#does alpha tonic works

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖"Alpha, Beta (& Omega)"

Rated: Explicit

Chapter Rating: Teen

Word Count: 3627

Pairing: Steve x Bucky

Tags: a/b/o, arranged marriage, enemies to lovers, nobility/royalty au, alternate history, dom/sub elements, beta bucky, anal sex, oral sex, hurt/comfort, first time, age gap, domestic discipline, spanking, head of household, wedding night, Edwardian time period, m/f/m poly marriage

Summary: To save House Barnes from scandalous ruin, James must agree to a contracted marriage, accepting Lord Senator Steven Rogers as his Alpha, Husband, and Headship.

To read previous parts of this series first, got to the story's masterlist

14. A Headship's Rebuke

This Chapter: If Bucky ever wants to get out of this marriage and get his independence back, he’s going to have to really buckle down and remember his mission.

Bucky has a hangover the size of Long Island the next day.

Steve isn’t too sympathetic about it, which irks Bucky. He’s already feeling like shit, he doesn’t appreciate Steve’s continued scolding.

Only … he doesn’t exactly scold him. He’s crisp and curt, which in itself is very un-Steve-like. He barely says a word to Bucky when they wake, making himself scarce after they dress for the day. Sharon is the one who gives Bucky what he needs. He’s provided with a tonic to help relieve his headache, a mild breakfast and absolutely no words of comfort. It’s not Sharon’s job to do that. She’s just household help, and while she may have a relationship with Steve, to her Bucky’s nothing but a mandatory duty. He’s the man her employer married whom she now also has to wait on, so she does, but she extends him no courtesies or gestures of kindness. Bucky wonders if she’s always this cold, or if Steve told her what happened last night and she’s decided to stand in solidarity against Bucky. 

Either way, Bucky’s left on his own to figure out what to do all day. “Where did Steve go?” he asks Sharon, when he notices that the apartment is empty save for the two of them.

“Pietro took him to a meeting, I believe,” Sharon says. She’s carrying laundry in a basket, and she continues on down the hallway, leaving him alone. 

“Oh,” Bucky says to no one. He twists his lips and looks around the room with a sigh. “Okay.”

Steve returns around eleven o’clock, just before lunch. Bucky forces himself not to ask where he’s been. He doesn’t want Steve to think he cares. Steve appears in the living room and looks down at him where he’s sitting on the couch. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“I received a telegram,” Steve says. “A motion was called and I had to send instructions on how I wanted my vote to go.”

Bucky wants to ask what the motion was, but he forces himself not to. “Kay,” he says.

Steve stares at him. “What’ve you been doing this morning?”

“Nothing. I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to go out.” He says it with a modicum of sarcasm.

Steve frowns. “What? Of course you could’ve.”

“Well how would I know that?” Bucky snaps. “I don’t know what these new ‘boundaries’ are, Husband.” He uses the title in an obnoxious show of formality. If Steve wants to be all Headshippy on him, then Bucky will treat him like one. He gets a small measure of satisfaction as he watches Steve realize this.

“Oh. Well okay.” Steve seats himself in the room’s armchair. “I suppose you’re right. Would you like to discuss that now?”

“Not particularly, but I guess it’s whatever you want, right Husband?”

Steve huffs. “Is that how you’re addressing me now?”

“Unless you’d prefer ‘Alpha’.”

Steve’s jaw works in frustration. “I’d prefer my name, in private company.”

“Fine.”

“Oh stop it,” Steve snaps. “Just because I scolded you last night doesn’t mean I’m suddenly your jailor. Grow up.”

Bucky feels anger flood through him, though it’s followed quickly by embarrassment. “I’m eighteen, Steve!”

“I know that,” Steve growls. “Am I supposed to feel bad about that? I don’t. You think it's tough being married so young? Try being shoved into a Senate Seat at twenty-eight. You’re eighteen, not eight. Act like it.”

Bucky huffs and crosses his arms, refusing to say anymore. Steve watches him for a moment before speaking. “Boundaries. Okay. Let’s talk about it. I won’t expect you to tell me your every move, but I will expect to know what your general plans are during the day.”

“Even on this trip?”

“Especially on this trip, our honeymoon.”

Bucky snorts. “For as splendidly as it’s going.”

“And you were raised as a gentleman and Senatorial heir, just like I was,” Steve says. “So I expect you to conduct yourself as such in public. No drunken escapades, rudeness or disrespecting our union.”

Bucky can’t manage any snide comments toward that. Steve’s right—he was raised as a gentleman. He feels a small bit of shame creep in at the reminder of his ridiculous behavior last night. That’s what it’s going to take though, he reminds himself. If he wants to make Steve want a divorce, then he’s got to continue doing things like that, and worse. “Okay,” he says. “Fine. Those are the rules. Now I know them.” Now he knows exactly which ones to break.

“Good.”

“Good.”

Steve seems to relax a bit. “Well … What would you like to do today?”

“With you?”

He sighs. “Yes, with me. We’ve got another two days in London before we head to the continent. Is there anything you’d like to do, see?”

Bucky shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess.”

Steve nods curtly. “Well come on then. I’ll get Pietro to hail us a hackie.”

Despite his efforts to remain despondent, Bucky winds up having a good time while he and Steve visit some of the more popular tourist sites around the city. His hangover ebbs, and after Steve buys them lunch at a café, he feels back to normal. He finds himself slipping back into friendly territory with Steve, and he scolds himself each time he laughs at something the alpha has said, returns a smile, or gets drawn into enthusiastic conversation without realizing. Steve is a reasonably easy guy to get along with, so If Bucky ever wants to get out of this marriage and get his independence back, he’s going to have to really buckle down and remember his mission.

They see most of the places that Bucky had on his list of things to see. London bridge, Big Ben, Parliament and Buckingham palace take up most of the day, and Bucky finds himself growing antsy as he realizes that he’s been friendly with Steve the whole time and not managed to create any incidents that might add to their fighting.

This marital discord stuff is hard.

They get to Westminster Abbey and step out of the hackie together. “We’ll head home after this, yeah?” Steve suggests.

Bucky nods. “Yeah, I’m hungry.”

Steve smiles and takes his hand. “Sharon told me she’s making a roast for supper. It should be good.” Bucky doesn’t comment. Instead he’s quiet as he looks at their joined hands. Steve guides him into the abbey. “Wow,” he says once they’re inside. “It’s huge.”

Bucky nods, looking up at the ceilings. “It doesn’t seem any bigger than the national cathedral though.”

“You’ve seen it?” There’s a modicum of surprise in Steve’s voice.

Bucky scoffs, yanking his hand back to himself. “My family did keep a residence in D.C., you know. I’ve been to the capitol tons of times.”

“Of course. … I wasn’t making a jab at your circumstances.” Steve looks away sadly, visibly putting on a cheerful face after that. “There are over three thousand people buried here,” he tells Bucky. “Tennyson, Dickens, Queen Elizabeth, Chaucer, Darwin …”

Bucky keeps examining all the fancy architecture, not looking at Steve. “I suppose we would’ve gotten married there, if it hadn’t been such a rushed affair.”

Steve pauses in his listing of famous names. “At the national cathedral? Yes. I suppose so …” Bucky can feel Steve peering at him, probably trying to figure out why he’d bring that up. “... Either there, or at St. Patrick’s in New York,” he says quietly. “It’s customary.”

Bucky nods. Privately, he’s grateful that they hadn’t had to have a grand State wedding. Even if he’d chosen the marriage, he wouldn’t have enjoyed saying his vows in front of a thousand people. He continues looking around the cathedral, eventually wandering away from Steve, who lingers in the section where the poets are buried.

A man in church robes approaches Bucky near the nave of the church and greets him with a smile, asking if Bucky has any questions about the history of Westminster. Bucky shrugs, stepping away from the plaque he’d been reading. “No, not really,” he says. “I was just looking around.”

“I see,” the man says.

“Are you a priest?”

The man smiles. “No. I’m a deacon here.” He holds out his hand. “Deacon Aemes.”

“James Bar— erm, Rogers, that is.”

“You’re American?”

“Yes. I’m here with my husband, Senator Steven Rogers.”

The man’s eyes seem to light up with recognition. His posture straightens. “I see! Is this your first visit to London?”

“Second. We’re honeymooning here.”

“Wonderful!” the man beams, which is annoying. Bucky has had more than his fair share of experience with being treated differently once people figure out who he is, and he can tell that’s what’s happening now. He tries to think of a way to get out of having to talk further with this man. “I think I’d better go find him, actually,” he starts to say. “We were just about to—”

“Are you interested in worship services during your visit?” the deacon asks. “We have seven services each Sunday. I’m sure with your husband’s Societal standing I could arrange for reserved seating.”

