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MUSICIAN, LYRICIST, WILBUR SOOT DEAD AT 40
27/02/97 - words by sophie shaw
outpourings of grief have come from the music industry today, as the family of acclaimed singer-songwriter wilbur soot, real name william gold, announced at 10:00 am today that he has died following a short illness. soot, whose health was compromised by his former lifestyle, had turned forty earlier this year.
soot’s life was marked by his ‘rock and roll’ lifestyle, and his controversial relationship with former fan, tom simons. many have accused simons of being as young as fourteen when the two met, yet they were wed in an elaborate ceremony which matched soot’s rocker image in 1982 - a date that, if the allegations are true, would put tom simons at just seventeen at the time of their marriage. in the intervening years, simons has remained adamant… read more on page 4
—
“you’ll be alright, won’t you?”
his voice is hoarse, and he hates it. used to be that wilbur’s voice was low and smooth, the kind that made crowds lose themselves in the music and his lyrics.
(tommy’d told him, once, hands clutched tightly together, legs entwined, each speaking secrets into the forgiving darkness of their bedroom, that he’d first fallen in love with his voice. “I was at the record shop with tubbo,” his omega had said, soft and hazy with reminiscing, “and they were playing one of your songs. an’ I ran up to the front desk, and I begged the girl behind the till to show me the album sleeve, ‘cause I knew, I just knew, you were gonna be as gorgeous as your voice. an’ I was right. that’s when I knew I was gonna be yours, ‘cause I just had to have you.”)
“course I won’t,” tommy says, quiet and so unlike himself. “but I’ll get there, so don’t worry about me.” he’s lying half plastered on top of the alpha, his blond curls pillowed on wilbur’s chest, like they’ve lain before, so many times. “I don’t want you to worry ‘bout me. I’ve got tubbo, I’ve got phil, I’ve got plenty of people to keep me going. you just worry about getting better.”
wilbur sighs. “tommy,” he says warningly. he’s been in the hospital, in and out, for the past year or so. he’s not going to get better.
“no, wilbur, you are gonna get better.” his mate sounds pleading, hot tears rolling off his cheeks, onto the alpha’s skin. “and you’re not gonna leave us alone, alright? you got that?”
in the stifling silence of the hospital room, a machine gives a wobbly beep. muffled sounds filter in through the thin walls, a screaming pup getting their first jab, a sobbing woman being told she’ll never walk again, a happy couple being told their son is cancer-free, all providing background music to the tragedy of wilbur’s life. the sweet melody to the symphony, however, is curled up in a squeaky faux-leather chair in the corner, snoring lightly around the thumb in her mouth. he stares at his daughter with soft eyes, taking in the familiar slopes of her small face in the artificial light of the overhead fluorescents. he wants her to be there when he goes, but tommy refuses to pull delilah out of school, still adamant that wilbur will be fine.
that’s alright. he’s going to die tonight anyway.
as tommy’s thick, teary breaths fade into sleepy rumbles, wilbur presses a soft kiss to the top of his head, face buried firmly in soft, blond curls. that’s what he remembers about the first time they met - not tommy’s skimpy little outfit, not the way him and tubbo screamed and wailed his name, or the sweet scent he’d come to love. wilbur had strode out onto that stage, some tiny little foot-high thing in a bar in clapham, and seen an angel in the front row, an honest-to-god, cliche, christmas card angel, with a halo of golden ringlets and round blue eyes that stared up at him with shining adoration.
well, that and the way the omega had squirmed and squealed on his cock, virgin cunt desperately spasming to keep up with an adult alpha’s prick stuffed deep inside it.
as an old man of forty - and forty’s as old a man as he’ll ever get - he can admit that twenty two year old wilbur was intoxicated by tommy, a star struck, pretty little omega, with the flattest tits he’d ever seen and a singleminded focus to fuck him. despite the image he’d tried to project, and he has no doubt that the omega had been taken in, all of fourteen and out in the world for the first time, when they’d first met, the alpha had never had a groupie before. certainly not one four years underage and obsessed with him to the point of lying to his parents, sneaking off to london, and riding him in the back room of a seedy club.
he’d stood at the end of that corridor, staring at the back of tommy’s legs, and he’d fallen in love. he’d been as suave and seductive as a barely-adult wilbur knew how to be, leading the tiny, tempting omegas to the squalid hole he’d claimed as a dressing room and having them writhe around on top of him to sweaty, sticky satisfaction.
but if tommy hadn’t been so daring, slipping his number into wilbur’s pocket in a fit of the boldness that’s captivated him since they met, perhaps that would’ve been it. perhaps he would’ve gone on to be a lothario, sleeping with anyone who threw themself at him until he grew too old to go on. perhaps he would’ve stayed on the same awkward track he’d been on, obsessed with his music, and little else, a man known for misery. that slip of paper is the most important object of my life , he thinks as he presses another firm kiss to the top of tommy’s head. no delilah, no tommy, no wilbur that’s actually happy.
“love ‘ou,” his omega mumbles into his shirt, more asleep than awake and drooling quite alarmingly.
with one final kiss, uncomfortably smushed into the omega’s cheek, wilbur lets himself fall asleep. he won’t wake up.
—
extract from interview conducted by andrew carmichael, published 26/03/95
AC: so what were those early days like? did you think it was going to lead to such a [stutters] a whirlwind romance?
WS: I don’t know if I’d call it a ‘whirlwind romance’. that implies it was a fling, you know, something short and bright, and it wasn’t that at all. isn’t that, we’re still together. [pauses] but in terms of passion, I guess, yeah. we met, he was all I could think about, it was like someone had abducted me, and replaced me with a version of myself that was just totally infatuated with this boy. I didn’t- I felt like a stranger to myself, I was just so obsessed with him, and [laughs] I’d always been pretty miserable up to that point, and then tommy was there, and he was like ‘love me, come love me, I’ll make you happy’. and he has.
—
their lips almost pressed together, their bodies swaying slowly to the beat of the music, their arms wrapped around each other, tommy hums thoughtfully. “d’you know,” he says, voice faux-light, “we’ve been together for more than half my life.”
“uh,” wilbur says, unsure if he’s being praised or damned. he settles on “yeah”, ever eloquent.
“yeah, ‘cause I’m thirty now,” the omega rattles the bottle of gin in his hand, same brand as he’s always had, as punctuation. “and we got together when I was fourteen, so that’s sixteen years. and that’s more than fourteen.” tommy may be a little drunk, but his point still stands.
he leans down, whispering into the curve of the blond’s ear, “I hope you don’t blame this old man for stealing away your youth.”
“wil, you’re not even forty,” the omega snorts. “not gone senile in your old age, ‘ave you?”
the alpha splutters. “you literally just said I’m not old, and in the same breath, accused me of being old.”
“what can I say?” tommy slurs, cheeks flushed a delicious pink. “I’m a nigma.”
“you’re a what?” he asks, delighted by his mate’s drunken confusion. “darling, d’you mean you’re an enigma?”
with an exaggerated pout, the omega nods. “s’what I said.”
“you, my dear, are very drunk,” wilbur says with a pleased smile. he snatches a wet kiss, tongue running along tommy’s bottom lip as he giggles at nothing.
if the wilbur of 1978 saw him today, he wouldn’t recognise himself. probably the first thing twenty one year old wilbur would complain about would be the wrinkles around his eyes, and his mouth, smile lines a testimony to years of happiness, and the paunch of his stomach - he’s no young man anymore, and delilah’s taken to baking with a single minded focus.
twenty one year old wilbur also had a sickening determination to be miserable, sullen and brooding wherever he went, like a 6’5 blot on the cheery face of the world. every song was a despondent dirge about his sad little life, or a forlorn lament about a lost love that he never really had. he’d written the lyrics, and meant them full well. he’d sung the songs with as much intent as he had in them. but he hadn’t had the passion, the earnestness, until he met tommy. the alpha, too young and stupid to know, hadn’t realised, until he met the blond, that his words meant nothing without real love behind them. that’s when the band’ll really take off , he wants to impress on young wilbur, who was desperate to know when his hard work would come to fruition. when the fans, the critics, anyone who cares to listen, are able to tell that you have a love that makes you feel the way you sing about.
half of tommy’s life isn’t enough. all of tommy’s life wouldn’t be enough. he wants eternity with his mate, and more besides. every day there’s a new stone of tommy’s personality to overturn, check the underside, note down and carefully replace, the building blocks of the man he loves. when he was younger, wilbur feared that passion would fade with time - that tommy was only exciting because he was new, and that when he was no longer new, fully explored and emptied out for wilbur, down to the last drop, his life would fade back into the muted state it was in before. but every year changes tommy by turns, cutting a new sparkling facet of his being that dazzles wilbur, enthralling him in its glinting light. you’ve never been as happy as you will be when you hold your pup in your arms for the first time , he’d say to young wilbur, given the chance. everything is exciting to delilah, and she delights in dragging her parents around the house, showing off what she’s learnt and what she’s made.
tommy plants his face into the crook of his neck, and wilbur smiles at the feeling of soft curls tickling his jawline. sixteen years of this, and, he hopes, more to come.
—
extract from the good schools guide, 1994
[continued from front page]
aside from this, the school is studded with pupils that cement its reputation as an upper-crust specialist for the creative arts - the son of renowned architect, noah brown, and the daughter of former rocker, wilbur soot, to name just two. for parents who want their children to get a headstart in co-curriculars, or aim to set them up for a career in the performing arts, this inner-city school is certainly one to put on the list.
—
“daddy!” a loud whisper that thinks it's sneaky pops the hazy bubble of sleep hovering over wilbur, punctuated a moment later by a tangle of pointy elbows and knobbly knees that lands squarely on his stomach. “daddy, get up! we’re going to the moo-see-um today!”
sleepily, he wraps his arms around delilah, pulling her close to his chest. “shh,” he whispers into her hair, eyes still closed, gummy with sleep. “mama’s still asleep. if we wake him up now, he’s going to be grumpy all day, and we don’t want that, do we, treasure?”
“no, daddy!” she giggles, snuggling into his chest. after a few minutes, she snuffles back to sleep, curled up on top of her sire, drooling half-heartedly onto his shirt.
when the digital clock by the bed is no longer flashing a hideously early number, he lets delilah wake tommy, snorting when she decides that smacking him squarely in the face is the way to go. “sorry, mummy,” she says sheepishly when tommy gives her a sleepy frown.
“why’m I being attacked by my own daughter at eight in the morning?” his mate grumbles, flopping over onto his side with a drawn-out sigh. “this is tragic.”
“it’s a catastrophe,” wilbur agrees with mock sympathy. “a real betrayal.” delilah just giggles, six-year old brain not fully caught up with the idea of sarcasm, but enjoying her parents’ back-and-forth.
slipping out of bed and throwing open the curtains, tommy herds delilah back to her own room, to pick out some clothes. “I don’t think she’s quite got the idea yet that she needs to have trousers and a shirt, but we’re getting there,” he says as he slips into his own clothes for the day. the flash of pale skin that wilbur sees as his omega wriggles into a shirt is enough to make him stoop down to press a wet kiss to the soft flesh. tommy’s still tall and thin, like he’s always been, but a hard pregnancy and years of good living have been enough to round him out a little, and the alpha appreciates it greatly. “stop that,” his mate says, swatting him away with a smile. “I don’t know if you know this, but we have a very important visit to the museum today.”
