Chapter Text
“Lt?”
Soap raps his knuckles against Ghost’s door and pops his head in, smiling a little at his answering grunt. It always feels odd, being brought into Ghost’s office like this, but he’s not overly worried just yet.
It’s a rare day when he’s formally asked to meet with him here, mostly because the dingy little shoebox of a room is barely wide enough to fit the other man’s bulk, let alone two fully grown alphas and a desk.
Ghost doesn’t look up from his paperwork when Soap enters, even when the guest chair groans beneath his weight.
A white plastic clock from a bygone era tics on the wall, counting down the seconds of excruciating silence that follow.
Soap waits.
And waits.
Until a light spark of paranoia flits across his mind. Is he punishing me for something?
Not that Soap’s done anything wrong (as far as he knows). Nothing Ghost should know about, at least.
And besides, major disciplinary measures are usually left to Price, so punishment doesn’t seem right.
Bad news? The furrow in his brow deepens. Good news?
And yet the silence tics on, and on, and fucking on.
It’s only when he’s literally squirming in his chair that Ghost abruptly drops his pen, and Soap’s finds himself on the other side of that dark, fathomless stare.
“You haven’t had a rut this year,” Ghost says, apropos of bloody nothing. It’s an accusation as much as an observation, one that threatens to put Soap into an immediate mental tailspin.
Oh, Christ.
Soap had hoped that little tidbit had somehow evaded Ghost’s notice, but this was Ghost, so of course it hadn’t. Alphas in active combat roles are supposed to engage the services of an omega on a pre-emptive basis: doing so seems to stop the onset of disruptive, weeks-long ruts and generally keeps their more aggressive traits under wraps.
In theory.
He’s got no objections doing it, or at least, he never used to have any qualms before. He used to have a bloody reputation with their state-sanctioned companions for a reason, for Christ’s sakes. Schedule John MacTavish for an appointment with one omega, and one or two more would inevitably volunteer and join in just for the hell of it.
Not that hard, when other most alphas act like braindead tossers.
His reputation had faded along with his interest in taking omegas on a regular basis. That said disinterest corresponded with his full-time service alongside the 141, was something Soap refused to examine closely.
The truth was an inconvenience that Soap seldom indulged in his own mind, if he could help it.
“Plenty of omegas on the clock for a reason,” Ghost drones, and Soap would think he must find the topic boring, if not for the bright spark lurking behind his gaze. “I don’t need to tell you why it’s necessary to keep on top of your obligations, Johnny.”
‘His obligations,’ being him sticking his cock in a random omega at least once or twice a year, at minimum, to stave off his worst instincts.
Unbidden, a vision of Ghost keeping on top of his own obligations flashes across Soap’s mind. A wall of tattooed flesh and sinew, crushing one of the many pretty omegas he’s seen around base beneath his bulk, as he fulfils his contractually obligated fucking –
Steady on. Soap runs his tongue across his teeth, and tries very hard not to think at all, lest Ghost catch wind of the warming blood rushing southward to his cock.
It takes him a moment to realise Ghost’s still talking. “…Needs to be done sooner, rather than later.”
Soap reads him loud and clear. Hurry up and fuck an omega, and don’t make me ask you again.
He thinks that’s the end of it, just a verbal slap on the wrist and he can be on his merry way. So long as he fulfils his obligation before the month’s out, the brass won’t breathe down Price’s neck, and therefore Ghost’s, and things will quickly go back to normal.
Yet when Soap moves to stand, the cool look Ghost levels at him chills the blood in his veins. “Got somewhere to be?” He asks with deceptive lightness.
Oh. Soap slowly lowers himself with a chagrined smile. “Ah, sorry. I thought…”
Ghost isn’t one for formal niceties or the trappings of protocol at the best of times. Funny time to enforce them now…
Rather than speak, Ghost seems content to pin him to the chair with a hard stare, and beneath his line of sight, Soap’s foot patters against the floor in an impatient rhythm.
Spit it out.
It’s Soap who breaks first. He’d wait longer, if he wasn’t worried about the physical effects that Ghost’s prolonged attention might have on his fucked up, attention-starved little brain.
“Lt…” Soap quirks a brow. “What -”
“I think I need a bit more than that.” Ghost’s seat creaks as he leans back, and he regards Soap with lazy, lidded eyes.
Soap’s leg bounces harder. “Need more?” He rasps.
Ghost hums a contemplative noise. “You’ve been overdue with your RPIs for the last 2 years.”