Bucky frowns. “No. Thank you. I—” His eyes catch on movement out of the corner of his eye, and when he glances over he sees Steve heading their way. He pauses, reconsidering his words. This is an opportunity, he thinks, nerves quickening his pulse. “I … actually don’t go to church.”

“Oh.”

“Yes. I’m an atheist,” he says, forcing back a sly grin and inserting disdain into his tone. “It’s silly to believe in God.”

Deacon Aemes’ face is turning pink. He looks mortified. “Well … that’s—”

Steve has come up to Bucky’s side, and Bucky continues his spiel, “Religion is the root of all evil, if you ask me.” It’s a wild exaggeration and just about the rudest, most-awkward thing Bucky can think up on the spot to say. Not to mention it’s a lie: He’s always held a general belief in God. But he continues his rude speech now that Steve is there to listen. “When was that last kiddie fiddler scandal, after all? Half a year ago?”

“Bucky!” Steve says in shock.

Bucky forces a scornful laugh. “What? It’s true. Religion is just the opiate of the masses: people too scared to use their own brains, so desperate for comfort that they'll believe anything, giving corrupt men power that they don’t deserve. Christianity spreads intolerance and hate, and it generally fucks up other people’s lives. It’s fucking awful.”

It’s a trifecta of obscene behavior for which Bucky is somewhat proud of himself. If the insults to religion and the shameless mention of lewd acts weren’t enough, he’s also made sure to top it off with a nice smattering of curse words. Bucky sneers at the deacon. “As far as I see it, ‘God’ is nothing but a rapist, murderer, thief and pedophile, himself.”

Unsurprisingly, deacon Aemes is starting to look enraged. “Sir! You are in a house of worship. Have some respect.”

“‘Respect’?” Bucky scoffs. “For what? The Church of England? It’s been responsible for more abuses than—” Steve’s hand closes around the back of his neck and scruffs him so fast that Bucky’s speech cuts off in a gasp. 

“Sir,” Steve practically growls at the deacon. “I am so sorry for this rudeness. Please, excuse us.”

“Well I never,” the deacon sputters. He looks utterly outraged, though Steve’s taking control of the situation seems to have kept him from outright yelling at Bucky himself. “I’d suggest you leave,” he says tightly. “Don’t come back, and take your disrespectful Spouse with you.”

Steve nods tightly. “We’re going.” On Bucky’s neck, his fingers tighten cruelly and he steers him away. “Come on.” He marches him down the length of the cathedral and shoves him into a narrow side hall near the front doors. He crowds Bucky in against the wall. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” he hisses.

Bucky fights back the victorious smirk that wants to come. “What?”

“How could you say those things to that man?!”

“Well it was all true,” he says. “You want me to lie?”

Steve’s face darkens. “Don’t play coy, it doesn’t suit you. You went out of your way to provoke him.”

“Sorry,” Bucky says, putting no apology into the word. 

Steve seethes at him. He steps back. “Come on. We’re going home.”

“What if I don’t feel like—”

“Follow me, now,” he Voices, already walking away.

Bucky’s eyes widen at being commanded, though he knows he honestly shouldn’t be surprised at this point. Steve seems to have no problem coercing him with his Voice whenever he gets truly mad. Bucky’s feet start following, and even though it’s not pleasant seeing Steve so pissed off, he does thrill a little at having accomplished his goal.

This was just one small step, though, he thinks. He’s still got to do far worse to make Steve want a divorce.

Steve is silent and terse on the ride back to the apartment, but once they’re inside and the door is shut, he gets right to work in ordering Bucky about. “Sit,” he says, pointing at the writing desk in the living room. “There. Grab a pen and paper.” He stalks out of the room, leaving Bucky to do as told and worry what’s next. He returns after only a moment, a stack of envelopes and papers in hand. 

“What’s that?” Bucky asks.

“The post. Our mail was forwarded. These are the nuptial congratulations and well-wishes we’ve received.” He sets a large part of the stack in front of Bucky, then a single open sheaf of paper. “This is a list of the guests who were at our wedding, and their titles.” He sets down one last envelope. “And this is a letter from your mother.” 

“My mother?” Bucky starts to reach for it.

“No,” Steve says, making Bucky’s eyes snap back to him. “You’re going to answer the other letters first. Then you’ll write thank you responses to each and every person who attended the wedding.”

Bucky winces. “You can stop Voicing,” he says. 

“No, Bucky. I can’t.” Steve is looking down at him with icy eyes. “You obviously don’t know how to listen without it.”

“You should’ve told me I wasn’t allowed to speak my mind to strangers,” Bucky throws out. “How was I to know that was one of your ‘boundaries’?”

“Shut up,” Steve says. “You’re not going to say anything smart for the rest of the evening. Sit here and answer the letters. Do a good job. I’ll be reviewing them before they’re mailed.”

Bucky huffs. “Fine.”

Steve raises an eyebrow at his tone, but doesn’t command him any further. He makes to leave the room. “I’ll be in my office,” he says. “I’ll come get you when dinner is ready.” He stalks from the room.

Well.

Bucky twists his lips to keep himself from saying anything as Steve leaves. He supposes that as far as consequences go, this isn’t so bad. He sets in to opening the envelopes.

Most of them are from high Society: other Senatorial families or congressmen and women. A few letters from prominent common folk have made it into the mix, though. Bucky recognizes the name of a famous singer on one. Everybody writes nauseatingly cheerful messages, all in the general theme of: Congratulations! Blessings for your union and best wishes! Here’s hoping you find your Third and have butt-loads of children as soon as possible!

Bucky crafts three versions of the same reply, which he cycles through depending on the type of person he’s responding to.

The aforementioned list of names and titles also makes mention of all the wedding gifts that’ve been given, and it becomes clear that Bucky and Steve will have a front hall full of packages when they arrive back to Steve’s Brooklyn residence back in the States. The promise of a state-of-the-art gramophone, in particular, holds Bucky’s interest (he writes that individual a genuinely customized response).

Over an hour later, he’s still writing, having answered all of the well wishes and moved on to the list of wedding attendees that he needs to thank for simply showing up to his and Steve’s farce of a wedding. His hand is cramping and he’s just set the pen down to wince and rub at his palm, when Steve appears. 

He clears his throat at the door. His eyes are fixed on Bucky’s hand. “You’re hurt?”

“No.”

He stares at him for a few seconds, as if he’ll say something else, but he doesn’t. “Sharon says dinner’s ready.”

“I haven’t gotten to read the letter from my mother,” Bucky says. “Can I—”

“No. Come on. Dinner.”

Bucky tucks his lips in and follows meekly after Steve. At least he’s not using his Voice anymore.

Dinner is indeed a roast, and it’s just as delicious as Steve said it would be. Bucky moans a time or two during the meal, and though he isn’t trying to entice Steve, he does catch his husband pausing to consider him each time he moans. Bucky finishes chewing another bite and says, “Sharon’s a much better cook than Agatha”

“That’s your family’s cook?”

“Yes.” He frowns. “Though I’m not sure they’ve been able to keep her on staff since … you know.”

“I’m sure they have,” Steve says. “The marriage contract stipulated that they be well-provided for.”

“How much?” Bucky asks. It’s quite a gauche thing, for men of their breeding to talk about money, so Bucky masks his embarrassment by reaching for his wine glass and taking a sip. “How much per annum?”  

“That’s between your mother and I,” Steve says, though there is a degree of amusement in his tone. “Honestly, Bucky.”

“Come on Steve. Please tell me? I’d like to know. I’d like to not have to wonder what my mom and sisters are able to afford.” He looks down, abashed. “I’d like to not have to worry.”

Steve softens at that, and he begrudgingly admits, “Twenty thousand per annum, Buck.”

Bucky inhales harder than he intends to, choking on his mouthful of table wine. He coughs and carefully sets the glass down before he’s able to choke out, “Seriously?”

“I told you not to worry.”

He’s shocked, he can’t hide it. Steve’s paying Bucky’s family just as much as they ever earned on their own from taxpayer dollars. “You can … you can afford that?”

Steve shrugs. “I wouldn’t pay it if I couldn’t afford it. House Rogers is wealthier than most. Surely you must’ve realized that.”

“Uh, yeah,” Bucky says. “I guess I just didn’t know how much you’d be willing to pay for my family.” Suddenly, he feels very, very embarrassed; very small, and very grateful to Steve for what he’s just admitted. “Um, thank you,” he murmurs.

