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charliemwrites · 3 months ago

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Soap’s Alpha is a goddamn menace.

Anyone who says otherwise just doesn’t actually know Saint, or is Gaz. (The bloody traitor.)

It’s not that Soap doesn’t like Saint. He does. What’s not to like?

The alpha is a walking wet dream, the kind a pubescent Johnny used to fantasize about. (Still does, really, he’s just got a face - and body, bloody hell that body - to focus on now.) Big and powerful, dominance and restraint from head to toe. Looks damn good in their muzzle too, like something forbidden, pearly fangs locked up out of reach. And their scent - if someone could bottle it up, they’d make millions. (Retirement project, maybe, Soap’s good with chemistry.)

It’s just that they’re so damn respectful. Too respectful, in Johnny’s opinion.

Teenage Johnny didn’t realize that an alpha so… well, Alpha, would have such Victorian sensibilities. Saint is practically old-fashioned, keeping their scent contained and a ribbon of space between themselves and others. Always waiting for an omega to make the first move, even their own omegas.

If Soap pushes, Saint goes. If he demands, Saint provides. They’ll let him scent them and mark them and generally pass the point of even modern social manners just to receive a slow blink, a soft chuff, the barest curve of those lips - scarred from when their fangs grew in, too big for a pup’s mouth. It’s driving Soap off his heid.

It’s not that Soap is attracted to the kind of alpha that would throw their scent around or flash fang when he obnoxiously shoves his nose against their throat. He’s rolled his eyes at his share of knot-heads all over the spectrum for thinking submission is their god-given right. Put just as many on their stomachs or scruffed them limp when they tried (and failed) to press the issue.

It’s just that… well, Soap loves hard. He loves intensely. Some (Ghost, also a traitor) might even say desperately.

And maybe it’s got something to do with how low-spectrum omega he is. Maybe it’s a few too many taunts and jeers from his childhood into adolescence, about how he’s barely an omega anyway, so he’d be lucky with an alpha that can tolerate him. Maybe it’s a relationship (or two) before the 141, with alphas that got frustrated when he could only pretend at submission.

Maybe he just needs Saint to show that they love him just as much as he loves them. That it’s not just mutual, but matched. That he’s not tolerated, but beloved - intense and forward and non-traditional as he is.

And maybe he’s not asking (“communicating”) that because he doesn’t want to have to ask.

“Fuck around ‘n you’ll find out, Johnny,” Simon warns when Soap makes hypotheticals aloud.

“Tha’s what I’m hopin’ fer, ya dafty.”

Simon grunts, but even through the mask, Johnny can see the skepticism. He might have a point - alphas like Saint, far-spectrum Alphas, are categorically Not To Be Fucked With. That’s designation 101. The farther along the spectrum one way or another, the stronger the instincts, the more mindful everyone else needs to be of provoking them. Especially Alphas, territorial and aggressive as they can be.

But Saint’s proven time and time again that those extra counseling sessions and the spooky etiquette school haven’t gone to waste. They could do with a little… provoking.

Now, Johnny’s a veteran provoker. Knows which buttons to push and how for the reactions he wants. Doing it to Saint almost seems unsporting, honestly. The poor thing is just so sweet. But, well, Johnny’s on a mission.

Soap groans, practically draping himself along Gaz’s shoulders.

“I dinnae ken what t’do, nothin’s workin’!”

“Here’s an idea: stop while you’re ahead.”

Soap growls and shoves at him, Gaz flashes fang back, but his scent is mellow and easy - not that Soap needs it to know it’s all show.

“I’m serious, Gaz. I’ve tried everythin’!” he complains.

And he has. Crawling all over Saint (more than usual). Scenting them at every opportunity. “Forgetting” his own scent neutralizers or conveniently applying too little to last the day. Even scraped his teeth across their throat once. And what has he gotten in response? Slow blinks, quiet chuffs. A nuzzle or two in response, Saint’s eyes smiling even if their mouth stays soft and mostly neutral.

