Archive of Our Own ^beta

💐

“You can handle that, can’t you?” Joni Thrombey looks at you expectantly down the thin line of her nose. You can see she’s waiting for confirmation, and you grit your teeth as you nod.

“Of course. A… swarm of butterflies to be released as you walk down the aisle.”

“But before I make it to the altar,” Joni leans in, her beady eyes resting intently on yours. “I mean, the vibe will be all wrong if it’s after, you know what I mean?” There’s a trail of white from her nose that you doubt she’s noticed, with the way her dilated pupils rest heavily on you. “My last planner had the worst energy. It was always can’t with her.” Her tone is casual, but you know a threat when you hear one, even if it’s dressed in designer jeans and wearing an Hermes scarf. “You’ll be better won’t you?”

I hope I last longer than your last three wedding planners. “I like to think so,” you say jovially, offering her a smile though your insides churn with nervousness. “Butterflies before you get to the altar,” you repeat, jotting it down on your memo pad. You swallow the comment that this is a fall wedding, and that the butterflies will surely die almost as soon as they’re released, but you have a feeling Joni cares less about that than she does her vibe.

“Perfect!” She claps excitedly, sniffing. “And you’ve already been in contact with the caterers and the band, I’m sure,” she replies, and you know it’s a test. You’ve already established yourself as the new point of connection between every business she’s hired and herself. You nod.

“Of course, Mrs. Thrombey.”

“I know it’s a little old fashioned to take your husbands name, we thought we’d try something new, have him take mine instead.” She rambles, you try to nod good naturedly, knowing that it isn’t really her name but her late husband’s, but you don’t dare make the correction, not when you’re a month out from the largest payday of your short career.

“Lemonade?” An older brunette, dressed much more sensibly offers you a glass from a tray. “Or I can get you water, or something else if you like.”

“Oh thank you, Fran,” Joni smiles exxageratedly. “You make the best lavender lemonade. Oh you have to try it,” she turns back to you. “Lavender’s excellent for the skin.”

You only make it through an hour and a half of Joni Thrombey’s rambles, her decidedly un-relatable wealthy anecdotes before you’re excusing yourself to the bathroom just to get away from her.

You’d known the moment you answered her request for a wedding planner that the woman would be difficult, but this was next level. You make your way there slowly, admiring the various pieces of art and history adorning the walls. It doesn’t take you long to realize that you’re turned around when none of the hallways look the same, and the stuffed bear at the other end of  hall seems strikingly unfamiliar.

“Lost?” The snide voice makes you jump, and you turn to see a man looking boredly at you as he leans against the wall. He’s big, arms crossed and blue eyes bright as he takes you in. His blond hair is slicked back, his angular jawline set stiffly.

“I was looking for the bathroom.” You say lamely, and he snorts.

“Sure you weren’t just nosing around?” He asks pointedly, and you narrow your eyes at him. “Walt’s little Lit student groupies usually have more sense than to wander around blindly.” Anger burns hot in your belly, and you clench your fists.

“I’m the wedding planner.” You grit through clenched teeth, watching amusement spread across his handsome face at your irritation.

“Oh. Didn’t know Joni’d already fired Melinda.” He drawls, stalking closer to you. You’re uncomfortable with his imposing presence, his rudeness, and when he looms over you, you take a step back instinctively. Alpha. The scent burns its way into your nostrils and you’re glad for the suppressants that hide your own designation when he leans down. “The bathroom’s that way.” He points. He’s too close, he has to know it’s uncomfortable, the way he leers down at you. “And don’t get lost this time.”

You scurry off in the direction he indicated, your insides turning uncomfortably. You wait in the bathroom for a few minutes, just to be certain the hall is empty before you emerge again. It is, and when you make your way back down to the sitting room, Joni is waiting for you.

“Oh good, you’re back,” she says enthusiastically, before holding up two bolts of fabric. “Now, what energy do these give off?”

By the time the meeting is over, your neck and temples are throbbing, proof of the impending migraine you’ll be facing on the drive back. The sun is already setting, and you sigh, eyeing the rapidly diminishing light through the window. You’d wanted to get home before dark, but that clearly was no longer an option. You sit in your car for a few minutes before starting it, trying to center yourself, when the back of your neck prickles, like someone’s watching you.

When you drag your tired eyes up to the porch, you see the same smug asshole from earlier—Ransom, that’s what Joni said—watching you. You’re half expecting him to saunter up to the car, to rile you up like he did earlier, only he doesn’t. He just… watches you, those cool blue eyes resting heavily on your form.