Rut Prevention Initiative; a very stupid name for a stupid initiative, as far as Soap’s concerned. It’s not like it stops ruts altogether, so much as lessens their intensity. To Soap, it seems less like a necessary measure, and more an excuse for his fellow alphas to get laid on a predictable basis.
Lips thinning, Soap stares at his tapping foot as he fumbles for a response. He knows a leading statement when he hears one, but he doesn’t have an explanation that either Ghost or anyone else up the chain will want to hear.
Yes, sir. You’ve noticed right – I don’t want to fuck omegas anymore. I just want to fuck you, instead.
Slumping against the chair, Soap chances a glance up at him. “You gonna make me talk about it here?” Soap says, then rears back in genuine disgust as a more horrifying thought occurs. “Not sending me to a psych, are you?”
But thank Christ, Ghost’s already shaking his head. “No.” He pauses with a strange light in his eye. “But I am booking your next RPI for you.”
He lifts the paper he’d been scrawling on when he’d arrived – what looks like an official booking request form – but he paid no mind to the details. He’s too distracted by the thick, red letters stamped smack dab in the middle of the page.
WITH SUPERVISION.
Gripping the seat rests tight, Soap spoke slowly through gritted teeth. “With supervision?”
That’s a stamp reserved only for alphas who can’t be trusted around omegas, ones who need constant babysitting during their RPIs by a designated alpha - typically an immediate superior.
Which means… Soap swallows as his gorge rises. Ghost.
Soap’s nothing like those fuckers who require monitoring around omegas – he’s hardly at risk of losing control when omegas don’t exactly do it for him anymore.
“There a reason I need a babysitter for this, sir?” Soap bares his teeth in a humourless smile.
“Not like that.” Ghost shakes his head, an expression that’s dangerously close to fond creasing his eyes, and Soap instantly relaxes despite his better judgement. “Was thinking we’d share, actually,” Ghost murmurs with an indolent shrug. “I’m due for an omega myself – two birds, one stone, and all that.”
The air’s sucked from his lungs as Soap deflates like a balloon.
What. What.
He’s sure he misheard that, because there’s no universe where any of those words, in that specific order, make any sense.
“You.” Soap’s sure someone’s lobbed a flash bang into the room, with the way his ears ring with a grey, static hum. “What.”
“Sharing an omega,” Ghost says slowly, like Soap’s being particularly thick. “I’ll confirm you’ve fucked him, and I’ll get mine out of the way.” He crosses his arms across the desk. “Less paperwork.”
Right. Of course. Out of the way.
It’s somehow both better and worse than anything Soap could possibly dream up - has dreamed up, in the privacy of his own bunk, one hand clamped around his mouth as he fucks himself on a dildo he definitely shouldn’t own, let alone have smuggled onto base –
Shut the fuck up, he chants internally, as though Ghost might somehow pluck the thought from his brain. Please, for the love of all that’s holy.
”Right.” Soap nods, as if that makes perfect sense, before he straightens with a flush. “What do you mean, ‘him?’”
He’s right about Soap’s sexuality, but it’s one thing to guess, and another to declare it with such confidence, when he’s gone out of his way to keep his own proclivities under wraps. There’s nothing wrong with fucking male omegas for RPIs, they fulfil the same needs as any omega, but it’s not exactly considered the standard, acceptable preference.
More palatable than another alpha.
Ghost looks at Soap with an amused sort of pity that makes him shrink back in his chair.
“Not hard to guess what you like.” He scribbles something on the page with a dismissive flourish. “And it works for me.”
It does?
Alphas sharing the same omega isn’t unheard of, exactly. It was more common decades ago, when omega numbers were far thinner than they are now.
He could have the most beautiful omega spread beneath him, thighs wet with slick, cooing and begging for Soap’s cock like it’s the answers to all their prayers, but if Ghost’s in the room, watching, hell – fucking the omega with him –
Soap’s breath hitches. This is a bad, bad idea.
The moment Ghost finds out that Soap’s more interested in him than the omega, he’ll know, and it’ll ruin everything – alphas who stray from their natural instincts are at minimum considered highly unstable; a combination that does not pair well with their line of work.
He watches Ghost sift through papers, signing each page faster than the last, and wonders aloud, “Do I have a choice?”
“Of course.” Ghost lets the paper flop to the desk, regarding him solemnly for a moment, just long enough to give Soap a glimmer of hope, before he says, “I can see if Price will watch you instead, if you like?”
Never fucking mind.
He pastes on a brittle smile. “No, thanks.”
The way the fabric of his mask pulls at his mask, Soap knows the bastard’s smirking now. “Thought so,” Ghost snickers.