Steve nods. “You’re welcome.”

That’s all the more they talk about it, both of them finishing their meal in silence. When his plate is cleared and his belly is full, Bucky sighs and stands. “Well I guess I’ll get back to it. I’ve still got a bunch of letters to do.”

“You can take a break, Buck,” Steve says. “You’ve done a lot. Finish tomorrow.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Why don’t you go read the letter your mother wrote you, okay? I’m going to finish up a few things in my office, then I’ll get ready for bed.” He doesn’t say anything about Bucky doing the same, but it’s clear that he expects it.

Bucky nods. “Okay. I’ll uh, I’ll see you in a bit.”

“See you in a bit.”

Bucky goes back to the living room and reads the letter from his mother. It’s a kind and heartfelt note, but nothing that Bucky hadn’t expected from her. He takes the time to write her back, then seals that envelope and sets it aside to be sent out with the next day’s post. Briefly, he wonders what she’ll think of it when he and Steve divorce.

When he goes to bed, Steve is already washing up in the en-suite, so Bucky has privacy as he changes into pajama pants and a shirt. He trades places with Steve in the bathroom and then they both tuck in. “I’m tired,” Bucky manages to say—half because he is, and half because he isn’t at all certain what Steve wants to be doing right now. Will Steve always be obvious when he wants sex? Or is Bucky supposed to ask for it?

“Okay, Buck. Me too.” Steve leans over and cups the back of his head, pulls him in and pecks a kiss to his forehead. “Goodnight.” He lies down and adjusts his pillow, closing his eyes. Unlike the night previous, he’s lain down facing Bucky, this time.

Bucky bites his lip, staring at Steve’s face for a moment. God, is the man ever good looking. And what did that kiss just now mean? “… Steve?” he says after a moment.

“Mm?” Steve doesn’t open his eyes.

“Are you still mad at me?” Bucky isn’t sure if he wants the answer to be yes or no. Steve getting mad was the point, but it instinctively doesn’t feel good to know his husband is angry with him. It feels rotten. He angsts about it until Steve responds with his eyes closed, sounding tired.

“Just … go to sleep Buck. It’s over. We can start fresh in the morning.” 

Well.

Bucky huffs and lies down—also facing the center of the bed. He watches Steve’s face for a long time, deep in thought. Steve doesn’t open his eyes again, and Bucky eventually sighs and closes his eyes as well. Being married to Steve is … confusing. He needs to get this divorce thing going before he does something stupid, like develop feelings.

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[ojerasgigantes]

Muévete bien (que nadie como tú me sabe hacer café) CHT. 9

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence

Pairings: Bucky Barnes/Clint Barton

Characters: Clint Barton, Bucky Barnes, Bruce Banner, Natasha Romanov, Tony Stark, Steve Rogers

Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, PTSD, Alpha!Bucky Barnes, Omega!Clint Barton, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Young!Clint Barton, Explicit Sexual Content, True mates-ish

Words: 46.5k

Fic Summary:

So, nothing dangerous is happening, just so you know." Bruce said reassuringly. "It just seems that you two, genetically speaking, align very well, almost perfectly."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that your body is more inclined to want to reproduce with him, because your compatibility level is extremely high.” Bruce explained, and after a moment smiled. “Or would I dare to say, you two are true mates."

AO3 LINK

The club smelled of sweat, alcohol, and sex. The strobing lights were disorienting at best, and blinding at worst, lighting up the swarm of bodies pressed against each other in flashes. It was loud.  Loud enough that you could feel the bass beat on the floor. And loud enough that Clint wished he had accidentally left his hearing aids back at the apartment.

Getting into Merlin wasn’t as hard as they thought it would be. They didn’t have an invitation or someone working on the inside, so being let into a club with as much demand as this one, seemed to be a challenge in itself. It didn’t really have a dress code, but in order to fit in, they had to wear similar clothes as the other customers. So, now Clint was forced to wear tight fitting dress pants and a short sleeved button-up shirt to match. He refused to wear long-sleeves in this hellish weather. Those were reserved only for when he was threatened into wearing them to one of Tony’s charity functions. 

Anyways, they were lucky that the bouncer had liked what he’d seen, and let them through without a second glance. The security was tighter than they expected, Clint got patted down two times and they almost took his aids, which doubled as a comm device. But some puppy eyes and a little of the ‘woe me’ act, and they let him through. 

Clint walked through the crowd easily, happy that it was a Thursday, and that even though the floor was still full, it wasn’t nearly as crowded as it would be if it was the weekend. 

He approached the bar, and leaned against it.

“A local beer please.” He asked the bartender, who just nodded at him and left to do his job.

“Gin and Tonic.” Bucky's voice buzzed in his ear.

Clint turned his head to where Bucky was standing, about 10 feet away at the other side of the bar. There were some people standing between them, all different levels of drunk. But it was extremely easy for Clint’s eyes to find him.

Thanks to the crowd that surrounded him, Clint couldn’t smell Bucky at all, especially now with how far they were from each other. The scent of other people invaded his senses, sweet and prominent, typical of those who were looking to get laid. And even though Clint felt like he should feel relieved at the break from Bucky’s scent, it made him feel on edge.

Also forced to wear something less casual, Bucky was wearing both black pants and shirt. He had opted to use the long-sleeve to hide his vibranium arm, and wore some black leather gloves to conceal his hand, matching with the rest of the outfit. The black fabric fitted him perfectly, accentuating his body beautifully. Clint felt his gaze traveling down Bucky’s body, admiring the way the shirt made his back and arms bigger. 

After yesterday, something had changed in Bucky’s behavior. Firstly, he now seemed to be comfortable around Clint again. Even more comfortable than before. Now, Bucky would just  comment on meaningless things, like the TV being skewed slightly on one side, or how he still couldn’t believe that Clint spoke fluent Italian. The best development of this was that there were no awkward silences to fill anymore, the silences that existed around them seemed natural.

Other more noticeable ways his behavior had changed, was his sudden apparent disregard of personal space. Not in a creepy way, necessarily. More like he wasn’t refraining himself from coming close to him if he needed a cup behind him, or to accidentally brush his hand to his thigh when reaching for the remote sitting next to him. Not that Clint was paying attention to that.

That wasn’t the only thing though, he was scenting him too. Clint might act oblivious, but he knows when someone is leaving his scent on him. It would happen quickly, and in ways that were non invasive. Like a hand on his back asking him to move to the side, their arms brushing while walking, and the back of Bucky’s hand brushing his neck every now and then as he tried to fix the collar of his shirt. Ok, that one wasn’t as quick, but it was the most obvious one.

Clint knew that it was just another part of their whole issue. By scenting him, Bucky was just trying to appease some hindbrain urge of his, telling the competition to stay away. And even though he knew it was most likely an unconscious way to alleviate the need to get on him, Clint still felt somewhat endeared by it.

The bartender came back with his drink, and Clint thanked him with a small nod as he took it in his hand.

“You know,” Clint whispered, eyes back on Bucky, and barely loud enough that it would be picked up by the mic, “you look like you fit right in, all dark and broody...” and he let out a low whistle between his lips.

Flirting shouldn’t be on the table, but the knowledge that Bucky’s rejection had been about something else completely, made something in Clint unwind, made him feel bold. 

“Focus, Clint.” Bucky said, and even though he was facing the other way, he could perfectly visualize his smirk.

A sly smile spread on Clint’s face as he nursed his drink.

He turned around, his elbow resting against the bar, eyes scanning the mass of people in front of him. Both had taken their time getting to know the man they were looking for, not wanting to appear suspicious by having to pull up a picture of him every now and then.

Unfortunately, they hadn’t had the luck of spotting him.

“See anyone familiar?” Clint murmured, glass concealing his mouth.

“Not yet.” Bucky answered.

Out of the corner of his eye, Clint saw a woman approaching Bucky. And even though he knew he should be paying attention to the crowd, he couldn’t help as his eyes settled on them. The woman was petite, her dark curls flowing freely and all the way down to her waist, a black tight dress hugging her curves in all the right ways. 

She leaned close, eyes lidded and playful. Bucky leaned towards her, probably to try and listen to what she had to say. One of her hands covered her lips as she whispered something that he couldn’t workout to Bucky’s ear. The other hand landed on his arm, as if she was trying to balance herself on him. 

Clint’s hold on the glass in his hand tightened. The urge to step in was strong enough that he was actively putting effort in staying put.

Bucky tensed, but only barely. A motion so small that only a trained eye could perceive. He stepped back and away, giving a charming smile to the woman in front of him.

