#cod operators

[flochlicious]

I did not even recognize him 💀

[callofdudes]

Y'know what y'all...

I haven't given this guy any attention at all but he's been showing up a lot so it must be a sign 😤 say hello to Sebastian Josef Krueger guys! My little murder man 😊

[nrdmssgs]

Masterlist "We can't keep it." "Sputnik. Her name is Sputnik." "We can't keep Sputnik, Nikto! She's a wild animal" "Look her in the eyes." "No" "Look her in the eyes and tell her, she will have to leave this place." "...Fuck you, Andre." "She likes belly scratches. Like this."

[yawnderu]

I wanna nerd out a bit about the new operator (3-headed Ghost) because I just bought him and I can't stop looking at him.

While he is a bizarre combination of limbs from the TF141 members, he's listed as a member of KorTac, a private military contractor in the game known for having the bad guys, including Makarov, Graves, and some Konni soldiers. As of now, all the information of the operator appears as [REDACTED].

The masks he wears are arranged in chronological order following the events of the campaign, starting from the one on the right side, worn by Simon during Grave's betrayal. The mask in the middle is from the cinematic where Simon and Johnny meet up with Rodolfo again to rescue Alejandro, and the mask on the left side is from another cinematic, where Ghost's team eventually defeats Shadow Company.

He has five arms, two of which belong to Simon and are located on the right side of his body. On the left side of his body, two of the three arms are mutated together, and one of the arms belongs to Soap -easily recognizable by his SAS tattoo-, grasping Price's arm, while Gaz's arm is on the back.

Some of the accessories he wears include Gaz's cap,

Price's scarf,

and Farah's headband.

While he is listed as a KorTac operator, still attached to it can be seen a United Kingdom Special Forces patch on Ghost's arm.

Another curious fact is that the solitary arms on the back (belonging to Simon and Gaz) and Simon's head do not stop twitching, to the point it looks rather painful, as the head twitches force his entire body to move as well.

When you're in the selection screen, the Alone operator examines his mutated arm for a few seconds before moving on.

[sombrashe]

ovulating and simply being in the vicinity as the 141

Maybe you're part of the 141 and as the only newbie you feel overwhelmed by the job and the fluttering of your cunt or maybe you're simply their neighbor, staying on base to finish college while your parents serve

No matter the reason the simple waft of Gaz's cologne, the way Soap's muscles contract as he does pushups in the front yard or how Ghost gives you a stiff nod whenever you catch him doing yard work in the early morning always has you clenching around nothingness

Your panties sticking to your soaked cunt always has heat plastered to your face as you try to make normal conversation with the three men, their oldest member frequently on base working on the next mission

Something you only know because you couldn't stop rambling one night last month trying to get out of his intoxicating smell as fast as possible

Finally they notice something is wrong, all these months of seeing and talking to you after finishing your daily walk without incident to these random intervals of being unable to form coherent sentences as you attempt to get away from them as fast as possible

"'re 'ou okay, lovie? 'Ou seem outta it today."

You give a forced nod, the natural muskiness of Ghost wafting into your nose and only making you clench your thighs tighter

When Gaz and Soap join him you can't stop the groan of annoyance that comes out of your mouth, they have to know what they're doing at this point

A pointed look and you're blurring out nonsense, "No, yes. Yes i'm fine. I mean I need to go, sorry. I have to take care of myself- No wait I mean something. I need to take care of something."

Raised eyebrow, a simple smirk and a short laugh from Soap have you pulling at the hem of your shirt

"Well, if ya need any 'elp takin' care of yerself, bonnie. You know where to find us, yeah?"

[cod-dump]

König: I once had a sniper trained on Sergeant MacTavish

Horangi: And he's still alive. Why didn't you shoot him?

König: He looked at me

Horangi: ... he looked at you?

König: I was over three hundred meters away and he MADE EYE CONTACT WITH ME THROUGH THE SCOPE

Horangi:

Horangi: You're right, he is scarier than Ghost

[charliemwrites]

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.”

[sleepyconfusedpotato]

WIP poopy sketch of the Alone Operator

shoutout to @ave661 for the reference!

I might regret drawing those hands in the future but hey, I'm insane.

[codderanged]

Infestation Time >:)

Roach is ready to pounce into feral mode

[hyper-fixates]

i’m sat.