He jerks his head towards the door in dismissal, and Soap beats a hasty retreat, not thinking to ask for the pertinent details of their sordid little arrangement until he’s fled the building.
I’ll find out later.
+
Later turns out to be a matter of weeks - not long enough for Soap to truly forget, but long enough to lull him in a false sense of security.
As if I could really forget.
Draped sideways across an ancient armchair in the rec room, Soap’s reading a well-loved paperback, and trying very hard not to think about Ghost in the process.
Soap’s face flushes pink. Should’ve picked a different book, then.
It’s a collection of short stories he’s had since he was a lad, mostly old fairytales; nothing too sordid that he should be blushing like a scandalised Victorian over.
And yet. He can’t help but spot the similarities between his current predicament, and the mystical fables he’s loved since he was old enough to read. Tales of romance and death, beauty and horror, of forbidden love doomed to end in tragedy.
Soap peers around his book, but the room is still blessedly empty at this time of morning, so he skips ahead to his favourite two stories. It’s not smut, MacTavish. No one cares about what you read.
Never mind that this particular set of fairytales had been banned from most libraries and schools until the late seventies. The subject matter is far too close to his heart, to allow anyone else to catch him dead with it.
Both tales start in the same way – impossible tales of two, star-crossed alphas –
Bit on the nose, isn’t it. Because there’s nothing remotely star-crossed about him and Ghost. Irritated, he forces his glazed eyes to focus.
– two-star crossed alphas, navigating the inevitable turmoil that such a union between two unlikely creatures begets.
Both stories feature one alpha imprinting on another poor, unsuspecting alpha, yet both end in vastly different circumstances.
Imprinting. He snorts under his breath, even as his toes curl in his socks.
A memory of his grandmother’s voice breathes across his consciousness, ‘When an alpha’s eyes go black as night, or an omega’s eyes turn as flat and still as a tranquil lake, only then will the scents of all others grow sour… ‘
He pushes the vision away with a twinge of regret. Sorry, Fia. She’d been a trove of pragmatic wisdom through his formative years on every subject except imprinting – for some reason, the topic made her downright batty when she otherwise wasn’t.
“Strange eyes, a compromised sense of smell.” And in an almost conspiratorial aside she’d add, “A shared mental link that transcends all mortal understanding.”
Soap remembers frowning at that. “Isn’t that just a normal mating bond?”
“Pah. That’s just pheromones. This is different.”
To Soap, it had always seemed more like the ramblings of an overactive imagination from a woman who’d never been bonded.
Makes for a decent story, at least.
Whether imprinting is even a real phenomenon is so hotly contested that Soap prefers to err on the side of healthy skepticism.
Because really, if black eyes were really the only obvious sign, that means every alpha he’d ever pissed off upon first meeting must’ve really just imprinted on him.
Soap’s lips curl into a rueful smile. Including Ghost.
And if Ghost harbours what amounts to a secret, one-sided soul bond with Soap, he certainly hides it well. He definitely wouldn’t have set up a work-sanctioned threesome with a random omega, either.
Not thinking about him, he reminds himself, as his dreamy smile crumbles to dust. Focus.
The poor alpha is imprinted on against his will, and tragic hero he is, he tries to make it work, even though he never reciprocates the bond with the other man. A noble enough sentiment, until said hero has his first rut, and unable to recognise the other alpha, mauls him to death in a fit of territorial rage.
Charming. If Soap ignores the untimely death and murder, there’s a certain appeal to the ‘hero’ alpha’s willingness to try make it work. Even if he does kill the other bloke, in the end.
Grimacing, he turns the page.
The last story is his favourite, not just because it also involves alphas and the impossible notion that they could imprint on each other – but because it ends somewhat happily. As far as fairytales go.
It depicts a man as a sort of chameleon monster, who not only reciprocates an imprint with another alpha, he somehow assumes omega traits for his mate's pleasure. Aside from being shunned by society and being chased from town, the two alphas otherwise live happily ever after.
Soap fixates on the little black and white illustration of the shunned, downtrodden alphas with a scowl.
It’s a bit sad that this is a good ending, in my eyes.
He knows they’re cautionary tales likely written by an author railing against unnatural alpha relationships, but Soap can’t help but see the Romance in between the lines, even when there’s likely none.
Soap lets the open book fall to his face with a groan. Just like real life.
“Good book?” Ghost’s whispered words stir the shell of Soap’s ear, sending his limbs and book flying as he tries and fails to scamper upright.