“Sorry, sweetheart, you are barking up the wrong tree.” Bucky told her, his voice honey smooth.

Clint’s mind short-circuited, his nape feeling warmer at the nickname falling off his lips. He wondered how it would be if that was directed at him.

Clint took another swig of his drink. It felt necessary.

He watched as the woman gave Bucky a pout and then was pulled away by one of her friends. Bucky’s smile slowly turned more genuine.

“I can feel you staring.” He said.

Clint finally averted his eyes, pretending that the tip of his ears didn’t just turn red. He hummed against the rim of his glass.

“It’s just funny how easy you clam up.” 

It took a couple of seconds for the answer to come, “Only when I’m not interested.” Bucky’s voice seemed clear in his ear, back to that same tone he had heard directed at the woman.

Clint didn’t say anything, unsure how to respond. He didn’t turn to look at him, even if he knew Bucky’s gaze was rapt on him. 

His attention turned back to the task at hand. 

It was only a moment before Bucky’s voice came back, this time urgent and professional.

“Possible asset on your 2.” He said.

Clint’s eyes rapidly tried to find the man in question, taking him less than a second to do so. Tall and imposing, Simon Reyes walked through the crowd so seamlessly that it almost looked as if people were making way for him. 

“On it.” He confirmed, and detached himself from the bar, stepping away and into the dancing crowd.

Clint had managed to walk for all of three seconds before a figure stepped in front of him. Thinking it was just a guy with no sense of his surroundings, Clint tried to walk around him. But the man just stepped in front of him again.

Disgruntled, Clint looked past him, making sure that Reyes hadn’t left his sight. Fortunately, he had stopped to talk to some patrons.

The man moved closer, and the smell of inebriated alpha invaded his nose. Clint finally looked at the man blocking his path. The stranger, smelling of lust, greedily looked him up and down, licked his lips, and swayed into his personal space.

“Excuse me.” He said, voice hoarse, breath smelling even worse, “I couldn’t help but notice you when you were standing by the bar, and I wanted to buy you a drink.” His hand shot out to encircle Clint’s waist.

Clint sidestepped, avoiding the touch, and gave his best apologetic smile to him.

“Thank you very much for the offer, but as you can see I already have one.” Clint said, raising the half-full glass in his hand.

Looking past him again, he noticed Reyes was still in the same spot, now speaking quietly to a man. Clint, again, tried to walk around the alpha, doing his best to read their lips. However, he was stopped again, this time by someone grabbing at his wrist.

Clint looked back confused, facing the same alpha, who again breached into his space, this time trying to pull Clint into him.

“What’s happening?” Bucky said in his ear, sounding alarmed.

“Aw come on,” The alpha slurred, and this time yanked Clint towards him, “someone as good-looking as you, all alone in a club like this, must be looking for some company.”

“You have the wrong idea, dude.” Clint told him, anger rising, and he tried to free his wrist, but was met with resistance,  “And I’m only going to say this once, keep your hands to yourself.”

The man just chuckled at him, “Are you looking for a chase?” He whispered hotly.

This time, he lowered his head trying to fit his face against Clint’s neck, Clint leaned away. The man still attempted to smell him, his mouth opening as if he was trying to taste it on his tongue.

“I love omegas who can revert to their more primitive ways.” He muttered lowly.

Disgusted, he pushed him away, trying to make as little commotion as possible.

“For fuck’s sak-”

The sudden scent of rage, mixed with the freshness that he already knew very well, brimmed his senses. Clint’s head snapped towards the source, and found Bucky standing next to them, staring the alpha down. His right hand, the metal hand, was clasped tightly around the arm that was holding Clint.

The thick stream of pheromones pumping out of Bucky made Clint want to cause that same commotion he was trying to avoid, just so he could get away from the offending smell contaminating Bucky’s. It was heady, making Clint feel drunk even though he had very little alcohol in his system. The need to calm Bucky down, and at the same time fall to his knees thrummed under his skin. 

He felt a shiver run down his spine, and he fought to keep his thoughts from going astray.

It was so strong, in fact, that the alpha faltered, trying to step away from Bucky, but his hand was still firmly on Clint.

“He said to keep your hands to yourself, didn’t he?” Bucky said, a threat thinly veiled under the way he spoke.

The whole situation must have really taken the stranger aback, because at that moment his hold lessened. And Clint snatched his hand back, rubbing his wrist, knowing that the scent of the alpha will not wash away anytime soon.

Clint immediately looked around, trying to find the asset, and saw him entering a room in the VIP area. He was about to follow him, but the sound of the alpha grunting made him turn back to the situation unfolding.

The faint smell of pain reached him.

Bucky was still holding the alpha by his arm. When the man in front of him started struggling to free himself, the scent of fear got stronger. And then Bucky grinned, teeth on show.

Clint tried not to think too hard on why he found that incredibly hot.

The alpha tried to pull his arm free again, but obviously couldn’t.

“The fuck?” The man whispered under his breath, looking shocked. Then he raised his voice, “Let go of me.” He demanded.

Some patrons had turned to look at the scene, and it hit some sense into Clint’s brain. 

“Bucky!” Clint yelled, loud enough to be heard over the music, stepped closer to him, trying to get his attention. But Bucky didn’t appear to notice him.

Instead, the man hissed in pain again, pawing at Bucky’s hand in an uncoordinated manner. Clint's eyes jumped around to see that more people were starting to seem interested in their altercation.

“Barnes!” Clint’s voice a little louder. 

When Clint got no reaction again, he closed the little distance they had between each other, placing his face on Bucky’s line of sight. Clint’s hand landed on his shoulder for good measure. He only spoke when he managed to catch the other’s eyes.

“Are you done with your dick measuring contest?” Clint asked him, aggravated.

It took him a beat, but Bucky finally met his eyes. However, he only gave him a harsh expression, jaw set, teeth grinding, scent heavy in the air. And he still wasn’t letting the man go.

Clint didn’t cower away, he just stared him down.

“Let go of him.”

Bucky’s gaze went from Clint to the alpha now stinking of fear, and then back to him. Finally, after a couple more grueling seconds, Bucky opened his palm. The alpha quickly took his hand back, retreating fast and away. 

“Next time keep your bitch from looking like a slut.” He spat at them as he turned to disappear in the crowd again.

The people who were looking at them, continued with their night, and Bucky’s scent receded. Even after a moment had passed, they were still holding eye contact. Clint watched as Bucky’s expression shifted, his eyebrows scrunching in a way that made him look like a confused, cute puppy. 

That specific line of thought made Clint realize he really needed a lobotomy.

Clint took a deep breath and didn’t say anything. He started walking towards the exit, knowing fully that Bucky would be just behind him.

Once they stepped out into the cool air of the night, Clint took a deep gulp of the fresh smell of garbage that any downtown area of a big city had, and actually felt thankful for it. He looked up at the sky, begging for patience to whatever entity had devised this odd punishment.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Clint finally said, turning to face Bucky.

Bucky didn’t meet his eyes, instead, he started rummaging through his pockets. Out of them he pulled out some cigarettes, putting one of them between his lips, before taking out a lighter.

Leaning back into the wall of the building, he busied himself by lighting it, taking a slow drag out of it. The smoke coming out from Bucky’s mouth partially hitting Clint in the face due to the wind. A stray question of whether shotgunning with nicotine instead of weed was a thing ambled through his mind.

Clint was so mesmerized with the sight of it that he almost didn’t notice that Bucky hadn’t answered him. 

Almost.

Exasperated, he crossed his arms. Clint felt like he was being treated as if he was weak, as if he wasn’t able to protect himself. And after the conversation they had yesterday, it felt as if he had thrown salt on an open wound.

“Do you think I am not capable of handling something as simple as a creep?” Clint asked, half genuine, half provoking.

Bucky blew smoke and instead of speaking, offered a cigarette to Clint. He blinked, looking down at the pack and then up to Bucky again.

Biting the inside of his cheek, he reached for it. Bucky threw the lighter at him, and he catched it seamlessly. Clint joined him on the wall, and took a slow drag of his cigarette once he had lit it.

The last time he had a cigarette had been a couple months ago. He had felt the need to make his lungs warm enough to forget how cold his body could become, when he had basically been a dead man walking. A time when he was a corpse with no real life beneath its flesh, long gone cold under the lack of blood moving through his veins. The smoke in his chest had made it dissipate for at least a few moments, enough that it had distracted him, enough to bring back the sensation of his fingertips.