“I think you mean the moo-see-um,” wilbur says with a wink, as they make their way downstairs.
a few moments later, delilah comes thundering down the stairs, hairbrush clutched tightly in one hand, and a pack of brightly coloured bobbles in the other. she sits down on the floor, cross-legged, between her mum’s knees, while tommy dutifully wrestles her unruly brown curls into twin pigtails. the scene is gloriously domestic, his mate fighting what is, frankly, a losing battle with their daughter’s hair as she cheerfully munches her way through a bowl of cereal.
“what’re you smirking about?” tommy asks him through narrowed eyes, when he’s eventually freed from delilah’s cloud of hair.
“nothing,” he says with an innocent smile. “I just love you.”
“I love you, too, daddy!” his daughter cheers, wrapping her arms around his neck, clinging to him as he walks around the kitchen. the thought of her one day being too big to carry like this is painful, so he relishes in enveloping her with his arms, and cuddling her close to his chest.
after some fussing and fiddling, they finally shamble off to the tube station, delilah leading the way in her garish dungarees and patterned shirt.
“stay back from the edge,” wilbur calls to her as they go down the escalator. muttering under his breath, he continues, “they should put barriers up, or something, these platforms are so unsafe.”
“alright, mister health-and-safety-executive,” tommy says, rolling his eyes with a grin. “she’s fine.”
the ride there is a blur of their daughter’s animated chatter, her gleeful babbles washing over him as she bounces in her seat. delilah’s class has been learning about where animals live, and when wilbur had told her that there’s a whole museum about animals, she practically lost her mind with excitement. she’s been begging and pleading for a trip there for weeks, and yesterday, tommy finally caved. “I hate that shit,” he’d mumbled to wilbur afterwards, delilah dancing around the room in celebration. “all them animals and their creepy eyes, starin’ at you.” but not even tommy, the stubbornest person he knows, can resist delilah’s puppy dog eyes, so here they are.
they traipse around the museum, delilah regaling her parents with facts that they pretend not to know - goodness, wilbur didn’t know that dolphins only sleep with half of their brains, he says with the kind of over-acted surprise that makes her giggle. they wander in and out of row after row of skeletons and beetles, stuffed, stiff animals staring down at them condemningly from their paneled plinths. “fuck,” tommy shivers, tearing his eyes away from the glassy, vacant gaze of some kind of ox-or-bison-or-something. “can we not go and look at volcanos or summat?” so off they shuffle, to giant models of the earth’s core, and fragments of strange, gleaming metals. they spend the rest of the afternoon gawking at prismatic, vibrant gemstones and clusters of crystals, each one a mesmerising shade different from the last.
“anywhere else you wanna go?” wilbur asks, feeling his daughter’s tiny hand slip into his own.
tommy shoots him a knowing smile. “well,” he says, drawing it out. “I’ve heard they have a gift shop. and I don’t know about you, ‘lilah, but I think we should check it out.” their daughter is practically pinging off the walls as she digs deep into the piles of plush toys and turned, glitzy gemstones, showing off her growing hoard to her parents with a proud smile.
“one toy, treasure,” he says to her, wandering over and stuffing the toys back into their bins. his daughter pouts for a bit, but eventually settles on a silky killer whale toy, holding it up for his inspection. “lovely,” he approves, picking it up and paying for it at the till. tommy is across the room somewhere, fiddling with whatever he can find.
by the time they leave, delilah is dragging her feet, lagging a few steps behind her parents, but cradling her toy close to her chest. wilbur scoops her up, tucking her silky hair under his chin and pressing a quick kiss to her forehead.
if even just one day of his life was as blissfully happy as this one, then it will have been a life well spent.
—
10 MOST SHOCKING BAND BREAK UPS
from listverse.com
- l’manberg
ask your mum about this one, or your older sister, because chances are, if they were a youngster in 1990, they were heart-broken over the break up of this titan of the british rock scene.
after months, and, some say, years of behind the scenes tension between singer wilbur soot and drummer eret king, this band split up after a very public bust up outside soot’s london home. although no charges were ever pressed, the bad blood would remain between the two until the singer’s untimely death in 1997.
farewell, l’manberg, we still miss you.
—
“how could he do this to me?” wilbur snarls, bloodied tea towel still pressed to his nose. “she fucking knows what this fucking band means to me, but, no , eret-fucking-king has to be the one in charge, has to be the one who’s right.”
“I know, wilby,” tommy croons, perched in his lap and pressing sweet, light kisses to each bump and scrape. “they’re a real bitch. she doesn’t deserve your time of day, alright? don’t waste your time thinking about that wanker, okay, just look at me.” his mate presses their mouths together, tongue running along the seam of his lips in the way that he likes. “it’s gonna be okay.”
it’s over . the thought hits him like a train. the band I’ve poured fifteen years of my life into is over. wilbur can’t stifle the sob that slips out of him, shoulders shaking as he tries to hold back tears. “oh, baby,” tommy sighs, playing with the short hair at the nape of his neck. his omega’s fine fingers are like little pools of relief on his burning skin where they brush against him, and he leans into the touch. “it’s all okay. phil’s still here, techno’s still here, and you know niki and fundy are on your side, too. and I’m here,” the blond gives his cheek one more, lingering kiss. “I’ll always, always be here. I don’t care if you’re the most famous guy in the world, or some tramp off the streets. you’re my wilby.” he rests their foreheads together, breathing in his mate’s sweet, clean scent, soothing and soft.
the pattering of tiny feet breaks him out of his reverie, and wilbur holds a hand out just in time to prevent delilah falling flat on her face. their daughter is the absolute centre of their lives, their little miracle after almost ten long years of trying, frantic love making and rough fucks moving into expensive treatments and lengthy sessions with doctor after doctor, culminating in one precious pup. she’s all there’ll ever be, tommy’s body too scarred up by invasive procedures, but she’s everything they need, and she’s never known an ounce of pain in her life. delilah scrambles up into her mama’s lap, a precarious position from which she smacks a dry kiss to his other cheek. “don’t be sad, daddy,” she says, with a gappy smile, clumsily wrapping her arms around his neck. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, my precious girl.”
he has his mate, and his pup, and enough wherewithal to make something of the rest of his life. it’s going to be okay.
—
from the 16/11/88 issue of the saturday times
thomas and william gold are delighted to announce the birth of an omega daughter, delilah clementine. well-wishers gladly received.
—
the letter that lies on his desk, the edges carefully gilted in a way that oozes harley street money, stares wilbur plainly in the face. at the moment, it’s like schrodinger’s letter - if he leaves it unopened, there’s still a chance tommy’s pregnant. over the past two years, the past ten, really, his mate has become worn out and thin, surgery after treatment after procedure whittling him down to a state of fragility. his omega is strong, still, and loud, like he’s always been, but wilbur sees the way his eyes linger, on mothers at the park, prams pushed proudly in front of themselves, or on crowds of giggling schoolpups in the playground.
if this latest, last-ditch effort to get tommy pregnant has failed, too, it’ll break the blond. the very thought has wilbur quaking, clutching the ornate sides of the desk for support as he shudders at the idea. perhaps he’ll leave wilbur, searching out an alpha who can give him what he wants, or maybe he’ll stay, and fade away into nothing, a shade of himself haunting the wooden corridors of their home.
tommy materialises behind him, normally loud footsteps muffled with anticipation. “have you opened it yet?” he asks, and the alpha has to repress his flinch, the muttered words loud in the heavy silence of the room.
“no,” he says, reaching for the thin paper that’s about to be their undoing. “listen, tommy, if- if this doesn’t come out the way we want it to, then-” his breath hitches, and he begins to tremble, sobs shivering through his body. “please, don’t leave me. we can adopt, or- or you can use a donor, or whatever you want, just-”
his omega races forward, clutching wilbur’s face tightly between two soft palms. tommy peers up at him, eyes the same clear blue, hair the same golden blond, cheeks the same baby-fat round as he fell in love with. “I’d never. I could never, wilbur. all of this - marriage, mating, pups, a fucking life - I only ever want this with you. it’s been you since I was fourteen.” his mate clears his throat. “if anything,” he starts, voice thick. “I should be asking you not to leave me . I’m the one who- pups are what an omega’s for, and I can’t even- I’m so sorry-”
“don’t say that, don’t ever say that. you’re so precious to me, my most darling tommy, there’s nothing you could do to make me leave you.” their voices overlap, a cacophony of teary desperation, each one clinging to the other like a sailor to a rock in a storm, begging for forgiveness, for a crime never committed.
“shall we?” wilbur eventually asks, gaze landing on the innocuous envelope again. at tommy’s hesitant nod, he rips it over skimming for the line he needs.
“dear mr. and mrs. gold,” he mumbles, eyes dancing between words. “after extensive testing… blah, blah, details, blah… ah-ha! we are delighted to inform you,” he grabs for his mate’s hand blindly, wide grin growing across his face. “that mrs. gold is, in fact, pregnant!”
tommy cheers, looping his arms around the alpha’s neck. “pregnant! me! I’m fucking pregnant, wilby!”
wilbur sinks to his knees, shock numbing his mind. tommy’s going to have his pups. tommy’s going to have his pups. “oh, darling,” he mutters, wrapping his large hands over his mate’s still flat tummy. “oh, god, you make me so happy.” kiss after kiss is pressed to the warm skin of his omega’s stomach, and he’s grinning like a fool, but he’s blissfully happy as tommy covers wilbur’s hands with his own, beaming brighter than a spotlight.
—
item taken from the ‘letters to the editor’ page of the daily mirror newspaper, december 1986
dear sir,
I am not the kind of person who usually writes to these pages, but I felt that I couldn’t stand idly by. I thought your article last week on page 15 was despicable and hurtful. as someone who struggled for many years to have pups, the mere idea that you would think to blame the prospective parents themselves - to blame anyone, in fact - is laughable.
your article would struggle to be labelled journalism - if I was mr. soot or his wife, I would be suing your paper for libel.
disgusted,
mrs childs of manchester
—
“well,” the doctor says, his voice soft in the way that means ‘you’re not going to like what I have to tell you’.
“it’s me, isn’t it?” tommy says in a rush, voice high and shaky. “it’s okay, that’s fine, that’s-”
the doctor’s calm words cut off his panic, his scent steady. “mrs. gold, please, take a deep breath.”
wilbur’s omega sucks in a wobbling breath, chest heaving as he fiddles with his fingers in his lap. “deep breath, yeah, I can do that, I can breathe. breathe deeply, yeah,” he mumbles. tommy seems delirious, picking at his nails absent-mindedly.
“darling,” wilbur soothes, plucking one of the blond’s hands out of his lap, and twining their fingers together. he gives tommy’s palm a short squeeze, shooting him as wide a smile as he can manage. it’s watery and weak, but one of them has to be strong, so he turns back to the doctor, nodding at him to continue.
“well, mr. gold, mrs. gold,” doctor johansson continues, flicking through a stack of paper on his desk. ( “please, call me tommy,” his mate has said, a thousand times. “and call him wilbur, he doesn’t need the ego boost.” ) “it’s not- that is to say, I don’t want you to blame yourself. there’s no one at fault with things like this, they just - and excuse me for a lack of better words - happen. as it is,” he sighs, and tommy’s hand is a vice around his, knuckles white. “well. there’s issues on both sides, and I think-”
“both. both sides?” wilbur curses himself for the way his voice breaks, tommy wiping away the fine tear tracks that trail down his round cheeks.
the doctor’s voice is gentle, like he’s talking to a pair of wounded kittens. “I’d like to talk to you about the specifics, but it can wait.”