Even when you’re home, showered and under your blankets with your cat curled up beside your head, you can still feel his eyes on you, smell the spicy scent of his cologne and the ever present Alpha underneath it.

—

The house is a ghost-town when you pull up, the ever present line of expensive cars gone from the driveway, except for a silver BMW, a coupe. Fran greets you at the door, and tells you to wait in the sitting room for Joni.

“They’re at the country club, running a little late.” Fran replies apologetically. “But she’ll be here soon, she said. Just… vibe.” The word sounds strange coming from her mouth, and Fran grimaces, as though it tastes as offputting as it sounds. You laugh.

“I’ll vibe away.” You reply, smoothing wrinkles out of your skirt. You don’t mind the extra time alone, you need it to prepare for Joni’s attitude, and the passing interactions with the rest of her family. You’re not sure what’s worse, Joni’s faux liberal hippy talk about vibes and waves and energy, or the neo-nazi kid who can’t seem to stop staring at your ass.

“Back again?” The drawl makes you swallow thickly. Fran said they were all out…

“I do have a job to do,” you reply curtly, glaring at Ransom in the doorway. “I know that’s a foreign concept to you.”

“Quite,” he agrees, and it makes you even angrier when he smirks at you. “Though I gotta say I can’t really blame you for wanting to milk as much money out of the machine as you can.” You roll your eyes. Best not to engage. You try to ignore him, scrolling aimlessly on your phone as he wanders closer. “You know, you’re not bad looking. Pretty little thing like you should be in her own wedding, instead of planning for others.”

“Some of us like to build things that are ours,” you spit, cutting your eyes at him as he seats himself across the table from you. “Instead of relying marrying the richest asshole available.”

“Oh sweetheart, you wound me,” he replies sarcastically, and you’re angry at yourself for taking the bait, for responding when you know he’s just trying to irritate you. That’s how he is, Joni had said dismissively when you’d told her of your interaction in the hallway. Just don’t let him get to you, and he’ll leave you alone. “I’m not just a rich asshole.” He regards you with interest, and you feel your stomach drop—the complete opposite of what you wanted. “You’re a mouthy little thing for an Omega.”

Your heart hammers in your chest. How does he know that? As if in response to your thoughts, he winks, tapping his nose. “Those suppressants smell like shit,” he runs a tongue over the pointed tips of his canines as he grins wolfishly at you. “But underneath…” he inhales deeply. “Just a hint. A taste.” Suddenly you feel like he’s too close, even though he’s across the table. You feel sweat pooling between your breasts, at your temples, and your skin prickles.

“What, you want a medal for using your nose?” You reply sarcastically, hoping it covers the anxiousness you feel pooling in your gut. It’s too quiet, there’s no one here but the two of you and Fran, and she could be anywhere in or on the massive estate.

And by the glint in his eye, Ransom knows it too.

“No, I want to ruin your prissy little cunt on my knot, fuck that attitude right out of you.”

You can’t hold the shocked little gasp that works out of your throat, and the shit-eating-grin on his face widens. “You’re disgusting,” you spit. “All this money and no class.” You stand from the table abruptly, stalking over to the door. You’ll wait for Joni somewhere else—in your car, on the porch, anywhere so long as Ransom fucking Drysdale isn’t in attendance. You yank the door open—

Only for it to slam shut with force as warmth settles along your back.

You can feel Ransom’s breaths, warm air puffing across the back of your neck. You wish you’d left your hair down this morning, instead of wrestling your mane into a neat bun at the back of your head. Especially when he leans forward, pressing his chest to your back as he forces you flush against the door.

His massive hand is just above your head, and the other rests on the doorknob, his fingers tapping irritatedly against the metal.

“What was that, Omega?” He asks, his voice deceptively soft. “Say it again so I can hear you.” He noses at the side of your throat, inhaling deeply, and you shiver.

“You. Have. No. Class.” You grit out through clenched teeth, your heart pounding in your chest. “Now move.”

“I always thought the equal designation laws were bullshit, you know.” He growls. “All they do is give uppity little Omegas like you ideas.” His hand is hot as it settles on your hip. “But I’ve got to say, it’s a lot more appealing than the simpering, silly little debutantes Linda keeps bringing me.” He squeezes the flesh of your hip, and you whimper. “What’s wrong, sweetheart? Out of snappy little comebacks?”

You are. Your mouth is dry, and your hindbrain is waffling between panic and shameful desire at his closeness. And though you know it’s biology, you’ve nothing to be ashamed about, it settles in you all the same. The sound of a car door alerts both of you to the return of the others, and relief quashes the feeling of helplessness that had begun to spread through you. His grip loosens, and you shove him.