His eyes traveled to Bucky, standing next to him, looking decidedly forward. Clint sniffed the air as discreetly as possible, trying to gauge Bucky’s mood, as his body language didn’t give him anything. Under the smell of nicotine, he could still perceive some of that anger, although subdued. More importantly, was the dull smell of anxiety.

Because of that, and Clint’s stupid softening heart, he decided to not say anything. 

Patiently, he smoked his cigarette in silence, the music of the club bleeding mutedly through the wall. 

It wasn’t until it was almost done that Bucky said something.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Bucky apologized with no preamble, sounding tired, “I acted impulsively, and just-” 

Stopping mid-sentence, Bucky held his breath, closing his eyes. As if he was willing away his anger and uneasiness. Or, as if he didn’t want to say the next words. 

A moment passed, and Bucky finally exhaled, meeting Clint’s eyes for the first time since they were outside.

“It won’t happen again,” He stated.

Clint raised his eyebrows at him, a bit incredulous. But honestly, he didn’t want to call him out on the improbability of it. Clint wanted to believe that Bucky was deluded enough to think he had the situation under control. In a way, both were lying to themselves, and to each other. There was a desperation to seek normality. Desperation of not wanting to admit that, maybe, their issue was not fixable.

So, Clint just bit the inside of his cheek, and nodded.

He went for his last puff before saying anything, and then dropped it on the ground when he was finished.

“Ok.” Clint used his shoe to smother the fire of what was left of it on the ground. 

He stared at it for a few seconds, and the frustration of losing the man they were following rose suddenly and quickly.

Clint grit his teeth, “Thanks for the apology, man.” Sarcasm dripped from his words, “Not that it really fixes anything.”

Bucky didn’t speak, or changed his neutral expression.

The lack of reaction irked Clint, and he felt his irritability grow in less than a second. He turned fully towards Bucky.

“Now, thanks to the little scene you caused, we are going to have to come back tomorrow.” Clint told him, his arms flailing around. 

Bucky didn’t flinch at his outburst, but his eyes left his face. Clint thought that he was avoiding eye contact, and his anger just became worse.

“It’s probably going to be even more crowded and we had the asset right there-“

Bucky suddenly took Clint’s flailing arm by the wrist, interrupting Clint mid rant. Clint gasped at the abrupt contact, his annoyance fading quickly, being replaced by confusion. Bucky, eyes focused on the wrist he was holding, brought it closer to him slowly and carefully. As if glued in his position, Clint felt paralyzed, as he watched Bucky sniff at his pulse point, nose barely brushing the skin.

The blood on his body rushed to his face, and Clint felt his neck and cheeks warm up. Bucky appeared surprised by his own action, but didn’t stop. His finger started rubbing circles on the inside of his wrist delicately.  Finally, Clint came to the realization that that is the same wrist that the strange alpha had held on to. 

At that, Clint felt his blush spread towards his cheeks, knowing that Bucky was trying to get rid of the scent that he left behind. 

Bucky shifted, and Clint felt his lips grazing the skin of it. Clint suppressed a gasp, not knowing what to do with himself, how to react. Logically, he knew he should yank back his arm and then kick the shit out of Bucky. But, he really didn’t want that.

No, Clint just really wanted to let that happen.

After a few seconds, Bucky closed his eyes, his eyebrows scrunching just a little.

“This is going to be harder than I thought.” He mumbled, before pulling Clint’s wrist away from his face, and slowly letting it go.

Clint forgot how to speak, or think. So he didn’t process what Bucky said, not until after he was stepping away from him.

“Huh?” It’s the only sensible thing that Clint managed to pull out of his mouth.

Bucky shook his head, and ran a hand through his hair, looking away.

It was incredibly unfair that he could do all that and then act like it was normal.

“Nothing- Look,” Bucky started speaking, “we don’t have to come back tomorrow, we don’t have to leave at all."

Clint chose to ignore the blatant subject change. So, he raised a curious eyebrow at him.

“God knows how many people get into fights in these clubs.” He continued, “We weren’t even escorted out.”

Clint pondered Bucky’s words, looking back towards the entrance of the club. Technically, he was correct, they could slip back in and act like nothing had happened. Clint knew that the asset had disappeared somewhere in the VIP area, and that they’d just have to find a way in. 

“You know we don’t have access to the VIP area, right?” Clint told him, out of the need to be contradicting.

“No. But you can get in.” Bucky said. Frowning at him, Clint tried to understand what he meant by that.

“How am I supposed to do that?” Clint asked, truly baffled.

Bucky didn’t say anything, instead he just slowly dragged his eyes down his body. Clint’s mouth fell open at what he was suggesting, and he felt the need to smack him for the second time in the evening.

Bucky smirked at Clint’s offense, and walked towards the entrance of the club.

Clint shut his mouth as he watched him wait for him at the door. Teeth grinding and frown deepening, he followed him. 

“I could accuse you of discrimination just for that, you know.” Clint shot at Bucky as he walked by him.

Hearing the deep rumble of Bucky’s chuckle as he crossed the threshold of the building made Clint want to turn around and leave him to do it by himself. Instead, he took a deep breathe, and braced himself for the show he had to put on. 

[compneuropapers]

Interesting Papers for Week 9, 2023

Enhancement of hippocampal-thalamocortical temporal coordination during slow-frequency long-duration anterior thalamic spindles. Alizadeh, Z., Azimi, A., & Ghorbani, M. (2022). Journal of Neuroscience, 42(38), 7222–7243.

Dynamics of Hierarchical Task Representations. Cellier, D., Petersen, I. T., & Hwang, K. (2022). Journal of Neuroscience, 42(38), 7276–7284.

Causal Inference of Body Ownership in the Posterior Parietal Cortex. Chancel, M., Iriye, H., & Ehrsson, H. H. (2022). Journal of Neuroscience, 42(37), 7131–7143.

Alpha oscillations track content-specific working memory capacity. Chen, Y.-T., van Ede, F., & Kuo, B.-C. (2022). Journal of Neuroscience, 42(38), 7285–7293.

Tonic and phasic effects of reward on the pupil: implications for locus coeruleus function. Cole, L., Lightman, S., Clark, R., & Gilchrist, I. D. (2022). Proceedings of the Royal Society B: Biological Sciences, 289(1982).

Circadian rhythmicity of pain sensitivity in humans. Daguet, I., Raverot, V., Bouhassira, D., & Gronfier, C. (2022). Brain, 145(9), 3225–3235.

Observers penalize decision makers whose risk preferences are unaffected by loss–gain framing. Dorison, C. A., & Heller, B. H. (2022). Journal of Experimental Psychology: General, 151(9), 2043–2059.

Local field potentials reflect cortical population dynamics in a region-specific and frequency-dependent manner. Gallego-Carracedo, C., Perich, M. G., Chowdhury, R. H., Miller, L. E., & Gallego, J. Á. (2022). eLife, 11, e73155.

Two types of motor inhibition after action errors in humans. Guan, Y., & Wessel, J. R. (2022). Journal of Neuroscience, 42(38), 7267–7275.

Reverse engineering of metacognition. Guggenmos, M. (2022). eLife, 11, e75420.

Human value learning and representation reflect rational adaptation to task demands. Juechems, K., Altun, T., Hira, R., & Jarvstad, A. (2022). Nature Human Behaviour, 6(9), 1268–1279.

Direct eye gaze enhances the ventriloquism effect. Lavan, N., Chan, W. Y., Zhuang, Y., Mareschal, I., & Shergill, S. S. (2022). Attention, Perception, & Psychophysics, 84(7), 2293–2302.

Task specificity in mouse parietal cortex. Lee, J. J., Krumin, M., Harris, K. D., & Carandini, M. (2022). Neuron, 110(18), 2961-2969.e5.

Scene memories are biased toward high-probability views. Lin, F., Hafri, A., & Bonner, M. F. (2022). Journal of Experimental Psychology: Human Perception and Performance, 48(10), 1116–1129.

Social inferences from physical evidence via bayesian event reconstruction. Lopez-Brau, M., Kwon, J., & Jara-Ettinger, J. (2022). Journal of Experimental Psychology: General, 151(9), 2029–2042.

Controllability boosts neural and cognitive signatures of changes-of-mind in uncertain environments. Rouault, M., Weiss, A., Lee, J. K., Drugowitsch, J., Chambon, V., & Wyart, V. (2022). eLife, 11, e75038.

How does visual working memory solve the binding problem? Shepherdson, P., Hell, L., & Oberauer, K. (2022). Journal of Experimental Psychology: Human Perception and Performance, 48(10), 1137–1152.