“can- can I just-?” his omega is fragile glass, liable to shatter at any more bad news. “is it ever gonna happen? are we ever gonna have pups?”
fame, fortune, years working his way up to the top of the music scene, and yet he still can’t make his wife happy. tommy gets anything he wants, wilbur indulging his mate with a fond smile every time - he’s bought him a car, when he asked for something exciting, bought him a computer when he asked for something interesting, bought him a fucking house in chelsea when he started dropping heavy hints that maybe a dingy basement flat in camden isn’t the kind of place they should be raising pups in.
“never say never, mrs. gold, and, of course, there’s always adoption, but naturally?” the doctor’s eyes are soft, dark and sympathetic in his open face as he flicks his gaze between the couple. “it’s unlikely.”
tommy crumples into himself, harsh sobs stifled by clinging palms over his face. wilbur feels hot tears pour over his fingers, still clutched tightly in his mate’s hand. of course, he’s always wanted to be a dad, to have a pup or two to raise and love and cherish. to teach the guitar to, or to show them how to ride a bike. and he’s always wanted to sire tommy’s pups - the very first time they met, five or six years ago, wilbur had vowed to fill the omega with pups, tommy mewling his desire for it above him. he’s flooded with guilt with the idea that he can’t do that for his mate.
the doctor’s eyes are kind as the couple collapses in front of him, their tears splashing onto the cold, smooth plastic of the table.
—
tubbo’s family home is lovely - the walls are all bright and white, the carpets deep and clean. the decoration is tasteful and modern, which means it’s ugly, but fashionable, and wilbur and his mate stick out like a sore thumb, two colourful hawks in a flock of suburbanite doves.
“tommy, over here!” the omega of the hour calls, waving his best friend over with a bright grin. out of the corner of his eye, wilbur sees the way his mate papers a bright grin onto his face, bounding over to tubbo.
“tubster!” he shouts, ignoring the dirty looks that are sent his way. “and this must be michael. hello, precious thing!” while the blond coos at the pup, swaddled tight in his mother’s arms, wilbur shuffles over, placing a reassuring hand on his mate’s back. he doesn’t miss the tears that gather in the corners of his eyes, spilling down beneath blond lashes, as tommy lets the pink-cheeked baby play with his little finger. it breaks wilbur’s heart to see his mate, pup cradled in his arms while po-faced pensioners glower at him, crooning lowly as michael gums at his fingertip. “can’t lie, tubbo, he’s very cute,” tommy says, not looking up from the baby’s face, even when salty tears trickle onto the pup’s pudgy cheeks.
“come over here,” tubbo says, leading his best friend away and abandoning wilbur to the mercy of the dads, each beginning to become wrinkled and wearing a variation on the same khaki jacket. they swarm around the latest addition to their ranks, offering unwanted advice and unfunny jokes.
mark, if wilbur remembers correctly, looks happily overwhelmed, graciously accepting each congratulations with a wide, earnest smile.
“he’s a good, strapping lad,” says one balding man, clapping him solidly on the shoulder. “got a solid right hook on ‘im.” for some reason, all the dads laugh, and wilbur joins in weakly.
he takes advantage of the momentary lull after that particular ‘quip’ to sidle up to the younger alpha. “good to see you again, mark,” he says, nodding stoically.
“thank you for coming,” the younger says, “um, wilbur.” he has no doubt that mark is not the one who invited him, but he shakes his hand anyway, muttering congratulations. “are you alright?” the young alpha says suddenly. “not that it’s my place, or anything, it’s just- um, well, the last time we met, you were a lot more-”
“I was a dick,” wilbur confirms, plainly. “sorry about that. you know how it is.”
the younger looks a little taken aback by his abrupt apology, fiddling with his bright red tie. “um, I suppose. it doesn’t matter. or, well, it does, but- damn it,” mark cuts himself off, face twitching. “tubbo’s so much better at this than I am.”
what wilbur wants to say is ‘well, you must be godawful, because tubbo’s no charmer. god, you two must struggle’. but he’s tired, and he’s sad, and he doesn’t want to piss off tommy by making his best friend’s husband hate him. instead, he motions mark towards the open door of the church hall, pulling out a cigarette. the younger alpha shakes his head when he’s offered one, and with a drag, wilbur says, “they make us better, don’t they? dunno where I’d be without tommy. face down in a ditch somewhere, probably. or with a raging case of the clap. maybe both.”
an awkward silence hovers between them for a moment, before mark asks, voice halting and hesitant, “was it- why tommy?”
“huh?”
“why- why did you choose tommy? and not tubbo?” the young alpha looks frightened of the answer, twisting his fingers over and over.
wilbur snorts, blowing out a fine plume of smoke. “I didn’t choose tommy, he chose me. he wanted it, I suppose, and tubbo was along for the ride. not to say that I didn’t enjoy tubbo, or that he didn’t - well, you don’t wanna hear it - but yeah, tommy left me his number, and tubbo didn’t. and then tommy told me that, wouldn’t you know it, tubbo’s met this great alpha, oh, tubbo thinks he’s the best thing ever, oh, tubbo won’t shut up about him.” he elbows mark in the stomach, shooting him what he hopes is a sly, encouraging grin, but the other alpha just sighs.
“I mean, it’s- you were his first, right? and you’re a rockstar, you’ve got that whole thing ,” he gestures vaguely at wilbur’s general countenance. “how can I-?”
“I wasn’t a rockstar,” he scoffs. “I was a twat in a trenchcoat. but, man, if it’s bothering you this much, you gotta talk to tubbo about it.”
they sit in heavy silence for a moment, quiet sounds of the christening party behind them floating on the summer breeze. quiet voices echo from around the corner, and wilbur has to strain his ears to listen.
“-living the dream, toms,” tubbo’s soft voice says. “imagine what fourteen year old tommy’d say if he saw you now. I mean. okay, not to be mean to wilbur here, but how often do singers end up marrying the groupies they fuck?”
“I don’t want- ,” tommy spits, before calming. “I don’t want that dream. I mean, I do, of course I do, I fuckin’ love my life and all, but, fuck. I want what you’ve got. the pup-” his voice breaks, sobs bubbling up from his throat.
tubbo is gentle when he says, “it didn’t go well, then?”
“no. no, it fucking didn’t. and I mean, he said it wasn’t my fault, but it obviously is, ‘cause it sure as fuck’s not wilbur’s.” his words become muffled, and wilbur’s sure his face is buried in his best friend’s shoulder. “I just wanna give him the best life, and I can’t do that, ‘cause my fucking body won’t-”
wilbur stands up sharply, striding around the corner and folding tommy’s shaking form into his arms. “we’re going to go,” he says softly to the couple in front of him, carefully avoiding looking at the sleeping pup between them. “thanks ever so much for having us. I’m sorry we haven’t been good company-”
“don’t be stupid,” tubbo says, bouncing michael in the crook of his elbow. “call me as soon as you get home, tommy, okay?”
“he will,” wilbur assures, letting his mate soak the front of his shirt with tears. “enjoy the rest of your party.”
“I’d do anything for you, darling,” he says in the car on the way home, tommy staring vacantly out the window. “anything at all, and I’m so sorry I can’t do this for you. I promise you, whatever it takes for us to have a pup, I’ll do it. I won’t let you be so unhappy.”
the smile tommy gives him is weak and wobbly, but full of hope.
—
YOUR KIDS’ FAVOURITE THINGS - THAT YOU DON’T KNOW ABOUT!
extract taken from article published in the 1983 edition (october issue) of omega’s own magazine
… and if you’re worried about what little johnny or sarah are bopping away to, up in their room, then look no further than the band l’manberg - alternative rockers who hit the mainstream earlier this year, and who are sure to be the favourite of any trend-savvy omega teen. if you’re looking for a christmas present this year, your children will thank you for their newest album, released on vinyl this month.
—
the year that tommy turns eighteen, is one of the best of his life. the band’s popularity explodes, selling record after record, and appearing on any show phil can book them on.
“top of the pops, baby!” fundy cheers when their manager tells them the news. “that’s big!” the band is practically dancing around the cramped space where they do their rehearsals, beaming and laughing with giddy delight. fundy’s not wrong, top of the pops is big. the biggest, in fact, the most important show on british television for pop culture, and their band, wilbur’s band, is going to be performing on it.
when they arrive at the studios, rickety old tour bus hovering nervously outside the gleaming glass of the television centre, wilbur is clutching tightly to his mate’s hand, trying to push down the nerves that threaten to bubble over. as soon as they clatter into the massive building, instruments and equipment alike whisked away by stone-faced handymen, the band is greeting by the sweaty face of a producer, his dark hair slicked back from his face and his once-neat suspender straps in disarray. “l’manberg?” the man asks with a gasp, herding them down one of countless indistinguishable corridors. “good, good, you’re here on time. you, you and you,” he says, pointing to wilbur’s bandmates, “over there. karl’ll tell you what to do. you, you’re the singer, right?”
“yes,” the alpha mumbles, blindsided by the flurry of action. “yes, that’s me.” he’s dragged around the set, shown this mark, and that mark, and where each of the many cameras will be, as the producer in front of him rambles on about what to do, what not to do, how to act and where to stand. “treat the camera like it’s your girlfriend,” the man says, slight accent coming through as he gives tommy a leer. “you want every omega in britain to feel like you’re singing to them.”
wilbur feels like he’s been thrown so far off his axis, he’s wobbling around in nothing. he’s never been so poked at, so chivvied into place and then ignored like a piece of the furniture while a million buzzing interns pull at his clothes. in every show they’ve ever done, he’s been in charge, handing off his ideas for lighting, sound, set to techno and letting the larger alpha do his job - he’s far out of his depth, letting dull, droning, grey-faced mainstreamers tell him how to perform, as if they know more than him. he hates being out of control, having someone else calling the shots, and here, he’s nothing, just a part of the furniture to be moved around. not to mention the way the snot-nosed, spotty-faced interns are all drooling after tommy, eyes fixated on the curve of his bum and the low dip of his cherry-red jumper. luckily for wilbur, his mate never minds soothing his instincts, peering up at him through spidery lashes as he runs a hand over the alpha’s chest, scent light and sweet. it’s alright, the calming pheromones seem to say as they wash over him. you’ll always be able to do what you like to me.
“here,” he says with a low whistle, nodding tommy over to a row of bland doors, storage, or something. his omega shoots him a confused glance that only intensifies when he clicks the door open and holds it for him, twirling his hand like a doorman in a fairytale. despite his apparent skepticism, however, the blond steps forwards into the darkness, narrowly avoiding falling over piles of boxes and racks of musty clothes, and he only squeaks a little when wilbur carefully shuts the door behind them, thrusting them into a pitch blackness that’s only interrupted by the thin halo of light around the doorway.
“are you okay?” tommy asks, pressing a wet kiss to the alpha’s lips. “you’ve gone all weird. weirder than normal, anyway.”
“I’ll be alright,” wilbur replies, arms snaking around his mate’s waist to squeeze possessively at his hips. “or at least I will be, if you help me out.”
it seems to take a second for the omega to understand, but when his meaning dawns on tommy, the blond bats him away with a stern scowl that he can only just make out. “no!” his mate hisses, “no fuckin’ way! I’m not letting you fuck me in a bloody storage cupboard at the bbc. it’s not happening, wilbur, think again.”
