Lights camera omega, p.1
Lights, Camera, Omega, page 1
Lights, Camera, Omega
Violet Braxe
Copyright © 2024 by Violet Braxe
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact violet@violetbraxe.com
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.
Book Cover by Marie Mackay
Editing by City Hides
Contents
Introduction
Notes on Violet Braxe’s Omegaverse
Content Warnings
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Acknowledgments
For M&M
My Secret Agent Lover-Man & Melissa:
You have both carried my ass through hell and back on this project.
I’ll never be able to thank you enough.
Introduction
Hello all! Thank you so much for reading Lights, Camera, Omega! If you spot any errors I would really appreciate if you could drop me an email at violet@violetbraxe.com
Thank you again, I hope you enjoy!
💜Vi
Notes on Violet Braxe’s Omegaverse
Heats: Begin once an omega ripens or blooms (typically around 18, but sometimes later in somewhat rare ‘late bloomer’ cases, sometimes as old as mid-thirties.) Heats, much like a period, can happen with different regularity and length from omega to omega, but the average cycle is once every 1-2 months for 3-5 days. During a heat the omega will feel as if they are in ‘fuck or die’ mode and will suffer negative symptoms and side effects if they do not engage in sexual activity (especially knotting) or they do not take suppressant drugs to stop the heat from happening.
Ruts: Unbonded alphas can go into ruts on a semi-regular cycle much like an omega’s heat. (Once every month or so, for 2-5 days) This cycle will begin to sync up once the alpha has bonded to an omega. In this omegaverse, alphas don’t need to be in a rut to form a knot. Knots can form any time an alpha gets sufficiently excited. When an alpha is actually in a rut, they will similarly go into ‘fuck or die’ mode and will suffer negative symptoms and side effects in increasing severity unless they engage in sexual activity (again, with an emphasis on knotting). In this universe, alphas can also take suppressants to help guide their ruts until they’re ready to come off their medication and start syncing up with their bonded omega.
Bonding: Can only be performed by an alpha bonding either an omega or a beta. The alpha in question seals the bond with a bite that must be allowed to heal on its own. If the bite scar is treated/removed/otherwise destroyed before its fully healed, the bond can be compromised.
Designations (alpha, beta, omega, and beyond): Though there won’t be any examples in this book, within the Hollywood Alphas universe there are additional designations beyond alpha, beta, and omega (such as, but not limited to: theta, sigma, gamma). Individuals of any gender can present as any designation. Typically designations are given by age 18, but false designations can appear at an early age, only to be amended later. (Surprise omega trope anyone!?)
Content Warnings
Tropes featured : Rich and Famous Alphas (Millionaires & Billionaires), Why Choose, MMMMF, Knots/Nests/Heats, Scent Match, Voyeurism (consenting), Struggling Actress Omega, Rich Boy/Poor Girl, Spanking, DVP, DP, Double Knotting, Surprise Omega, Unexpected/Surprise Heat, No Third Act Breakups, HEA
Content Advisory: Very light sexual intimidation (No SA, No attempted SA), Light Sexual Coercion (Both partners are eager and consenting, but one partner is worried about the inter-pack repercussions of their participation in a specific sex act.) Tampering with medication (suppressants) which triggers first heat, BDSM themes (RE: spanking, dom and sub type roles taken by main cast, direction, praise kink, voyeurism, light cuckolding, punishment and reward), Drug Use: (marijuana, tobacco, alcohol), emotional manipulation, Adult language, Adult Situations, Mention of Possibe Pregnancy/Children, Unprotected Sex, Cumplay, Creampie, Death of Family Member, mention of murder (mafia hit, minimal description), Suicide of Family Member(mention, minimal description)
Another Monday. As always, I am up before the sun—shimmying into a wetsuit over my sporty bikini, the top half unzipped to my belly button and folded over with the loose, floppy arms tied around my waist.
I climb over my mismatched shoes in a pile by the door to my apartment and slip my worn leather flip flops on, grabbing my longboard from its precarious position wedged against my rickety old bike rack.
It’s early enough that Rupert, my large orange cat, is still curled in a ball, sleeping in his bed on the nearby windowsill. Quietly, so that I wake neither Rupert nor my neighbors, I open the door to my tiny apartment, propping my longboard against the wall in the hallway outside until I can negotiate my old banana-seat cruiser with it’s chipping gold fleck paint job off of the bike rack and out of the apartment.
Though you’d hardly guess it, I can carry both down the stairs without hitting the walls or even getting too winded.
When I get to the bottom, I carefully swing my leg over the white leather banana seat with one hand gripping the upward curve of the handlebars while I steady my longboard underneath the other arm.
It’s a short ride from my place to the beach. Excellent for catching morning surf, but hell on commuting traffic to set.
Mom says it’s because of choices like this that I can’t get a man. I don’t think she’s ever stopped to consider that my priorities may have never included getting myself said ‘man’.