“Hey—!” Ransom shouts, but you pay him no heed, pushing past him and racing out of the sitting room into the hallway. A string of curses follow you out, tears burning hot behind your eyes as you flee. You don’t stop to answer Fran, who calls your name with concern. Joni is on the porch, her arms laden with bags, and she grins at you, hoisting her purchases as though they mean something to you.

“I bought—”

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Thrombey, I, um, something came up. I have to—I have to go.”

“Oh, alright, well, I’ll be in touch about decorations—”

“No problem!” You say quickly, glancing over your shoulder. You don’t see Ransom, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t watching, isn’t there. “I-I’ll be back tomorrow.” You don’t want to come back, not really, but you can’t back out now, not with such a wealthy, well known client. It would mean the end of your wedding planning business, and you’d only just started it.

You don’t wait for Joni to agree, taking the steps two at a time and almost crashing into your car, stiff fingers unlocking the door before throwing yourself inside. It’s only when you’re home, your heart still beating frantically as you lock your apartment door behind you that you feel even a little safe. You can still feel the heat of his hand through your clothes, the press of his chest against your back—

You practically dump out your purse rooting through it for the slim bottle of pills, shaking two out into your trembling hand. You swallow them dry, your stomach clenching. You hadn’t had a real heat in… years, probably, and the thought of Ransom pushing your body hard enough to force the chemicals out of your system makes you shudder as you head to the kitchen for a glass of water.

Your hands are clammy, and you almost drop it twice before settling yourself and drinking it down. You’re already dreading going back tomorrow, seeing him… The urge comes again to flee further, to quit altogether, but you clench your fists. No. You worked hard for this.

You’d done dinky little events with your ex, but nothing on this scale. You even had your eye on a storefront in downtown Boston—this event would give you the money you needed to put down on it, and finally take the next step. Backing out now wasn’t an option. And if you did…

Ransom won.

His goal was to tease you, make you uncomfortable till you quit just because he could, it had to be. He was filthy rich and handsome, there was no reason for him to be scoping out his Aunt’s wedding planner. Hell, you were probably about five years older than his usual fare. You couldn’t even consider the alternative—

That he was actually interested.

It was unthinkable. You heated up some leftovers for dinner, before treating yourself to half a bottle of merlot. You feel braver with the alcohol in your belly, and you vow not to let Ransom run you off. You’ll avoid him—sit in the car until Joni’s available, hang out in the kitchen with Fran—anything to avoid being alone with him.

And I’ll get a refill on my suppressants, too.

—

Your plan actually works. Well, for the most part. Ransom still lurks at the edges of your vision, sitting imposingly while you meet with Joni, running into you in the halls. He’d even blocked your car in once, feigning ignorance at your anger after an hour of waiting on him to move.

Relax, Omega, he’d sneered at you. Not like you have anywhere to be.

But finally, finally, Joni’s wedding day was here, and you’d checked that morning, and your final payment had already been deposited in full. You just needed to get through today. Just show up, make sure everything goes smoothly, and then you go home. Simple enough, right?

You eye yourself in the full length mirror in your bedroom, checking  makeup one last time. You’d dressed to complement the bride’s chosen colors, the dusty pink dress clinging to you in just the right ways. Your hair was piled on top of your head, your curls cascading from a sleek high ponytail that had taken you all night to set and perfect. You weren’t normally a fan of heels, but Joni had politely requested a certain mode of dress, and you didn’t want to stand out.

You grabbed your purse, making sure your phone—and your backup battery and charger—were in there, just in case, before steeling your nerves for the drive out to the Thrombey estate. There were easily two hundred or so guests, and when you’d commented that that was a rather large wedding, Linda had scoffed at you.

It’s a rather small affair, dear, she’d said condescendingly, cigarette smoke curling around her bony fingers. Is it your first event of this size? You gripped the steering wheel hard, gritting your teeth.

Fucking Thrombeys.

Cars were just beginning to crowd into the designated areas, and you lined yours up with the rest before heading inside. The house was in well organized chaos, the catering staff clearing out the dining room and setting up their serving stations, the help positioning and repositioning tables to Linda’s liking as she directed them. You checked in with the chef in the kitchen, lending a sympathetic ear to her complaints—you knew all too well how demanding your clientele was, how impossibly high their standards.