“I am too,” Gaz replies, rolling his eyes. “Play stupid games, win stupid prizes, bruv.”

Soap casts a forlorn glance at their Alpha.

Saint’s halfway across the field with Ghost, Price, and the captain of the squad they’re working with for joint task force training. Hands clasped behind their back, boots planted shoulder-width apart. Every bit the imposing alpha lieutenant despite never speaking a word, even with a deterrent half step of space between them and the omegas.

“I dinnae think it would be a stupid prize if they acted like a normal Alpha. Just once, ya ken?”

“They’re not a normal alpha, Soap. They like us just fine, you know that, right?”

Soap grunts something that could pass for agreement. Gaz opens his mouth to say something else - likely more entreaties to leave their poor Alpha be - but two of the other team’s sergeants approaches. (It’s fine, he’ll have plenty of opportunity to complain after dinner, when Saint retreats to their own room to eat - and to a bigger audience too.)

“A little sparring practice while we wait for orders?” one asks.

Behind him, the other sergeant of their squad is staring. Has been since Price introduced the 141.

Unlike them, Task Force Alpha hosts three alphas - the captain herself, who’s mid-spectrum, and the two sergeants, both low-spectrum. It’s an unusual unit, but so is the 141.

Soap and Gaz exchange looks, then glance at their officers. Johnny’s a little startled to find Saint already watching - still relaxed, but observing from a distance.

Oh? Did that catch his Alpha’s attention?

Johnny turns back to the alpha sergeants, grin a little feral.

“Aye, show us what ya got.”

The problem with getting what he wants, Johnny discovers, is that he gets it in spades.

The “sparring practice” is doomed right from the first flash of alpha teeth before they’ve even begun, and rapidly spirals downward from there.

The other problem is that Johnny getting what he wants doesn’t preclude Gaz and Simon from also being right.

Unfamiliar alpha pheromones thick in Johnny’s nose, his pack out of his direct sight, and one wrong move. The other sergeant twists his wrist too hard, too far, and the yelp is out of Johnny’s throat before he can stop it.

A thunderous bark cracks across the field, message unmistakable - Stop.

The alpha pinning Johnny freezes. Unfortunately, that leaves Johnny in the same uncomfortable position that made him cry out in the first place. Every instinct in his body tells him not to move either, but the radiating ache in his wrist wins out. He shifts, tries to wriggle out, but the alpha’s grip is like iron - whether from fear or caught prey is unclear.

It doesn’t matter though. Because in the next instant, the alpha’s weight is gone entirely.

There’s barely even a scuffle. Just a rolling growl like shifting tectonic plates and then the alpha sergeant is pinned face down with a big hand scruffing him tight.

It’s Saint, crouched over Johnny’s (former) opponent, expression wiped smooth except for the snarl showing those big fangs - even still hidden behind a muzzle.

This is why, Johnny thinks, stomach flipping. If the muzzle wasn’t there, Saint’s teeth would be clamped down already.

They sink lower, knee against the other alpha’s back, slow and deliberate. Close enough that the smaller alpha bites off a whimper. A clear display of power and dominance that nearly has Johnny keening.

As if hearing his thoughts - or the subvocals he’s being less successful about suppressing - Saint’s implacable gaze darts to his. Their pupils are blown out, eyes stormcloud dark.

“Johnny.”

There’s no stopping the soft, purely Omega noise that slips out. Saint’s chest expands, breathing in whatever scent Johnny is giving off.

“Okay?” they ask, flicking a look at Johnny’s wrist.

“M’okay, Alpha.”

Saint turns their attention to Price, Simon, and the alpha captain - only just now finished crossing the distance Saint did seemingly in an instant.

“Stand down, lieutenant,” the alpha captain barks. It’s weak, though, they can all hear that her subvocals aren’t in it with her, instinct shying from the stronger alpha. (Her normal voice doesn’t sound all that strong for that matter, either.)

