#maria’s an alpha

[teecupangel]

An Altair/Malik/Desmond A/B/O prompt in canon AC1 storyline? (with exceptions, like Kadar can be saved, hopefully.)

So we’re going for a time-travel setup and we’ll start the plot after Desmond keeps Kadar alive after the disaster that was the Jerusalem mission.

This would give us a way for Malik and Desmond to meet because, when Malik became Dai, he recognized Kadar’s scent in one of the houses in the Poor District while he was getting the lay of the land, so to speak. Kadar is still injured and Desmond tells him it would be risky to move him right now so, instead, Malik starts visiting the house daily.

First, it was just to check up on Kadar.

But later on, he took an interest in the omega who saved Kadar but refused to show his face.

Not that it was anything strange. It was normal for those in Levant and its neighboring kingdom and settlements to have their omegas covered from head to toe. It was a sign that they were unmated and ‘pure’. Their clothes also serve to mask their scent although it could only block so much, especially when the omega goes in heat.

When Altaïr finally makes his way to Jerusalem, Desmond and Kadar are still in the house in the Poor District but Malik didn’t think of telling Altaïr about Kadar’s survival. Desmond told him that he heard the Crusaders say they had someone of high regard helping them in Masyaf (it was a way for him to point a finger at Al Mualim without saying his name) but Malik doesn’t trust anyone, especially Altaïr who is actually the top of his list of suspects.

To keep Desmond safe, they also covered Kadar in the same scent-blocking fabrics that omegas' use while he heals so no one would recognize his scent.

Altaïr goes to the Poor District not to find any information that he may be able to use for his mission but because there’s a scent in the air that just kept knocking his mind, not letting him have a moment’s rest.

He finally finds the source of the scent in a small house and comes face to face with an omega that…

Ran away from him as soon as he saw him.

Of course, this being Altaïr… he chases after the omega.

He does finally tackle the omega and they stumble inside one of the rooftop gardens. Their close proximity and their sweat magnified their scent and Altaïr realized how compatible their scents were.

And how intoxicating the omega’s scent was.

How to smelled like how Altaïr always felt like what home would feel like.

Unorganized Notes:

Both Altaïr and Malik are alphas, Kadar is a beta and Desmond is an omega.

Altaïr never cared about omega scents. He found most of them nauseatingly sweet (even if everyone else thinks they smell fine). Al Mualim thinks Altaïr’s mastery of the Eagle Vision makes him more sensitive to scents and that’s why an omega’s scent annoys him.

The only omega Altaïr could tolerate was Adha because they’re childhood friends so he got used to her scent early on.

Malik has no interest in having an omega spouse before Desmond. He always expected Kadar to continue the Al-Sayf line.

They don’t actually describe the scents as something tangible like cinnamon or citrus-y. The scent is more of a feeling that is unique to everyone.

Desmond smells like the concept of home to Altaïr and he can’t explain it any other way. Desmond smells like the first spring morning to Malik. Kadar thinks Desmond smells like freshly baked bread. (“Is that your way of saying you want to eat me?” “I don’t know. You just smell… warm, I guess?”)

Desmond loves Altaïr at this point but it’s up to Altaïr to make Desmond fall in love with him. Desmond didn’t really think Malik would be attracted to him.

Both Altaïr and Malik would court Desmond and it would definitely get heated… in more ways than one. They both have feelings for Desmond but their alpha-ness is making them compete for Desmond’s affection. A lot of dick-measuring will happen with Kadar having first row seat in the entire thing.

Malik is gentler in his approach. Courting gifts, quiet walks, peaceful tea parties. He knows the proper etiquette of how to court an omega and he’s definitely sticking to the rules. Desmond thinks he’s quite sweet and he may be enjoying being treated with such care for once (thanks for the issues, Bill)

Altaïr has the courting habits of an eagle and a cat rolled into one (so I guess a griffin?). Making sure no one bothers Desmond. Giving gifts that would never be considered as courting gifst like throwing knives and Desmond was pretty sure the pretty necklace he just got had been on the neck of a very annoying and cutthroat merchant. He also has no sense of personal space and Desmond is pretty sure Altaïr keeps sniffing at him. Altaïr does have a leg up because Desmond knows this is how Altaïr shows his feelings and he finds it sweet in its own strange way.

In the end, Kadar would be the one to suggest Desmond just take both Altaïr and Malik as his mates. It’s not… well… it doesn’t happen often because of all the Alpha posturing that would happen but he has complete confidence that his brother and Altaïr could make it work for Desmond’s sake.

Desmond also believes that since Altaïr and Malik did end up being close friends in the original timeline.

If you want to include Altaïr x Malik in this: their relationship is more of competitive alphas who enjoys winning against the other. This meant that Desmond tend to act as either their judge or the focus of their competition and Desmond reaps the reward while the two do all the work.

Since this is A/B/O, no one is sure who the father of Desmond’s children is. Desmond only agreed to get pregnant once the Apple gave enough information to make the whole ‘giving birth during the 12th century’ less deadly.

Altaïr usually has a level head but he tends to get carried away when Desmond is involved which meant Malik has to be the one to make sure the two don’t do anything stupid.

Altaïr likes to prepare for Desmond’s heats, making sure they have all they need. Malik takes care of making sure nothing will happen whenever Desmond does go in heat in terms of the operations of the Levantine Brotherhood.

They once tried having just one of them with Desmond during his heat but the one left outside was unbearable to work with so everyone just agreed that the two Alphas stay with their omegas and they’ll take care of everything.

[nofatclips]

Acoustic live version of Serial by Tora-i

[scar-lie]

Omega Pt. 8 [Natasha]

Summary : Natasha's world turns upside down when she learns the truth about breaking the bond

Pairing : Alpha!Natasha Romanoff x Omega!Reader , Alpha!Natasha Romanoff x Alpha!Clitn Barton

Warning : Mention of death and crying

Word Count : 1,105

{OMEGA PT. 7} {OMEGA PT. 8} {OEMGA T. 9}

No one has permission to repost my work anywhere, if you see it let me know.

*BEEP*.........*BEEP*.........*BEE*.........*BEEP*

The steady heartbeat of Y/N can be heard all over the room, and the slow and shallow heartbeat

They decided to keep the two healthy babies, Y/N and her third baby, in one room; it's big enough for the four of them and to have enough space when the team decided to stay over night. Well, for Tony, it's still smaller, and he wants to expand the space.

But this breaks their hearts, especially Natasha. Seeing one of her pups in critical condition broke her.

"Hello there, little cutie; you look so beautiful like you, Mommies," Wanda whispers to the one who's separate from the two babies while she gently and carefully caresses her right check with the back of her pointer finger that wraps around the gloves.

"Look at your sister; that's your baby sister over there. Say hi," Yelena said while she held the one and Maria the other, waving their little hand that's wrapped around their finger to their sister.

"Why don't you come and see them?" Clint whispers, standing besides Natasha, who's outside your room window.

Afraid to come inside and look at or hold her pups in her arms, even though all she ever wants is to hold them, the thought of her hurting them or crashing them into her arm makes her fear her whole being.

"I'm good here; I-I think it's better if I stay here, outside," Natasha mumbles, wanting to at least get a glimpse of her pups but unable to do so because her two boys in Yelena and Maria's arms are wrapped around a baby blue blanket, and she can't see her daughter because she needs to stay in an incubator, so the only thing she can see is her tiny, cute foot.

"That's nonsense, Natasha. Come on, let's go inside. Don't you want to see them?" Natasha's eyes then converted to Y/N, who's sleeping peacefully in her bed. Her face is peaceful, making Natasha feel at ease, knowing she's safe.

"Natasha?" Clint gives her a light tug on her shoulder, then opens the door.

"Come on, let's see them." Natasha is hesitant, but when she looks back inside, Maria and Wanda motion for her to come inside, and seeing the look on her sister's face with pure happiness convinces her to come inside and join them.

"You wanna hold them?" Maria offers the sleeping pup in her arm to Natasha for her to hold, but the redhead contemplates her decision. They are tiny and precious, and she's afraid that she will crash them, so the best next option is to step forward and look at her pup, slowly and carefully caressing his cute, soft, chubby cheeks with the back of her pointer finger.

"He's so precious," Natasha whispers, smiling and melting her heart when he reaches for her finger and holds it in his palm, then yawns, nustles her finger in his chest, and sleeps with a smile on his face.

"He likes you," Maria whispered, watching the interaction between the two. Again, she tried to make Natasha hold him, but the redhead shook her head.

"No.....he-he looks comfortable in your arms," she says, giving Maria a smile. Then, when the baby loosens his grip, Natasha proceeds to Yelena, who's busy talking to the sleeping baby in her arms.

"Can I look at him?" Natasha asked, looking at Yelena, who's glaring at her. Yelena doesn't want her near the babies, but by the warning, look at the other three. She nodded and let Natasha come sit beside her, caressing the baby's head carefully.

The three look at the redhead with a smile, happy to see her so soft and extra careful around the babies, happy that at least Natasha tried to approach them, but the quiet and happy moment quickly stopped when an erratic sound of the monitor blaring around the room made the four of them panic, looking at you while Clint quickly ran out to call for help.

Natasha quickly ran out to the room, breathing heavily while tears were rolling down her face, and looked out the window, making sure her pups were okay and convincing herself that Y/N was okay while the doctors were frantically moving around the room, trying to revive you.

It took a few minutes to make your vital signs stable, and when Dr. Cho got out of the room, Natasha quickly stepped in front of her.

"She will be okay, right?" Natasha asked, worried, and Clint stood beside her.

"Honestly, I don't know. But the level of weakness of her body and how it's reacting, I-Ms. Romanoff, did you mate with her?" Natasha looked down and nodded, emberassed that she couldn't be the Alpha to her Omega.

"I'm going to be honest with you; I don't know if you know this or not, but once a mated couple tries to break a bond, there's a big consequence: either one of you will die or survive; some couples make it through survival, but..." Dr. Cho sighs, reading Natasha's body language. She's tense, frozen in her spot, trying to be strong, but deep inside of her, she knows that she's breaking.

"Say it," Natasha whispers, holding Clint's hand so tightly that her chuckles turn white.

"Well, in history, mostly Omega's are the ones who suffer from breaking the bond more than Alpha's, which means, mostly 98% of these cases are... Omega's are mostly the ones who died by breaking the bond and only 2% of their survival rate," Natasha gasps. She can't keep her tears at bay, but rather, they are running down her checks.

"I don't want to give you high hopes, but we're trying everything to prevent it from happening; we're using all of our sources to survive her." Natasha turned around and sobbed while Clint smiled at Dr. Cho, saying thank you and rubbing Natasha's back.

Her knees are getting weaker, so she has to lean on the wall beside her and slowly slide down until she's sitting down, resting her elbow in her knees, and her head is low between her arms, crying.