Joni was waiting for you in the sitting room, which had been turned into her own personal bridal boutique. She was chattering excitedly to women you could only assume were the finest friends money could buy as they fawned over her. Playing with her expertly coiffed hair, and turning her sparkling veil this way and that.

“Oh you’re here!” She squeals excitedly, and you manage a convincing smile. “How’s setup going?”

“Congratulations Joni, everything is looking amazing so far.”

“And the butterflies? They’re here already, right? The girls and I were thinking we could get some pictures with them.” You fight the urge to pinch the bridge of your nose.

“They’re here, yes, but I don’t know that the handler will want to open them early. It’s warmest at noon, and they’ll have the best chances to make it further—”

“Yeah, but see we had this vision,” one of the women interrupts you. She already looks half hammered, and you hope she doesn’t make a mess of her bridesmaids gown before the wedding—you didn’t feel like speeding back to Boston to buy another one at Joni’s behest. “Like, we could have a few on Joni’s hair, on her fingers, just like, such a great shot for her insta.” Joni’s nodding along vigorously, her beady eyes bright with excitement.

“Oh, do you think we could get some to land on my bouquet?” She asks excitedly, and you give a pained smile.

“I’ll ask the handler.”

“Pay him whatever he wants,” she says over her shoulder, before returning to the mirror. You swallow thickly, nodding. After all, what were the lives of a few insects to Joni Thrombey’s wedding?

Second wedding. You thought bitterly, shaking your head.

The handler, as you’d thought, was less than pleased, but agreed to part with a dozen or so butterflies if Joni’s little photoshoot was inside. And luckier still, the wedding photographer had arrived almost as early as you had, and was willing to take Joni’s pictures, leaving you blessedly out of the equation. The hours tick by as under your watchful eye, things begin coming together.

The arch outside is beautiful, swaths of silken cloth and living white roses, the chairs all labelled and arranged. And the seating area, with it’s portable gas heaters (for the evening chill that was sure to set in as soon as the sun began to dip), weighted menu cards and name-plates.

“Oh thank goodness,” one of the servers rushes over to you, panting. “We’re out of dishes for the two main tables, but Mrs. Drysdale told me you would know where to get more?” She looks at you hopefully, and you nod.

“Take all the plates off, we’ll use a set from here for each table instead,” you reply, and she snaps to it. “Thank you.”

“It’s my job,” she says, shrugging.

“Yeah, well. I have a feeling you haven’t heard those words enough today. Or at all,” you grumble, and she laughs. You do know where the traditional family dinnerware is located, but only because you’d found the boxes in the attic when Joni had sent you on a mission to find something “interesting” for her “something borrowed”. You locate them again easily, carefully gathering the train of your dress in one hand before hoisting the box. I’ll ask Fran if she can get the other one, you decide, huffing as you lift.

You make your way down the hall to check on the catering staff, your arms laden with boxes of serving utensils and dishes. You can’t see over the top of it, so you focus on the rug. Suddenly, a shiny black loafer appears in view and you curse, stumbling as you narrowly avoid it. You feel someone else lift the box, allowing you to steady yourself.

“Thanks,” you breathe appreciatively. “I—”

“Careful, Omega.” The snide drawl makes you grit your teeth in irritation. “I think they’ll take it out of that measly pay of yours if you break the family heirlooms.” Ransom peers cheekily at you from around the side of the box, and you yank it out of his hands.

“Thanks, I got it.” You spit, attempting to make your way around him. “God-dammit, move!” You stomp your foot in frustration, and to your chagrin he laughs. A deep, belly laugh, his handsome face full of mirth at your expense. Your face burns with embarrassment, and anger makes your stomach tight.

“S’that all it takes to get under your skin?” He purrs. “Omegas. So emotional and sensitive.” Ransom scrubs a hand down his face, straightening his suit jacket, sighing. “Without those suppressants you’d all just be little mewling holes for an Alpha to fuck.” His words make nausea rise in your gullet even as the mating gland in your throat throbs dully.

You hate how you can smell him, the spiced sandalwood aftershave, and the deeper, pinier scent that belongs to just him. You glare at him, sniffing.

“I’ve been waiting a month to say this without getting fired, and now I finally can,” you snap viciously at him, watching his lips press together into a frown. “Fuck you, Ransom.” You shoulder past him into the kitchen, setting down the plates much heavier than you need to. When you look up, everyone is standing stock still. Some people are staring, and others are trying their hardest not to, looking down at their hands. You feel more hot shame creep up your neck—they must have heard you, they had to have. You clear your throat.

“Lets get these plates out to the main tables, shall we?”