“c’mon, darling,” he coaxes, running a cool finger under tommy’s chin. “don’t you want me to feel better? you always let me fuck you before a show, I don’t want bad luck tonight.”
tommy’s easy to convince, ducking down to suck a dark bruise along the sharp edge of his jaw. “there,” the omega says, patting at it with satisfaction when he draws back. “now everyone watching knows not to get too carried away.”
as his hand flies to the zipper of his omega’s leather skirt, the alpha coos, “aww, tommy, are you jealous?”
“n-no,” his mate denies sullenly, breath hitching as two fingers slip into his cunt, their path smoothed by the juices that’re already seeping from him. “I just don’t want any stupid bitches thinking they can have you. you’re mine.”
“I am,” wilbur assures him, pulling his fingers out swiftly and sucking on them. tommy’s slick is his favourite taste, but the omega doesn’t need any more prep than that, wet and still loose from last night.
he lets tommy fumble at his fly with clumsy hands, eager and desperate for his cock. the omega spins around, plastering his lithe form against the door and sticking his ass out like a whore. “now, wilbur!” he says, petulant like a child. “you get me all riled up, even though I didn’t wanna, and now you just leave me-”
“so impatient,” the alpha tuts, lining up the spongy tip of his cock, leaking precum like a faucet, with his mate’s dripping hole. “I make you wait for one minute,” he pushes in, revelling at the feeling of tommy’s slick pussy gripping at his prick. “and it’s too much for you?”
wilbur hovers there for a moment, buried deep in his mate’s cunt, and just breathes, the sweet smell of tommy’s hair mingling with the primal musk of his slick. despite the way his heart is still racing, he feels calm, his omega in his arms and tight around him.
wilbur pulls back with a snarl, before thrusting roughly, drinking in tommy’s startled squeals as he’s fucked against the door, smooth skin scraped across the wood where he’s bracing his hands. the idea that everyone out there, beyond the thin strip of plywood that’s offering them privacy, can tell what wilbur’s doing - that tommy is his mate, that tommy is so madly in love with him that he’ll let wilbur do anything - has him pumping his hips wildly, already close to the edge. the blond’s moans are high and needy as his cunt flutters around his alpha’s prick.
“where the fuck is whatsisface?” a harried voice asks, inches away from them on the other side of the door, and wilbur pauses in his thrusts, shushing tommy quietly. his mate whines, hating to be denied, but stills obediently.
“whatsisface?” another voice replies, with a detached sort of curiosity.
the first voice comes back. “the singer for this lot. wilbur something, wasn’t it?”
“no bloody idea, mate. probably shagging his girlfriend, you know what his type are like.”
with a grin, wilbur leans down to nibble at the shell of tommy’s ear, laughing softly at the little shiver it earns him.
“well if you see him,” the first voice retorts, more frantic now than before, “tell him it’s ten minutes until their slot, and I need him in makeup.”
after pausing a moment, to check that they’re truly alone again, wilbur grips his omega’s hips with bruising force, pulling out far enough to make tommy whine as he squirms back in a futile attempt to spear himself on the alpha’s cock again. he takes pity on the blond, slamming his hips forwards in a way that makes tommy scream hoarsely, cunt clenching around his cock. “ah, wilbur!” he groans, words slurred. “wilbur, wilby, harder, please.”
“harder, my darling?” wilbur asks, jackrabbiting his hips as he fucks deeper and deeper into the omega’s pussy. “I can do harder.” the door is rattling on its hinges from the force of the alpha’s thrusts, the sound almost drowning out tommy’s high, needy moans. he knots his fingers in his mate’s hair, yanking tommy upwards, off his cock, before directing him to plunge back down. with each drag, the thrillingly soft muscle of the omega’s walls brushes against the skin of his cock, warm and wet, burning and sensual along his shaft.
his other hand trails up, skimming along the flushed skin of tommy’s body, sweeping over the slight curves of his chest, and dancing around the scars of his mating bite. wilbur hooks two fingers into the omega’s mouth, groaning lowly when his mate instinctively starts to suckle on them, hot spit drooling over the knuckles and down tommy’s chin. the shrill squeaking of the door as it clatters in the doorway isn’t quite enough to cover the sound of skin slapping against skin, the wet, sticky smacks as wilbur’s cock slams against the depths of his mate’s cunt, or tommy’s mewls, muffled by thick fingers running along his teeth and the tip of his tongue. nor does it cover the sound of beleaguered interns, assistants and managers, running around outside as they scramble to keep the show running.
wilbur drops a hand, from tommy’s hair to his chest, running his fingers over the omega’s pebbled tits. he gives a sharp pinch to one, smirking when tommy cums with a high wail, pussy spasming and fluttering as it milks his prick for all it’s worth, walls quivering around the thick shaft. the alpha follows him over the edge a moment later, cock shooting rope after rope of thick cum into his mate’s womb as he bites down on tommy’s mating mark, working his teeth into the familiar indentations. they stay there, the omega panting, wilbur still hunched over him as his alpha instincts revel in having his mate beneath him, until a frantic voice shouts distantly, “five minutes! where the fuck is this guy?”
the taller reluctantly disentangles himself from his mate, quickly buttoning up his trousers and tugging his shirt back into place. in front of him, tommy is trying to shimmy back into his tight skirt, as a thin trail of cum-slick mixture dribbles down his thigh. “c’mon,” his omega whispers, reaching up to muss his dark hair back into its usual artful messiness, rather than its current state, slicked back and half stuck-up with sweat. hand in sticky hand, they slip out of the tiny cupboard, miraculously avoiding the watchful eye of any executive or producer as they race around, searching for wilbur. “hello,” he says with a smile, catching the eye of some beta with a clipboard as they race past. “I heard people are looking for me?”
“yes!” the beta says with a relieved sigh, chivvying him towards the set. “where on earth were you?” he’s pulled into line, a cloud of wispy omegas clattering around him in a puff of powder as they dust at his face with myriad brushes.
the alpha doesn’t miss the way the meek beta’s gaze lingers on the delicious drizzle of cum that trickles down tommy’s leg as he says, “terribly sorry. I was busy.”
the stink of sex lingers on him as he’s shoved towards the rest of the band, his friends wrinkling their noses as wilbur joins them.
“you almost missed it,” niki says, her voice deceptively mild.
“I always perform better after a good fuck, niki, you know that,” the taller alpha replies, although he avoids her gently judgemental gaze.
“ugh, you were having sex? you’re so-” fundy begins, but his snide words are cut off by a waving intern, as she directs them onto the stage.
the set is stiflingly hot, fusty and smoky despite the bright lights of the stage, and yet wilbur is thrumming with energy, adrenaline pumping through his veins. “ treat the camera like it’s your girlfriend,” the man had told him, and yet it’s hard to pour all his feeling into gazing down the lens when tommy is there, bopping away in the front row.
tommy’s taken to the club scene like a duck to water - as soon as he was old enough, wilbur’d taken him to his favourite discotheque, and watched, fond and amused, as the omega became transfixed by the dj in the corner, hovering by his booth with the other music junkies and watching with avid interest whenever the records were changed. but what tommy likes the most about their friday night outings, wilbur’s pleased to say, is wrapping his arms around the alpha’s neck as they move their bodies to the synthetic beat of the music.
the performance is amazing - the crowd screams and cheers for them like maniacs, each face rapt like the most dedicated fan. as soon as he stumbles off stage, tommy is in his arms, beaming widely as he peppers the alpha’s face with proud kisses. “that! was! amazing!” he stutters out between each wet smack, grinning brightly. “you’re so rad! you’re the only man, ever!”
he feels so rad. he feels like the only man ever. wilbur captures his mate’s lips in a toothy kiss, each of them smiling too widely for it to be coordinated, but it’s perfect all the same.
—
EXCLUSIVE: PICTURES FROM WILBUR SOOT’S WEDDING TO MYSTERIOUS FAN
( headline from june 1982 issue of D&ME )
—
tommy is radiant, beaming smile plain even behind his frothy veil as he races around the hall, giddily rambling away to anyone who’ll stay still long enough. the omega spent the whole morning standing in front of the cracked mirror in their bedroom, swishing his voluminous white skirts around his feet and grinning at his own image. in wilbur’s humble opinion, the dress is a bit hideous, too puffy and lacy to be reasonable, but the blond had insisted. he doesn’t care, in the end, what his wife (a vicious thrill runs through him at the word) wears, but the gleeful smile it gives tommy is worth all the money in the world.
the ceremony earlier was perfect - it’d have been perfect even if the roof had caved in and the world had ended, because wilbur was stood at the altar, tommy in his arms, and they’d made their vows to each other.
tommy dashes back over to him, grabbing the alpha by the arm and dragging him over to a corner, where a familiar face awaits him. “wilbur, wilbur, you remember tubbo, dontcha?”
“how could I forget?” he says, winking at him with a dark grin. “how are things, tubbo?”
the small omega flushes, a deep, mortified red. “fine,” he squeaks. there’s a tall alpha standing next to him, with an uncomfortable expression on his face. “this is my boyfriend, mark. mark, this is, um, wilbur soot.”
“nice, to meet you, mark,” he says, taking pleasure in the way the younger alpha flinches away from his outstretched hand. “y’know, tubbo and I have quite the history.”
mark’s face is mild and innocent. wilbur can’t wait to crush it. “o-oh?” he says, apprehensively curious. the air between the four of them is thick with tension. “how, um, how did you meet?”
“ well ,” the older alpha begins with relish, but tubbo cuts him off.
“um, honey, wilbur was- uh, that is, um, wilbur’s the guy that- um, so you know how when we got together, I told you-” the omega’s stuttering has wilbur flashing a sly look to his bride. tommy looks delighted, his gaze eagerly flicking between ranboo’s face and wilbur’s. little minx, he set this up , the alpha thinks, laughing internally at his wife’s antics.
mark seems shell-shocked, peering closely at wilbur’s face. “oh? oh. oh, this is- this is the guy.” if the younger alpha thinks he’s being subtle with his posturing, straightening up and puffing out his chest, he’s not. he herds tubbo half behind himself, a low growl rumbling in his throat. “well, um, it’s nice to meet you. wilbur.”
“easy, big man, I’m not after your omega,” he says, patronising. grabbing tommy by the waist, he continues, “I’ve got my own little wife.” his omega melts against him, gazing up at him in adoration, while the couple standing before them shuffle awkwardly. he’d love to be a fly on the wall at the conversation they’ll have on the way home tonight. “anyway, tubbo, lovely to see you again.” wilbur chances his luck, throwing a wink at the omega, and laughs at the jealous snarl that it gets him from his alpha. “and nice to meet you, mark.”
he drags tommy away, and crowds him into a corner, pressing wet, smacking kisses along the curve of his neck. “you. little. gremlin.” he says, between smooches, drinking in the omega’s self-satisfied giggles. “you cheeky little thing. you planned that, didn’t you?”
turning around to loop his arms around his neck, the blond gives him a wicked grin. “tubbo told me that ranboo didn’t know that it was you what he had fucked, and it was just too good to resist.” he blinks up at him with faux-innocence. “it was funny, though, wasn’t it?”