Clint stayed beside her, sitting down too, trying not to show his sadness, knowing Natasha needs him, but he just sat there, not saying anything because he knows that whatever he says will never change the fact that you could die in any minute now, but instead he just let his presence be there to at least make Natasha feel that she's not alone.

Taglist : @alwaysgoodnight @natashaswife4125

[antirepurp]

clenching my fists holding back tears it is 11pm on a sunday night i can't, i Cannot start drawing something normal about how minecraft's esoteric nature could fix maria. i cannot execute her experience reading the end poem for the first time now i have fucking school tomorrow i need to go to bed

[ambreignsfan4life]

Most Beloved WWE Female

[abbatoirablaze]

Surrogate Luna, Chapter 11

Word Count:  1.4k

Warnings:  slight angst.

“Luna…”

“Please stop calling me that, Sarah,” Cinna sighed as she looked to one of her closest friends.  Sarah gave her a soft smile and sat down at the edge of the water.  She noticed Cinna looking around, as though trying to keep an eye on her adventurous pup.  She laughed, “Stevie is fine.  He’s with Wanda just around the corner.”

“You know how I feel about him wandering,” she sighed nervously as her eyes strained to see the pup, “he’s like his father.”

“Adventurous…yeah…Sam reminds me of that all the time!” she laughed, “you know, when Steve was a pup he lived to be in these woods while his mother spent time at the water as well…”

She frowned, thinking of the man that she loved. 

Sarah mirrored her actions, “I-I’m sorry.  I know that it-“

“It’s fine,” she sighed, shaking her friend’s comments off, “Steve is the alpha of this pack.  I bore his pup.  I-It’s only normal that they share certain qualities.”

“You know…that isn’t a bad thing…”

She nodded, sitting up from the water’s edge, “I know…I just-it still hurts.”

Sarah nodded once again as Cinna stood, gathering herself together so that she could head back to the packhouse. 

With a heavy heart she followed after her, “you know…we could always go to another pack…”

“Sarah…” she sighed, sparing her friend a look.  She shook her head, “y-you know that I can’t take Stevie away from his pack…from his father.”

“He never sees him.”

Sadness took over her scent and Sarah instantly regretted her words. 

“I’m sorry, Cinna.”

“It’s not your fault, Sarah,” Cinna replied sadly, “do not apologize for your alpha’s actions.”

“Noted…”

“Stevie!” Cinna called into the open wilderness, “Maria?  Wanda?”

She heard her pup giggling before anything else. 

A smile rose to her face as her chubby-cheeked pup came toddling towards her, a smile as bright as the sun on his face.

“MAMA!”

“My little wolf!” she exclaimed, holding her arms out to her son. 

Stevie giggled, running into his mother’s arms while Wanda and Maria playfully chased him through the clearing. 

“Thank you for staying by my side!” she said appreciatively to the trio of women who had once been assigned to her, “you kno-“

“You’re our friend!” Wanda smiled, patting her friend on the shoulder.

“Our Luna!” Maria added in.

“I still appreciate it!”

“So long as our alpha stands at the head of the pack…we will  not leave you!” Maria smiled reassuringly, “but know that the second he does not, we will try to slip you away from here.”

Cinna gave Sarah a sideways glance, but she ignored it, nodding along with a faux smile. 

Sure, she hadn’t seen Steve, or been close with him since Sharon had marked him, but had she been aware of something that the other girls weren’t?

She was lost in her thoughts as Sarah, Maria, and Wanda began talking about everything that was going on in the pack.  So lost, that she had hardly noticed when they ended up in the pack medical wing. 

If it wasn’t for their doctor, Bruce Banner, she would have been stuck in her thoughts.

“Luna?”

Her attention snapped to the quiet doctor.  Stevie was giggling and interacting with him, reaching out for him. 

“May I?”

She gave a polite smile and nodded, allowing Bruce to take over the duty of carrying Stevie around.  He smiled as the little blonde pup gurgled excitedly and began chattering with words that only he knew the true meanings of.

“Cinna?”

Her attention snapped up again and she looked around.

Wanda, Maria, and Sarah were nowhere to be found.  He chuckled at her bewildered look, “they’re at training, Luna…”

“Oh…I-I’m sorry.”

“Are you okay?” he asked curiously, “you seem a little out of it!”

She nodded, and he pretended not to notice the lie.

“Mama!”

She gave a small smile to her son, reaching out to play with his hair. 

“You look tired!” Bruce pointed out.

“I am…”

“Have you been sleeping?”

She nodded, a frown replacing her small smile as she looked to the doctor, “I-yeah…more than normal unfortunately.  Part of me feels like I can barely keep up with Stevie…”

“You’ve gone a long time without your mate, Cinna…”

This time she frowned at his insistence, “I-I’m not going back to Steve, Bruce.”

“I wasn’t saying that you should,” he shrugged, “Just making an observation is all…”

“Bruce?” she asked after a moment. 

He gave her a curious look, “yes Luna?”

“If-If I were to ask about a mark removal…” she said slowly, watching him for any signs of what he thought about it.  She sighed when he gave no notions on how he felt, “it-never mind.”

“Ask your questions, Cinna,” he said sadly, “you’re thinking of them for a reason.”

“If I were to ask about a mark removal…even knowing that Steve is the alpha of the pack and I am your Luna…his omega…”

“What of it, my luna?”

“Would you remove the mark if I asked you?”

He shrugged, switching Stevie’s weight to his other hip as the little boy snuggled into his side, completely oblivious to the conversation.

“Are you asking this because you’ve potentially found another mate?” Bruce asked curiously.

Her eyes widened and she shook her head, “Wh-what?  No.  Steve is my-“

She stopped speaking when she realized what she was about to say.  Bruce gave her another sad look before motioning for her to follow him to his office.  When they reached the sanctuary of it, he closed and locked the door, “allow me to speak freely to you, Luna?”

She nodded, “Yeah…of-of course!”

“You’ve become tired…exhausted even, yes?”

She nodded, “Yes.”

“You’re showing signs of getting weaker because of your lack of contact from your mate,” Bruce said sadly, “you allowed him to mark you and then the two of you went your separate ways.  Mates find comfort in one another.  They find strength in one another.  Especially after they’ve marked each other.”

“So…not being with Steve…”

“Is slowly killing you.” Bruce finished sadly, “you have to make a choice soon, Luna…wolves are pack animals for a reason.  It’s not entirely by choice.  Once you mark or are marked by someone you thrive with them.  It’s why so many mates perish when the other passes.  Do you want your loneliness to kill you?”

Cinna looked between the doctor and her son. 

She’d been thinking about getting the mark removed for nearly half a year, but hadn’t really told anyone about it.  But hearing the words from Bruce’s mouth made her realize that she couldn’t hold off on her thoughts, or decision, much longer.

“W-what do I need to do?” she asked seriously, looking at Bruce once more.

“Go get some rest…” he said seriously, “you’ll need your energy.”

She nodded and went to take her son from the doctor’s grasp, but he shook his head.

“Bruce-“

“I’ll watch over Stevie…you’ll need your energy…I’m not joking.  Come back later tonight and get him.  I’ll order the supplies.”

“Bruce-“

Bruce looked up from the floor of his office to where his alpha stood at the door.  He froze in his spot as the little blonde pup looked up at him. 

Steve held his breath.

He instantly recognized his son, despite having not seen him in nearly ten months.

“Wh-where is Cinna?”

“Sleeping…she needed rest.  I agreed to watch Stevie,” Bruce answered, his brow quirking as he looked at Steve, “is everything okay?”

“I-we need your help,” Steve answered brokenly, as though he was having a hard time tearing his eyes from his son.  The little boy watched him, studying his every move.  He pointed back towards the medical wing, “can you?”

“Yeah…” he nodded quickly.  He looked at Stevie firmly, “you stay here and color, okay?”

“Kay!” the blonde exclaimed in a chirp. 

Bruce smiled and patted his hair before getting up, “alright alpha…what did you need?”

Steve’s brow furrowed as he looked between his son and the doctor, “Wi-will he be okay like that?”

“Oh yeah,” Bruce nodded, waving his alpha off, “Stevie’s a good boy.  Knows when to keep himself busy…”

Steve spared his son another glance.  The little boy was entertaining himself with the crayons and coloring book.  And his heart broke a little when the boy didn’t acknowledge him as anything more than someone bugging him for a moment in time.

Chapter 12

Tag List:  @lohnes16, @prokey16, @tenaciousperfectionunknown, @teambarnes72, @mrsevans90

[dirtylittlediesel]

bullet train abo headcanons (except there are no betas):

ladybug: alpha

tangerine: omega

lemon: alpha

yuichi: alpha but in a disheveled way

prince: omega who doms alphas

maria: ALPHA

the son: omega but pretends beta... prolly like all the other omegas on this list tbh

white death: alpha but should get it revoked bc his ego is already way too big. also how r u gonna have a gay son and gay daughter...

elder: alpha but sparkles in the sunshine in contrast to white death

hornet: alpha

wolf: could go either way but i wanna say omega and his fianceé was an alpha LMFAO... vengeful omega ass... needs to avenge his murdered alpha ass...

channing tatum: omega (in heat)

[simmin-with-eni]

My first custom Patreon request! Inspired by Dulce Maria 🥵

[baubeautyandthegeek]

Sleigh Ride Romance - Maria Hill/Pepper Potts

A/N: Part 3 for @intotheomegaverse 's Christmas Bingo card.

Maria Hill would never admit to enjoying Pepper Potts by her side, she couldn’t, not yet. It was still so new. Still, as she settles into the sleigh, she finds she laughs at Pepper’s small shiver, tucking her closer and trying to ignore the small noise that escapes Pepper. It's only when, halfway into the sleigh ride, she feels Pepper tuck herself closer still that she dares admit she loves this closeness. Losing Tony had hurt the slim, delicate woman. Pepper had not said as much but Maria knows. It’s always hard to lose someone, especially when that someone is your alpha or omega. It’s nice to feel Pepper’s smile pressed into her neck. “Pep…” “Ria…” Pepper turns soft blue eyes up to meet Maria’s and Maria grumbles low in her throat. “You are entirely too sweet for your own good, you know?” “Prove it.” She does, of course, pulls Pepper closer, kisses her gently but with fierce passion, smiles when Pepper groans softly. “Mine?” “Mmm, yours.” Pepper agrees. Neither may have expected this to be so easy, but Maria had to admit, she felt happier having Pepper close, knowing the precious Omega was safe. The sleigh ride ends, Maria lifts Pepper down and walks her home, smiling when Pepper pulls her inside. She will, finally, have an Omega of her own.

[sparkles-oflight]

My Uber driver thought I only spoke English (even though I talked to him in Portuguese) so he didn't say a word until the very end of the trip. 10/10 would recommend

[sonasnowdrop]

Does Anne have a mother?

[She’s long gone by now.]

[trickstersmagic]

I will never forget the way my brain chemistry was changed when a smww instagram account reposted a chinese a/b/o superwonder fanart.