As a matter of fact, as a sweet, home-making beta from the smoky mountains in Tennessee, I don’t think my mother has ever considered what I might get out of paddling out past the breaks and watching the water curl and churn into white foam before it crashes against the sand or about using one’s body to do nothing more than commune with the waves. It brings me a sense of peace I can find nowhere else.
While the idea is romantic, and all that I say still holds true… there just isn’t very much viable surf this morning. I enjoy my moment of sublime calm, of mind and body harmony, before heading back toward the shore, getting back on my bike and heading home for a shower and a coffee.
“Good morning little man,” I yawn, fresh out of the shower and doing my best to clear the cloud of golden yellow waves from my face so that I might actually be able to see where I’m going.
Using his singular braincell, Rupert manages to scurry out of my way as I stumble to the little vanity beside my bedroom door. I snatch up a satin scrunchie for my rat’s nest of damp blonde hair and slip into the tie dyed bathrobe slung over the vanity’s matching chair with the pink ruffled cushion.
I make my way into the kitchen, Rupert stopping every few feet to look back and confirm that I’m following him into the kitchen to provide him with his coveted breakfast.
On the way, I stop to pay homage to the line of posters along the cramped hallway of my one bedroom apartment. I clasp a hand over my heart, swooning as golden age film star Wanda Price pouts at me in sepia tones from her place, lounging on a sofa and wrapped in a feather boa. Beside her, I let my fingers trace over a colorized photo of Clark Benton and Sylvia Beaumont, locked in one another’s arms in the rain.
The poster is a famous scene from the classic film Maison-Blanche, a favorite of mine since I was a kid. Benton and Beaumont were possibly the biggest on screen alpha-omega couple of the golden age of cinema.
Even as Maison-Blanche prepares to celebrate the big 8-0 and I approach my twenty-seventh birthday, I still think Benton and Lamont are too dreamy.
I pass the row of cheesy, nostalgic teen movie posters I’ve held onto since high school and nearly trip over Rupert as I arrive at the newest edition to the hall of fame poster wall, Cosmo Lamont.
Tall, dark, and brooding with a jawline that could cut diamonds—Cosmo stands under a single streetlight in a double breasted suit, his coal black hair tousled, his fingers pinching the windsor knot in his silk tie.
One of the most famous eligible alphas in Hollywood, after his boss, Director and celebrated auteur Magnus Wagner. I know that I’m as bad as a daydreaming teenager as I press onto my tip-toes and place a sleepy kiss on his face in the glossy photo.
If no one is he re to see me be cringeworthy, is it really even happening?
I can’t be bothered to care.
“I was talking to the cat, but you’re pretty handsome yourself,” I flirt heavy-handedly with the still image of my silver-screen-crush.
Rupert yowls his displeasure, upset that I’ve made him wait through my delusional morning rituals.
“I know, I know!” I call to the ornery ball of orange fluff as I shuffle into the kitchen and flip on my electric kettle before serving a can of cat food to the impatient Rupert.
I grind my coffee beans and check my phone while Rupert loudly tucks into his plate of low-tide-scented breakfast.
As usual, my agent Martha has lined up a few auditions for small parts on some new primetime sitcoms. All of them are pretty standard beta roles, which makes perfect sense—as I am a pretty standard beta actor. I’m lucky to have the recurring role of Annie, the plucky comic relief beta on the daytime drama One of the Pack, but Martha is always telling me about how I should be booking better roles since I’m at the incredibly marketable intersection of takes direction extremely well and ‘cute as a button’, beta.
I scoop my cheap coffee into the paper filter of my beat-up little drip brewer and jam a pair of freezer waffles into the pink and white toaster that burns a wonky little picture of Kelly Kitten, the popular 80’s cartoon character, into whatever it is toasting.
I pick at the pale blue glitter nail polish on my thumb as I check my text messages for the location of the first audition of the day. I have two auditions at the same studio that produces One of the Pack (OotP for short) this morning before I begin shooting episodes for the second half of the airing season. The auditions are on Sound Stage C, on the opposite side of the studio lot, so I’m going to have to hope that I can scam lunch off of craft services for one of the other standing TV productions on my way from audition number two to hair and makeup on the OotP set.
I leave my message inbox and start my morning doom scroll.
There’s the usual celebrity gossip headlines: omega pop-star, Aurora Fowler bonds with several members of the all-star hockey team the Liberty City Silver Stars. Celebrity alpha Tony Mencoboni and his Mate Geena, expecting twins. New film by Magnus Wagner to star longtime collaborator Cosmo Lamont—and already industry fixtures are abuzz about its likely mammoth critical and box-office success.
My heart does a funny little flutter and my gaze is pulled toward Cosmo’s glossy face, cold and beautiful from its place in the hallway beyond.