One of the servers comes up and begins going through the box, and you step back. The ceremony is set to start in an hour, and you’re already feeling jittery and nervous. Sweat is gathering at your temple, and for a moment you’re altogether too hot. It’s only when you rub at the aching spot between your neck and shoulder that you realize—you need to take another dose.

You excuse yourself from the kitchen, clammy palms rubbing against your arms as you head to Joni’s dressing room for your purse. The room is empty of course, Joni’s down in the garden, taking pictures and preparing to walk down the aisle in about forty-five minutes. There’s blessed silence when you enter, and you close the door behind you. Your bag is where you left it, just to the left of the makeup table, now strewn with products that will likely only see this single use before meeting the landfill.

You grab your bag, unzipping the center pocket—only to find it empty. Weird. You’re not always the most consistent person, so it’s entirely possible you’ve stored your suppressants somewhere else. You unzip another pocket, but that one is empty too. You open every compartment, trying to the panicked thrumming of your heart. It’s fine. They’re here. It’s okay.

You repeat the words to yourself endlessly, even as your movements become frantic, throwing things carelessly out onto the floor as you hyperventilate. “No, no, no,” you moan, thumbs pressing against your temples to ease the growing pressure. You’re on a prescription—and you’ve already used your monthly refill.

This is it until next month.

The thought makes you swallow thickly, bile acid on your tongue. You won’t make it to next month—you won’t even make it to tomorrow without going into heat, not with Ransom pumping out pheromones by the fucking gallon just to fuck with you. You clench your fists.

It’s fine. I’ll just… I’ll get through tonight, and I’ll figure out tomorrow.

It’ll be fine, you assure yourself, pressing a hand to your chest. It’ll be fine, just so long as you stay away from Ransom. His name makes you grimace, and then your eyes widen.

He took them. It’s a theory, a hunch—but you know somehow you’re right. He’d taken your suppressants—he’d even joked about you not having them, it had to be him. Angry tears well hot in your eyes before you blink them away. No. That’s what he wants, for you to be miserable and angry, and thinking of him.

You wonder if there’s someone you can tell, someone who can make him give them back, but the thought dies as easily as its birth. Ransom is nothing if not mulish and petty, and you know he’ll sooner destroy them than give them back. Besides, you’d already seen how well he minded his mother, which wasn’t at all—though you couldn’t necessarily blame him for that one, given who she was.

“It’s fine,” you say aloud, your voice sounding thick with tears even to your own ear. You would be fine tonight if you stayed away from Ransom, and if you left right after dinner, there would be no chance of running into him at all. You knew at least three other Omegas on suppressants, surely one of them had to have a few spare pills. You squared your jaw.

Shouldn’t be too hard, right?-

—

Your nerves are shot all through the service. Joni’s vows are new-age bullshit, but you suppose they’re a little sweet, even if they do mention chakra alignment as a necessity. Her groom, a man you doubt will make it six months in this family, recites equally ridiculous promises, but you can’t deny your relief when they both finally say “I do”, and kiss far too heavily at the altar.

You’d spied Ransom in his seat, though as soon as you’d glanced his way, his eyes found yours and you’d focused elsewhere. But you felt his gaze on you throughout the ceremony, so much so that you doubt he even heard the vows. Even so, you breathe a sigh, pleased that finally the end is in sight for you. Tonight, you’ll go home, and you’ll never even have to think the name Ransom-fucking-Drysdale ever again.

You stood by, helping direct guests to the large, round tables that had been set up on the lawn, a temporary floor put down to keep things straight and upright. Fran approaches you, a small smile on her face as she shows you the joint she’s hidden up her sleeve. You can’t help the laugh that bubbles out of you, and you hide it quickly in your bra, along with the lighter she passes you next.

“Thought you could use a pick-me-up, especially after all this,” she says, gesturing around herself. You’re not much of a smoker, but you’d rather the buzz of the joint than warm alcohol settling in your stomach, so you smile gratefully.

“Thanks.” You’re still jumpy, and though there’s only another couple of hours until dinner service ends, it still feels like an eternity to you. Surely no one will notice your absence, not when the guests have no idea who you are and the rest of the family treats you like wallpaper unless they need something. Fran assures you of the same when you nervously ask her, and she shoos you towards the gardens, where you can hide among the raised hedges.

You excuse yourself gratefully, twirling the joint in your fingers as you head for the innermost benches. You can still faintly hear the music, the sound of voices carrying over the grounds. If you’re quick, you think to yourself, peeking about, you can be back before the first speech ends. You light it, inhaling deeply, and only coughing a little on the exhale.