Hand slapped to his breast, Soap cranes his neck to find Ghost’s upside-down face bent over the armrest, the blank void of his eyes belied by the minute, amused creases at the corners.
“Sweet, baby Jesus.” Soap melts back into the chair. “Heard of announcing yourself, you spooky bastard.”
Ghost cocks his head. “I did.”
Ah. It could be a lie, but Soap had been far too entranced to confirm either way.
“Blimey, didn’t think they sold these to the public,” Ghost mutters, and it’s only then that Soap realises his book has somehow made its way into his gloved hands. “Where’d you find this?”
The truth ripples across his mind, My nan gave it to me. It’s my favourite.
Fuck. He can’t admit that, even to Ghost. Eyes rolling to the popcorn ceiling, Soap tries for nonchalance. “Ah, dinnae ken.” His words barely resonate over his raging heartbeat.
Rather than snatch it back like his frazzled brain insists, Soap forces himself to casually reach for his pilfered paperback, but Ghost only draws it further away without missing a beat.
“You get more Scottish, when you’re nervous,” he murmurs, as his eyes rove laterally across the page.
Soap’s fingers twist in his shirt. Christ, he’s actually reading it. It’s not like he wrote the fucking thing, but he might as well be put on a slab with his ribcage pulled open for Ghost to see, for how exposed he feels. “I’m always Scottish,” he bleats with a truly pathetic lack of conviction.
Ghost’s eyes flit to him. “You get about 20% more Scottish, then.”
That surprises a laugh out of Soap, which seems too much like a concession for his liking. Slinging his arm back across the chair, Soap drawls, “Well since you’re always talking fuckin’ nonsense, that must make you a nonce –”
“Doing some research?” Ghost interrupts mildly. “Or just getting ideas?”
This doesn’t bode well. “What? No,” he says, far too quick to be anything but suspicious. He shouldn’t ask, but he just can’t help himself. “…Ideas for what?”
He doesn’t answer straight away, which only crystallises Soap’s regret. Instead, Ghost – still looming over Soap’s chair – takes his time skimming through a few short pages, before he hums and plops the book back into his lap without comment.
Oh, God. Soap bites his tongue, because he knows better than to fall for such obvious bait –
One glimpse of Ghost’s sly eyes puts him on immediate high alert, stealing what little resolve he has left. “What?” He demands. Put me out of my fuckin’ misery, already.
Through the small holes of Ghost’s mask, he glimpses a flash of blond, knitted eyebrows. “Our RPI appointment, keep up.”
Never has a more beautiful yet disturbing set of words been arranged in such a short sentence.
“It’s a book of fairytales.” Soap sets his jaw, forcing himself to close the book without checking what story Ghost had been reading. “Unless you think you’re going to get territorial and maul me half-way through our.” He stumbles over the word, “Session – then I don’t see how it relates.”
Ghost huffs a soft laugh and says, “That your way of saying you’ve imprinted on me, Johnny?”
“No.” Soap’s proud of how steady he sounds. “Think it’d be obvious.”
Not to mention impossible.
Dark eyes crease in response. “I’ll say.” Before Soap can respond, he adds, almost as an afterthought, “That’s why I’m here.”
It’s a miserable ordeal to not draw the wrong conclusions. “You are?” Soap says with utmost caution.
“Hm. Got it all sorted. I’ll call you when I have a time.” Ghost shifts on his back foot like he’s preparing to leave. “You’re on leave soon, aren’t you?”
A time. His head bobs. Right, the RPI. Because what fuckin’ else would he be talking about.
But a call to confirm? That’s not typical, is it? It’s usually an email, or a physical letter in his tray, but then again, Soap’s been avoiding the process for so long that it’s possible that he just has no clue how any of this works now.
Good thing he’s organising it. The sentiment falls oddly flat before it can fully cross his mind, and by the time Soap has the wherewithal to respond properly, Ghost’s already gone.
+
It’s only another month before Soap goes home on leave, and the distance between his physical body and Hereford makes the once imminent threat of ‘tag teaming an omega with the love - or lust?- of his life in order to keep his job’, feel like a distant dream.
The distance makes freely fantasising about their appointment a little more palatable, mainly because he can safely omit said omega from his daydreams without needing to look Ghost in the eye afterwards.
Wouldn’t be much of a threesome, then, would it?
Soap bats away his cynicism and gleefully dives headfirst into his ridiculous fantasies.
Stark naked and bent on all fours in his own bed, he has one arm contorted back to push the thick, silicone dildo further into his sensitive hole, while the other struggles to hold his weight up beneath him.