Another warning growl ripples through the air. This time, the alpha beneath Saint can’t stop his whimper - and neither can Johnny. (Though he’s likely whimpering for a much different reason.) The captain’s mouth shuts with an audible click.

A safe distance from her, Simon and Price visibly lock their knees to stay standing.

Saint tilts their head to meet the alpha captain’s glare, steady and unrelenting. Awareness crackles down Johnny’s spine - alphas locking gazes, and the dangers of them doing so.

“I-I didn’t know he was your omega,” the alpha sergeant blurts.

Saint doesn’t look away. “You know now.”

“Yes, alpha.”

Johnny’s heart trips over itself to beat double time. His face feels hot.

Silence stretches for one, two, three breaths…

“He knows now,” the alpha captain says quietly. Her eyes drop to her sergeant. “Let him up, alpha.”

Saint doesn’t linger to make a point. The sit back, forearms resting on their knees, giving the sergeant room to scramble up and away. And Johnny finds, quite suddenly, that Saint’s focused on him again.

“Let’s pick this up another day,” Price gruffs in the silence, dredging his voice up from the depths.

“I’ll contact you for details,” the alpha captain says, steel returning to her voice.

Task Force Alpha shuffles away in thick silence. With the outsiders gone, some ease returns. The intense energy around Saint melts away, leaving the mellow alpha the 141 is used to behind.

“That was bloody brilliant,” Gaz blurts in the silence, absolutely smitten.

Saint snorts, shakes their head, and stands.

Mouth dry and still right where he ended, Johnny glances at Simon. The look in his eyes says “I told you so.”

Johnny doesn’t pout; but he does take the hand that Saint offers him with a purr.

“Johnny.”

A shiver raises down his spine and pools low in his gut - just like it does every time he hears Saint’s voice. Still, he tries to save face, whirling to fix his alpha with a winning smile.

“Aye, alpha?” he churrs - or starts to, but comes up short.

Because Saint isn’t wearing their muzzle.

“W-what’s the occasion?” he tries to recover.

Saint tilts their head, watching. Observing.

It’s just the two of them in the den right now. Price is in his office, smoothing over the afternoon’s events via phone call, and Simon and Gaz went into town for food.

It feels electrifyingly intimate. Because his Alpha is looming right there in joggers and a tight t-shirt and no muzzle, all that intensity focused solely on Johnny.

“Well… at least c’mere then, eh?”

And Saint fucking prowls across the den. But they don’t stop at the edge of the couch where Johnny’s reclining. They continue onto the cushions. First a knee, making the cushion dip sharply with their weight. Then planting a hand by Johnny’s head on the back of the couch, practically climbing over him.

It hits Johnny then. Saint’s scent, still diluted by a low-level neutralizer, but still theirs and still intense. And he doesn’t know why, knows better than to lead a predator, but Johnny scoots back, trying to maintain the sliver of space between them. Overwhelmed.

But for once, Saint doesn’t pull away or politely deescalate. They pursue until Johnny’s stopped by the arm of the couch against his shoulders and Saint’s hovering over them.

“That pup didn’t know you’re mine,” the rumble finally. “Do you?”

“‘Course,” Johnny answers instantly.

They meet his eyes, and Johnny realizes they’ve caught on to his efforts. Maybe knew from the start.

Embarrassed heat sears his cheeks, ears, and neck.

“‘M sorry,” he whispers, the words like ash in his mouth.

Saint shakes their head but it’s not a rejection. They tilt their head, rub their cheek firm but gentle against his. They’re… they’re scenting him.

Johnny reciprocates enthusiastically and earns a pleased purr that vibrates all the insecurities right out of his skull.

“Mine,” Saint churrs. “Omega.”

“Aye, Alpha.”

#cod #my writing #fanfiction #my oc #operator: saint #cod oc #a/b/o fic #a/b/o dynamics #Charlie’s a/b/o verse #non traditional omegaverse #omega 141 #john soap mactavish

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