“it was fucking hilarious. I wish I could’ve photographed the look on ‘mark’s’ face.” the mocking quotations around the younger alpha’s name are obvious. is it mean to shove the fact that wilbur took his girlfriend’s virginity in a steamy, and, if he might add, very satisfying, threesome, right in the face of an innocent teenage boy? yes, absolutely. but wilbur’s been far too nice recently, and he deserves a bit of naughtiness.
they spend the rest of the evening alternating between shuffling around on the dancefloor (tommy is awkward and clumsily, wilbur too lazy and aloof, for them to dance properly), and sitting at their table, tommy perched in his lap, giggling and whispering about their guests.
phil, appearing out of the crowd to give his congratulations, techno in tow as always. “happy for you, mate,” he says, smiling wide. “gonna be an absolute nightmare to spin this, but I’m happy for you.”
niki, draped over the woman doing the catering, pestering her both about the best way to get a rise out of a sponge, and whether she’s free this evening.
fundy, trying to scrape his absolutely plastered girlfriend off the dancefloor, corralling a woozy hbomb away from the middle of the crowd, and eret, watching them and laughing.
myriad other guests, thronging the room - jack, studiously avoiding both tommy and tubbo, schlatt, the somewhat dubious guy they rented the hall from, charlie, his truly bizarre friend from college.
it makes him feel warm and fuzzy. this is his little family, here, his band, his manager, whatever techno is to him, his wife. he can have this, forever. tommy is his wife, will be his mate by the time tomorrow comes, and, hopefully, soon, the mother of his pups. the thought of tommy, their pups crowding around his feet or cradled gently in his arms, has wilbur pressing a soft kiss to his hair. he can’t get too excited, though. that part of the evening is still to come.
—
wilbur insists on carrying tommy through the door, bridal style, the omega’s arms wrapped snugly around his neck, and his hands tightly holding the meat of tommy’s thighs. his bride is absolutely sozzled, buzzed, flushed and giggling, tracing looping patterns on his back with gentle fingers. “wilbur,” he titters, messing with the fine, dark hairs at the alpha’s nape, “we’re going to have se-ex!”
the older snorts, nudging open the door to their bedroom with a foot. “yes, tommy. we’re going to have sex.” he drops the omega gently onto the bed, laughing when he claps his hands in delight.
“hooray!” tommy cheers, clumsily pulling up his skirts. a teasing smirk runs across his face at the way wilbur’s breath hitches when he sees a flash of the omega’s bare cunt. “look, no pants.”
“you, my darling,” he says, bending down to mouth roughly over the blond’s scent gland, “are a tease.”
his wife wriggles back, peeling off his dress as he goes until he’s completely nude, his only covering the delicate necklace that hangs around his neck. wilbur’s attention is drawn there, the glinting of the fine chain acting as an arrow, pointing him to the little dip in tommy’s neck. a fine sheen of sweat glistens there, pooling in the curves of his collarbones, and wilbur leans in, nibbling gently along the lines there.
“mmh, wilbur,” the omega moans, legs crossed tightly behind his husband’s back. “ah, ah, more. mark me, please , make me your mate.”
the alpha pulls away, kneeling back on his heels so he can shuck his boxers down far enough to tug out his cock, running a fist over his dribbling slit. tommy gives him a wicked, sinful grin, clumsily tipping forward to faceplant in wilbur’s crotch and nuzzling at the underside of the alpha’s prick, drunken movements slow and ungainly. “you want to suck my cock, darling?” he asks, voice light and pleasant as if he was asking after the weather.
tommy nods eagerly, tongue darting out to lap at the head of his shaft. wilbur gives a groan, fisting a hand in the soft, blond curls of his bride’s hair, and guides his hot, wet, heavenly mouth to bob on his cock. the omega sucks happily around the hard intrusion in his mouth, tongue curling around the vein that runs along the bottom, and wilbur has to restrain himself from bucking his hips. he doesn’t want to choke tommy - this is their wedding night, after all, he should be gentle. with one last shiver, he pulls the omega off his cock with a wet pop, laughing at his disappointed whine. “I know, dearest,” he says with a mocking coo, “but the main course is yet to come. lie back for me, there’s a good omega.”
his bride’s eyes are glassy, his expression vacant and dazed, and he lies back with a slow nod, legs spread wide to show off the inviting glisten of his cunt, already flushed and soaked with slick. “just like that,” wilbur approves, crawling over him with animalistic intent. he takes his dripping cock into his hand, lining up the tip with tommy’s needy hole, and pushes in, moaning at the way his wife’s cunt clenches and quivers around him. he’s had it rougher, sloppier, or wilder, but the way tommy gazes up at him is so tender, tears of passionate pleasure pooling in the corners of his eyes, that wilbur can’t stave off the need to bite his omega any longer. he needs to make tommy his mate, needs to have him thrashing and squirming beneath him. the alpha mouths at the juncture of the blond’s neck and shoulders, letting his teeth scrape harshly against the smooth skin.
wilbur pushes past the resistance that tommy’s skin gives him, sinking sharp teeth into the meat of the omega’s neck, relishing in the blood that fills his mouth. beneath him, tommy’s whole body tenses, then goes slack, as he cums, warm juices flooding from his puffy cunt, and he mewls loudly, scrabbling at wilbur’s back with blunt nails. the alpha draws back, giving soothing kitten licks over the bloodied skin of his mate’s neck. the sight of tommy’s mating mark, a perfect copy of his teeth, heavily indented into the skin, is enough to push wilbur over the edge, shooting thick, hot cum into his mate’s needy cunt.
tommy is his, now, forever. there’ll always be this mark on him, showing that wilbur had him first, loved him before anyone else, owned him so wholly that there’s no room for another.
—
break out the tissues - heartthrob wilbur soot is off the market!
published 08/05/81, lewis middleton
in what will come as a heartbreaking blow to fellow omega fans of singer-songwriter wilbur soot, the alpha has confirmed that he has proposed to his long-term girlfriend. the musician revealed that he asked his partner to marry him at a recent concert in london, after recently having moved in together.
read the full story on page 18!
—
the scene before wilbur is an almost exact recreation of the year before: tommy, nervous and shivering, standing by the front entrance of kings cross station. he’s not as tiny as he was the year before, a sudden growth spurt having made him shoot up to be almost as tall as the alpha (but not quite, he notes with satisfaction).
this time is different, though, because tommy is here to stay. as he hurries over to the waiting omega, he takes in the redness of the blond’s eyes, the way his lashes are clumped together with tears, the sniffling of his button nose. “darling,” he calls, sweeping tommy into his arms. “it’s alright, you’re here with me now.” the blond clings to him, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. wilbur can feel the warm puffs of tommy’s breath on his skin. “you’ll be alright, sweetness. c’mon, let's get you home.”
when the omega had called him, early this morning, voice thick and indistinct with tears, wilbur had been shot through with fear. tommy had been practically gagging with sobs, mumbling into the phone. “wilby,” he’d wailed. “wilby, I need you.”
“what’s happened, my dearest?” he’d said, panicked and frantic. “are you alright?” the blond had been bawling, each snivel sending a bolt of hysteria through wilbur. “darling, I’ll do anything I can to help you, but I need to know what’s happened.”
tommy had hiccupped down the line, voice thick. “I told my mum this morning. about us. she-” he sniffled again. “she wants me to go. they won’t- she said she won’t let me live here anymore. she says I’m a whore.”
“oh, my poor darling,” wilbur had crooned, “my poor little tommy. here, sweetheart, d’you have money for a train ticket? come live with me, my angel, it’ll be alright.” it was impulsive, and quick, but the alpha couldn’t stand the idea of his omega doing anything else.
“live- live with you? really?” tommy sounded hopeful, and wilbur could imagine the way he was twirling the phone cord around his finger.
the alpha didn’t even try to stop the soft, sappy smile that crept onto his face. “of course, tommy. I love you, you know that, and I’d love nothing more than for you to live with me.”
the blond had promised to catch the same train as last time, and so, here wilbur is, arms wrapped tightly around his omega, holding him tightly to his chest. he runs a finger under tommy’s chin, tipping his face up just enough that he can press a delicate kiss to his pink, petal lips. “here, give me your bag.” the omega dutifully hands over his ratty plastic bag, and wilbur snatches it up, gripping the blond’s hand tightly with his other fist. he leads him on the by-now familiar route back to his flat, murmuring soothing nothings to tommy the whole way. wilbur rambles mindlessly on about a thousand mundane things: the corner shop down the road, the show the band did on friday, what they’ll have for dinner. his omega, to begin with, can only give half-hearted mumbles in reply, but by the time they get back to the flat, he’s cheery and energetic like always.
he shows tommy the bathroom and the kitchen, but his omega is most excited about the bedroom. “our room!” he says, barely contained glee shining out of every pore. “yeah?”
“yeah,” wilbur smiles, soft and fond. god, the things tommy does to him, the things he makes him feel.
—
living with tommy is like a dream, like a film, like a poem. when he wakes up to the omega’s head pillowed on his chest, soft curls tickling the bottom of his chin, wilbur wonders what on earth the universe is rewarding him for. the blond talks in his sleep, sweet little murmurs that make the alpha want to pepper his cheeks with loving kisses. when he staggers into the kitchen to find tommy at the counter, in just his pants and one of wilbur’s shirts, his heart is so filled with love that he has to pause in the doorway. it’s a strange kind of love - he wants to keep tommy inside himself, almost, tuck him up close to his heart and carry him around.
“I have a gig tonight,” wilbur groans, slumping down at the table. “d’you wanna come?”
tommy perks up, leaning over the table to give him a kiss. it’s sleepy and chaste, with closed lips and the hem of the shirt rides up, exposing the creamy skin of his thighs. wilbur wants to bite them. “fuck yeah!” the omega cheers, squirming in place. “oh, my god, this is gonna be so good.” resting his chin in his hand, the alpha lets tommy’s excited babbles sweep him away. the blond wants to go here , he wants to see that , he wants to do a million things, and wilbur will be more than happy to indulge him. but for now, the way the neckline of his oversized shirt droops down, exposing his omega’s flat, pale chest makes him stand up with a snarl, stalking over to stand behind tommy and crowding him against the kitchen table.
“let’s have some fun before we go out, hm?” he asks, pushing his boxers down to his knees. in front of him, tommy whines, hands clenching on the edge of the table, and nods frantically. wilbur bends over him, bare chest pressed closely against his back, and snakes a hand down to push aside the omega’s damp pants. the fabric is wet and translucent with tommy’s thick juices, dribbling from his cunt, and the alpha rips them away with ease. his cock is already standing proudly erect, stiff and leaking precum down the shaft. with a wet kiss to the back of tommy’s neck, he pushes in, the omega’s pussy deliciously tight around him.
“ungh, fuck!” tommy wails, scrabbling at the pine wood of the table. “ah, wilbur! breed me, fuck, c’mon, breed me.”
wilbur doesn’t need to be told twice, roughly grabbing a fistful of blond hair and slamming his hips forward, thrusting his cock deep into tommy’s cunt. warm, soft walls clench around his prick, velvety muscles milking him for all he’s worth. “my tommy,” he snarls, one hand with a bruising grip on the omega’s hip, the other pulling his head back so that wilbur can see his fucked out, blissful gaze. he looks vacant and dazed, grinning dopily at him. “my lovely, lovely tommy. take it, fucking take it.” wilbur cums with a growl, cock shooting thick, sticky seed deep into tommy’s cunt.
beneath him, the omega is still squirming and wriggling, desperately trying to find friction, humping his pussy against anything he can get a grip on. wilbur pulls out with a groan, dick flopping against a thigh, and he drops to the floor, kneeling between tommy’s spread thighs like a priest at the altar. “more,” the blond whines, scent lewd and choking. “wilbur, more.”