“Fuck,” he curses, head dropping low on his shoulders. He’s slathered both himself and the toy in enough lube to fill a vat several times over, and yet.
It’s not as easy as it looks. He grits his teeth. When omegas do it.
It doesn’t hurt – on the contrary, the sense of fullness has his own cock throbbing uselessly between his spread legs. But the lack of constant self-lubrication makes it trickier than he’d like to take the whole thing.
Maybe because. His mouth falls open as the ridged tip grazes his walls. You shouldn’t be using this type of dildo.
All things considered, it’s a perfectly average-sized cock he’s using, save for the deceptively small, bulbous lump situated above its base.
A juicy, ever-present knot.
He’s never managed to fit that part inside of himself, but it’s not for lack of trying. If it was only a matter of simple lubrication, then anyone could take an alpha, regardless of their biology. But Soap’s had enough omegas squirming on the other end of his own knot to know it’s not something any other kind has a hope in hell of imitating.
Getting it inside is just one hurdle, and he can’t even manage that.
One step at a time.
But he can’t help but want more. He wants to fuck himself on it like only omegas can – to have his own warm, tight walls glide like butter over it over and over again without any resistance, to stimulate an alpha’s knot until it swells fat and pumps him full of Ghost’s come –
A ragged moan escapes him. Not Ghost, for fuck’s sake.
If he pictures a random, faceless alpha, he can at least stave off his orgasm long enough to try take the knot. He doesn’t have a hope in hell of lasting beyond a few minutes if he thinks of Ghost.
Balls twitching, he lets out a pathetic whimper, because it’s too fucking late. He’s already imagining huge, gloved hands wrapping around his waist, leveraging Soap easily back onto Ghost’s cock until his ass cheeks are bouncing off his thighs, sinking his length deeper and deeper until his hole slips over his knot –
It’s so wrong, he shouldn’t think about any alpha like this, shouldn’t want anything but a life of soft, pliant omegas wetting his own knot. He knows from firsthand the ecstasy of sweet pheromones and wet friction that only omegas can provide, how much better it is than anything his body could provide for another alpha.
But I want it. The calamitous yearning grips him by the throat. I want to do that – for him.
It’s an old, dangerous feeling, and it’s the closest Soap’s been to letting it percolate in his own mind for more than a fleeting moment. It’s the same amorphous sense of grief he’s been ignoring since the day he woke up and presented as an alpha –
He shivers as a strange, cold sensation like ice water pricks his skull, even as his hot blood radiates southward, pounding a ceaseless rhythm in his cock that’s becoming harder and harder to ignore.
It’s a creeping sensation of being watched that only strikes when he’s at his most depraved – clearly some twisted remnant of his Catholic upbringing that he’s never quite shaken.
Alone at home in his lonely, damp-ridden flat, there’s no one but him there to witness his unnatural transgressions. But the odd weight of unseen eyes remains, but rather than deter him, it only makes him groan and spread his legs wider.
Sweaty fingers slip on the hilt of his toy, but Soap’s undeterred. I want it, he thinks, eyes slipping closed. He pushes again, and his body welcomes another inch. I want it –
It’s too much.
Head dropping to the pillows, Soap twists the dildo a little further, whimpering as his tight rim kisses the soft, artificial knot.
“Oh my god,” he gasps. He’s never gotten this deep before, and he freezes, hand slack on the base. He wants to keep going, but his body rocks on a precipice – one more move and he’ll surely come all over his bedspread.
The more idiotic, optimistic side of his brain beckons for him to stop, not out of a sense of shame, but out of sheer, bold-faced delusion.
The first time you take a knot shouldn’t be like this, it whispers with increasing fervour. It should be with Ghost. It should be only be his knot.
A choked wheeze of laughter escapes him, because that’s a bold as fucking brass thought, even for him.
Not fucking likely.
Steadying himself, Soap forces himself to relax as he slowly draws the toy halfway out, and breathes. His grip tightens, and his back bows as he braces himself to take more.
Ghost will never fuck me.
A man can dream, though, and when he begins to impale himself again, he imagines it’s Ghost holding his ass open, feeding his cock deeper inside Soap’s walls, until his balls squish against his rear, and his knot slowly threatens to stretch him wide apart.
“Oh - fuck-fucking. Christ.”
It’s not the real thing, it’ll never compare, but it’s almost perfect, and so close to everything he’s ever wanted.
This is the only knot I’ll ever get –
TRINNGGGGG.