Dynamics and Mechanisms of Contrast-Dependent Modulation of Spatial-Frequency Tuning in the Early Visual Cortex. Tanaka, H., & Sawada, R. (2022). Journal of Neuroscience, 42(37), 7047–7059.

Reward prediction errors, not sensory prediction errors, play a major role in model selection in human reinforcement learning. Wu, Y., Morita, M., & Izawa, J. (2022). Neural Networks, 154, 109–121.

Common Neural Mechanisms Control Attention and Working Memory. Zhou, Y., Curtis, C. E., Sreenivasan, K. K., & Fougnie, D. (2022). Journal of Neuroscience, 42(37), 7110–7120.

[star-crossed-juliet]

In Love and Loss

It was quite a long time before Juliet left Jason and Dane. Both of them clearly crashing a bit again. She'd made it clear that she was only leaving long enough to sort out food for them, whether they actually ended up eating it or not. But still, she made them a full meal and then decided to give them a bit of breathing room for the time being.

She made her way back down to the front of the shop, a full plate of food in her hands. Desmond wasn't sleeping, even despite the time of night. A common theme for the four of them that night, apparently. She passed him the food, which he took without arguing, though he only set it on his lap. Juliet sat down next to him on the steps, looking over at him briefly before turning her gaze up to the moon. "I don't blame you if you have no appetite. It's understandable."

He grunted a bit, rather than properly replying. Not a people person, from the memories of what she'd been told by Ivy and Thaddy. Though the bits she'd heard from him were few and far between. But he was the love of Thaddeus' life, and that meant that he meant something to Juliet too. "They told me that he threw you back through the portal," she added after a moment. "And that you've worked for Marcus." She noticed him wince. "And I can tell that's a bit of a grey area for you and them... but it isn't for me."

Desmond's brow furrowed as he took in the shifter. He knew well enough who she was, both from the bits he'd heard from Thaddeus, to her characteristic closeness with nearly every powerful warlock in Chicago, and having been on the arm of the pack's alpha--or, at least, the only alpha of note for an onlooker's sake. Juliet Pierce. He'd imagined her demeanor to be similar enough to how she was presenting herself now, but that statement still managed to take him aback. "Rather a lot of confidence to have in a stranger," he replied, his voice somewhat hoarse from tiredness and lack of use.

Juliet smiled at that, shrugging her shoulders. "I trust Ivy's judgement implicitly... after all, it's not like you could hide anything from her. And Thaddeus does love you, so that doesn't hurt your case either."

The comment about Ivy filled him with another wave of guilt. Because some part of him was convinced that this could have all been avoided if he'd been quicker, sought Ivy out the second he realized she wasn't in the shop when him and Thaddeus arrived. Poor kid might know a lot, but it didn't mean she knew what she was in for. Not truly. "She's a nice girl. Shocking that she was raised by Ophien," he half-joked, though the humor fell rather flat in the moment.

A bit of laughter from Juliet surprised the both of them. "He's more of a softie than we all give him credit for. But yes, she's a good kid."

Silence fell again, that choking reality settling upon them. And it hurt. Desperately.

"You know you can head home to get a bit of rest if you want to," Juliet said eventually. "I'll be happy to stand guard."

Des considered the idea, sighing slightly. "In a bit, maybe. I just..."

"I know... you don't want to miss any updates."

Another beat of silence. "You really love them, don't you?"

She looked up at him, examining the sad-eyed warlock before she nodded. "With all my heart. They're my family. And I've never been the type to consider that to be blood relations only." Juliet reached over to place her hand on top of Desmond's, giving it a gentle squeeze. "You are too. And I fight tooth and nail for my family... We'll get them back."

Her words were a tonic as much as a worry, but he tried to take it for a positive for once. For now, at least. He returned the squeeze of her hand. "Thank you, Juliet."

She offered him a warm smile. "No need to thank me, Desmond."

And then their focus shifted back to the idle noise of the night streets, with watchful eyes intent on protecting the last of them left.

[tips-from-john]

Does Alpha Tonic Work? ALPHA TONIC REVIEWS – Alpha Tonic – Alpha Tonic Review

#alphatonic #alphatonicreviews #alphatonicreview Does Alpha Tonic Really Work? What Is Alpha Tonic? How to Use Alpha Tonic? Unlock everything you need to know about Alpha Tonic in this extensive review. We’ll delve into the essence of Alpha Tonic, its benefits, potential drawbacks, and user experiences. 🤔 What Is Alpha Tonic? Alpha Tonic has quickly become the go-to supplement for individuals…

[insightsofbenjamin3]

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This Alpha Tonic Review video is first published on Goldenfish Ent.

[davidbedingham]

Alpha Tonic Reviews – Should You Buy? Tonic T-Booster Truth Revealed!

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All Ingredients in Detail

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[harrisonmyers79]

Alpha Tonic Male Enhancement: A Comprehensive Guide

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[kamylawelee]

Alpha Tonic (Latest Update 2023) Is It The Solution For The Male Health? Or Scam

The Alpha Tonic, hailed by Himalayan elders as the “Ageless Elixir,” is the gateway to the Himalayan "rare tonic."This testosterone booster, available only at TheAlphaTonic.com, is a product inspired by nature that has been the subject of extensive research.

But because of its great popularity, unlicensed sellers and fakes have become more common. Because of its enormous popularity and the significance of this analysis of Alpha Tonic, users should be advised to REFRAIN from doing business with secondary vendors.

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Meals are made of their ingredients, and the same is true of supplement blends.

Ginseng Panax: Panax Ginseng adds a punch to the mixture. This substance has been used for centuries and is well-known for enhancing control over erections and inducing an increase in sexual excitement.

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[saturnsorbits]

A wonderful opening to what will surly be an incredible story, it offers us everything from scenes of action-packed violence, to character-focused dives into Grimmjow and those who surround him; all centered in the would of a/b/o that Leese has not only embodies brilliantly; but put her own wonderful spin on it – offering us her own brand of Prime Alpha Grimmjow that will surely have you baring your neck.

This piece tosses us straight into the action, offering a wonderful scene that both introduces our main character Grimmjow and grabs our attention. After being hit with a baseball bat, Grimmjow's sarcastic 'Right, you swinging that bat at me had no impact on the state of my face at all?' betrays not only his character, but provides us with a sense of tone. This wonderful mix of violence, humour and blunt sexiness will follow us through the entire piece – quick on our heels as we enjoy the journey we're taken on. Grimmjow himself is a tonic. I had zero idea who this man was going into this piece and yet, Leese makes him leap from the page. He's likeable and smart, quick and clever while being the kind of bold and fierce that makes him an easy leading man and Leese does him all the favours in this piece making him damn near irresistible.

The world of a/b/o here has also been perfectly integrated. With small details dotted around the piece, it isn't hard to find yourself immersed. Regardless of if the audience is a frequent reader of a/b/o or, like me, something of a newbie to the genre – this story will easily captivate. Leese does this brilliantly. By not just offering us the rules of the universe, and without spending time explaining the ins and outs of the world as a whole, this piece gifts us lines like 'Smells like easy omega in here', or 'has them filed down and does so on the regular'. It's in these little details that not only reveal to us the world, but are dosed in semantics that work to explain more about the stories characters, setting and plot. It's such a simple detail, but it is used expertly here. Every line reveals something new, encouraging us to read on by leaving bread crumbs in it's paragraphs.

More to the point, the style of this piece is just sublime. Leese always shines with her beautiful descriptions meets down to earth storytelling and this piece is just another of her masterpieces. There are elements of this piece that really do shine, the two that come to mind first here being the wonderfully crafted tone (And the way we seamlessly slip from humour to violence and back again. It takes a brilliant control of your writing to be able to do that and this piece doesn't stutter once) and the description itself. My favourite sentence to illustrate this is the description of: 'Aizen's office', where it is detailed as being 'the epitome of old European money; velvet chaise, dark filigree wallpaper, gold accents, cherry stained wood'. This simple sentence alone, not only provides us with a description that is vivid and fresh, but semantically indicates Aizen's personality and how Grimmjow feels about both him and the office. It's so much all rolled into one and it's gorgeous. Not to mention absolutely all of the scenes involving violence are written in the same way, while paying attention to tone and pace. Honestly, its phenomenal how much this piece is doing at the same time.

