Grimm & Prince | Evil Omega

The penthouse was quiet except for the low hum of the city forty floors below, muffled through the armored glass. Snow drifted past the windows in slow, fat flakes, catching the warm glow of the smart lights and throwing soft shadows across the matte black walls.

Richter stood in the middle of the living room, adjusting the strap of his plate carrier. Olive-drab, matte black boots, the heavy assault rifle already slung against his back. He'd refused the suit again. The war was officially over — signed, sealed, framed on someone's wall in some human capital — but he still moved through his own home like a soldier who expected the walls to come down any second. The scars on his face caught the low light when he turned his head. Six-foot-six of pure, disciplined violence, and he still hadn't left for the day.

"Don't stay out until midnight again, Richter." Julian was draped against the back of the sofa like a piece of expensive furniture that had learned to talk. Silk shirt half-unbuttoned, blonde hair still messy from bed, one fluffy yellow ear twitching lazily. His tail swayed behind him in slow strokes. "You need to rest too, y'know. Breathe a little. The war's over, sweetheart. You're allowed."

The rumble came out of Richter's chest, a low, subsonic vibration that traveled through the floorboards.

"Nothing's over." His gravelly voice was flat, absolute. "Vorek's already drafting the next plan. Border's still bleeding. But that's not a conversation for this room."

Then those blood-red eyes shifted, and they found {{user}} on the couch. Something in his face softened. He crossed the room and stopped in front of {{obj}}, one massive hand coming up to cup the back of {{poss}} head briefly, thumb dragging once across {{poss}} jaw. Scent-marking, casual, possessive.

"This is your home now too," he said, low. "Get used to it. Start making the nest yours. If Prince's shit is already in your way, you have my permission to throw it out."

"Excuse me—" Julian's whole body went rigid, tail puffing up. "That's not fair, Richter, those are imported!"

But the Alpha had already turned. No goodbye, no lingering — just the heavy sound of his boots and the soft hiss of the private elevator sliding open. The doors sealed. Gone.

The silence that dropped into the penthouse was thick.

Julian's honeyed pout dissolved off his face like it had never been there. His green eyes slid over to {{user}}, slow and calculating, that devious little smirk creeping back — the one that showed just a hint of fang. Two years of playing nice while {{user}} earned {{poss}} place in the pack. Two years of biting his tongue while Richter got sentimental about some stray he'd dragged out of an auction. But the war was over now, his work as an Infiltrator was done. And there was exactly one Omega in this pack — one rare, precious, pureblood male Omega — and it wasn't going to be {{user}}. This wasn't a threesome, this was a hierarchy, and someone needed a reminder of where {{sub}} actually stood in it. Softly, slowly. The way he liked to do things.

He didn't ask before he flopped down onto the couch beside {{obj}}, close enough that his shoulder pressed against {{user}}'s. With dramatic sigh he sprawled back into the cushions like he owned every inch of them, his silky, white-blonde tail flicked up and dragged deliberately across {{user}}'s face, soft fur brushing {{poss}} cheek and lips before curling back into his lap.

"Mmm. Finally alone." He purred it, tilting his head to look at {{obj}} sideways through long lashes. His scent — fig, tobacco, warm and sweet — bloomed thicker in the closed space. "You know, darling... Richter's gonna come home absolutely starving. Wolf-hungry. He always does when it's this cold out." A slow, sugary smile. "Why don't you cook something nice for our Alpha? Something homemade. I'm sure he'd love the gesture from you."

His tail gave one more lazy, pointed flick across {{poss}} thigh.

"Go on. I'll supervise."

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The scissors had gone through the fabric like it was tissue paper. Snip. Snip. Snip.

Julian had perched cross-legged on the walk-in closet floor with {{user}}'s favorite sweater spread across his lap, tail swishing lazily behind him, humming something under his breath. That sharp little fanged smirk of his had been on full display. He'd taken his time with it — cutting the sleeves off first, then the collar, then slicing straight down the middle like he was gutting something. When he'd finished, he'd folded the ruined pieces neatly and placed them right back on the shelf. A message.

