a few feet between you two, yet his scent was growing with each passing moment. As if he was projecting it upon you.
He didn’t answer you right away. He took a pause, the wheels in his head-turning. He looked like he wanted to ask something else, he looked like a subject he wanted to approach, yet he stuck with something safe.
“Make such a god damn mess.” He scoffed and glanced around the now, clean kitchen.
“I was trying to cook.” You jut your hip against the corner of the island. “You know I’m surprised that you know how to cook. That seems like something completely out of the left field.”
Ransom was quiet again, and then he spoke with a softness that seemed utterly foreign to him.
“My grandmother taught me to cook.”
“My grandmother was incredibly strong-willed and stubborn, especially for an omega. She helped my grandad build his entire empire, standing behind him every step of the way with the hope that he would have something to pass onto his family. Which he did, but she never approved of the privilege we all thought we had.” Ransom’s voice was the softest it had ever been that you’d heard anyway.
“And you do.”
“My grandmother wanted the grandchildren to learn something applicable to the real world.” Ransom became unfocused, shifting into some memory inside his head. “Jacob wasn’t born yet before she died.”
“She’s only been gone for 17 years?” You moved from your place, closer to Ransom.
You brushed your arm against him, your scent complimenting his as if they were one.
“She was bound and determined to teach me how to cook. That was her goal. I would visit for summers when I was younger, and we’d spend hours, sometimes all day, in the kitchen. She would teach me the basics, hammering it into my head that food was a great equalizer.”
“And then she died, and I became a little shit. Maybe I always was one.” He snapped himself out of his daze and stole a glance at you. “So yes, I can cook.”
“Yeah, well, I know how to administer drugs and fix stitches. Cause I’m a nurse.”
“Guess it’s up to me to pass cooking skills down to the kids.”
He commented, and then he departs from your side, leaving you standing there with your mouth agape and your heart racing.
You didn’t think Ransom was a ‘kid’ person, and yet…it appeared as if he wanted your kids.