[ambreignsfan4life]

Most Beloved WWE Female

@dopefreshprincess

[abbatoirablaze]

Surrogate Luna, Chapter 8

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings: manipulation, coercion, threats of murder, mentions of murder, violence, discrimination based on designation, angst, a/b/o dynamics.

“Alpha…”

Steve looked away from his mate and towards Sam.  He looked a mess, and had scratches up and down his arms.  Steve’s eyes widened as he sensed the concern coming off of his beta in droves, “Sam…what is it?”

“Sharon…she-she’s lost it.  She-“

“What happened to Sharon?” Steve asked, “Lost it?  Did she lose her pup?”

Cinna felt nervousness creeping into her hindbrain over her alpha’s concern for the woman that he was formally promising himself to.  She reached out to him, “Steve…”

“Her pup was fine,” Sam said quickly as he shook his head, “she drank the same thing that Cinna did, and both of them were rushed to medical in time…but she-she killed Brock.”

Steve’s eyes widened, “What?”

“Alpha…you have to come…she-she’s going crazy,” Sam begged, “I-I don’t want to tear you from your family, but-“

“Pack comes first,” Cinna said simply.  She squeezed Steve’s arm soothingly and nodded her head, “go…take care of whatever is going on…but come back to me.”

“Always!” he promised with a simple nod.  He leaned in and scented his mate, before kissing her temple and his son’s forehead, then he and his beta left the hospital room. 

“Sharon…you need to be logical…”

“WHERE IS IT?” she hissed, shooting Steve a glare through the reinforced window of her hospital room, “WHERE IS THAT WORTHLESS PUP?”

Steve frowned as he thought about the pup that had been brought to him nearly two days ago by one of Sharon’s pack. 

He was clearly born prematurely, but he was definitely also an omega. 

The final nail in the coffin for Sharon, at least in her view, of solidifying a legacy. 

She had managed to do so in creating a pup with Brock, but the pup was an omega male.  Something that she, herself, was beyond disgusted by. 

And in a rage, even though she’d had a belly full of stitches, she tore Brock to shreds over it.  She killed him over impregnating her with an ‘inferior pup.’ 

When members of her pack had informed her that Steve and Cinna had a strong, healthy alpha boy, she went off the deep end.

“Your pup is safe, Sharon.”

“Kill it!” she commanded, growling at the man she had once been in a formal relationship with, “I don’t want an omega male with my name.  Carters are not omegas.  They are alphas or they don’t exist.”

Steve frowned even more.

He’d been all too privy with how the Carter pack family had dealt with omega males.  She was supposed to have had an older brother, but when he was born an omega male, they slaughtered the infant and threw him over the cliff. 

An omega male Carter was unacceptable. 

“Sharon-“

“KILL IT!” she screamed, nearly feral from having to continue on with the conversation, “I know that someone in my pack betrayed me and they brought it to you.  YOU NEED TO KILL IT, STEVE!”

“I’m not a savage,” Steve growled at the woman, “I’m not going to go and slaughter some innocent pup based on his designation.”

“WHAT IF YOU HAD AN OMEGA, HUH?” she screamed, her fists pounding on the glass, “WHAT IF YOUR BASTARD OF A PUP WAS BORN AN OMEGA!”

“I WOULD LOVE MY SON REGARDLESS OF DESGINATION!” Steve growled as he closed in on the area she’d been standing in front of, “to kill a pup…over his designation.  He had no control in that, Sharon.  And you know it!”

“Brock is dead because of it,” she spat, “that ratty little vermin put a faulty pup in me!”

“Being an omega is not a defect!”

“OMEGAS ARE WEAK, STEVE!”

“Omegas fulfill us alphas in ways that another designation cannot!” Steve said firmly, thinking of Cinna and how she was in their shared quarters, caring for the two infants, “right now, she’s got my son, and yours safely tucked away.  She’s taking care of them both as though she birthed them both.  Despite how you’ve treated her, she’s got no ill-will for your child.  Omegas are what drives our packs even more than us, Sharon!”

“She-she’s taking care of it?” The look in her eyes was one so angry that Steve regretted admitting to her that he and Cinna had taken her pup under their wings. 

“Mark my words, Steve Rogers…that stupid omega of yours will bring your pack to its knees,” she spat, “and you not killing my bastard will ensure that…you love your little precious omegas so much…you can protect them while I burn it all to the ground.”

“Is that a threat, Sharon?” he growled, angry over the intentional, subtle promise.

She smiled and shook her head, “not at all…alpha…it’s a promise!”

“You’re sick…Sharon…and you need help.”

Things had been uneventful since the birth of both Stevie and the delicate pup, which Cinna had named Peter, after one of her friends in the Stark pack for his sweet nature, that was a far cry from either one of his parents. 

While Cinna and Steve hadn’t set an exact time for the mating ceremony, they had both agreed that they weren’t going to do it until Cinna was fully healed from her surgery, and had been cleared medically for the consummation of their union. 

Something that Steve was beginning to get antsy about. 

In the short month that they had both been parents, Steve found himself on edge, watching over his omega so intently that on more than one occasion Sarah, Maria, Wanda, and even Sam had to pull them away from one another. 

Steve had admired the way that his omega mothered the pups.  She was always attentive to both of them, and didn’t care that Sharon had been the actual mother of one of them.  She fed them from her own breast, and bathed them with her own hands.  There were almost no moments when she didn’t have one of the pups with her, and in the short times where she didn’t, they were always close by. 

It drove an instinctual need in Steve to recreate everything that had happened over the nearly year long time frame that he’d known her. 

He wanted more pups. 

He wanted to add to the pack with his own legacy. 

He wanted to keep her filled, satiating her with his knot again and again until they were both quivering messes. 

And then he wanted to watch her mother them.  He wanted to see her raise the sweet pups, teaching them right from wrong as she fell into the natural role of being a mother and luna to the pack. 

There was no deeper sense of love than what Steve felt for Cinna.

And she felt every bit the same about him. 

She respected that he had the pack to run, but lived for the little moments when it was just them.  When he was watching her feeding the pups.  When he was cradling Stevie in his arms, and telling him that he was going to show him everything he needed to know about running a pack one day.  When he promised that he would give his son the moon and the stars, and he told the little pup who had no knowledge of the world, just how much he was in love with his omega. 

It made her heart swell.

That was the kind of love she’d always hoped for.

The kind of love that after joining the surrogate luna program, she had never expected to find. 

But that love, all the same, is what she came to experience.

So when Steve had told her that he had a meeting in their quarters, she offered to take Peter for a stroll in the gardens.  She had wanted to take Stevie too, but Steve insisted on keeping his young pup with him. 

“I just wanted to have some father son time,” Steve smiled as he held his pup in his arms.  The lively carbon copy of his father gurgled happily, reaching out to touch his father’s face, “going to have a meeting with Sam, and talk about pack business…”

“He won’t understand what you’re saying, alpha,” she purred as she leaned in to press a kiss to her pup’s chubby cheek, “he’s only a month and a half old.”

“This will be his pack one day, Luna,” Steve smiled softly as he nuzzled her cheek.  Cinna chittered excitedly and a low, sensual growl raised up from Steve’s chest.  Steve growled a little bit more when he caught the sweet notes of her scent, and how he could smell the faintest traces of her slick, “omega…”

“The doctor hasn’t cleared me yet, Steve,” she warned gently, playfully pushing herself away from her alpha.  She reached into the bassinet and picked Peter up, “and anyways, you alphas have your pack business…Peter and I will go take a walk outside and enjoy the perfect weather.”

“Let me call for one of the girls-“

“We’ll be fine, Steve,” she said with a giggle as she dismissed him, “let us omegas take care of ourselves for once…yeah?”  He growled once more and it caused her to giggle as she looked over her shoulder.  Steve frowned, “be careful, Luna…”

“Steve…you worry far too much.”

The shriek that tore Cinna from her thoughts sent a spark of anxiety through her chest.  She barely had time to get out of the way as a blur raced past her and landed hard on the ground. 

“YOU BITCH!”

Cinna ran, instantly starting towards the sparring grounds which were close by.  She knew that Wanda, Maria, and Sarah were all there, as she’d just gotten done visiting with them. 

Sharon was quick to get up, hot on her trail.  She shrieked once more, making Cinna’s hindbrain go into overdrive. 

She had known that Sharon hated the fact that Peter was allowed to live.  But even more so she knew that Sharon had hated the fact that she and Steve were raising the pup as though he was their own as well. 

And while a lot of Sharon’s pack were grateful that the pup wasn’t slaughtered, Sharon still had those that were loyal to her, and would often shoot glares in her direction if she was out with the pup, even if Steve was with them. 

“I’LL KILL YOU BOTH!”

“WANDA!” Cinna screamed, already able to see the sparring grounds, “MARIA!  SARAH!”

The three women turned, seeing Cinna running, cradling Peter in her arms, with a nearly feral Sharon looking like she was going to shred both omegas, regardless of their status.  Maria was quick to rush them first, changing between forms to reach the two she-wolves that were still in human form before Sharon could reach Cinna and the pup. 

Sarah rushed in as well, dropping her weapons and transforming, while Wanda began working her magic to conjure a barrier for Cinna and the pup to get behind. 

“STOP!” she commanded, knowing the alpha command would work on the omega. 

Cinna tried to fight every instinct, but was forced to her knees, howling in pain.  She nearly dropped Peter as her body forced her to go along with the alpha command, allowing Sharon to close in. 

But Maria and Sarah were already there.  Maria took her head on, while Sarah created a secondary barrier between herself and Sharon and Maria.  Wanda appeared and shielded them with her own little bubble of magic, before dropping to her own knees and checking on Cinna.

“Sarah linked Sam…Steve and him should be here-“

Steve’s golden wolf jumped into action, quickly pinning Sharon before she could shift.  He growled at her, nearly frothing at the mouth because of his own anger. 

“THIS IS BETWEEN ME AND HER!” Sharon spat, “THAT IS MY PUP AND HE DESERVES TO DIE FOR HIS DESIGNATION.  IT’S WRITTEN IN MY PACK’S CHARTERS, STEVE.  LET ME GO!”

The golden wolf growled once more, disagreeing with her, before he shifted back into his human form.  He turned his attention to the woman that he loved. 

“Wanda…are she and Peter alright?”

“I think so alpha!” she said quickly, “I-I can’t stop the alpha command though until I know she’s alright.  Do you have Sharon  contained?”

“Luna…free yourself from Sharon’s command!” Steve ordered, not wanting to wait.  Cinna looked up at her mate and he gave her a sad look, “what happened?”

“She-she tried to kill Peter…she-“

“IT’S MY RIGHT!” she screamed, glaring at the omega, “I WANT THEM BOTH DEAD!”

“You’re done, Sharon,” Steve said firmly with a shake of his head, “I’m putting you in the dungeon until I can figure out what to do with you…”

“You can’t do that to me.  We run the pack together, Steve.”

“Then leave,” he said firmly, “if you do not want to be jailed until we can figure this out, you will be exiled…you can take anyone that wants to go with you…but anyone that wants to stay and remain under my pack will be granted asylum.”