Eyes snapping open, Soap’s head snaps to the side to where a discarded bottle of lube sits next to his now shuddering mobile phone.
Don’t answer, just ignore it.
But the name and photo of the incoming caller has Soap jolting, knees buckling as his grip on the toy jerks, until the silicone tip grazes his prostate just so, and his own oversensitive cock accidentally glances along the sheets below.
“Fuck, yes –”
The grainy picture of Ghost, unsmiling, unmasked – and so, so untouchable – sends a searing shock of gentle agony through Soap, and he knows he’s lost.
White light dots his vision as Soap shatters apart, hips bucking in a jerking, seesaw rhythm as he rides out the dual ecstasy of the fake cock spearing him apart, as his own length spills his seed along the bedspread.
It’s only a matter of seconds before Soap’s wits return just enough for him to clamber for the phone, but by the time his slack fingers find it, Ghost’s already gone.
With his high fading, the shame returns with a vengeance, and Soap slumps to the mattress, shoulders hunched up to his ears as he crushes his face into his pillow.
It’s only when his toy is safely extracted, cleaned and sequestered deep out of sight that Soap reaches for his phone again. Seconds turn to minutes while he considers the merits of calling back, because it’s odd for Ghost of all people to call him, isn’t it?
It’s late. Was probably an accident.
It’s not paranoia that has him slipping the phone into the side table drawer without calling back – it’s simple pragmatism.
+
After a fitful night of broken rest, Soap rolls out of bed, determined to not let the agitation humming beneath his skin ruin what’s left of his holiday.
Unfortunately for him, Ghost has other plans.
Soap’s puttering about his dismal kitchen when the call comes, and he’s still half asleep when Ghost’s voice crackles over the line; outlining a time, address and a vague order to present himself at said location without delay.
Wait, what?
It’s not hard to guess what this is about. Just when he’d been on the cusp of squashing the whole business into the back of his skull, like every other horror he wanted to forget.
Soap nearly chokes on his coffee in astonishment when he checks the date. Tomorrow night?
“Really, Ghost.” He gawks at his wrist watch.“What’s the rush?”
On my leave, too?
Fulfilling RPIs outside of work hours isn’t entirely unheard of, but there’s usually extenuating circumstances when it does happen. Aside from Ghost… including himself in the process, there’s nothing really out of the ordinary about the situation.
“You’ve got one day to sort yourself out,” Ghost says, his pleasant timbre curling like a threat over the line. “Or I’ll have to drag you there myself.”
He’s joking, right? It’s hard to pinpoint if Ghost sounds so tickled because of benign reasons, or simple sadistic glee at his expense.
Soap bumps his hip against his kitchen counter. He stares at the doilies his late grandmother had knitted for him – well, not for him, she’d said, but the omega he’d one day take home.
He never had the heart to tell her that most omegas he knows aren’t the doily sort.
Neither is Ghost, but that’s a whole other beast entirely.
“So you’ve…” Soap worries with his lip. “Sorted out an omega, then?”
A part of him wants Ghost to say no, but then that defeats the purpose of their arrangement, doesn’t it?
“I’ve taken care of everything,” Ghost says with his usual brand of vague assurance, and Soap bobs his head despite the lack of audience.
Christ, this is really happening. I’m going to fuck some random omega, and Ghost is going to watch. He licks his lips. And I’m going to watch him –
He shuts his eyes against the thought.
Soap’s discombobulated state must be obvious even over the phone, because Ghost sounds almost kind when he says, “Alright, Johnny?”
He perks up with a start. “Oh - aye. Totally fine,” he blurts. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
I don’t want to fuck anyone else, his mind spins with an impossible refrain. I don’t want you to fuck anyone else but me.
But there’s no way on God’s green Earth that he’s admitting that to another alpha.
Ghost hums and mutters, “You tell me.”
The ensuing silence feels loaded, but Soap chalks it up to his own latent paranoia.
When Soap laughs, it scrapes weakly up his dry throat. “Just, don’t judge me if I’m a bit rusty, Lt.” He scratches his nape. “It’s been a while.”
“Doubt that.” Ghost’s chuckle has an edge that Soap can’t quite parse. “I’ve heard about your reputation - you’re popular with omegas, aren’t you.” It’s a wonder how he manages to make a compliment sound so backhanded.
He resists the urge to bang his forehead against the kitchen cabinets. He knows about that?
‘What have you heard?’ He wants to ask, but Ghost cuts him off before he can get a word in, “Tomorrow, Johnny.” There’s an ominous crackle of static before he breathes, “Don’t be late.”