And then, we get that ending. The lead up is fierce, fast-paced and packed as we're cornered with Grimmjow. As such a formidable foe, it's gobsmacking seeing him taken down, seeing the first symptoms of a forced rut wash over him as he's powerless to stop it. Then, as we close in on this desperate situation we get that beautiful circular ending. Now, we all know that I'm a huge sucker for a circular ending anyway – it's possibly one of my favourite literary devices ever, but this one... This one is fucking excellent. 'The last thing he sees before the world goes back is his own reflection in a shiny metal baseball bat.' Here, it's not only circular, no, the piece isn't content with that. We also get the comparison of tone from the opening humour to the panic of the end, something that is represented within the change of the bat from wooden to metal. This is what I mean when I say Leese's attention to detail is extraordinary – it's such a small detail, but it makes such a huge impact.

Before this piece, I had absolutely no idea who Grimmjow is, but now... Well, now I think I'm in love with Leese's version of him. Anything she decides to give us after this opening will be pure brilliance, I just know it.

fangs | g.jaegerjaquez

chapter one: shit | chapter two (tba) | chapter three (tba)

▸ ▸ ▸ warnings: dark content, 18+! a/b/o stuff (pheromones, fangs, alpha-omega, animalistic tendencies), blood (a LOT), biting, drugs, gangs, fighting, (more to be added as chapters progress)

▸ ▸ ▸ wordcount: 3k+

▸ ▸ ▸ a/n: this has been in the works for a while but i finally have a bit of energy to put into it, so that's fun! also ive taken parts of omegaverse lore and made it my own, so if things get confusing, feel free to ask questions! thanks for reading!! ♡

“Shit,” he hisses, tongue running over the split in his lower lip. His glare intensifies as he shoots it over his shoulder, landing on the little turd shaking in his boots, wooden baseball bat held tight in two white-knuckled fists.

“I didn’t even do that! Y-you bit your lip with those freakish fricken fangs!” The kid argues, blue eyes wide with terror, that distinct childish whine caught in his throat.

“Right, so you swinging that bat at me had no impact on the state of my face at all?” He turns his body towards the boy, cracks his neck as he rolls his shoulders. “Sounds like a crock a’ shit, squirt.”

“Uncle will be mad if you hit me!” He reasons, knees knocking together.

“Oh, but you can hit me?” Grimmjow raises his brows, wiping the blood with a knuckle as he stalks towards the kid.

“You’re the gang’s Mad Dog! You’re supposed to be too good for me to hit!” He frowns, stepping back as the predator steps forward.

Grimmjow grins then, his hulking canines pressing uncomfortably into his lower lip, the one on the left shining with blood. “Maybe I wanted a reason to discipline the young master.”

“Jaegerjaquez,” Tousen appears out of nowhere, like usual. “Boss has a job for you.” Is all he says before turning to the kid. “You know how your mother feels about you using that bat for violence, young master.”

The kid’s pouting, obviously happy to have been spared, but upset that he’s being scolded and losing his babysitter-slash-impromptu-martial-arts-instructor all in one fell swoop.

“Where’s he want me?” Grimmjow straightens, rubs the sweat from his hands down the thighs of his faded blue jeans, re-pops the collar of his barely buttoned Hawaiian shirt. Tousen regards him coldly through the lenses of ridiculously priced glasses, as usual, like Grimmjow is worse than the dirt beneath his stupid black leather loafers.

“The usual place.” Tousen turns his nose up at Grimmjow, and gestures back to the kid. “You need to stop sneaking out of the house when Starrk falls asleep; let’s go.” He orders, heading towards the winding forest path that leads back to the main house.

“We were training.” The kid argues back, pouting. “Everyone always talks about how strong the Mad Dog is, and I’m gonna be stronger.”

“Strength isn’t necessarily how hard you hit, or how many bones you break, Kaiden. Remember that.” Tousen sends Grimmjow one last look before the pair disappear behind the yellowing Japanese Maples, the young master waving frantically and promising to return.

This makes Grimmjow grin, smirk elongating as he heads back into his shack, imagining how Aizen’s prissy bitch of a left hand man has to listen to the kid praise him. What makes the young master’s idolisation of him that much sweeter is the fact that the little brat hasn’t presented yet; Tousen can’t blame the kid on being affected by Grimmjow’s Ridiculously Potent Dominant Alpha Pheromones, has to accept that he just likes the way he is. Thinks he’s fucking cool.

Betas, as a rule, tend to harbour a little bit of hatred towards alphas or omegas, especially in their line of work, but Tousen takes the goddamn cake.

With a spring in his step, Grimmjow packs a duffel. His little house— if you can call it that— is a bit of a mess, so finding what he needs is a pain in the ass, but he manages. Ten year old Motorola Razr (in ice blue), wallet, and switchblade are all on his bed, still there from being dumped out early this morning when he got home from a job. His first aid kit, pheromone patches, and inhibitors are all in the stall he calls a bathroom, and— he checks the package— he’s running low on patches. The last thing on his mental list— his knuckle dusters— are in the kitchen sink, still caked in dried blood, but he throws them in the bag anyway.

He leaves his leather jacket and just opts for his keys; the summer’s been long and hot, and he loves the way the air feels on his skin as he speeds the streets of Karakura.

+

Ichimaru’s Ikeman Fantasy is a front that even the blind can see, yet it’s been untouched by the law for years. Grimmjow parks his bike in its usual spot, holds the duffle by the handle and tosses it over his shoulder, before strolling past Yammy and the other bouncers, and in through the front door.

Smells like easy omega in here.

“Afternoon, Jaegerjaquez!” Nel hollers, tits bouncing as she waves from her spot behind the bar. They never used to get along, but the years of living and working in close proximity forced them into a friendship of sorts. Now they dye each other’s hair.

“Nel,” he nods, duffle landing on the bar with a thud. “Aizen here?”

“‘Course he is,” she rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “He’s always here.”

“Like you.” He grins. “You’re part of the furniture, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she sighs, nodding back towards the kitchen. “Someone’s gotta keep Nnoitra in place. I do miss you being here, though.” Her nose scrunches up. “All the new boys are boring.” There’s a bit of bite behind her bark, and usually that’s what he looks for in a woman, but she’s never affected him. He can’t get hard for other alphas; all part and parcel of being a dominant himself. Omegas or nothing.

“Maybe if I was better at lip service.” He shrugs, tossing his feline stare over his shoulder to sus out the place.

“Or if you were worse at brawling,” she leans on the bar, those too big breasts pushing up and together in a way that makes them look like they might pop out of her shirt. “They’ve started calling you The Grim around here, you know? You come and go, then someone shows up dead.”

“That’s dramatic; I don’t kill people.” Always.

“Keep your secrets, Jaegerjaquez, I don’t want them.” Nel shakes her head, perks up a bit when someone else comes in.

It’s too early to open, and Grimmjow has no idea who this girl is. She’s cute, nervous-looking. Undoubtedly omega with her candy-apple scent.

“You’re getting girls in here now?” He asks when the candy apple omega is escorted through the lounge and into the back rooms.

“Yeah, Gin’s wanting to expand with the beauties.” She whispers, leaning close. “But you know Aizen: don't fix it if it ain’t broke.”

“Fox face wants to bring girls in here?” Grimmjow balks, a little too loud. “To work?” He questions, voice dropping.

“Yeah, for the back room stuff.” Nel looks undoubtedly uncomfortable. The main draw for the club is that it’s catered to women; less violent outbursts, less brawling, less police attention.

“Huh, never would’a picked it.” Grimmjow sighs, brows raising. “Matsumoto’s surely against it.”

“Yeah, so’s Ai—“

“You’re here,” Aizen’s voice isn’t loud, but it's commanding. There’s a quiet cruelty there that keeps people on their toes, a suppressed dominance that he’s master at concealing. “Come, Grimmjow, I have a task for you.” He’s across the lounge, standing in front of his office, the door right next to the one the candy apple omega disappeared behind.

“Sure thing,” he nods, suddenly professional. He gives Nel one last look before grabbing his duffel and slinking off towards his boss— The Boss.

+

Aizen’s office is the epitome of old European money; velvet chaise, dark filigree wallpaper, gold accents, cherry stained hardwood. Grimmjow feels like a stray dog attempting domestication each time he stalks into the room, can’t bear to sit lest he destroy or dirty something. The Boss doesn’t even offer him a seat anymore, just places a lowball of whiskey in his hand and starts on the task at hand.

“There’s a small motorcycle gang that’s started to sell on our turf,” he says, opening a beige folder and tossing its contents on his desk. “Need you to rough ‘em up a bit before they get too big for their boots.”

“Kids?” Grimmjow scowls, picking up the pile of photos and tossing them back to the desk as he looks at them. They’re in their late teens to early twenties, with their black leather jackets and little white baggies. “You’re sending me to deal with kids?”