“You can’t do this to me, Steve…”

“I am doing it, Sharon,” he growled with finality, “you’re putting my pack in danger, and it’s time that I take action, before you destroy it.”

“Are you sure that this is what you want, Luna?”

Cinna shook her head as the tears started to roll down her cheeks, “I-I know that he isn’t ours…but he feels like he’s my pup too, Steve…I just feel like a failure…I feel like I’m giving up on him.”

“Hey…you’re not giving up on him,” Pepper said firmly as she reached out to her younger sister.  Cinna looked to her older sister, and Pepper gave her a sad smile, “you’re doing what a good mother would do and you’re looking out for your pup…”

“We’ll take good care of him,” Tony promised gently as he came to his wife and mate’s side, “we’ll make sure that Peter is loved.”

“I know,” she admitted as she wiped away a few more of the tears with her free hand.  She looked down to where the pup was sleeping against her chest, “I-I just didn’t think it would be this hard letting him go.”

“You can see him any time that you want,” Pepper said quickly, “and he won’t be alone…you know that.  He’ll have Morgan to help show him around the pack.  She’ll be like a big sister to him.”

“Morgan is a great pup…”

“This is for the best, Luna,” Steve said gently as he wrapped an arm around Cinna’s waist, “Alpha Stark is being very gracious in allowing us to place the pup within his pack.”

“He’ll be alright, Steve.”

“I trust you, Tony.”

The two alphas shared a moment of silence as Cinna looked to her older sister, “he-he likes it when you sing him to sleep…he-he likes that one song that mom used to sing to us when we were little.”

Pepper gave her own teary smile at the mention of their mother, “you kept up with traditions with him?”

Cinna nodded tearily as she sniffled, “Yeah…Peter likes hearing the one about where the wolf fell in love with the moon…”

“That was always my favorite too…”

“Yeah…”

“We’ll take good care of him, Cinna…”

“Yeah,” she repeated, sniffling once more, “I-I know…”

“You’re a good mother, Cinna,” Pepper smiled at her sister, “and you’re a good luna to your pack…with a good alpha to raise a family with.”

“Thank you, sister.”

“Treat her well, Rogers…”

“Always!” Steve promised.

Chapter 9

Tag List:  @lohnes16, @prokey16, @tenaciousperfectionunknown, @teambarnes72, @mrsevans90

[cavillscurls]

wherever you stray, i’ll follow

alpha!joel miller x omega f!reader

Joel resents the choice to allow an unmated omega into Jackson—until he’s the only one who can help her feel at home.

warnings/tags: MDNI. Jackson era. Joel’s POV. Alternate universe: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics. Implied Soulmates. Alpha!Joel. Omega!Reader. SoftDom!Joel. Sub!Reader. Enemies-ish to lovers. Grumpy x Sunshine. Joel is emotionally constipated. Unspecified age gap. Stereotypical gender roles. Fluff. Angst. Self-flagellation. Poor coping & communication skills. Explicit smut. Dub-con elements due to the nature of heats, but everything is explicitly consented to. Size kink/size difference—Joel is huge in this, like 6’5, thick, broad, and burly. Reader has pubic hair. Pet names. Dirty talk. Scenting/scent marking. Man-handling. Fingering. Squirting. Drinking bodily fluids. Oral (f receiving). Multiple orgasms, somewhat uncontrolled. Unprotected PIV. Tummy buldge. Knotting. Breeding kink. Pregnancy implications. Adult Alpha!Ellie, Beta!Tommy, & Alpha!Maria make an appearance. Ambiguous-ish ending. wc: 10.7k

➻ a/n: this fic has been a long time coming & means so, so much to me. this won’t be for everyone, & that’s ok. i pictures game!joel for majority of this, but he is left to your imagination as always. thank you to @kiwisbell for beta reading and supporting me during the writing process. any feedback is so appreciated enjoy. x

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Tommy Miller had always been the foolish brother, but even Joel found his particular lack of cautiousness that night out of the ordinary. 

There were three members. What was left of a pack, likely separated or raided. They had entered the walls of Jackson that fateful evening—the walls Joel and his brother happened to be manning—dirty and famished, overly emotional and outwardly grateful for the sanctuary. The first two, an elderly woman and a teenage boy, betas. He could tell just by the way they walked, the monotonous way they carried themselves, crossing the threshold of their haven with Maria at the helm of the herd. 

“The boy’ll be a good addition to routes, whenever he’s old enough,” Tommy had remarked. Ever the optimist, too keen on seeing the good in people to even acknowledge the risk that was posed every time another body came through those gates. 

And a risk it was. 

Joel Miller had experienced a fair share of fear in his life. Real, unadulterated fear, enough to bring a grown man to his knees despite his efforts to rise above it. A fear contrived by something entirely out of his control, forces working against the walls he’d built around himself, the rough exterior that fought, and bled, and killed, and protected. But the fear he felt that ghastly night remained unlike any other. It was entirely from within, something deeply embedded in himself. Fear, once harnessed as a means of survival, reduced to a shackle, left entirely at its disposal. It rose from his toes into his head where his ears rang and his face burned. 

Time stalled. His senses were numb to everything but this walking force of nature that, at first glance, was an indiscernible canvas of shivering limbs. But as it drew closer, the details were impossible to avoid. The shape of lips and sad eyes. The foreboding sound of a beating heart. Oxygen was no longer a necessity of survival, but vanilla and lilac and something so distinctly, uniquely sweet became the vice in his lungs. 

And it happened so fast, the way fear turned to panic and panic into anger—angry that he had no control or say over how the thing inside of him responded to the thing emerging before him. Powerless. He watched at a standstill as each body lining the wall stiffened upon your entrance. Even his brother, whose composure hardly faltered, could be heard inhaling a sharp breath of disbelief.

Omega. 

She isn’t stopping. Why isn’t she stopping? 

Joel’s eyes shot toward Maria, her indomitable gaze remaining forward on the parting doors. He had to fight the sudden urge to jump the gate over how seemingly unfazed she looked. His sister-in-law was a lot of things, but foolish wasn’t one of them. How could she be so foolish? 

A question left unspoken, unanswered, because his body was not his own. The sound of pounding rattled in his chest, blaring in his ears. A flame ignited. A switch flipped. The world as he knew it became mute to the battling voice that rang inside his head. 

Why isn’t she stopping? What is she doing here? It’s not real. There’s no more. There’s not supposed to be any more. It’s cold. It’s too cold, she’s not wearing a proper jacket. Where’s her jacket? She can’t be here. She’s not allowed to be here. How could she survive this long? Alone? She’s alone. No Alpha. Alone—

He vaguely recalled the sound of his brother shouting his name; a growl settled low in his chest and the heels of his hands pressed against his temples as he tore himself away from the perimeter and stormed through town. 

He needed to get away. Put as much distance between him and that thing that poked and prodded at what was to remain untouched. That stirred him, that set him quick to anger as those of his kind were notorious for. What he worked hard to not be. 

He wasn’t sure how long he paced. How many glasses of whiskey he downed, or the number of curses he threw at his walls, but later that evening, when he had subdued himself to some sort of composure, Joel sought after his brother and his wife, making it a point to address the issue head-on. He burst through their door without knocking: 

“Are you out of your fuckin’ mind?” 

“Joel—!” snapped the younger Miller, bouncing to his feet from the couch where he sat beside Maria, already engaged in conversation over what Joel could assume was the reckless decision at hand. 

“It’s fine, Tommy,” Maria interjected, extending a cautionary hand toward her husband. Her focused eyes took a once over of the fuming man in front of her. “Joel, I’m not turning away perfectly capable people. They pose no threat to us; we’ll find each of them a place here.” 

People. Them. Joel knew his sister-in-law wasn’t so naive as to think he was distressed over a couple of betas. The patronizing calm of her voice stirred him on, and he flashed his teeth at her when he spoke, low and gritty. A fight for dominance. 

“She’s an omega. Unmated.”

“And we’ll be sure to make accommodations for that.” Maria nodded slowly, carefully. She was all too familiar with the taming of beasts. 

Joel shook his head, his lips pressing into a thin line. “There are twelve goddamn unmated alphas in these walls, Maria.” 

“Yeah, you included,” she clipped, and that shut him up good. “And with the way things are progressing, soon enough, Ellie.” 

That made him nauseous. 

Ever since her eighteenth birthday, she had been showing all the tell-tale signs of an emerging alpha. Joel knew—despite his unpreparedness and objections to the thing called nature—there was nothing he could do to stop it. The only other option was to prepare. And up until that point, Joel had thought his adopted daughter's presentation was the worst of his worries. 

He wasn’t prepared to reevaluate his own self-control. 

He hadn’t dealt with a rut since Boston; it was only the start of FEDRA’s reign, before the suppressants had been sufficiently pumped into the population, and fiery instinct was reduced to a dull nuisance. And while his access to the aid was now nonexistent, he still hadn’t considered it possible anymore before you showed up. Upon his and Ellie's arrival, the measly two other omegas in his vicinity had already inhabited Jackson. Both mated. 

Joel assumed the next time he encountered the type, it would be when one in the community presented. And by that point, he hoped he’d be far too old for the monster inside his head to have any more biological control. 

The solution had been to set you up in the cottage furthest from the center of town. It was a decent little space that had been used for storage until late, having cleared the fireplace last fall for ample central heating and restoring some of the rotten infrastructure. As deliriously naive as he saw it, the belief appeared to be that the distance of your dwelling from the rest of Jackson would prevent any complications if they arose. When they did. Joel couldn’t decipher what genius course of action his sister-in-law had for when the time came, but his protests were silenced by the majority. And by morning, you had claimed your corner of sanctuary. 

That was six months ago. 

And while the winds of winter kept the newcomers isolated with adjustment, the summer's heat brings livelihood—and much more of you. 

Your voice, your laughter, your scent. It permeates Jackson’s walls like a disease, saturating Joel’s life despite his efforts to avoid your very existence. 

You contribute your share at the daycare, of all places, often seen with a young pup clinging to your neck. Sometimes, the little ones chase after you in the center of town—running towards you with excited, grubby hands and beaming smiles. You always grace them with an embrace. It’s in your nature, the ability to comfort, to nurture. 

You’re gentle. Kind. Considerate. A smile brighter than a thousand stars. Perfection didn’t appear to have a name until the universe made you, and there is no denying the intrinsic effect you have on those around you. 

Because the rest of the town fucking adores you. 

There is no escaping you. As hard as he tries, you linger at every turn, in every breath of the wind that creeps down his back and stands the hair up on his skin. Most are in awe, admiring the creature that glides before them, whose presence adds to balance the very nature they all endure. A missing piece of a puzzle, something delightful and pure. 

Rare. 

Not diamonds, or rubies, or gold can compare. But in tandem comes those who feed on things that shine, and he knows that some—a very specific some—leer with less adoration and increased selfishness. Some who believe they are owed for the mark you bear, whose pride and lust drive their ambition, whose power is unmatched in the face of something so helpless. 