The line goes dead, leaving Soap to clutch at his phone and whisper to someone who can no longer hear, “See you there.”
+
The following night, Soap’s a wreck of nerves well before he’s even stepped foot out of his front door.
Examining his glum face in his bedroom mirror, he inwardly recoils from the strange picture he presents. Dressed in a white button up and trousers, with his mohawk artfully tousled to fall over his brow, he’s far more dolled up than he’s ever been for previous RPIs.
Is this for the omega, or Ghost’s benefit?
He refuses to give that smarmy little voice in his head a single moment’s consideration.
It’s only as he’s turning to leave when he spots the little green bottle of cologne on his dresser, barely used since he’d bought it what feels like a lifetime ago.
An unhelpful voice reminds him, Before Ghost, wasn’t it.
It’s a subtle scent, meant to subdue his own alpha pheromones just enough to put omegas at ease, if not mask his scent entirely. He doesn’t think Ghost’s the sort to become aggressive, just because another alpha’s present, but then again…
Never seen him around an omega like that, before.
It’s hard to imagine his implacable facade cracking for anyone, yet he’s witnessed even the most cold-hearted, emotionless alphas crumbling thanks to the right omega’s scent at the wrong time.
Dabbing a drop of cologne on his throat and wrists before he can think better of it, Soap fiddles with his collar once for another minute before an abrupt trill from his pocket shocks him out of his anxious primping.
A glance at his phone reveals a short message from Ghost that reads: Stop dawdling.
“How the fuck does he know,” Soap whispers. He looks around his flat with deep suspicion, until another message chimes.
I’m here. Just waiting on you.
Already? Soap’s breath hitches. Does that mean he’s there with…
Soap entertains a vision of Ghost chatting up a doe-eyed, scantily clad omega alone for all of three quarters of a second, before a surge of jealousy sends him flying out of his flat at a truly irresponsible rate of speed.
Rapidly typing out his own message with one hand, Soap leaves his terror behind in the wind as he marches down the darkening streets with a renewed swell of determination.
Sorry, sorry, on my way, he writes. Don’t start without me.
He thumbs send and immediately regrets it, until Ghost’s response flashes across his screen seconds later.
Wouldn’t dream of it.
+
Standing in the shadows of an opulent London hotel, Soap glances down at his own GPS with growing trepidation.
That can’t be right.
It’s not just any hotel, but a rather nice one, too, judging by the wealthy clientele filtering in and out of the deceptively modest entryway.
He double checks the address three times, but no, this ritzy tower made of sandstone and glittering glass is apparently exactly where he’s supposed to be.
This is not at all like the grey, government-owned facility he usually associates with RPIs. Maybe it’s a perk for officers? But the explanation doesn’t sit well in his mind.
Why didn’t he tell me we were coming here?
Never mind that he could’ve easily looked up the address himself, Ghost should’ve mentioned that they were going somewhere where one night likely costs as much as a month of Soap’s rent.
Rather than waltz in and risk making a tit out of himself, he rattles off a text to Ghost. Where are you?
Soap works his jaw as a flurry of responses follow suit.
Room 66-342
A few beats, then;
Front desk. Under Riley. They’ll give you what you need.
“Doubt that,” he whispers under his breath. Pocketing his phone, he chances one last look up at the looming tower before he makes for the main entrance.
Smoothing a palm down his shirt, he’s suddenly grateful for his choice of dress, as he plasters on what he hopes is a serene smile.
It’s not a hotel Soap’s familiar with, not a household name by any means, and it’s only when he steps foot inside that he understands why.
The moment he steps into the lobby, he’s immediately assailed by a lingering cloud of scent so strong it takes a herculean effort not to visibly react.
It’s not difficult to recognise the sweet curl of unbonded alphas and omegas off their suppressants, and he immediately knows that despite the unexpected veil of opulence, he’s in the right place.
Jesus. Soap’s nostrils flare. This hotel is… not for tourists.
Posted at strategic intervals along the outer walls, a smattering of alpha security watch the hoard of well dressed guests with bored expressions that Soap knows belies their razor-sharp focus.
He makes the mistake of inhaling through his nose, nails biting his palms as he tries to ignore the primal thrum of lust lurking and begging for release in the corners of his mind.
Rather than fixate on the omegas mingling in the lobby, the monster within that represents his more base, unfiltered self has more exacting demands.
Find Ghost, it purrs, practically licking its proverbial chops. Find him, find him –
“Down, Soap,” he mutters, ignoring the sharp glance from a nearby security guard.