“more?” he asks, teasing. “alpha’s cum not enough for you? fucking slut-” tommy’s breath hitches, but it’s a sad little sound. “no, my dearest, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.” the alpha backtracks quickly, grabbing the blond’s hand and pressing a quick kiss to the inside of his wrist. “you’re not a slut, you’re not a slut at all, you’re my darling omega, and I love you very much.” tommy doesn’t seem convinced, staring blankly ahead, and wilbur settles back between his legs again, running soothing hands up and down his thighs. “I shouldn’t’ve said that, darling, it’s not true, not true at all. let me make it up to you, hm?”
at the omega’s hesitant nod, wilbur leans forward, licking a broad stripe over his cum-splattered folds. tommy gives a little squeak, hips bucking against the table. the alpha dives in again, parting his pussy lips with his tongue and lapping at the blond’s needy hole. he grabs one thigh in each hand, frantically tonguing at tommy’s cunt, as he thrashes on the table above him. “ah, ah, alpha!” he cries, arms hanging limply. “ngh, alpha, yes!” delicious, thick slick washes over wilbur’s tongue, the taste mixing with his own seed in a way that makes him desperate. he slips into tommy’s hole, flicking his tongue across the wet walls that clench around it. drawing back, wilbur slurps around tommy’s clit, alternating between gentle grazes of his teeth, and soft suckling. with a squeal, the omega cums, juices squirting over the alpha’s face. “wilby!” he shrieks as he climaxes, body tense as his cunt quivers and flutters.
“there we are, sweet thing,” wilbur coos, rubbing circles on tommy’s legs as he lifts him off the table. “better now.”
—
the crowd is thrumming, cheers and screams almost drowning out the sound of the band. the messy tangle of fans below him is a sweaty, writhing mess, but there’s only one person whose opinion matters. wilbur glances off to the side of the stage, where tommy is watching him, enthralled. he has to fight to keep a satisfied smile off his face as he sees the omega mouthing the words along with him. the next song he launches into is slow and sorrowful, the usual fare about how depressed he is. it’s hard for him, now, to sing with as much feeling as he used to - he’s simply not as miserable as he was when he wrote these songs, back before he knew tommy. it seems like a lifetime ago, but it was only two years.
the thought has wilbur running a hand over the lump in his pocket, soothing himself with the unmistakable feeling of what it is. as the song fades away, he nods at the vague area of where he thinks techno is, blinded by the stage lights, to ask him to turn down the amps and make the spotlights softer.
“good evening, london!” he yells into the microphone, grinning at the cheers that echo back. “how are we all tonight?” the alpha gives the crowd a few moments to scream out their greetings, a wordless hubbub that fills him with energy for what’s about to happen. “I do actually have a reason for interrupting this lovely evening, believe it or not. y’see, about two years ago, I met- well, I met someone who’s come to mean- that is to say- um.” he laughs awkwardly. “for someone who makes their living by talking about their feelings, this is hard.” a few sympathetic giggles flutter up from the audience, soothing him a little. “for a while now, um, I’ve known this omega. he’s very sweet to me, he- I’ve always tried to be the person I say I am, I always want to be honest with what I am, but he- he’s made me see that I can be everything I am, and it- it doesn’t have to be compartmentalised, it can just be. he’s so himself, and he makes me want to be myself, always.” wilbur darts his gaze over to tommy, who’s staring at him with dawning hope. “tommy, will you marry me?”
—
NEW SQUEEZE FOR WILBUR SOOT?
13/03/80 edited by annie mcgregor
frontman and singer wilbur soot may have found a new outlook on love, according to a source close to the alpha. our source, who wishes to remain anonymous, informs the magazine that soot, 23, has been spending his free time with an omega. the source has confided that they believe this omega to be a fan of the band, who met soot after a concert.
the pair have been spotted around soot’s usual haunts in north london, and seem to be plenty cozied up, although our source has urged that they cannot be sure of the nature of the relationship.
for now, the question on this fan’s lips - who will be the next member of the band to fall victim to love’s clutches?
—
tommy looks shifty and nervous, waiting outside the train station. he looks so unlike himself - over the past almost-year, wilbur’s come to know him as this nebulous, brilliant boisterous and loud, sweet and soft, caring, lovely, fuckable little omega, and yet, standing outside kings cross station, shivering in the cold, he looks alien. tiny and hesitant, peering around at the hustle and bustle of people that crowd around him.
“tommy!” the alpha shouts, waving like a maniac to catch his girlfriend’s attention. the omega starts, and then hurries over to him with a relieved grin. he throws himself into the older’s arms, planting a wet kiss on his lips, and wilbur can’t resist snaking a hand down for a cheeky pinch.
“wilbur!” the blond giggles, struggling to keep a disapproving frown on his face.
nibbling at tommy’s neck, the alpha smirks. “what? I’m just saying hello.” wilbur relishes in the way the omega melts against him, sinking further into his arms with each gentle bite. his girlfriend is practically plastered against him, hands scrabbling weakly at his shoulders.
“wilby, stop,” he whimpers, desire seeping into his scent. “we’re in public.” despite his words, tommy is rolling his hips against the alpha’s thighs, and kneading at the skin of his shoulders.
the dark-haired alpha glances up, making eye contact with a horrified pensioner, glaring at them with disapproval. “oh, I think they’d appreciate the show. give them something to think about in bed tonight,” wilbur says with a purr. nevertheless, he pulls tommy off him with a reluctant sigh, and wraps a possessive arm around his waist. “come on, darling, I’ve got too much to show you.”
he leads his girlfriend down a myriad of streets, ducking through alleyways and across roads with a speed that’s foreign to him. wilbur makes a habit of taking his time, but he’s too keen to show tommy off to not hurry. the omega, for his part, is gawking at practically everything he sees, captivated equally by grand houses and thrumming cafes. eventually, the grand splendour of fitzrovia transforms into the comfortable squalor of camden. the alpha drags tommy past the enticing shops, each with a captivating display, and the seedy, nameless clubs, off the main street and down an innocuous terrace. “here,” he says, pointing the omega towards a grimy basement flat. “this is me. hold on, let me go first. these stairs get awfully slippery, and I don’t want you to fall.”
they rattle down the thin metal staircase, shoes clanking against the grating. wilbur unlocks the door, his hand shaking with anticipation. in a moment, his worlds are about to collide - his girlfriend and his band. “we’re here!” he shouts as the front door swings open, answering yells echoing from the living room. the alpha starts towards the living room, but he’s held back by a tug on his jacket. whirling around, he sees tommy, trembling and twisting his hands.
“what if- what if they don’t like me?” the omega asks, anxiety clear in his scent. “fuck, I sound like a toddler.”
wilbur smiles down at his girlfriend, soft and sweet. “no, darling, it’s quite alright. listen,” he takes tommy’s hands in his, running soothing thumbs over the knuckles. “they’re going to love you, because there’s no way they can’t. and if- if by some miracle, they don’t, well, then, fuck ‘em.”
the omega smiles weakly, and he can’t resist tucking him under his arm, squeezing him up against his side. the alpha presses a quick kiss to his forehead, guiding him into the living room, and stifles a satisfied smirk when tommy purrs.
“everyone, this is tommy,” wilbur says with a proud smile, pushing his girlfriend to stand in front of him. in spite of his earlier nervousness, the omega doesn’t wilt in the face of the band’s scrutinising gaze, staring defiantly back at them.
niki is the first to break the stony silence, a cheery smile stretching from ear to ear. “hi, tommy! it’s so lovely to meet you, wilbur hardly ever shuts up about you.”
the blond seems to startle at being addressed, but stutters out a reply. “it- it’s nice to meet you, too, um-?” as if tommy doesn't know. he probably has a poster of her face.
“oh! niki, my name’s niki.” wilbur shoots her a grateful smile. he can always count on her to smooth the way. after the fellow alpha’s introduction, his other bandmates seem more willing to join the conversation.
eret and fundy both introduce themselves, but the ginger can’t resist a sly jab. “we’ve actually met before. you might not remember, ‘cause I think wilbur was about a foot deep in your-”
“yes, thank you, fundy,” the alpha interjects, sending him a warning glare, a protective growl swirling in his voice. “we don’t need the specifics.”
the initial awkwardness fades away, as he maneuvers tommy to sit on the sofa, squashed in between niki and himself, and lets them chat away. his bandmates seem fascinated with the idea that this is tommy’s first time in london (“well, it’s not my actual first time, but last time I was only here to, um. see wilbur. and the rest of you, too, of course.”), although fundy’s more concerned with making snide comments about tommy’s sluttiness. the omega studiously ignores each little snip and dig, voice shaking but never faltering.
at fundy’s disparaging suggestion about what other activities tommy might get up to while in london, however, wilbur explodes. “d’you wanna just shut up, fundy? I don’t think a man who makes his girlfriend wear cat ears in bed is really in a place to be commenting on anyone else’s life.” it’s the best feeling, watching the way fundy recoils in disgruntlement, hearing tommy’s delighted laughter tinkle in his ear.
after that, things are pleasant, quiet chatter passing back and forth. tommy seems happy enough to just curl up at wilbur’s side, drinking in his words. every time he glances down, the omega is staring up at him, rapt with adoration. each stupid quip he makes is the funniest joke ever, every throwaway line, a masterful bit of poetry. tommy is enthralled by him, and wilbur is completely charmed in return.
eventually, however, they have to move on to the second part of their evening. tommy bids a sincere goodbye to each member of the band, beaming from ear to ear. wilbur practically has to pry him off niki, brushing off the knowing smile the other alpha shoots him as he pleads and wheedles with his girlfriend to let niki go. at last, he manages to separate tommy from the band, and leads him out the door, up onto the street.
“did you enjoy that, darling?” he asks as they trudge towards their next stop.
the blond whirls around to face him, wide grin splitting his cheeks. “it was amazing! niki’s so nice. and eret, too, I had no idea their voice was so deep, it never sounds like that on the records. and fundy was cool, too, but I’m kinda worried about his girlfriend, if-” wilbur lets the excited babbling fade into background sound, his attention entirely taken up by the way tommy’s eyes sparkle, pink cheeks flushed from the chilly air. there are delicate goosebumps on the exposed skin of his tummy.
“-and I never knew that about guitars, but it makes sense actua- wilby, what’re you doing?”
wilbur, halfway through taking off his coat, pauses. “you did call me wilby, I knew it!” he crows, shrugging the sleeves from his arms. “I thought so earlier, but I was a bit caught up with other things.” he throws tommy a wink as he holds up his coat for the omega.
“yeah, s’pose I did, but that still doesn’t fucking explain what you’re doing,” his girlfriend mutters, not moving.
wilbur shakes the coat a bit, encouraging. “c’mon, put it on. you’re obviously freezing, just put the coat on.”
“no, ‘cause then you’ll be cold, genius.”
