Notes: The desire to do a Kill Bill inspired Starker fic has been in my head for as long as I can remember. It’s one of my favorite movies, so here’s a little thing that I wrote. I’d like to expand on it and make it a proper fic, but since I haven’t put out any content in a while, I thought I’d give a little teaser. I’m leaving it untitled for now, because Kill Tony doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.
Warning(s): Incest (Implied), Underage, A/B/O Dynamics, MPreg
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Once upon a time, there was a little boy. A little boy with wide, brown eyes. He liked to watch his Papa play with samurai swords, how his body would flow like water and the blade with it. The boy would sit on his mat and watch, hands on his knees, which were tucked under his body, his feet bare and toes wiggling with unspent energy. He would sit for what felt like hours watching his father cut through air, the sword whistling as he did. His Papa called it practice.
“For what, Papa?” the boy asked one day, milk dribbling down his chin.
His Papa had smiled, eyes crinkling around the edges. He dabbed at his son’s chin with a napkin, the press of it light and tender. “Someday, you’ll understand.”
Someday came sooner than he realized, and when it did, it was his beloved Papa at the end of his blade.
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It was a respectable little chapel out in the Nevada desert. A tiny place surrounded by barren dirt and a horizon that stretched for miles. Peter didn’t have any reason to believe that they weren’t safe. He sat in one of the pews, next to his husband-to-be, a hand resting against the swell of his stomach. The baby inside of him moved, and he smiled. Quentin turned his head to look at him and met his eyes. The alpha laughed and leaned in to kiss the boy’s cheek, whispering to him how he was so excited that in twenty-four hours’ time, they’d be getting married.
And relieved. Peter was relieved. Once he was married and mated to Quentin, he could put the ordeal with his Papa behind him. He could put the mating mark on his gland behind him. It would be erased with this new alpha’s teeth, and his daughter would never know the murderous bastard that her father was. Quentin was a nice man. He lived nearby, worked at a local bar that didn’t see too many customers aside from locals and the odd person or two passing through. Everything about Goodsprings was just that — good, down to its name. The locals were kind and ready to lend a helping hand. They didn’t get too many male omegas in these parts, so Peter was beloved by all.
It was a welcome change, given the life he’d led up until this point.
“Now, when it comes time for you to kiss the bride, Quentin — you be real nice, y’hear? Don’t go stickin’ your tongue down his throat in front of everybody.”
The alpha laughed, his entire face lighting up with it. His cheeks turned a little pink and Peter smiled, leaning into the man. He reached out and fiddled with Quentin’s collar, where his tie was loose and draped around his neck. Quentin’s hand came up and settled over his, giving his fingers a squeeze. The man’s hands were soft, much softer than his Papa’s, and gave way to a gentleness that his Papa would never have understood. It was one of the first things that he’d noticed about Quentin.
Behind them, MJ and Ned were snickering to each other, muttering things that Peter couldn’t hear. The omega was having a tough time keeping a straight face. “We’ll try not to put on a show,” he promised, and he looked over his shoulder to wink at them. A little off to the side, May was watching him. She sighed and shook her head, but there was a warm smile on her face.
May had all but adopted him the minute he’d tried to make a home in Goodsprings. He came into town three months pregnant, tear tracks running down his face and his bags too big for him to carry through the Nevada heat. She’d insisted he come inside the Pioneer Saloon, an old restaurant she owned. To Peter, it looked like an old barn. When he stepped foot inside, it felt like a barn — no air conditioning, just giant ceiling fans sweeping dust all over the place. But she sat him at the bar and fixed him up a burger and fries that were so good he didn’t give a damn about its appearance. It was his Papa who cared about those sorts of things.
Now, for his wedding rehearsal, she sat behind him. She would be the only one on his side of the chapel, which was why he’d asked if they could let everyone sit together. Peter tried not to call attention to the fact that he was so alone. He made up a good front. That he was a kid escaping an abusive relationship, that his alpha had abused him and knocked him up, left him abandoned. Not long after that, he’d bumped into Quentin at the diner. Quentin was a local. He owned a ranch a little ways north of Goodsprings, but made frequent trips into town.
May said the frequency increased since Peter had shown his face.
“Are you sure you don’t have anyone you could bring with you, Peter?” The reverend’s question wasn’t meant to be unkind, but his smile faded. “It’d be good to have somebody come for you. You know, as a sign of faith before God. You don’t have any family?”
Peter’s spine straightened, “No — I mean, I’ve got May. She’s all the family I need, until…” He looked down at his belly and smiled. Despite the circumstances of her creation, he loved his peanut. She was so precious to him, had been since the moment that stick turned blue at the worst time of his life.
“We’ll make sure he isn’t lonely,” May piped up, her tone a little disgruntled and defensive.
It went without saying that the reverend didn’t approve for one reason or another. “I’m going to get some air, baby.” Peter kissed Quentin’s cheek, and the alpha got to his feet to make it easier for Peter to step around his legs. His bump always got in the way now.
As he began to walk towards the door to the chapel, which was open (another place with no central air that couldn’t stand the Nevada heat), Peter could almost hear the sounds of his Papa’s bamboo flute. He smiled as he looked down at his belly, rubbing it fondly. If there was one thing he did miss about the alpha, it was that flute. How many times had he fallen asleep to its sound? It was like a whisper on the wind. But as the wind blew and dust danced over his sandaled feet, it brought with it a warm, musky scent. Something metallic that wanted to be blood but wasn’t quite there yet.
It was his Papa’s scent. He’d know it anywhere.
Peter stopped in his tracks, the air sucked right from his lungs. His fingers went to the pendant he wore around his neck, a silver charm of a puppy with ruby red eyes. Thinking that maybe he was fooling himself, Peter found the urge to carry on. He took a step, and yet another, until he was outside the doors of the chapel.
As soon as he was outside, his Papa’s scent deepened. The sound of the flute was louder out here, and he didn’t have to look to his left to know he’d see the man sitting there in the rickety old bench outside the chapel. Peter’s mouth felt dry, like he’d swallowed sand. He turned his head because, no matter what he told himself (it varied most of the time, but often involved a mantra of, “I don’t need him. I don’t want him. He’s ruined my life. He’ll ruin my baby’s life.”), he missed his Papa. What was the harm in seeing him one last time?
The alpha was sitting there, flute in hand, playing a note. Peter’s heart thrummed in his chest as he took in the sight of the man. It had been months, that was all, but he thought he saw a few more grey hairs on his Papa’s head. The man’s goatee was perfectly groomed, as always. He looked immaculate in his suit, and stuck out like a sore thumb in this tiny town. Tom Ford didn’t belong in the desert.
His Papa’s note cut off, and he raised his head to meet Peter’s eyes. “Ciao, cucciolo.”