He’s aware, by the principle of semantics, that he falls into this greedy some. Though he could not identify further from it. And while the monster may heave and thrash within the dwindling confines of his chest, lured to all that is so rare, Joel had decided the moment you walked through those gates he would have none of it. He would not reduce himself to the thing he worked tirelessly to tame, nor would he entertain the force of nature that drove someone like you to something like him. 

You’re aware of his distaste for you. That much is obvious in how you blatantly evade him in town, skirting around when you are forced to share the vicinity, a terrified thing, so easily spooked. 

Once, a few months prior, he had been asked to repair some of the leaky ceiling panels in the schoolhouse. Unbeknownst to him—and you, he assumed, judging by the way your eyes nearly bulged out of your skull at the sight of him and how the honeyed stench of the room turned sour—they were all located in the daycare room. 

What followed could only be described as two hours of slow, burning torture. He tried his very best to stay on task, he really did. But he was hindered by the discernible discomfort you exhibited and all it did to the thing inside of him. You tripped over your words to the fellow attendants in the room, couldn’t seem to locate anything you were looking for, and at one point, had to excuse yourself for what turned into a twenty-minute-long disappearance. And where he stood, high up on the ladder, trying to balance his body and his mind, Joel hated how worried your absence made him. He couldn’t see you, couldn’t hear you, couldn’t smell you for those agonizing twenty minutes, and that anger he felt the first day he laid eyes on you returned. Because he was not a man that gave up control. 

And you, for whatever reason, wielded a great deal of it over him. 

The first day of summer promises a bonfire. Dusk, in the open plain beyond the stables, the laughter of children and the strum of music are bringing the community to life. These are cherished moments amongst the whole of Jackson, and Joel isn’t the kind of man to be so self-absorbed that he can’t understand why. He had, up until six months ago, once enjoyed the camaraderie. It was the first time in decades he felt a semblance of impulse to let go. No more running, fighting, grieving. 

He can hardly remember that feeling now. In its place returns caution, unpredictability. Six months and the work of years lost. He feels insane—the lurking monster that haunts his own shadow. And as hard as he tries to shake it, he fails every time. The feeling is embedded, brought to life by its complimentary fragment that, much to his dismay, walks the very same walls. Lurks in the same shadows. 

He used to feel stable, steady. Not any longer. 

Your hair is tied half up today, out of your eyes—he’s watching you. Not watching, observing. This is the trade-off, the compromise to keep the beast satiated. Always from afar, and never with the intent of action, he observes you and all you are. It’s a part of his routine, studying the way you move, the way you exist in this space you’re both forced to inhabit. Constantly drawn to one another, even in distance, even without trying. Magnetic. 

Frustrating. 

You’re smiling at something. And then laughter, like the sweetest song rattles his eardrums. You sit on a blanket across the mountainous flames, your legs tucked under you, beside two other girls he couldn’t care to remember the names of. Briefly, he wonders what it is that you find so amusing. 

A misfortune at the hand of another? 

No, he cannot imagine you to be so cruel. 

An anecdote from the daycare? 

Seems far more likely. The type to find joy in what you do, in all that is around you. 

He’s envious of this, maybe. The effortless way of being attracted to what is deemed good. He tries to remember a time when he knew another person like that; all that ever follows are brief memories full of sorrow. The hazy outline of something, someone, so perfect in a way no one should be. He always dismisses the thought. He would never know what it means to be that way, after all. 

“Nice night.” 

He damn near jumps out of his boots. Tommy’s sudden materialization beside him diminishes any spirals of imagination, a blessing in disguise. 

Still, Joel is bothered by the disturbance. His little haven of borderline-stalker tendencies crushed under his brother's obnoxious foot. He merely grunts in response. 

“Glad we finally got this event together,” Tommy continues nonetheless, a hand on his hip, sipping his beer bottle and glancing similarly across the flames. Joel’s eyes have already left you, his arms folding taut across his chest while he casts his gaze anywhere else, if only for the sake of avoiding his brother's inevitable chastising. “Good to get the kids out… good to get everyone out, really. Nice chance to mingle.” 

Subtle. Real subtle. 

“Out with it, Tommy.” He doesn’t feel like playing this game tonight. He wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for the sake of appeasing his brother, or rather, his brother's wife. “Whatever it is you wanna say to me… out with it.” 

Tommy shrugs. “Nothin’ to come out with, Joel. Just that y’all have been here two years already and still seems like you have a tough time with these things.” 

He doesn’t miss the chosen emphasis. And it’s true, to an extent. While precarious in her initial adjustment, Ellie has been far more social than he. He talks to people. He just doesn’t trust them. Not those outside his immediate circle. And why should he? Joel does his work. He lends a hand to the community where he can. He’s polite. Punctual. Reliable. But he’s still living in the end of the fucking world, a world he has seen more brutality and injustice in than he ever would have cared to. So what if he doesn’t want to roast marshmallows and sing campfire songs? 

“What is it that you want from me, Tommy? I’m here, ain’t I?” 

“Don’t want nothin’ from you, brother,” Tommy says with a shake of his head, and Joel still can’t pinpoint just when his little brother finally grew the fuck up. Twenty years of lost time will do that to a person. “Just wanna be sure you’re livin’ this second chance to the fullest.”     

A second chance. 

He can pinpoint a time where he would have killed for one of those. 

And perhaps he did just that, and the real fault lies in being unable to embrace the outcome. Or maybe, the misery he lives in is the price he pays for the choices that led him here. Second chance shrouded in self-loathing. 

His brother persists: “Take advantage of how lucky ya are to be here, how lucky we all are to be here, to have…options.”  

Has he ever been good at weighing those? Twenty years ago, he would have had a different answer. Twenty years ago, he wouldn’t have known the debilitating options of life or death. This isn’t the first time Tommy has presented the topic of conversation, and he’s certain it won’t be the last. He wonders when he’ll find a response that appeases him, if ever. 

“Just try to enjoy yourself a little tonight, alright?” 

He doesn’t answer. He lacks the discipline to say something of substance. Instead, he turns his head forward and strains his arms against his chest, silent and brooding, until his brother sighs, pats him on the shoulder, and slips away. 

This is enjoyable enough; left to his own devices, keen to observe the joy around him, a silent hope that some of it may permeate, keep an eye on—

He’d been too preoccupied with Tommy’s noise to notice you’d disappeared from his line of sight. His brows furrow and he scans the perimeter of the bonfire. Your friends have moved to the beverage stand, but the spot you had occupied beside them is vacant. 

He cocks his head left, then right, scanning for signs; the cadence of your voice, the shape of you, your scent. And he’s frustrated. Because how could he let you vanish so fast? Where? Why? 

It’s something instinctive that compels him to act at the first sign of trouble. It’s the faintest thing, a subtle waft in the wind he’s certain no one would catch unless they were searching for it. Sour and burnt, his nose wrinkles. 

He does a one-eighty and panic seizes his chest.

Your silhouette may be foreign to the common eye, but he’s learned it well. It tramples and scrambles through the foliage, distressed; a good two, three hundred yards away from the crowd and headed in the direction of your dwelling. 

He’s honed in. A nerve fires inside his chest. His heart ticks to a beat that suffocates his eardrums, and there’s a churning in his gut that threatens to yank him forward. 

He turns back toward the flames, only once, before his footsteps fall in stride with you. 

He wonders just how long he’s been blind. How many days had passed since the tell-tale signs began to emerge. When you knew, if you knew, or if this very moment, here and now, is the one mother nature decided to take you by the hand and guide you down the imminent path. 

Joel always watches you. Observes. How could he have let this slip under his radar? 

He’s imagined this exact scenario numerous times before. Though in his head, havoc rained, blood was shed, and carnage laid bare across the whole of town. A wreckage for all to witness, to acknowledge the barbarous creatures that walk amongst them. Twelve starved, selfish alphas seeking a single, undeserved prize. 

In theory, his expectations aren’t all that far-fetched. In a time before, they may have been a reality. When there was no order. When creatures with perceived power could take and take, and others would be remiss to challenge them. 

But here, in the haven he occupies, those expectations are mere theatrics. 

Here, the air is frighteningly quiet, save for the joyous voices in the distance, the whistle of the breeze. He’s aware of the sound of his boots crunching against the ground, how the weight of them seems to melt into the earth with each daunting step. They follow after lighter, fluttering tip-toes; a scared, scampering thing on the run from all that could harm her. Alone.

Vulnerable. 

The closer he follows, the clearer your labored huffs reach his ears. The aroma in the air loses its earthy notes and adopts the sweetness you shed. A trail of seeds yet to sprout, bathed in moonlight, beckoning him closer. A single lantern is left lit on the cottage steps, a beacon. You clamber up them two at a time, and in tandem, his careless foot snaps a twig beneath his boot. 

Your head whips around, sharp eyes pinning daggers to his chest.

“I ain’t here to hurt you.” 

He puts his hands up in careful defense, leaving the vast space of the porch steps between you. Your chest is heaving and your temples are already damp. Your eyes have glossed over, a crazed look, and he knows the fever has taken the reins. 

But there is no urge to pounce. No incessant need to satisfy a selfish craving. It’s there, it lives, but it does not drive him the way he always suspected it would. It’s evicted from the home of fears that feed on his consciousness, and in its place, emerges something just as innate. As plain and clear as all other parts of him he once tried to diminish. 

“What do you need?” he asks softly, carefully. Unprotected prey are easily spooked. 

Your eyes dart every which way, searching for the complimentary predators. They glisten with tears under the porch lights, sweat reflecting off your forehead the more you lose yourself, and he knows that you’re afraid. He can feel it. 

“Omega,” Joel commands, and your wide eyes snap right back to him. Drawn to him and all that he is. If his instincts weren’t so hellbent on curbing your fears, he would’ve scolded himself for abusing such a power. “What do you need?” he repeats, a bit more pointedly. 

He watches the way your throat constricts when you swallow, brows twitching together in study of him. Searching for some ulterior motive, no doubt, but the trepidation is brief. Your nostrils flare in deep inhalation, and he wonders what remedy he must exude to ease you so effortlessly. 

You trust him. 

A terrifyingly naive mistake. 

And yet, there is no denying the way his chest swells with pride and how the monster inside of him roars to life. 

“Keep the rest of them away,” you say finally, and it’s all he needs to hear. The rest is second nature. 

He nods dutifully, lingering at the bottom of the steps. He waits until you blink the haze out of your darkening eyes, giving him a final once over, and scramble the door open and shut, before he climbs to the top of the steps. He turns his back to the door, his arms crossed over his chest like they had been while he watched you through the fire, his eyes forward—focused. An unmatched mode of protection activates. He hears the deadbolt lock, and he’s grateful for your diligence. Though he knows it’s useless. Every alpha in a ten-mile radius would smell you within minutes. 

And that smell. 