The further he walks into the vestibule, the more potent the scent of both alpha and omega becomes, and he bites back a strangled sound as the spicy tang of sex sharpens in his senses.
He looks at the alpha security in astonishment, because how the fuck are they just… standing there? SAS training had focused predominantly on resisting the omega scents in short intervals, not marinating in it for hours at a time like these guards are.
Maybe they’ve all imprinted?
A laughable fucking thought.
A vicious stab of insecurity subsumes him, because while he’s wasting time down in the lobby, Ghost is likely up there that very moment, gorging himself on a sweet, biddable omega –
Soap gnashes his teeth and scowls. I’m being ridiculous.
But if Soap walks a little bit faster across the foyer, he tells himself it’s only to avoid the cloying scent filling his lungs.
+
“Er, I’ve got a room booked under Riley?”
The woman behind the counter doesn’t miss a beat, sliding a white keycard trimmed with gold around the edges across the marble, and Soap’s already turning when her sharp voice calls him back, “Sir, one more thing.”
A long yet flat rectangular box is slid his way, and Soap stares between it and her with a dumbfounded blink.
“Mr Riley arranged it for you.” Her voice is apologetically hushed, forcing him to duck his head over the counter to hear. “I’m afraid we can’t let you wander the upper floors without it,” she explains, nodding at him to open it.
Soap peers into the velvet box once, then immediately snaps it shut. When he finds his voice, it slips out in strangled rasp, “That’s not for me.”
Her serene smile doesn’t falter. “I assure you, it is.” When Soap makes no move to open it, she sighs. “Omegas can’t wander this establishment without a scent marking from their designated partner.”
Scent marking, partner - wait, omega? Soap’s narrowing eyes drop to the offending box. He left this for the omega?
There’s clearly been a misunderstanding, and he should put it back and explain as much to her, and yet…
Despite the klaxons blaring in time with the foul pulse of jealousy in his head, Soap opens the box again with shaking fingers. Nestled on a silver cushion is a black, silken collar – an otherwise innocuous scrap of fabric, if not for the potent scent emanating from every thread.
The thick, musky aroma of Ghost’s scent invades his senses, and Soap breathes it in without a second thought; the lingering aftermath of clove, honey and –
His lips fall open as the unmistakable, piquant waft of arousal fills his lungs.
Hell’s fucking bells, did he…
But he doesn’t need to draw another breath to confirm what he already knows; Ghost didn’t just rub it on his scent gland – a dangerously intimate act in itself – at some point he clearly, deliberately let it touch his bare fucking cock.
He can almost picture it; Ghost sitting bored at his desk with his fly wide open, idly winding the length of cloth around his hard cock, and letting gentle rivulets of pre-cum trickle down, soiling the fabric with his arousal as Ghost simultaneously imagines looping the very same collar around the omega’s throat.
Oh, Christ.
The stab of lust in his guts isn’t enough to distract from the hideous envy clawing up his throat, because all this isn’t actually meant for Soap at all.
It’s for the omega.
Someone who should be a perfect fucking stranger to both of them, but Soap knows he wouldn’t do this for a stranger. So Ghost either hopes this omega will be open to this obscene form of scent marking, or –
A miserable certainty assails him, Or he knows he will.
Behind the front desk, her tranquil facade finally threatens to crack. “Sir?”
Put it on.
There’s a million reasons why he shouldn’t clambering for attention in his mind, but Soap’s growing outrage drowns them all out.
It’s almost sinful how easily the collar loops around his throat, but at least his fingers don’t tremble, nor does the usual barrage of self-loathing in his head follow.
He doesn’t recall leaving the front desk, and the foyer swims in a soft blur of sound and colour in his vision as he floats towards the nearest lift.
If I’d known rubbing Ghost’s cock on my neck would be this therapeutic. A synthesised voice signals the closing doors of an elevator, and Soap rests his neck against the cold glass walls as it ascends. Maybe I would’ve done it sooner.
“Not that Ghost would’ve let you,” he mumbles under his breath. The reminder’s not enough to shatter his dreamlike state, but it’s potent enough to send the barest frisson of trepidation up his spine.
In a blink, Soap finds himself in front of a nondescript hotel door, and he raises his fist to knock –
Ghost’s voice, steeped with mocking suggestion, drifts through the wall.
“Look who’s decided to show up.”
That nearly stops him short, because the way he’s speaking, it sounds like someone’s already inside.
The omega’s already… here?
Rather than wait for Ghost’s companion to titter at his expense, Soap slaps the keycard against the sensor, and barrels his way inside.