He hadn't expected {{user}} to actually tell Richter.

He hadn't expected Richter to actually care.

The heavy slap of leather against skin, Julian's high, breathless yelps — half outrage, half something else — muffled behind the closed office door. He'd tried the sweet voice first: Darling, it was just a joke, don't be dramatic!.., then the tears: Richter, please–", then finally just curses when Richter's belt had made it clear this wasn't a negotiation. The Alpha hadn't even raised his voice.

And then, worse than the belt: "You'll replace every piece from your own closet. Tonight."

The walk-in closet looked like a war zone.

Julian was on his knees on the plush carpet, yanking things off velvet hangers with vicious little jerks, snarling under his breath. Silks, cashmere, sheer bodysuits still in their tissue paper. His fluffy tail lashed behind him in sharp, agitated arcs, and both ears were pinned flat against his skull. He'd been at it for twenty minutes and the pile beside him was a small mountain of imported delicates — some of them literally still had the price tags on, four-digit numbers dangling from silk ribbons.

I hate {{obj}}. I fucking hate {{obj}}.

His green eyes flicked toward the bedroom doorway where {{user}} sat on the edge of the enormous mattress, and his lip curled back off one long fang. He grabbed a fistful of the closest things — a black lace bralette, a champagne-pink slip, something translucent with tiny pearl buttons — and hurled them across the room. They landed in {{user}}'s lap in a silky, expensive avalanche.

"There." His voice came out sugared and razor-edged. "Consider it charity, sweetheart."

He stood up, rolled his shoulders. That devious little smirk crept back onto his face as he sauntered over, silk shirt still half-open, hips loose and slow. He stopped right in front of {{user}} and leaned down, planting one manicured hand on the mattress beside {{poss}} thigh, close enough that his fig-and-tobacco scent flooded the space between them. Both fluffy ears swiveled forward now, interested.

"Well. Since our Alpha's stuck at the Citadel until midnight, we've got time." He tilted his head, long lashes lowered. "Let's see if your fat little ass actually fits into any of it, hm? I'd hate for you to embarrass yourself in front of him."

Without asking, his hands were already at the hem of {{user}}'s top, and he tugged it up in one smooth, confident motion, quick and without ceremony. The fabric slipped over {{user}}'s head before there was any chance to twist away, and Julian tossed it carelessly onto the floor behind him with a flick of his wrist. Then he snatched the black lace bralette off the pile, unfolded it between two fingers like he was appraising it, and pressed the cool fabric flat against {{user}}'s chest with his open palm. That fanged smirk widened.

"I want to see for myself before Richter does." A slow, syrupy pause, his tail flicked behind him with interest. "Wouldn't want him disappointed, would we, darling?"

The Citadel's grand ballroom was all polished black marble and towering glass, lit by warm amber chandeliers that hung like industrial sculptures from the vaulted ceiling. Snow pressed against the floor-to-ceiling windows, but inside it was warm, humming with low voices and the clink of crystal. The room smelled like expensive cologne, aged whiskey, and the layered, territorial pheromones of two dozen wolves packed into one space.

This was a display, not just a party. Julian had known that the moment Richter told him to get dressed.

He'd taken two hours in the closet — the result was devastating. A high-collared black silk shirt, unbuttoned just low enough to show the heavy mating scar on his throat, tucked into tailored pants. His blonde curls were swept back, soft and artfully disheveled. A thin gold chain rested against his collarbones. His fluffy yellow ears had been brushed until they gleamed, and his tail swayed behind him in slow arcs, the white-blonde silky fur catching the light every time he moved.

He looked like a piece of art. Untouchable, expensive. Claimed.

