Through Hell [AOB/LGBT+/mpreg]

2

Oliver feels nauseated as he stares at the men in his kitchen, his heart thumping loudly inside his chest and blood rushing to his head, drowning out all coherent sound. He takes another staggering step back as the man pushes off the rickety chair, hand curling 'round the gun casually, as if by habit. Oliver gulps, breath hitching as he panics when he realizes it probably is by habit. How many people have been threatened by the end of that barrel?  How many have actually died?  His eyes bounce from man to man in his rapid panic, noticing how the two caging in the ringleader follow his every step back.  Awaiting his every order.

His mouth opens, lips forming words he can't quite spit out. He raises his trembling hands up in surrender as tears well in his eyes, his bag of suppressants falling to his feet in his surprise and fear. 

His breathing is ragged with his growing panic and he scrunches his face as the first terrified tear rolls down his cheek, showing a weakness he cannot hide.

"Where. Is. My. Money?" The man demands, "Don't make me repeat myself, Oliver."

Oliver points at a drawer by the sink, lips quivering as he says in a small croaked voice, "envelope."

The ringleader gives a nod of his head and one of the goons moves as if on autopilot. The beta yanks the drawer open by the rusted handle without a word. The sound grates his ears before it's closed with a resounding slam that makes Oliver flinch.

The envelope is neatly deposited on the alpha's hand, palm opened and waiting. Expectant. Oliver holds his breath as the man counts the money, his (admittedly) handsome face darkening.

The laugh that escapes his lips is one that promises pain, cold and harsh, "You think you can fuck with me?"

A small whine of fear crawls up the omega's throat as he fights the urge to tilt his head and expose the most vulnerable place of his throat.

"There's only $675. Where's the rest?"

Oliver looks at the man with wide teary eyes, choking on air as he takes in a shuddering breath, "I-I don't have it."

The man's quirked brow narrows, "I'm sorry, did you just say you don't have it?"

Against his better judgment, Oliver nods.

A small insignificant incline of the man's head sets the beta men to work as they begin trashing the place, searching for something they won't find.

"Please, I-I'm sorry!" Oliver whimpers, eyes following the wild movements as his home is upturned and papers are scattered.

"Sorry?" The man scoffs.

His steps are loud in Oliver's ears as he approaches the younger and Oliver finds that he's rooted to the floor, that he can't move from where he stands.  He's not sure if it's from the Alpha's angry pheromones or if he's paralyzed from utter fear.  Regardless, he stops breathing and finds the man's hand quickly wrapping around his throat without remorse.  The heel of his palm presses down and the pressure makes Oliver gasp for breath.  The scent glands near his throat become too sensitive as the rough skin presses against them without respite.

The tears he managed to hold back spill when the gun is raised, the end of the barrel pressed to his temple and making his tangled curls tickle his skin.

"Please don't kill me," Oliver begs, voice breaking.

"And why shouldn't I?" The alpha asks with a tilt of his head, stepping closer and invading the younger's personal space until his lips brush Oliver's ear with a growl, "You stole my money."

"I'm sorry," Oliver whimpers, "I'm so sorry, I didn't know!"

"Didn't know what? You find someone's money and just spend it however the fuck you want?"

"No!" Oliver says, voice high pitched and loud even to his own ears.

Mortified, his hand responds on automatic as he slaps it over his mouth, as if that could take back his outburst.

"Then what did you do with my money?"

"I," Oliver chokes, "I used it to pay my rent, my bills."

The man pulls back, but the pressure of the gun against his head isn't alleviated. His face flushes when those piercing eyes scrutinize him. He closes his eyes, breathing slowing down. His body is tense, but he's resigned. He's lived a good life... right?  He's gotten so far.

Another tear slides down his cheek and before he realizes, the gun is lifted from its place. Oliver's eyes flutter open and he feels as if his soul can return to his body. He collapses without a word, legs feeling like jelly and giving up on him completely, making him fall onto his knees with a heavy painful thud.

He looks up with brown doe eyes questioning, but he's still faced with the end of the gun. The ringleader looks utterly disinterested as he points the loaded revolver to Oliver's forehead obscured by unruly curls.

"You have three days," the man begins, "three days to get my money."

Oliver trembles. Three days? He just got paid, there's no way he can get that money in such a short amount of time.

"I-"

"Three days," the man interrupts with a glare, "or you pay with your life."

The man could've easily forgiven the younger for stealing such a meager amount of money, but there's nothing like teaching a thief a lesson for touching what's his. Without another word, he clicks the safety on and tucks the gun in the back of his jeans simultaneously signaling the others to leave. One of them kicks a broken piece of a wooden chair toward the younger's cowering frame, making him scamper away only for it to hit his calf.

But finally, finally, they leave, and Oliver's left alone in his wrecked home. He looks around and it seems as if a tornado passed through, his heart clenching at the sight of destruction.  His entire home, his safe haven, is tainted.  It smells of angry alpha and strangers.

He drags his knees to his chest and wraps his arms around them, his hands clenching onto the fabric of his uniform and twisting in anguish. Three days, it's not enough! It's not enough time. He couldn't even make enough for his rent.

And as the minutes tick and bleed into hours, he realizes he doesn't have the strength to move. He curls up on the cold floor and falls asleep with tears running down his cheeks and snot making it hard to breathe. He clenches his fist tightly and forces himself to breathe, to calm down and stop the pending panic attack clawing at his chest. He should just resign himself, resign himself to his inevitable death that will no doubt be painful and done cold-heartedly.

He briefly wonders what they'll do with his body before discarding those dark, dark thoughts from his clouded mind. Even knowing the outcome, he can't help but try, but hold onto foolish hope. He has three days before... before he pays with his life for rent money of all things.

Yet when morning comes, he still doesn't move.

He let's the sunlight bathe his sore and tense body as he still lays motionless on the floor. He closes his puffy eyes and takes in a deep shuddering breath.

In and out.

In and out.

Three days.

He can do this. 

He can't do this.