“put it on. put it on for wilby, please?” he whines and begs like a child looking for a snack before dinnertime, petulant and pleading. tommy doesn’t look moved, so he changes tack, dropping his voice to a seductive croon. “maybe I just want to see you, all swallowed up in my clothes, all reeking of my scent, hm? maybe I just want everyone who walks past to know exactly who you belong to.”
that seems to do the trick, the omega, face deliciously red, shoving his arms into the coat and wrapping the thick material around himself. he does look tiny, swamped by the dark fabric of wilbur’s coat, and it does funny things to his alpha brain to see his girlfriend all swaddled up in his clothes.
the rest of the walk is quiet, their entwined hands swinging between them as they wander through the streets. tommy’s hair glows under each streetlamp, shining in the harsh orange glow, and wilbur can’t resist letting his fingers trail up, brushing a few stray strands off the omega’s face. it’s a comfortable quiet, idle chatter bubbling up from each of them, a little pocket of calm bliss in the deafening noise of london. in the distance, wilbur can make out their destination, a heaving pub on the corner, light and patrons spilling out onto the street. the rowdy crowd can be heard from down the street, but the alpha only cares about two of the men inside.
sure enough, inside, perched on their usual barstools in the corner, are phil and techno, each nursing a pint. “evening, lads,” he says, tugging tommy through the thronging crowd of drunkards towards their little area.
“evening, wil,” the oldest says, tipping him a nod and raising his glass a little in greeting. “where’s this lovely omega you want us to meet, then?”
“here!” he drags his girlfriend out in front of him, internally cooing at the awkward little half-wave the blond gives the pair. “phil, techno, this is tommy. tommy, this is phil and techno.”
“right,” says phil, sucking on his teeth. “and how old are you supposed to be?”
with a nervous glance back at him, tommy stutters out, “s-seventeen?” at phil’s skeptical stare, he amends, “fifteen.” wilbur can see the way phil starts crunching the numbers, working out the ways they can spin this in the press if it gets out.
“fifteen’s better than fourteen,” techno mutters, not looking up from the table.
“alright,” the older blond mutters, “alright. lovely to meet you, anyway, tommy. I’m phil, I’m the manager of this sorry mess, and this is techno. he manages the roadies, does the sound and the lights, all that shit.”
tommy nods, still looking shell-shocked. “ ‘ow do, techno,” he mumbles after a moment.
wilbur can’t stop the smile that creeps across his face. tommy and techno seem to be equally terrified of each other, each hesitant to speak to the other, both nervous to glance in the other’s direction, so the burden of keeping up conversation falls to wilbur and phil. they natter on idly, the same meaningless, directionless, fluff that they always spew. it’s embarrassing, almost, to let tommy see this side of him - the one that can be corralled and chivvied by phil into the semblance of a person, like a mother cat licking her kitten into shape. the omega fell for his singer persona, dark, mysterious and brooding, suave and poetic. this wilbur is nothing like that wilbur, browbeaten into pleasantness by phil’s general everyman-ness.
he hazards a glance down at the blond, but tommy is hanging off their every word, a delighted smile lighting up his face. every time phil launches into another story about wilbur, whether from the early days of the band, when they were playing five-song sets for crowds barely big enough to fill a bus, or from yesterday, the story is the best he’s ever heard.
—
it’s wilbur’s turn to feel nervous. “what did you think of phil and techno?” he asks, trying to hide the nervous twisting of his hands behind his back. “did you like them? was it okay?”
tommy grabs one of his anxious hands, squeezing it tightly. “wilby, it was amazing. you’re so soft with them. soft boy,” he teases, and the alpha sighs, long and low.
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“wh-? why the fuck’re you sorry?” for some reason, tommy wants him to spell it out.
he shakes away the omega’s soft, delicate hand, rubbing anxious circles on his fingers. “I- I know that’s not exactly the kind of person you expect me to be. the person you know me to be. I know, I’m supposed to be all… dark, and angsty, and-” he’s rambling, he’s spiraling, tommy is going to think he’s so pathetic.
“I love that person you are with them.” tommy’s simple, sweet words cut through his panicked thoughts like a knife through butter. “I love the person you are always, I love ‘wilbur-soot-the-musician’, and I love ‘wilbur-soot-the-actual-person’, and I’ll love any more wilbur soots there are.” the omega snatches his hand back up, fiddling with the dark rings that adorn each finger. “I really liked it, actually. it’s like- like, when we’re talking, and you’re all wilbur soot-y, like, I love that, but it feels like anyone could have that, y’know. that’s the you that all the fans see, and anyone who interviews you, or takes your photos. but- but seeing you in there, with them, it was like. like I’m part of a special club that gets to see you like that. I loved that.”
wilbur can’t resist pushing him up against the dank wall of the building they’re walking past, and snogging him senseless. the omega keens under his fingertips, shivering as he trails a wandering hand up his side. the alpha gropes at tommy’s chest as he licks into the blond’s welcoming mouth, nibbling at his bottom lip and panting into him as he scraps blunt nails down his back. “you’re too good to me,” wilbur mutters, as the blond spreads his legs on instinct. “too sweet, my tommy.” he draws back, moaning lightly at the way tommy tries to chase his lips, pouting when the kiss is broken. “I just have to tell you- you don’t have to say- I just want you to-”
“wilbur,” the omega says plainly, one word quashing his babbles. “I love you, too.”
—
tommy’s been back in nottingham for a week, and his life is so dull. when tommy was here, in his flat, in his life, in his bed, everything felt vibrant. places he’s been a thousand times before were exciting with tommy’s fresh eyes peering round, gawking at this and that until wilbur had no choice but to laugh. they didn’t go dancing, instead just swaying in wilbur’s living room to the tune of his soft hums, beat provided by the clanking of binmen down the street. mundane, but, with his omega in his arms, romantic beyond compare, beyond poetry, beyond words. they didn’t fuck, only grinding on each other to sweaty, lazy completion. it was soft, but tommy deserves some soft. when he thinks about the blond, the way he writhed and mewled on top of wilbur’s bare, sticky chest, wilbur can’t help but feel a thrumming sense of desire. that’s his omega, his . he’s transformed, for tommy, possessive and darkly loving, protective and gentle in a way he’s never been.
that possessiveness, that protectiveness, is why he loses his mind with worry when the clock hits half four on friday, and tommy still hasn’t picked up. ever since that first day, more than a year ago, the omega hasn’t missed a single call, without warning. wilbur picks at his fingernails, worrying at them and humming anxiously. he checks his watch, and steels his nerve. he’ll call one more time. maybe the omega just forgot ( he never forgets, a cruel voice whispers. he must just be sick of you. sick of some alpha, almost a decade older than him, plaguing him with your nasty thoughts. you’re sick, to be doing this to him. ), or maybe he’s busy. if not- well, if not, he knows the vague area of where tommy lives, having walked him almost home after their gig in nottingham, and it surely won’t be too hard to find someone who can tell him where the omega lives.
he punches in the number that’s become familiar, as well-known and as well-loved as his own, and waits with baited breath. as soon as it’s picked up, however, wilbur knows something is up. that high, feminine voice isn’t tommy’s.
“hello, simons’ residence, laura speaking?” it must be tommy’s mum. he should just hang up, chalk it down as a bad day, but curiosity and desperation win out.
“h-hi. is this tommy’s mum?” wilbur’s words come out all weird and squeaky. the high pitch will certainly help hide the fact that he’s a twenty two year old man, calling her fifteen year old son.
“yes, this is tommy’s mum. can I ask who you are?” she sounds curious, but not suspicious, which eases his nerves a little.
the alpha clears his throat a little. “I-I’m a friend of tommy’s. he was supposed to call me today, and he hasn’t, so-”
“oh!” she sounds surprised. “oh, well, I’m sorry, pet, but, um, tommy’s gone into heat. so I don’t think he’ll be calling you.”
he has to stifle a whine. “oh. well, thank you for, um, explaining. buh-bye, mrs. simons.” wilbur hangs up double-quick, hand flying down to squeeze at his bulge.
tommy’s in heat. his darling omega is out there somewhere, needy, flushed and whining for his cock. he’ll be drenched in slick, poor little cunt red and leaking, desperate for his alpha. desperate for wilbur. “ fuck ,” he whimpers, tugging his cock out of his trousers. he can see the way tommy would bend over for him, pretty pink pussy on display, and begging to be wrecked. he can practically smell the omega’s mouth-watering scent, thick, delicious juices dripping onto the bed below him. would tommy beg for him, thrashing and keening until wilbur stuffs him up with cum, filling him to almost bursting? or would he be stubborn, and take it for himself, climbing into his alpha’s lap and riding him until he gets what he wants?
the dark-haired man moans as he wraps a large hand around his prick, spitting down onto his lap to slick the way. tommy can have his pups, now, womb finally ripe and needing to be filled. the thought of the blond, naked and filled to the brim with his pups, pregnant tummy round with a litter, has him frantically flicking his wrist and fisting at his cock. what’s tommy doing, right now? is he bent over the edge of his desk, humping his soaked cunt against the wood in a frenzy? or perhaps he’s lying on his bed, legs in the air while he desperately thrusts his fingers in and out of himself, chasing relief that won’t come? “god, tommy,” he groans, picturing his omega in front of him. the tommy in his mind gives him a saucy wink, messy curls in disarray, face pink and pouting lips swollen. imaginary tommy, a poor facsimile of the real thing, roughly tweaks at a nipple, hands running over his puffy tits, and wilbur cums with a groan, sticky, warm ropes of white spurting over his fist and lap.
the next heat tommy has, wilbur will spend with him, come rain or shine. nothing’s going to keep him from his omega, not one thing.
—
BANDS YOU SHOULD KNOW: 1979
extract from page 46, december issue of D&ME
if, like this author, you’ve become sick of the glitzy disco and flashy glam rock that’ve categorised the music scene for the past decade, then you’ll appreciate this band. home grown alternative rockers, l’manberg, provide the perfect antidote to mainstream mundanity. frontman wilbur soot is one to keep an eye on, already carving out a place for himself in the industry, but set to make it on the main stage in the next few years.
—
wilbur could kick himself. he’s such an idiot - some gorgeous little omega turns up, obviously half in love with him, lets him fuck him within an inch of his life, and then wilbur doesn’t ask for his number? the alpha is snappish and growling for the rest of the day, biting off his bandmates’ heads when they dare to talk to him, and sulking in corners when they don’t.
“I know he’s supposed to be all brooding and mysterious,” he hears fundy hiss to someone, probably niki, as they get ready to head off to their next venue, tour bus packed full of roadies and amps. “but does he have to be such a little bitch about it?”
it is niki, because he hears his fellow alpha reply, voice soft, high and teasing, “don’t be too hard on him, fundy. he’s in love.”
throwing himself down in his usual spot, tucked in the back with the guitars, wilbur lays his head against the window, and lets the rough vibrations bouncing from the glass to his skull carry his angry thoughts away. they pass a bridge, a pub, another pub, a school, a market, another pub. the alpha slips a hand into his pocket, hoping for something to fiddle with, anything to take his mind off bouncing blond curls, sweet blue eyes watering with pleasure, pale skin flushed and voice cracking. his fingers tighten around a thin slip of paper that certainly wasn’t nestled in the depths of the dark trench coat's pocket the last time he wore it. wilbur pulls it out, guilty hope shooting through him when he sees a collection of numbers, and glee blooming when he flips it over.
call me any time after 4
i’ll be waiting - tommy
“pull over,” the alpha calls, loud and commanding. he checks his watch. ten to four. “pull over, I need a phone box.” with much grumbling, their driver acquiesces, the bus coming to a juddering halt a few moments later near a row of phone boxes, their distinctive red paint catching his eye like a homing beacon. hurrying down the aisle of the bus, he pauses. “eret, eret, d’you have any change on you?”
the beta hands him a jumbled mess of coins, saying, “this wouldn’t have anything to do with your, ah, friends from saturday, would it?” but wilbur is too preoccupied with the prospect of hearing tommy’s innocently seductive voice again to reply, jumping the few steps and practically sprinting into the first booth. he slips the coins in, before carefully punching in the number, checking and rechecking he’s got it right. just before he presses the last key, the alpha pauses. he shouldn’t. he can’t. tommy is young, too young, despite what his friend claimed. he should hang up, get on the bus, and chalk saturday night up to a momentary lapse in judgement. he’s no kiddie-fiddler, after all. but tommy wanted it, a little voice hisses. they came to you, and he was so keen, wasn’t he? and look, he left you his number. would he do that if he was some innocent child you’d ensnared? this was a seduction: tommy tempted you .