It’s only now that he notices its potency. It grows and swells the longer you’re hidden inside; waves of vanilla and citrus that are almost too sweet. They burn his nose. Coat the back of his throat in thick tar, making it impossible for him to swallow without a taste of you. 

The beast grows, a second skin now. It occupies him further as each moment passes by. His fingers twitch, his own brow dampens, and an unrelenting ache settles low in his stomach. 

He gruffs out a breath, shaking his head rapidly. He needs to keep it together. He needs to move. 

He’s stalking the perimeter in a craze, eyes and ears on high alert. He leaves his mark behind wherever he can, brushing up against trees, allowing the dense pheromones that seep out of his skin to pollute the air. It isn’t foolproof, but it’s enough to dampen the sweet nectar radiating off your walls, at least for a time. 

He starts to panic when he finally hears the first little moan slip through the walls. A soft, restless thing, and the ache in his gut flourishes, threatening to send him to his knees. He seeks purchase on the rail of the porch, having made his way back to the door. He squeezes his eyes shut. This cannot be happening. 

Clarity becomes overshadowed by instinct, and the ache expands into his chest, his fingertips, his toes. It’s been years, and the onset is no less overwhelming. He’ll do what he can to prolong it, ensure that he is of his right mind when the height of the fever takes you. He can’t imagine what he’ll do, otherwise. 

But his patience is tested. The soft scratch beyond the front door makes sure of it. 

His ears perk up and his nostrils flare. He can make out a faint creak, weight shifting. Palms to the panes, a body pressing against the wood. Warmth seeps through the cracks. 

“Joel?” 

There you are. 

His body carries him up the steps–he doesn’t have to think about moving. His muscles and joints, his very soul seem to be linked to your command. He stands with his toes pressed to the bottom of the door, and it’s getting harder to breathe. Harder to discern what’s right in front of him. He squeezes his eyes shut. 

“I’m here.” 

Your breath wavers, a sigh of relief. He zeros in on what he can make of you through the barrier, the last shred of sanity. 

“I’m sorry,” you finally croak, and his eyes shoot open, brows laced in confusion. 

“You have nothin’ to be apologizing for–”

“No, I do,” you press, and the words come with great difficulty. Heavy and strained, as if it is critical you say them now. 

Perhaps it is. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knows it’s only a matter of time before you’re not entirely yourself. Before he won't be able to get a coherent answer out of you, when every action you take relies solely on relief. 

He’ll take the opportunity to listen to what you have to say while you still can. You seem to realize it too as your words start to pour out, staggered and rushed:

“I know I’ve done something… something to upset you for all this time, and—and I’m sorry. Whatever it is, I’m sorry, and I’ll fix it. I’ll fix it, Joel. I promise. Just please—”

“Stop that.” 

He can't even begin to believe what he’s hearing. Can’t possibly fathom the damage he’s caused, all he’s insinuated with his behavior, his choices. 

Him. He is to blame. 

Yet, you’re the one near tears. You’re the one who begs for forgiveness, where no plea nor apologies need be. You’ve convinced yourself, or rather, he’s indoctrinated you into believing you are the one to blame. 

That you are the monster. 

And oh, does it make his blood boil with well-acquainted self-loathing. 

“You don’t—you haven’t—”

Now he’s the one sputtering. Where does one find the words to right infinite wrongs? 

You’ve reached an impasse, and this is surely the desperation speaking. He’ll have to be the level headed one, steer you in the right direction. A chance to redeem himself, as great a feat it’s proving to be. He musters up the courage, sets his pride aside. 

“You ain’t done nothin’ wrong, you hear me?” His lips are near pressed against the wood, seething through them, desperate for you to latch on to each painful word. “You needa know that, all right? You… you ain’t the one to blame here.” 

The admission is ash on his tongue. Speaking it aloud, bringing it to life. His ears strain for any sign of you, fallen silent. Something inside possesses the urge to break clean through the wood. 

“Help me.” 

Forgiveness. Guilt welded to his chest now shattered and set free by the capabilities of kindness. You hardly know one another, and yet, there is mutual understanding. An agreement that surpasses time, bonded to what you’re made of. 

“Alpha,” you call, and Joel has to brace himself against the frame to keep from falling. His chest beams, his belly stirs, and the sting of desire plagues him. “Please.” 

He had read about the process once, long before. Disorientation. Excruciating aches that make it nearly impossible to stand upright. A tingling sensation so intense, that it replicates that of burning on the skin. 

Pain. 

You’re in pain, and he knows he can stop it. 

And soon enough knowing turns to needing, and he can feel a fraction of the pain you’re enduring. It’s enough to shatter his resolve. 

A heavy hand rests on the doorknob. A beat. And then, as if on cue, he hears the deafening sound of the deadbolt unlatching. 

He hesitates, opportunity served on a golden platter. Sifts through the repercussions of what could follow. But when the door opens and shuts again, he’s on the other side of it. The lock latches, this time, under his own hand. 

You’ve shuffled your way back from the door. Standing, though by the looks of it, with great difficulty. You’re no longer in your pretty summer dress, but a t-shirt large enough to swallow you and little shorts so short he can smell right through them. 

Even from a distance, his height climbs above you in the way only predators leverage prey. But he knows you’re unafraid. He can sense your fascination with him just by observing you; it’s as plain as the air he breathes, something intrinsic and right as hard as he’s worked to deem it wrong. It’s in the way that you stiffen, your body having no other choice than to respond to him. Wide eyes appraise every inch of him, and you trouble your bottom lip with your teeth in a spot he would very well like to taste. 

The aroma is suffocating; it seeps into his pores and wraps its eager hands around his throat. He won’t be able to rid himself of you for days, even if he tries. 

He’s grown pompous, it seems. For the thought of those he passes enduring a whiff of you on his skin stirs his cock in his jeans. The idea that awakens him, the prospect of becoming his. 

“I’m scared,” you hiccup, and he suddenly remembers he has greater things to tend to. 

He has a million questions, torn between action and rationale. 

When was the last time this happened? Do you have enough supplies prepared? How long is it expected to last? 

But none of that matters right now. She matters. And she needs you. 

“I know, baby.” He’s terrified, and the words spill out. “But you’re gonna get through it, ya hear me?” He takes another step closer. “We’re gonna get through it.” 

And there is a glimmer in your eyes, that of hope, and he knows that he is powerless in this battle he’s fought against himself for so long. He’s only prolonging the inevitable. 

“You’ll help me?” It's all pleas and hope and teetering near the symphony of begging, but he can’t hear you beg. He can’t bear the sound nor the implication, as he’s certain it will ruin him. But: “Please,” you whimper, plucking his kryptonite out of thin air and wielding it against him. And it’s only then that he notices the way your thighs tremble together, desperately searching for some sort of friction. “It hurts.” 

And he loses, loses the fight. He is lost to you. He always has been. 

“Turn around,” he beckons, and you obey him because you’re good. You’ll be so good for him. 

Because you know exactly what she needs. 

The floorboards creek beneath his feet, and when he reaches you, fingers drag the bulk of your hair over one shoulder. He watches the muscles flex below his touch, the way your hands ball into tight fists at your sides. He’s hit with the overwhelming scent of your exposed gland, and his mouth waters. 

Focus, the thing inside him chastises. You’ll have plenty of time to taste. 

He takes a final step, flushing the front of his chest with your backside. Greedy hands latch on to your waist, followed by the slump of your body into him. Your head lolls back onto his shoulder, and your lips part in a sigh—a pretty little sound, though he’s determined to alleviate the burden it stems from.

He reaches for one of your fists, taking you by the wrist. Your fingers unfurl upon his touch, and he uses it as an opportunity to fold his own overtop your knuckles. He guides your joint hands, settling them low over your belly. 

“Show me,” he murmurs, dipping his head to the crook of your neck. His lips dance over the skin, and your legs begin to tremble. He keeps the hand at your hip firm, an anchor. “Show me where it hurts.” 

Your breath catches and your eyelids flutter, half-open. Your fingers squeeze around his, and without hesitation, he squeezes back. He’s here. He’s got you. He won't let you go. 

And with that reassurance, hands descend, following your lead. You claw away the t-shirt hem, idling above the waistband of your shorts before sinking underneath. A low growl rumbles in his chest at his findings, muffled into your hair. You comb his fingers through soft curls, the flesh below hot and throbbing. Together, you cup the little seam of your cunt, and Joel has to fight the urge to fall to his knees, pry you open here and now. 

You’re dripping. Warm slick pools in his hand, sticky against your thighs. He feels a pulse of it spill out of you when his fingertips prod at your hole, your back arching off his chest, another devastating gasp of air choking you. 

He’s already dizzy, high on the fumes of you. He shuts his eyes when his vision begins to blur. And he’s hard. So achingly stiff against your back, if he thinks about it for too long, he's sure to lose control. You’ll send him into a full blown rut, he’s certain of it. Likely, you already have, teetering at the edge. And as these minutes tick, the less time he has to prepare you. To warm you up and slather you in pleasure before brute nature runs its course. 

“Joel,” you whine. His eyes flash back open, pupils doubled in size.

“Bedroom. Now.” 

He releases you, but only after giving a handful of your ass a terse squeeze. You squeal, nearly leaping out of his touch. You flash him your eyes only once before tiptoeing forward, and he’s hot on your heels, stalking after you. Patience drowned deep, mangled by desire. 

Your room is to be expected, cozy and warm, entirely you. Under any other circumstance, he’d have more appreciation for the homemade candles and delicate tapestries, the various posters displaying your interests and the native plants you’ve taken the care to pot and house. 

But he’s immediately drawn to your mattress, the piles of pillows and blankets strewn about in a fashion only you are to understand. You’ve been busy since you left him on the porch. 

You stop a few feet shy of the bed, glancing over your shoulder at him, uncertain. There’s a shift in your aura, suddenly grown timid. There’s a guilty sort of gleam in your eyes, but he recognizes it for what it really is—shame. That you cannot control your erratic breathing, or the heat that creeps over your brow. That your body faces the impulse of preparation for something beyond your control, and now, you’re forced to lay it bare for him to witness. 

He holds no judgment, only empathy. There is beauty in this vulnerability, and for the first time, he understands the gravity of your trust in him. Something in the shape of fulfillment blooms. 

“Here?” he asks, nudging his chin toward the heap. 

You nod once, and he shrugs the flannel off his shoulders. An offering, and you accept it wordlessly, eagerly. You eye it in your hands, then him, back again, hesitant. You’re shy now that he’s indulged you.  

That’s alright. She just needs you to take your time with her. 

Finally, you slowly bring the wad of it up to your nose and inhale. Your eyes droop shut, lashes kissing the apples of your cheeks, and his chest beams with pride at the notable fall of your shoulders. Tension evades you, replaced with the comfort of his scent. His. 

“Go on,” he instructs gently, once he has your eyes again. He wishes he could peer inside your head, decipher the wary thoughts that live so plainly on your face. 