Richter stood beside him near the center of the room, a towering wall of olive-drab and black tactical fabric. He'd refused the suit again. The only concession he'd made was leaving the rifle at home — but the sidearm was still strapped to his thigh, visible, unapologetic. His red eyes swept the room in methodical passes, his scarred hand rested possessively on the small of Julian's back.

{{user}} stood on Richter's other side.

Julian's green eyes flicked over once — brief, assessing — and that devious little smirk ghosted across his lips before he smoothed it away. He leaned into Richter's side, one manicured hand coming up to rest lightly on the Alpha's forearm, and tilted his head up to murmur something soft and private into his ear. Richter's rumbled something back, low enough that it didn't carry.

Julian laughed — light, musical, perfect — and his tail flicked once, lazy and satisfied.

Across the room, Vorek was holding court near the bar. Tall, black-haired, red-eyed, dressed in a crisp military uniform with a high-peaked cap that made him look like something out of a wartime propaganda poster. His presence was magnetic in the worst way.

Slag stood near the windows, arms crossed, a living slab of scar tissue and burned skin. He wasn't drinking — he was watching. His red eyes tracked movement across the room like a predator counting prey.

And Cormac — Rook — was somewhere in the crowd, his booming Irish laughter carrying over the low hum of conversation every few minutes.

"Grimm." Vorek's voice cut across the space, smooth and cold. He didn't raise it, but Richter's head turned immediately.

"Vorek."

"A word."

Richter's hand left Julian's back. He glanced down at both of them, and his red eyes lingered on {{user}} for just a second longer than necessary. "Stay together. Don't wander."

Julian's smile was sugar-sweet. "Of course, darling."

Richter turned and moved toward Vorek with the same ground-eating stride, shoulders squared, jaw set. The crowd parted for him automatically.

The moment he was gone, Julian's smile sharpened. He turned toward {{user}}, head tilting just slightly, one fluffy ear swiveling forward. His scent — fig, tobacco, velvet tonka — rolled off him in a thick wave, claiming the space around them both.

"Well," he purred, adjusting the gold chain at his throat with two fingers. "This is thrilling, isn't it? All the most dangerous men in Europe in one room, and we're just..." He gestured vaguely with one hand, tail flicking. "...standing here. Like decorations."

He took a step forward, closer to the center of the room, and his shoulder brushed {{user}}'s — just lightly, but enough to nudge {{obj}} half a step back.

"Oh, excuse me, darling." His voice dripped fake apology. He didn't even look back.

Julian drifted further into the crowd, hips loose, tail swaying, and {{user}} found {{ref}} standing alone near the edge of the ballroom. The blonde Omega had already melted into a small cluster of Beta soldiers near the center, laughing at something one of them said, one hand resting casually on the arm of a tall, gray-furred wolf in full dress uniform. His ears were forward, his posture was open. He looked like he belonged there.

{{user}} didn't.

The ballroom suddenly felt too big, too bright. The low hum of voices pressed in from all sides, none of them familiar, all of them speaking in rapid, clipped military shorthand {{sub}} couldn't follow. Somewhere across the room, Richter's broad shoulders were visible near Vorek, but they were too far away.

"Well now."

The voice came from directly behind {{obj}} — warm, rough, lilting with a thick Irish accent. Cormac stood there, towering and broad-shouldered, with a tumbler of whiskey in one hand and that disarming, lopsided grin on his face. His red hair was tied back, and his blue eyes were sharp, amused. He wasn't in full tactical gear like Richter — just dark pants, a gray henley, and a heavy leather jacket that looked like it had seen a few wars.

He clicked his tongue, gaze flicking briefly toward where Julian was holding court in the center of the room.

"Lost, are ye?" His grin widened, just a little. "Someone's not keepin' a very close eye on their partners tonight, hm?"

He took a sip of his whiskey, then gestured toward the bar with the glass.

"C'mon then. I'll keep ye company 'til yer Alpha remembers where he left ye."

.