The weed soothes your frayed nerves, and finally brings a slower tempo to your racing pulse. You take another hit, smoke curling out of your nostrils as you lean back. You tilt your head up, looking at the pink-streaked sky. I hope the butterflies are okay. Your skin prickles, and for a moment you think it’s the evening chill setting in.

“That’s a terrible habit for a lady,” Ransom’s voice makes you snap to attention, your previously attained calm replaced by trepidation. Dry grass crunches under his feet as he rounds the hedge, large hands stuffed into the pockets of his crisply pressed slacks. “Though I don’t know many ladies with such filthy fucking mouths.”

“For the last time Ransom,” you spit, exhaling more smoke. “Fuck off.” You toss the joint onto the ground, crushing it into the dirt with your shoe.

“See? There it is. That goddamn mouth.” The way he says it makes you shiver uncomfortably, and your mating gland gives a little pulse.

“I could say more,” you snarl angrily, getting to your feet. “You stole my suppressants.”

“Hefty accusation, sweetheart.” He says casually, removing a hand from his pocket to inspect his fingernails. “Got any proof?” You don’t, and he knows it. His grin widens. “Then don’t go around spreading such nasty rumors about me. I’ve already got enough of those.” He laughs, and you make to stalk past him. You’ve already wasted too much time with him, you need to—

An arm snakes out, wrapping around your waist with such force that you squeak, almost losing your balance.

“We’re not done talking,” he purrs, and you growl.

“Let me go, Ransom, I’m working.” You hope he can’t feel how fast your heart is beating, that he can’t smell the sour tang your scent begins to take on as nervousness and fear overtake you, but the way his blue eyes darken when he grins down at you, you know he does. “I want to leave!”

“It’s cute you think you have a choice,” he muses, his hands sliding warmly down your sides and over the curves of your hips. You whine, struggling in his grip as he winds your arms behind your back easily, holing your wrists in one large hand as the other traces the shape of your breasts through the silky fabric of your dress.

“You clean up pretty, Omega, I must admit.”

You don’t like the way your vision swims, and all you can smell is him. “L-let go!” You whimper, tugging at your wrists uselessly.

“Stay still.” He orders, and your body goes motionless without your permission. If you’d had more suppressants in your system, you might have resisted—but he knows you don’t.

That’s why he took them.

Your eyes go wide and fearful as he leers down at you.

“Oh look. You finally caught up. Good job, sweetheart, I know no one likes admitting when they’re fucked.” He runs a finger down your jawline, tipping up your chin.

“You know, I never saw the appeal in an Omega.” His thumb traces across the seam of your tightly closed lips. “I mean, the control thing gets old. I figured it was like fucking a fleshlight all you have to do is say one thing, and flood ‘em with pheromones ‘till they do it.” He presses harder, and when you don’t open your mouth, cruel joy glints in his eyes. “Open.”

You do, your jaw unlocking without your permission as his thumb slides inside, pressing down on your tongue.

“But you,” he purrs. “You’re fucking exquisite.” He presses his nose to your hair and groans. The awkward positioning of your arms makes your chest jut out, your breasts heaving with every breath. “I think I get it now.” His lips brush along the shell of your ear, and you shudder, your nipples pebbling under his touch. “Submission’s so much better when you’ve gotta earn it.”

He kisses you then, his mouth hungrily slanting over your own as he slides his tongue between your lips. He groans at the taste of you, his teeth dragging against your lower lip. “Taste like fuckin’ candy,” he rasps against your cheek, drawing his nose down your throat to press his mouth to the swollen gland at your throat.

“S-stop,” you pant, your head fuzzy. He needs to stop, because…your thoughts are disjointed, and when you hear a distant burst of applause, your stomach turns. “R-Ransom please.”

“I knew you could be polite given the opportunity.” He sneers, making no move to release you. “Beg. Maybe I’ll change my mind if you ask real nice.” You lick dry lips.

“Please let me go, Ransom.” You plead quietly, and he clucks his tongue at you in disappointment.

“I think you can do better, sweetheart.”

“Please, Ransom. Please, we both know you don’t want to do this, I’m nothing, nobody—”

“Exactly.” He says sharply, cutting you off. “So no one will care what I do to you.” He twists your nipple between his fingers through the fabric of your dress and the thin lace of your bra. You keen loudly, writhing.

“Ooh, I like that sound. Make it again.” He repeats the action with your other nipple and you do, tears gathering in your wide dark eyes and glittering in your lashes. Ransom looks down at you with something disgustingly close to affection. “So fuckin’ pretty like this.”