It’s hard to believe that the Cosmo Lamont is going to be on the opposite side of the same lot I’ll be working on, a mere four sound stages away. So close, and yet worlds away from yours truly, Daphne Dale—beta character actor who has only recently escaped the clutches of one-off commercial shoots, demoralizing days spent waiting in line at central casting, or most terrible of them all, community theater productions in some podunk town in the dreaded midwest.
Though we might as well be worlds apart, I swoon anyway, blowing Cosmo’s poster-paper likeness a loud, smacking air kiss before I gather my coffee and hustle to get dressed.
The two morning auditions go well enough. I make first callbacks for both.
My first audition was for the biggest medical procedural currently on air, where I would play a smart-mouthed, quick-witted tomboy who just so happened to be dying of a rare blood disease.
The second was for a new and wildly popular courtroom drama, where I read for the part of a smart-mouthed, quick-witted quirky girl who just so happened to be a drug mule for the episode’s guest-starring drug-lord antagonist.
Certainly Martha seems to have found a steady flow of type casts for me, at least until I age out of these roles and move on to stereotypical sitcom mom territory.
Some beta actors get their panties in a knot about this kinda stuff. Not me. I’m just happy to be saved from a deathly boring life as a midwest-midnight-checkout-queen or a heat helper in some backwater hospital with a slightly larger apartment for a much cheaper price located far too close to the trailer park where my mom and step-dad live.
Just the thought of it makes me shudder.
Though, if I had to choose only one job to get? I would go with the medical drama part.
The choice doesn’t really come down to the artistic merit of either show, or even how much I like them. It comes down to Liam O’Connor, the male beta I had to scene read with, who used to be my OotP co-star, Dylan’s roommate.
Liam is good at working with his scene partners, and his citrus-sea salt scent is mild and pleasant—unlike the older alpha character actor who read for the drug lord on the crime procedural—who reeked of eye-watering-wintergreen and an undercurrent of burnt popcorn kernels. I had to struggle not to wipe my eyes or wrinkle my nose through most of our screen test.
I burst from the double doors and scuttle down the stairs of Sound Stage C to make a beeline for the bustling craft services tent, in the hopes that I can grab a sandwich or a pastry along with a coffee before I hoof it over to Sound Stage E for afternoon shooting.
Lucky for me, as soon as I get to the line of fold out banquet tables there’s a whole platter of croissants stuffed full of sliced ham, nutty gruyere cheese, glossy red tomatoes, and fluffy leaves of lettuce.
I use a brown paper napkin to snatch one of the delicious looking sandwiches from the platter and gratefully accept a tall white cardboard cup of steaming hot coffee from the attendant pumping the smoky smelling dark liquid from the vacuum containers at the end of the buffet line.
“Thanks!” I bob a quick nod to the server.
“No problem, say hi to Willy for me!” he calls back over the chatter of other extras, actors, and crew bustling to grab lunch.
“Can do! Best of luck with the rest of the lunch rush!” I agree to send his regards to the production assistant to our show’s director, already halfway outside the craft services tent.
Suddenly, I get a whiff of something sweet and rich. A delectable smell fills my nose, it’s somewhere between the bittersweet burnt sugar of dark caramel and the warm sweetness of expensive cigars and cognac. The scent is complex and intrinsically masculine. I feel my stomach do a little flip, a surprising rush of warmth that makes my abdominal muscles tighten and my thighs press together involuntarily.
My eyes instinctively search the horizon, then my head darts side to side—giddy with the thought that I might catch sight of Cosmo on his way to the sound stage, that this could be his scent.
With heart-skipping anticipation, I try to get a lock on his face in the crowd or on one of the many studio lot golf carts. Sadly, there doesn’t seem to be any sign of him.
Oh well, better tuck into lunch on the go before I’m having my hair teased and styled and my endless freckles wiped from my cheekbones with cakey foundation for camera.
I’m about to take a perfect first bite of my sandwich—the ribbon edge of the lettuce shining with a glossy daub of lemon zest aioli, the hazelnutty notes of the coffee making my mouth water as I bring the sandwich to my waiting lips.
When, of course, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
It’s gotta be Martha. She’s probably heard something about one if not both of the call-backs, she probably has notes for me.
The hamster on the wheel powering my brain simply cannot deal with this added stimulus.
Between the anticipation of my sandwich, my much needed afternoon caffeine, and the prospect of two possible paydays that might allow me to move from the cramped one bedroom I’m currently living in to a better unit in my building with a small terrace and a view of something other than our building parking lot riddled with holes—my poor little brain hamster simply surrenders to the spin of the wheel–flung from its revolving confines to rattle dumbly around my skull as I froze dead in my tracks; unsure of how to reach my phone with both hands currently full of goodies.
“Shit,” I hiss under my breath, floundering another fraction of a second before deciding to double back toward craft services, and the cluster of empty bistro tables where I might be able to rest my treats while I answer Martha’s call.