Nonetheless, you shuffle your way to the mattress, carefully crawling on top of it. It’s painfully adorable, the way you gnaw at your bottom lip and analyze the space, his flannel still clutched in your fist. 

He also recalls reading about this, how it’s imperative that your space be designed to your exact liking. The assistance of a trusted alpha’s scent is a surefire way to heighten comfort. 

So when you drape his flannel over the pillow you lay your head upon at night, and tuck it in tight around the edges, he’s overcome with a mighty wave of emotion. He is strengthened, his affliction no longer a weakness, but a gift. A means of sustaining your well-being. He almost feels unworthy. Almost. But when you sit up on your knees at the edge and give him those expectant eyes, he imagines what it would be like to rid the town of the eleven other hungry beasts who could have ended up outside your door. So that they may never get a breath of you. 

That they may never touch what’s his. 

He approaches with caution—slowly, toeing off his boots in the process, fighting every urge to pounce. Droplets begin to roll down your temples, and he thinks you’re the most beautiful like this; wild eyes, a little frenzied. Awaiting some treat like a starved puppy who's already forgotten how to chew, how to swallow. He will remedy this. He’ll feed you, satiate you. 

You’re an antsy little thing now, nearly bouncing up and down, toes curling and uncurling beneath you. And as soon as his shins meet the bed frame, you’re rising on your knees, nearly his height now. You study one another and the heat between you, the uneven breath and the palpable compulsion to touch. His brows rise on his forehead, surprise, when you reach out first. Shaky, dainty hands coming to rest upon his shoulders that glow under your willing gesture. 

He can’t help himself; his hands splay over your ribcage, curving around your lungs, and yanking your chest against his. You yelp out, but the tiny grin that follows on your lips and the way you wind your arms around his neck flash a million green lights. He can hardly keep up, and he realizes now he’s the one panting; his fingers bruise into your skin, and his tongue seems to swell three sizes with need, starvation.  

And he hesitates, because if he proceeds, he’ll finally know the sensation of kissing you. He’ll have a taste of you. He’ll understand what it means to have your body pressed against his, and how the scent of him will change, saturated by pieces of you. 

But it’s you and your willingness to be so kind, so undeniably what you are, that breaks him from the mold he’s cast. You scratch him gently just below his ear to get his attention, and his worried eyes find yours—a pure contradiction, only certainty and peace to be found. 

It’s alright. She’s ready for you. 

This voice is different, warped. A mixture of two. He’s not sure if he hears it from him, or you. 

He doesn’t care. 

His lean into the kiss is measured, but it’s not long before it descends into madness. You’re wound and fiery against him, clawing at the nape of his neck, baring tongue and teeth. He’s willing, eager to keep up, bending you at the small of the back and crowding over you. Licking you open and shoving his tongue between your lips, until the sharp sounds of saliva echo through the room and his palate is coated in sweetness. 

He loses himself a bit, winding a hand up your back until it’s latching around tendrils of hair and pulling taut. You gasp, arching into him, and he growls at the opportunity of more of you, to taste all of you. 

His lips clamber down your throat, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses in their wake. You’re mumbling something, indescribable under the mask of your flourishing heat, but the pliancy of your body is all he needs to make way for instinct. 

When he reaches the base, the tip of his nose traces your clavicle, sniffing like a mad dog. He continues up the curve of your neck until he finds the rough little patch behind your ear. Here, he inhales deep, audibly; your scent is most potent here and it clouds his judgment. His tongue juts out from his lips, salivating, searing across the gland and sealing his invasion with a gentle kiss, and oh, you like that. He hears the strangled sound that rips through your throat, feels your sharp nails dig deeper into his skin and the weight of your body shuddering against him. 

He yanks at the hem of your t-shirt. “Arms up.” 

You heed his command, and he pulls the fabric over you, tossing it into oblivion. 

He’s got you on your back, sprawled amongst the nest of your things and his, in no time. He sinks to his knees, huffing at the stiffness of them. He bullies himself between your shaking thighs and drags his paws across your torso. He cups both of your tits in an unforgiving grasp, heaving himself forward and suctioning his lips around one. You howl and pant, pain and pleasure, weaving fingers through his locks of hair and tugging just as hard as he sucks. He switches to the other, leaving welts behind, memories of his ardor. 

He wants them to linger. Knowing that he can’t mark you—won’t, not while you’re like this—in the way he longs to. A greedy act of ownership he hopes will ward off the others until he can map out this newfound territory. 

Your thighs suffocate his hips, radiating warmth. He feels the little gyrations of your hips, seeking friction, and he can’t find it in himself to deny you any longer. He licks a trail down your sternum, the tangy taste of fever, peppering kisses over your belly. His fingers curl over the waistband of your shorts, taking two fistfuls, and he rips them in two. Joel doesn’t think you’ve even noticed the destruction, already pawing needy hands across his shoulders to guide him where you need him most. 

Your legs part instantly, willingly, and his mouth drops open at the sight. He’s suddenly reminded of his own struggle, his cock seeming to swell another size in his jeans at the sight of your bare, swollen cunt. Creamy liquid coats your wet skin, pearly clit swollen and wanting. He rests a cheek upon your inner thigh, latches his hands around the outer to keep you steady, and admires. Lets his eyes fall shut and leans in, burying his nose in the soft curls on your mound. He inhales long and groans; the earthy musk, the inviting sweetness. 

“God, look at this pretty fuckin’ hole.” He starts blathering aloud, but you smolder under his praise. Bucking your hips and grabbing at all the bits of him you can find. “This all for me, Omega?” 

Yes, yes, yes, you pant, speaking with your body and your mouth, nodding so frantically. He enjoys the way your cunt flutters around nothing, each little pulse oozing another drop of sweet slick, coaxing him in. 

He wets his lips, takes another whiff of you. He’s certain he’ll lose his mind if he doesn’t taste you, so he does. Flattens his tongue against your impatient pussy, and watches as you all but combust when he suckles up the nectar seeping out, all for him. 

It’s more heavenly, more euphoric than he could’ve imagined. The stain of you against his tongue, ambrosia, a remedy for all ailments. He laps into you, dehydrated and desperate for every drop, smearing his tongue all over your cunt, your mound, your thighs. A feast for the taking. 

You wail above him when his lips latch onto your clit, and heavy hands force your thighs back against the mattress—he needs you spread, and still. Needs you to understand the severity of this famine he’s experienced for so long; maybe, as long as he’s existed. You yank at his hair and your heels dig into his back, pushing and pulling all at once, and when he finally comes up for air, he’s feeding you his fingers. Catches your eyes and the way they grow when he sinks two, thick digits inside of you, groaning at the squeeze of your plush walls, ripe and ready for him. 

“Gonna open you up for me, darlin’,” he rasps, lips and cheeks and chin gleaming with you. You hastily prop yourself up on your elbows, getting a view of the way he learns you. Moonlight glows across sheen skin, angelic. 

“B-but Joel—” you whine, but he silences you with a thrust of his fingers, curving them up, up, up, and beaming when your legs jerk and your eyes roll back. He taps his fingertips against the spongy little spot he’s discovered.

“Hush, now,” he bites, but his taunting fingers promise a better outcome than his tone. Your head has already fallen back into the pillows, hands mindlessly grabbing and twisting the sheets around you. “M’gonna open you up, get you nice and ready to take me.” He starts his steady pace then, gradually pulling his fingers back and rocking them forward, maintaining the hook, searching for the sweet little spot that makes you cry out every time he bumps it. “You’re gonna be patient, let me make it all better, yeah?” 

“Yes, Alpha. Yes, yes.” 

He’d be lying if he said he doesn’t enjoy this descent into submission. How the further you slip away from him, the further he is from himself. Two parts of a whole lost to what nature made them, somehow, finding one another to latch onto. 

He leans into it. Embraces it. He needs to make this last. Take advantage of all that it is, fearing it may be the first and only time he’ll be lucky enough to have it. 

A heavy hand, his free one, presses against your lower belly. He can feel the drag of his fingers inside of you, just below his palm, sending his blood to a boil. Sweat graces his own brow; these are shared symptoms, that of your fever and his rut. Cosmic, burning from the inside out, like stars. Everything he is, created for you. 

He can feel the wave, the buildup of pressure in your gut that makes his own ache. Feels the wet tip of his cock in his jeans when you start to pant his name, when a flimsy hand reaches for the flannel you tucked away so neatly, and yanks it toward your face. Smothering yourself with it, shoving your nose to his scent. 

“Alpha—nghh!” 

“C’mon, baby. C’mon,” he chants; a mantra. Presses harder onto your burning belly, extends his thumb to circle over your throbbing clit in time with his flexing wrist. 

Your body seizes, soft, full breasts rising and falling as you desperately gulp the air. Your poor legs tremble so hard, you can’t keep them upright anymore without his help, so they drape over his shoulders. Squeeze them tight, claws nearly drawing blood against his scalp, and your pussy sucks him into the knuckle. Grips on like a vice before the wave crashes, and you’re gushing around his fingers. Crying out ecstasy, soaking his chin, his chest, your limp legs. 

“Fuuuck,” he’s growling, in awe of the little spurts of cum that keep flowing out of you with each measured jingle of his digits. He wants to see how much he can drain you before he removes them, how much pretty, perfect, omega slick you’ll make for him, every drop an homage to your yearning for what he’s preparing to give you. The thing that swells, and aches, and burns at the base of his cock, and he can’t help but rub it up against the side of the mattress, desperately seeking some of his own relief. 

You’ve lost yourself entirely now, he knows this. The orgasm he’s granted you sets your full heat into motion, and you’ll require more. Can sense it in the haze of your eyes, the delirious babbling of his name mingled with Alpha, Alpha, please. Tears coating your cheeks, an emptiness in the pit of you only he can fill. 

But one taste isn’t enough, and he’s greedy. Greedy, greedy alpha of a man, who needs more. Can’t help it as he watches the liquid pour from around his fingers, so he unsheathes them, quickly replacing them with his open mouth again to drink the goodness right out of you. A fountain of excellence he’s certain he’ll never tire of. 

He must be lost in this, the incessant need to quench his thirst, for some time. Because you start to whine and thrash below him, strings of pleas and sorrow alike. Pulling at his t-shirt, trying to tear it from him at this awkward angle. Telling him over and over that it hurts, Alpha, it hurts—and that just won’t do. 

He quickly replaces your wandering fingers, tugging his shirt up and off of him and retreating to his feet to battle with his belt buckle. You jolt up at this, suddenly alert, perching at the edge of the mattress, wet hair sticking to your face, eyes taking a curious path down bare skin. 

There’s a momentary wave of self-consciousness; he can’t remember the last time a woman saw him naked, let alone after the safety and comfort that Jackson provided. 

He’s aged. Gained a few pounds in his belly, muscles bulky and lined with fat instead of the lean mass they once were. But then, you place your palms on his chest. Flutter your eyes up at him as you glide your hands slowly over his torso, and make sure he’s watching when you lean forward and press a chaste kiss to his sternum. His eyes go dark, his insecurity silenced. 