He grinds against you, and you can feel the hard bulge of his cock through his pants. “Fuck. Come on.” He tugs you back over to the bench and sits down. He makes an attempt to pull you down to his lap, but you keep your knees locked, resisting. Ransom sneers at you. “I can make you go into heat right fuckin’ here, princess. That what you want? To be a sobbing, simpering, wet mess in front of everybody?”

“N-no. Please don’t do that,” you whimper, your lip trembling. You want to feel numb—because you can’t believe this is happening—you want to feel anything except the insistent throb of your gland and your core. Sick anticipation leaking in from your hindbrain, which only knows there’s an Alpha nearby, one that wants you, and you must obey—

“Then sit, Omega. I’m not gonna tell you twice.” You do, stiffly settling yourself on one of his thighs. “No. Not like that.” He makes you get up again, before lewdly sliding his thigh between your own. “Now sit.” You resist again, only because you know he’ll know as soon as you do.

You’re soaked.

You can’t help it, it’s biology, but you feel shame anyway in knowing that it’s him who’s done it.

“Sit.” It’s a command, and you let out a choked sob, dropping down onto his clothed thigh. Suddenly, the barrier of your thong and his pants doesn’t seem like nearly enough. Ransom pats your ass appreciatively. “Good girl.” His lips are soft—too soft—on the back of your neck as his hands find your hips. “Now here’s how this is gonna go, princess, I’m not gonna say it again, so listen  real good.”

You nod stiffly.

“Good. You’re gonna do what I say, when I say it, otherwise your little business? I’ll make sure you never get another customer, understand? And I can do that, princess. I can fuck your life up. But you don’t want that, right?” You shake your head no. “Oh, we’re gonna have lots of fun, I can tell already.”

His grip on your hips tighten, and he presses you down hard against his thigh. You bite your lip to keep quiet as your swollen clit slides back and forth.  The friction is delicious, and you’re glad he can’t see your eyelids roll to half mast as your eyes roll back.

“You are fucking soaked, you know that?” He groans, a sickening reverence present in his tone. “I can feel it through my goddamn pants.” He releases a low chuckle. “What a little slut. Who knew, eh?” He increases the pressure, moving you back and forth over his thigh. “I know you’re not trying to keep those sweet little noises from me, Omega.” There’s a warning in his tone that makes you whimper.

“N-no.”

“You’d better fuckin’ not.” He snaps, and one of his hands finds the slit on your dress, snaking up your trembling thigh. You bat at his hand, pushing at it until he squeezes your hip in warning. “What’d I just fuckin’ say?”

“W-wait, I—” Your words are lost in a strangled moan when his fingers slide against your wetness, and he barks out a laugh against your skin.

“Sweet fuck, I knew you were wet but goddamn,” he licks a hot stripe up the side of your throat, and you chirp softly as his tongue passes over your gland. “You’re somethin’ else.” You feel your body growing taut like a string wound too tightly. His fingers dig into the meat of your thigh as he moves you purposefully against him. “You’re gonna cum just like this, understand?” He pants. “Next one’s gonna be on my cock.”

“Nnng, I-I—fuck—Ransom, I—” Your body jerks rigidly against him as everything goes white and hazy. The pleasure rips a wail from you as even more wetness stains the expensive fabric of his pants. Your whole body is pulsing in time to the wet, hungry clench of your core, and when Ransom slides his teeth over your gland, you purr.

“Good Omega.” He reaches between you, and you whine when he passes his fingers across your sensitive folds. “Mmm, I’m going to ruin your cunt, princess.” He lazily palms himself through his clothes before you hear the sound of a zipper. His cock rests heavily against your ass, and even through your clothes, you can feel the heat of him. He hisses, thrusting up against you a few times. You can feel the beads of his precum soaking into the back of your dress, and you whine, leaning away.

He uses the opportunity to tug the split fabric aside, and he delivers a sharp smack to your ass. You whine, and he laughs, tugging aside your flimsy panties. You feel the thick head of him press against you, and you clench in anticipation. Ransom presses you down and you hiss at the intrusion, the stretch pleasurable-pain. Your walls bear down eagerly on every inch he feeds you, and his forehead finds your shoulder as he breathes curses against your skin.

He’s thick, so thick it aches sweetly even when he’s seated all the way inside.