Aizen sighs and sits down in his polished leather chair, taking a sip of his own whiskey. “You’re right.” He nods, leaning over the table and picking up one of the photos Grimmjow’s tossed down. “Normally, I’d send Yammy, or even Tousen— if I wanted to deal with it diplomatically— but this kid,” he holds up the picture of a blonde, his head tossed back in laughter, canine-like fangs protruding out of his mouth. “Is a dominant like you.”

He takes the photo from Aizen and looks it over, then goes through the ones he tossed and picks up a clearer one of his face. “He’s not even wearing patches,” Grimmjow shakes his head, glaring at the glossy photos. “Just swinging his dick around like he owns the place.”

“Exactly,” Aizen stands and gathers the photos, holds his hand out for the ones Grimmjow’s still scrutinising. “I’ll send the lot of them to your phone.”

“Boss, I can’t see shit on my phone,”

“I told you to buy a new one.”

“Why fix something if it ain’t broke? Besides, I got the little fucker’s face memorised, don’t sweat it.”

“They hang around by the train station at the end of the street most nights. Rough them up a bit, feel free to knock some teeth out.” Aizen smiles then, golden eyes shining as he shows his own fangs.

To the naked eye, he looks like a beta or omega with his average-sized canines, but Grimmjow knows better. Knows he’s had them filed down; that he does so on the regular.

Dangerous fucker he is.

+

After sticking around for a couple more drinks with Nel, he pockets a knuckleduster and leaves her with the rest of his shit. "I'll come get it when I'm done with the job." He drawls, tapping his scent blockers to test their saying power— excellent, considering he replaced them after Aizen dismissed him.

"Don't kill too many, Grim." She calls a little too loud, smiles a little too broadly. It draws attention from the other patrons, the few older women sitting at and around the bar suddenly interested in him.

"Don't lose my shit." He glares back, fang grinding on the still fresh wound from this morning when he tenses his jaw.

Undeterred, she waves him off with a smile, before undoubtedly weaving tales about his murderous escapades to the nosey hags asking too many questions. He doesn’t stick around long enough to confirm or deny his own suspicions.

The damp heat of summer clings to Grimmjow like a second skin; seeing others unaffected— still dressing in light layers and boots, some with scarves and gloves— makes him feel a little claustrophobic, even outside in the streets. He knows it’s him who’s wrong, knows his medication has side effects and his second gender has drawbacks as well as perks, but still it’s enough to plaster that scowl to his face. At least it makes people avoid him, gives him a little bubble when it’s crowded, even in rush hour.

Hands shoved deep in his pockets, that glare is set straight ahead. He’s on a mission, and it’s something he’s not too happy about. Sure, he’s used to cleaning up Aizen’s messes, used to brawling, bleeding, biting, and bitching; but dealing with pups never ends well. These kids probably think they’re kings, think that their blonde ringleader is gonna make them rich or famous, or both.

Probably both.

Flashing fangs like that around here, though… that’s gonna get you killed.

Grimmjow’s nothing if not morally grey, however, so seeing the little posse down an alley on the way to his destination brings a rush of excitement. The sooner he can get this over with, the better.

“Oi,” he calls, entering the alley. “Heard you’re selling.”

“Who’s askin’?” One steps away from the wall— not the blonde— and tilts his chin up at Grimmjow. It takes all the willpower in the world not to match that snarl with one of his own, but he just shrugs and tries to act innocent, keeps his shoulders hunched so he seems smaller than his six-four frame.

“Just some guy,” he drawls, keeping his fangs concealed. “Why, you discriminate?”

The kid snarls at him again, infuriated, “Discrimin—”

“Cool it, Tetsu,” the blonde finally steps forward, and his pheromones are no joke. It’s been a hot minute since Grimmjow’s come across a dominant who doesn’t conceal what he is, and he has to physically stop the warning growl that wants to vibrate up his throat. “This old man just needs a hit, don’tcha grandpa?” He grins, condescending lilt to his brow.

“Nah, you got me all wrong, kiddo,” Grimmjow stands tall— taller than the blonde by at least five inches— and cracks his knuckles, apathetic grin turned evil. “I just need to relay a message to you little fuckers about who’s turf you’re selling on.”

The blonde postures, baring his fangs as his pupils blow wide, “Bring it on, old man!” He yells, pheromones turning the alley sour and crippling his friends.

Grimmjow says nothing, just mirrors the young alpha, and roars.

His pals throw up, one passes out, and the blonde’s pupils revert before his fight or flight kicks in, and he launches himself at Grimmjow. He knows the fight would be over if he just removed his scent patches, but where’s the fun in that? What kind of Grim Reaper would he be if he let it end at that?

Blondie lands a hit to Grimmjow’s jaw, and he feels it crack his bone. Adrenaline and anger mask the pain, and in an instant he’s above the kid, landing blow after blow after blow to his face with his bare knuckles, colouring his face crimson in a matter of seconds.

“Old man?” Grimmjow grunts sarcastically, the adrenaline subsiding with each moment of non-resistance. “This old man better not see you on this side of the tracks with intent to sell again, or I’ll rip those useless canines straight outta your face, got it?” He finishes, holding the blonde up by the front of his bloodied leather jacket and glaring down at his swollen, weepy face. Blondie can only groan in pain before going limp in Grimmjow’s grasp.

He drops him to the cement and glances up at the rest of the gang. With both alphas done with their brawl, the pheromones in the air have thinned, and the rest of the kids are in the process of regaining their composure.

“I fucking mean it,” Grimmjow continues with his warning. “I know you think you’re fucking invinci—”

He’s frozen by a sharp stinging sensation in the side of his neck, and when he swipes at it, something small, cylindrical, and plastic hits the ground next to his knee and rolls away from him.

A syringe.

They’ve drugged him.

“Run!” Someone screams from behind him, lurching with speed and strength Grimmjow knows wouldn’t be possible from anyone other than another dominant alpha. He grabs for Blondie, tosses his limp body over his shoulder and takes off down the alley as the rest of the gang scatters.

Grimmjow stumbles as he attempts to give chase, his vision swimming and heart pounding. He stops and crouches there in the alley behind a dumpster, closing his eyes and trying his goddamn hardest to regulate himself, to pinpoint the problem. His limbs are fine, and there’s no numbness, so that’s a plus, but he’s dizzy as all hell, and—

Slap.

He opens his eyes to see one of his scent blockers— a shriveled-looking skin-toned bandaid— lying there on the cement like it’d been used more than a few times. But he knows that’s not the case, knows that was a brand new fucking blocker and that it should’ve lasted him until at least tomorrow morning even if he wanted to sleep with it on.

He reaches for the one at the other side of his neck, and that one, too, slides off, looking a little more than worse for wear.

His pheromones have sweat the patches off.

This hasn’t happened to Grimmjow since he was going through goddamn puberty and the doctors couldn’t find the right dosage of inhibitors for him. He’s early thirties now, has been on the same goddamn pills since, and has never missed a dose. If there’s one thing Grimmjow cannot fucking stand, it’s an alpha who can’t control his fucking ruts.

And now he’s one of them.

Those shifty little fuckers have thrown him into rut.

“Motherfuckers!” He roars, knuckles meeting cement out of pure frustration, the pain that’s supposed to come with maiming oneself simply not present.

Grimmjow gets up and braces himself against the wall, breathing heavily and glancing between the mouth of the alley and the direction in which those little shits ran off. It’d be absolutely insane for them to want to stick around and try jump him, especially considering Blondie wasn’t using blockers, so there’s no doubt the end of the alley isn’t a completely dead end. Heading towards the street would only end in mayhem, so he stumbles deeper into the alley, using the brick wall for support when the cramping takes over and he needs a moment to breathe.

Fuck, he’s forgotten how this felt; forgotten just how base he goes when his hormones are running rampant, forgot how primal he is. He’s hungry. For food, for sex, for a good fucking fight.

His cock aches.

Still, he fights it. He’s not completely gone yet, but he can feel it pulling at him, irritating him, can feel it tickling his brain like a loose thread; one tug of it, and he’ll be feral. He’s exhausted, fighting the urge to pull the string, finds himself panting as he clutches at the spray paint covered brick with a bloodied hand, sweat dripping into his eyes, plastering powder blue hair to his forehead.

He briefly wonders if Aizen knew that they had this little ace up their sleeve, before deciding— with a baleful chuckle he didn’t know he still had in him— that he doesn’t even wanna know.

The last thing he sees before the world goes black is his own reflection in a shiny metal baseball bat