“you little minx,” he growls the second the omega picks up. “leaving your number for me.”
a hitch of breath, and wilbur thinks he might’ve, somehow, got the wrong person, before-
“ so when’re you coming to nottingham?” tommy says with a satisfied purr.
“I don’t know, darling. will you be there if I do?” the alpha crowds in against the telephone. in his mind’s eye, he’d be leaning over the omega, seeing him peer up at him with those adoring blue eyes.
an answering murmur. “I’ll be wherever you want me to be. in the front row, cheering you on. backstage, waiting for you.” his voice drops low, sultry and alluring. “in your bed.”
the idea of wilbur doing a gig, only to come off stage and find tommy in his room, naked and needy, stretched out in a delicious offering to him, has wilbur hissing into his fist. “ fuck . I wasn’t wrong, you really are perfect.”
“so?” tommy asks, his hope poorly hidden.
“well, our next few gigs are down south. but, uh, we’ll be doing a show in nottingham, at the university, in about a month.” his voice is furtive and pleading. “will you come? I’ll send you the tickets, you can have as many as you like, as long as you’re waiting for me when I’m done. please.” the great wilbur soot, frontman of the best band britain’s got, begging for some teenage omega to grace him with his presence. he couldn’t care less, he just needs to hear tommy say it.
“I’ll be there.”
—
tommy’s voice is hushed, hesitant and echoey, as he whispers down the phone line. “-uh, and since nana was here, we went to the cinema,” he says, rambling on about his day. wilbur feels impossibly soft, hearing the little omega describe his day. domestic and inane, the words fill his heart. “that sounds lovely, darling,” he murmurs in reply. “tell me, did you-?”
“tom?” a shrill voice screeches. “what’re you doing in the cupboard?”
wilbur has to stifle a laugh at the way tommy chokes. the sounds become muffled, and the alpha can hear the rustling of the clothes that the phone is no doubt being smothered by.
“mum!” tommy hisses, mortification clear. “I’m on the phone!”
“I can see that, tom, the cable’s leading into my bloody downstairs cupboard. get out of there!” tommy’s mum does not sound amused.
the blond grumbles. “in a minute. let me just hang up.” with much muttering, his mother seems to recede, and tommy murmurs into the phone again. “wilbur? are you still there?”
“I’m still here, my darling. are you still in the cupboard?” his voice is teasing and lilting, but tommy doesn’t seem amused.
“shut up,” he says, but there’s an undercurrent of laughter. “sorry, she’s so nosy. I have to hide in the cupboard, ‘cause I don’t want her to hear what I’m sayin’.”
with a purr, the alpha says, “whyever not? what could you possibly say that you wouldn’t want your dear mother to hear?” he flushes, remembering the exact details of what tommy told him yesterday. from the breathy panting echoing in his ear, the omega is as well.
“wilbur?” a shy voice asks a few moments later. “can I ask you a question?”
“of course you can, my sweetness,” the alpha says, smiling at tommy’s uncertainty. “anything at all.”
“am- am I your girlfriend?”
a warm rush oozes through wilbur’s body. tommy, his girlfriend? the thought makes a gooey, soft contentedness flood through him. tommy, his girlfriend, hanging off his arm at a club, or sitting in on their recording sessions, or meeting phil and tech-
“d’you want to meet my manager?” he asks, mind racing far ahead of his words.
tommy seems dumbfounded. “wha-? yes, of course, but why?” his voice is a hodge-podge of confusion and glee, as he desperately scrambles to catch up with the alpha’s spiraling thoughts.
“if you’re my girlfriend, you should know phil and techno. they- you’ll like them.” he’s too excited to consider the fact that tommy has no idea what he’s talking about. phil, his manager, his friend, his basically-dad, meeting tommy, his omega, his girlfriend, his everything .
“so- so am I? your girlfriend?” the blond sounds hopeful, the bright beam on his face evident in his voice.
wilbur purrs, scent thick with satisfaction. “of course you are, my darling.”
—
the show was good. in fact, it was great. the sad songs sadder, the love songs lovelier, all for the omega in the front row, gazing up at him, hands clasped like he was praying, but eyes firmly fixed on wilbur’s face. the alpha can barely stay on stage long enough for the encore and the cheering, staring at tommy as he slips away from the crowd. his eyes track the blond’s form as he darts towards the door that leads backstage, and wilbur gladly joins him there a few minutes later.
when he finally makes it to his dressing room, tommy is perched on the desk, waiting for him, legs spread wide as he leans back on his hands. he’s already shirtless, no pants, shiny black skirt inching up his thighs, and wilbur can see the smallest flash of his pussy beneath it.
“y’know,” he says, faux casual, but shivering under the alpha’s lustful gaze. “same guy on the door as last time, but I didn’t have to blow him today.”
having roughly tugged off his frilled shirt, wilbur growls, stalking over and sweeping him up in a deep kiss. he cups tommy’s cheek, stroking the soft skin beneath his hands. “you’re a sweet little slut, aren’t you?”
but the blond pulls back, frowning. “ no ,” he says, strongly. “I’m not a fucking slut. I didn’t- I wouldn’t let just anyone have me, alright? I only- we only did it, so we could get to you.”
“and where is tubbo?” he asks, sucking dark bruises into tommy’s neck.
the omega chirps happily, nuzzling at his hair. “got- ah! got a boyfriend. he feels bad now, ‘cause mark’s a virgin, and he’s not.”
“I do remember making him rather categorically not a virgin,” wilbur says with a dark smile. “not as much as I remember you, though.”
tommy keens, lust streaming through his light scent. there’s hints of other things, the rounded edges and complex layers of a mature omega’s scent filtering through, but, for now, wilbur relishes in the sweet and airy, still puppy-smell of his hair.
“wilbur, stop,” he whines, batting away the alpha. “if my mum sees marks on my neck, she’ll go spare. she’d never let me out of the house again.”
reluctantly, he draws back. “that’s a shame.” he steps the fingers of one hand up tommy’s bare leg, the other wrapped tightly around his waist. “since I’m here for the next few days, and I’d love to see you again.” wilbur smiles down at him, breathing in heady scent of slick that slips from tommy as he slides a finger into his cunt. “I’ll take you dancing, would you like that?”
“yes!” he doesn’t know whether that’s an answer to his question, or a reaction to the way the alpha strokes a finger against his wet, velvety inner walls.
“we’ll go to a discotheque, I’ll take you to a cafe, or a bar, or anywhere you want to go, tommy,” he pants, cock straining against the fabric of his tight trousers. adding another finger, he swallows up tommy’s surprised squeal.
the omega whimpers a denial. “I can’t. I’m- I’m fourteen.” he tenses up, and wilbur can see the fear on his face. his eyes water, and the alpha knows what he thinks is about to happen. wilbur will step away, cold and disgusted, leaving tommy to whimper his way home.
“I know, darling,” he says instead, pressing a swift kiss to the teen’s cheek. “that doesn’t bother me. I’m so- so utterly besotted by you, I don’t care if you’re fourteen, or forty, or four hundred.”
wilbur cringes at the cheesiness of his own words, but tommy seems utterly enthralled. he blushed darkly when the alpha called him ‘darling’, and now he’s staring at him with admiring adoration. after the recent smearing he’s gotten in the music press for his lyrics, it’s gratifying to know he can still make an omega weak at the knees. especially one as pretty as tommy.
his reverent gaze, his awe-filled scent, make wilbur’s cock fill out his trousers even more than before. “god, my darling, let me have you. please .” he pulls his hand away from tommy’s burning crotch, snaking it down to undo his fly. the omega nods frantically, spreading his legs even further. thick, delicious slick is oozing from his bare pussy, dribbling down his perfect thighs and spattering on the table.
“please, just fucking fuck me!” the blond begs, his desperation and delight obvious from his blooming scent. wilbur takes his cock in hand, and guides it to hover at the omega’s entrance, happily drinking in tommy’s whimpers, and squashing his squirms with his larger, alpha body.
“oh, I’ll fuck you, my precious, don’t you worry.” with that, he pushes in, prick rejoicing at the warm, wet cunt twitching and fluttering around it.
wilbur meant to go slow, to make love to tommy with the care he deserves, but the second his tip squeezes into the inviting heat of the omega’s pussy, he can’t resist slamming his hips forwards, muffling the blond’s shocked squeak with his lips. “fuck, you’re good, you’re perfect, you’re so fucking tight.” tommy’s teen cunt is spasming around his cock, desperately trying to accommodate its size. he brushes sticky, sweaty blond curls away from the omega’s face, smacking a wet kiss to his hairline. “does that feel good, sweetness? hm? is wilbur’s cock good in you?”
“yes, yes, yes!” tommy chants, words in time with each rough jolt of his body, as the dark-haired alpha fucks him across the table. at each animalistic thrust, tommy’s body jerks, and the rickety table slams against the wall, but wilbur doesn’t slow, doesn’t hesitate.
the only sounds in the room are tommy’s breathy gasps, wilbur’s answering snarls, and the wet slap of his skin against the omega’s drenched pussy. their hips clap together, tommy clinging to his neck and practically hanging off him, and each loud smack pushes wilbur closer to the edge.
“I wish - ungh - you could breed me,” the blond moans, scrabbling at his back with blunt nails. the dull scrape makes him shudder, tight heat coiling in his groin. “I’d do anything to have your pups, I’d love it so much.”
the alpha slips, elbows skidding down onto the table. tommy is trapped beneath him now, and each rough drag of his cock scrapes it past the omega’s swollen clit. wilbur can feel the heaving of the blond’s chest beneath his own, the way it hitches with each harsh brush against his clit.
with a loud, keening squeal, tommy cums, squirting slick into the narrow space between their bare chests. hot, sweet slick splashes between them, dripping from one patch of skin to the other. “god, you’re so fucking perfect!” wilbur shouts, uncaring of his bandmates in the next room. he leans in, impossibly closer, and wraps his lips around tommy’s scent glad, sucking at it with fervour. the omega whines, cunt clenching again, and wilbur shoots his sticky seed deep into him, cock still buried in his pussy. he shivers through the aftershocks of his orgasm, prick half-heartedly spurting a rope of cum when it can work up the energy.
“fuck, am I glad you came to that concert,” he says, exhausted, burying his face in tommy’s flat chest. they lie there for a while, crowded into each other, tommy drawing idle shapes with the slick that pools on his tummy, while wilbur dozes. “you’re gonna be good for me, I just know it.”