“Feel it, Omega? Best dick you’ll ever have.” He thrusts up into you lazily and you sob, arching into it. He smirks. “Fuck, you’re tight.” He grunts as he pulls out, before slamming back home. “Don’t even know—fuck—how m’gonna fit my knot in here.” You can’t control the noises falling from your lips, the whines, the loud moans. You know Ransom doesn’t care if anyone sees, doesn’t care if anyone knows he’s been knot deep in you.

And you hate that the thought makes you clench down around him harder, your pussy milking him sweetly as he growls.

“Fuck,” he snarls, his arms wrapping around your shoulders, holding you so he can piston in and out. Wet noises echo in the garden, punctuated by your gasps. “Should’ve fucked this pussy sooner. Can’t believe I almost missed out on this—Fuck!” You convulse around him, your own slick coating your thighs and his pants as his cock bottoms out over, and over.

The pressure begins to bloom into that retina-searing pleasure again, and you fight to keep it down, to keep yourself tethered—but it’s useless. His breaths are heavy in your ear, his usually neat hair tickling against your oversensitive skin as he loses control. It’s perhaps the only comforting thought, that he seems as lost as you are—though he’s the one that got you both there in the first place.

Your thighs stiffen and you’re overwhelmed by the tide of your orgasm, your pussy squeezing Ransom so hard he lets out a choked growl.

“Fuck, are you cumming?” A burst of pheromones makes you pant dizzily. “Answer!”

“Y-yes, fuck, ah—”

Ransom’s growl reverberates around the garden, bouncing back to your ears  loudly. “Say I’m your Alpha,” he pants, teeth digging into the skin just above your gland. You whine with pleasure, your hips bearing down to meet his cock as it splits you open.

“Y-you’re my A-Alpha, Ransom,” you’re still fucking cumming, slick staining your thighs and his pants as he fucks you through it, and another rises hot on its heels as his knot begins to swell inside you. “Oh God, oh God, oh God—”

It’s so much, too much, and everything goes blank as you fall again. You don’t know how he can play your body so well, especially when you don’t want him to. You’re floating in pleasurable oblivion, and you only snap back to reality when Ransom pants—

“Gonna fuckin’ fill you up, Omega. Know you want it,” his balls slap wetly against you as his thrusts grow shorter, no longer able to pull all the way out. Dull panic sets in as you realize he’s going to make good on it—there’s no other option now. You whine, your cunt still constricting pleasurably as he curses. “Might even fucking keep you—shit!”

You can feel it when he finishes, hot ribbons of his cum bathing your aching walls as they clench around him hungrily. His knot seals him in, and you chirp hoarsely at the fullness. You slump back against him and he chuckles, before hooking his ankles around your own, spreading your still twitching core wide open. His fingers slide down to play with the mixture of fluids leaking slowly out around his knot. You shiver at the cold air against your soaked flesh.

You wait there quietly as he deflates inside you, trying to listen, to see what you missed. There’s a gap in the music, and you hear voices, an announcement—and you breathe a sigh of relief. The speeches are still going on, though you’re sure you’ve missed at least three of them because of him.

Anger and shame burn equally hot in you as finally he slips free, and you push yourself away from him, clutching yourself. You glare at him, though he seems nonplussed, tucking himself back into his pants with an amused grin.

“Don’t look so upset, princess. How many times did you cum?” He wheedles, and you swallow a sob.

“Just leave me alone. You got what you wanted.” You turn to head back to the house, you can at least rinse off in one of the bathrooms quickly before checking on everything. You don’t want them to smell you, don’t want them to smell him on you. Ransom catches you by the wrist, a displeased growl emanating from his chest.

“Not so fast. Panties, give them to me.” He demands, holding his hand out. You don’t wait for him to turn it into a command, your cheeks heating as you slide the ruined fabric down your legs. He snatches it from you nimbly, bringing it to his nose. He inhales deeply, his eyes dropping low with pleasure before tucking them into his pocket and patting it.

“Why?” You ask stiffly, and he fixes you with an icy smile.

“A little something to remember my favorite Omega by.”

You don’t see him again for the rest of the party. You’re glad of it, because you can pretend, at least for the time being, that it didn’t happen. Your only respite is knowing it’s over, that you’ll never see Ransom again. You’re not rich enough to run in the same circles, and you relish your return to blissful anonymity.

You don’t cry until you’re alone in your car at 2am, after break-down has finally been completed. Your phone vibrates, and for a moment you’re certain it’s Joni, another last minute request, another favor—

But it’s not. It’s a number you don’t recognize, though it doesn’t take long for your heart to drop at the message.

Be ready at 5. I’ll be by to pick you up.

—R

Fin