“Wanna taste it, Alpha,” you demand, voice breaking at the edges. Sounding simultaneously foreign and never more like yourself. Shaky fingers reach down, cupping him through his boxers, making his dick jump, and he sucks the air through his teeth. “Can I taste it, please?” 

He grins down at you, because yeah, you’re good. So good. So polite. Just like he knew you would be. Good, kind, generous little omega, too much so for her own good. You rake at his bare chest, start to palm him slowly, batting dangerous eyes up at him. So tempting. He reaches down, takes your chin between his fingers, and pets your bottom lip with his thumb. Hoping to soothe away disappointment. Because as much as he wants to be selfish, he needs to be inside of you. 

“No time for that now, sweet baby. Not this time. Wanna give it to you somewhere else.” He drops his hand, splaying his fingers low over your abdomen. “Right in here, huh? Isn’t that what you want?”

Oh, yes. Yes, it is. You nod up at him, frantic, mouth hung open and drool spilling out the sides. Ravenous thing you are, just as hungry as he. 

“C’mere. Let me help you.” 

He’s got you by the hips, lowering you properly back against the pillows. He shuffles out of his boxers, and you watch him, dazed; your fingers in your mouth, chewing on them. Knees up to your chest, thighs rubbing back and forth, slipping so easily with all the pretty slick he’s pulled out of you. 

Vulnerable little creature you are, you welcome him into your nest. Pull your fingers out from your teeth and extend them towards him, and spread your legs for him to settle his mass between. And when he does, there’s a shared sounding of pleasure. He sits back on his heels, guiding the weight of his heavy cock over your cunt, and fuck, if you aren’t just perfect like this. 

Your body burns, a fire he must extinguish. He leans forward, exasperating you a bit when he drapes his weight over you, caging you in with elbows on either side of your head. His knees still cradle your ass, and he uses the mounted leverage to grind his cock against you. He huffs, his knot blazing, painful and stiff, and his gut is on fire. You’re so warm, so wet, and he slips so easily between you. He can’t help but growl out when you begin to meet his thirst with needy rocks of your own. 

Your eyes droop shut, hands seeking purchase on his shoulders, and he uses his to cradle each side of your scalp. He presses his forehead to yours, captures your parted lips in a searing kiss. 

“You’re gonna give me another one,” he mumbles, drawing back from you, reaching for his stiff cock and gripping it tight. His eyes drop to where you’re nearly connected, so close. You glisten along his shaft, and he uses it to rub the angry tip of him back and forth over your folds, parted petals that threaten to suck him in each time he catches on the opening. He taps it on your tender clit; you quiver and clench, wailing out frustration. 

“N-no please—please,” you beg, eyes brimming with tears again. You slide your hands underneath his arms, digging your nails under his shoulder blades. “Please put it inside me, Alpha. Please, please.” 

“You can do it, baby.” 

“I can’t, please. I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” 

And you do. You chase the high vigorously. The jerks of your hips follow him, taking great precision in the way he slides his shaft up and down your swollen little seam, paying special attention to your clit. He can feel the way it jumps and throbs, all the juices flowing out of you dowsing over him, dripping down onto his knot. 

He can’t look away, an obscenely beautiful sight. And the next time you quiver, clench around nothing, and call out his name, he just can’t help himself. 

He slips inside of you with one, tenacious thrust. Met with no resistance, only warmth and fullness. Your entire body goes rigid, eyes bulged and lips hung open in surprise, before relaxing entirely. You melt into him, the fury of your need thawing with his gift, and you sigh a beautiful sound of reprieve. Vanilla melds with leather, interwoven, and he knows he’s ruined you for any others. 

And he. He’s sweating, and panting, and the shudder won’t leave his spine. He’s never felt anything quite like it, the flutter of a fertile omega’s cunt around his cock. He was dreaming before, and now he’s awake. Startled by all that is perfectly right. 

“That’s it, sweetheart. That’s it.” He rolls his hips once, the tip of him bruising your cervix, and you sigh his name. “Promised I’d make it all better, yeah?”

You use the leverage of his shoulders to crane your neck up, pressing your forehead to his. Your thighs straddle his ribcage, clinging to him, needy little pet that you are. 

“S-so full, Alpha. It’s so big.” 

“I know, baby. I know,” he coos. “But look.” He parts with a fleeting kiss to your chin, sitting back on his heels and dropping his gaze to where you’re connected. A thick ring of cream sits above his knot, and it pulses at the sight. “Look how well she’s taking me.” 

You shakily bring yourself to your elbows, peering with drunken eyes and O-shaped lips. Your brows knit at the center of your forehead, and the precious, fucked-out look you cast up is enough to send him into motion. 

He grunts, wrapping his hands around your hips and yanking your bum up and onto his thighs. His pace is slow but deep, focused on kissing your womb with every thrust. Now that he’s inside of you, he can focus on nothing but the result. How imperative it’s become that he fills you. Satiate the ache by pumping you with his seed. He bares his teeth, images of his spend dripping out of you flashing before his eyes. He needs it. Chases it with fury, a conquest. But he won’t let it go to waste. No, he needs to knot you. Be certain that every drop of it touches your womb. How it would feel to have you latched to him, the prospect of its ramifications—a swollen belly, a piece of you carrying a part of him—sounding nothing but appealing.  

“JoelJoelJoel.” You’re repeating his name like a prayer, looking at him with such devotion. 

He’s picked up his pace, instinctive. Hard enough now that your flimsy mattress springs squeak, and the headboard thumps against the wall. You’ve fallen back into your pillows, your hands coming up to knead and pull at your breasts, and fuck, if it doesn’t gratify him to see you lean into the pleasure. 

He knows you're close when the tears at your waterline begin to stream down your cheeks. He scoots you further up his thighs, places a heavy hand back on your belly, and sure enough, on his next thrust, he can feel the bulbous tip of his cock through the skin. He grits his teeth, and he knows you must feel it too because you gasp as if he’s committed some sort of crime, shock and disbelief. 

“Feel you—haa—in-in my stomach, Alpha.”

“That’s right, baby,” he grunts. “In your fuckin’ guts. Just where you needed me.” 

His thumb drops to your clit, circles it with the rhythm of his thrusts, and makes you sing. There isn’t, and he’s sure there never will be, anything like the way you feverishly clench around him. Actively trying to suck him in, the steady flow of tears and cum, your incoherent babbles, beyond your control. He needs you closer, he needs to saturate you with every part of him. 

He rolls onto his back, scooping you into his chest and dragging you along with him. Gets you good and propped on his bent legs before he drives up into you. You collapse onto his chest, desperate hands clinging to his pecs. You burrow your nose into his neck, and he nearly bursts at the seams when you tease your teeth across his beating gland. 

“One more,” he seethes, bouncing you up and down with a great force; you needn’t even help him. He takes palm-fulls of your ass, secures the reins. Your hips will bruise by morning, but he doesn’t care. It’s worth the desperation in the way you cling to him, call to him. “Give me one more, Omega, and I promise I’ll give you what you need.” 

You wail out, half protest, half pledge, and you’re actively clamping down on him. Working your tight cunt over his shaft, milking him closer and close to the shining edge, and he feels his belly begin to boil. His head pounds and his gland aches, and as soon as you release again, unable to curb yourself from the pleasure he vows, the voice worms its way back into his ear. Chanting now, now, now. 

He spills into you with a mighty roar, stuffing his knot up inside of you as soon as it expands. He digs his teeth into your shoulder, pushes your hips further, and further down, nowhere else to go, but he has to be sure he’s filled you tight. That he can keep you here, locked onto him for as long as it takes to eradicate the delirium, as many times as you need him to fill your fertile little womb. 

And you come again, all from just this. Tight, soft, and bruised, you clamp around his knot as if you’re worried you’ll lose it. And he squeezes his eyes shut at the overstimulation, bites on his tongue to curb the pain, and lets it flourish in glorious pleasure. His cock releases another string of cum, and Joel groans. 

You’re hardly lucid on his chest, trembling, breathing heavily. One of your hands wraps around his sticky shoulder, clutching into his skin, trying to steady yourself. He works carefully to soothe you, to nurture the heavy come down, and avoid a dangerous drop. He scoots himself up the mattress, taking you with him until you’re both comfortably propped against the headboard; there’s no telling how long you’ll be united like this, but he has no intention of rushing it. He drags his large palms over the length of your spine, litters kisses along your hairline, and you both share a whining sound each time he stiffens and spurts inside of you. He allows his eyes to shut, focusing on steadying his breath, the sound of your beating heart. 

Eventually, your body settles. You start to breathe evenly again, grow limp, purring little sounds of contentment. He lifts a hand to push away the hair that sticks to your cheeks, and you reach for it, latching your bony fingers around his wrist. You nuzzle your nose into his palm and wrap your lips around two of his fingers. He lets you suck on them like this for a while, humming, the salty taste of him seeming to quiet your nervous system and ease you back into a state of equilibrium. 

There will be consequences for what’s transpired here. The post-euphoric clarity lays his transgressions bare and forces him to examine them. He feels, quite regrettably, the return of war. That between himself and his nature, though here and now, they are far more intertwined than they’ve ever been. 

He has a decision to make, one that months, days, hours ago seemed so clear. That he will not give way for the monstrosity he harbors, if only to save you from a lifetime of horror and regret. 

But the hours, minutes, seconds have passed, and they dwindle to this moment where he realizes, almost jarringly, how wrong he may have been. That the great fight against what nature bestowed him retreats within your stronghold. The worry is silenced, the weight lifted, the burden removed. He isn’t a soldier, but a man. 

Only a man. So simple, and so freeing. 

“Stay with me?” you mumble as if you can read his mind, letting his fingers slip from your lips, and already drifting to a place somewhere deep between sleep and wake. It’s a single question worth a million, holding the weight of your existence, the entire world. 

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows that if he stays, no amount of self-control will prevent him from indulging your needs over and over again. He knows how brittle his distaste is—was, a façade—and how quickly he will devote himself to you. 

You’re all he would require to live and breathe. 

Most terrifying, he knows the primal urge will only continue to spread. And for some purpose far beyond him, while he’s coated in your scent and slick and the haven of your arms, he won’t be able to find a reason to stop himself from sinking his teeth into that sweet spot upon your neck. 

He doesn’t deserve your forgiveness, your kindness, you. You’re a chance at redemption, something he is certain he relinquished decades ago. You’re an opportunity, an outlet to release his grief, his anger, his hatred for this world and his place in it, and turn it into devotion, protection. 

He doesn’t deserve it. 

But the way you look at him now, head nuzzled against his chest, pupil-blown eyes the picture of vulnerability, it satisfies the beast. Sets every nerve ending on fire. Tugs him forward frighteningly taut, unable to recoil. 

You look at him like you need him. 

And he needs to be needed. It’s all he’s ever wanted. 

“Alright,” he whispers. “I’ll stay.”