[nrdmssgs]

Masterlist

in case you guys wanted the full view

[lunarw0rks]

Hello I wanna request some Valeria SMOOT cuz I'm down bad for cartel mommy. A short fic abt Valeria fucking the absolute brains out of you to the point of being dumb and squirting everywhere

warning(s): nsfw (18+), exhibitionism, overstim., dom/sub, degradation/praise, val's purple strap strikes again, humiliation, squirting, fem!reader

MAKING MESSES | VALERIA GARZA

overbearing bass, candlelit lighting, constant chatter; surrounding the two of you. the noise of nightlife is muffled by the oversized doors, still original to way before your time — almost an irony compared to the modernized club they’re housing.

it wouldn’t matter either way. your ears were ringing. every gasp, every whimper, every mutter into your ear echoed and fizzled into the noise.

her pink nails dug like needles into your hips, guiding every rut onto her strap. valeria lolled in the leather armchair, leaning back and enjoying the show you were giving her. she paid no mind to the risk, how patrons could be a hair away from hearing or seeing you two.

it was her club; her place. and you were fucking hers. anyone who had a qualm about that? they never stuck around long.

she controlled everything, every single body roll. your cunt clenched tight around the violet silicone, swallowing its entirety. “sigue adelante, nena. so fucking desperate.” she spits out her words, relishing in your whimpers. they echo off the stucco walls, likely carrying all throughout the hall. “desperate whores should get nothing. but not you. riding me out in the open like this.”

your bottom lip seeps a bit of blood from how harshly you had been biting it, pathetically failing at silencing yourself. it wasn’t any use when you’d already finished twice, leaving a milky ring around the base of the strap. your wetness dribbled down the slick shaft, soaking onto her cargo pants.

the night dress you wore, pulled down at the top to expose your nipple. it might as well be her own personal stress toy — to lap, squeeze, pinch, and slap as she sees fit.

it was pure luck that none of the clubbers had rounded the corner. if it were up to valeria, she wouldn’t skip a beat. the buzzed onlooker getting a surge of jealousy when they ogle your bouncing body; hem pulled up to expose your bare ass as it jiggles. or the drip of your pussy, messily and audibly being stretched out.

your head dips down, getting a rush of fatigue from the physical strain. if it weren’t for her harsh hands, you were sure your grinds would be nonexistent. with precision, she outstretches a hand and grips your jaw, forcing eye contact. “eyes up. you don’t get to tap out after teasing me, cariño.” valeria patronizes.

if you were of sound mind, perhaps you would’ve agreed. not wearing panties was a risky move; as risky as riding her in the dim hallway. but she always packed — that violet temptation just a zipper away.

you felt yourself plunged into another high, mewling against her palm as you climaxed. she locked in, both hands returning to your hips as she drove you down faster. this was your most intense orgasm yet; eyes rolling and body shivering.

pleasure pumped through you as violently as the strap, a warm gush messing all over her lap. you had squirted, proving that the sticky mess before was nothing. “mierda… mi putita, so messy.” valeria groaned lowly with amusement, as if she had climaxed herself.

“we aren’t done.” she leaned in close, showing the forced grinds to a stop. you had no choice but to believe her — and valeria always stuck to her word.

a toy being used on a toy <3

a/n: this is so bad... | ⊹。°˖➴ divider cred. - cafekitsune

[blingblong55]

it was who?- König

Talking to his imaginary camera, in his imaginary interview..

König: All the other children said I was too shy, so I was always made to sit outside

König: and then one day, somebody burned down the school

König: .......and that person....

König: ...was me.....

[sombrashe]

Gaz' porn search is just

Chubby girl porn

Chubby girlfriend porn

Eating chubby girlfriend out

Chubby girl x soldier porn

Chubby girl x strong guy porn

Fucking chubby girlfriend first time

[cod-dump]

*after a shootout*

Soap: So, uh, where does your anxiety play into this?

König, standing over a body: It doesn't revolve around the enemy, more so around my team

König, staring into the distance: Horangi gives me constant anxiety

Soap: I... I understand

[charliemwrites]

Gaz loves his Alpha.

He didn’t think it could be like that - a thief in the night after his heart. A silent creeping fog of devotion and affection, filling his lungs and clogging up his head.

From the stories his parents told - a beautiful Alpha/Omega pair, perfectly mid-spectrum that bore two pups - love is wildfire. It sparks, catches, spreads. Heat and light, it burns sometimes. Unmistakable, though, as it consumes.

It wasn’t like that with Saint. Like the Alpha themself, the love trickled in unobtrusive but steady, a dawning of new emotion, forging bonds like bands of sunlight cresting the horizon. Not a crackling blaze but a warming light. Until all at once it was day; it was love.

Saint, patron of devotion.

They’re sleeping under Gaz right now. Long, deep breaths that raise him with each inhale, a slight purr on each exhale. Content with his company even when unconscious.

Their eyes are closed, head lolling to reveal the strong column of their throat. The edge of their scent gland peaks past their compression shirt, a fresh smear of neutralizer over the bruised skin.

Post-Rut Saint is delicious. Lazy and slow as they recover energy and spent calories, napping in long shifts. Languid, relaxed, effortlessly Alpha.

They shift as the scent of Gaz’s arousal tickles their nose, tongue peaking out to swipe over the sharp curve of their fangs. Muzzle on again, of course, but one with bars instead of grid, easier to see their pretty mouth. Gaz is in no condition for another round, not after the thorough three days of fucking he and the other Omegas received, but the thought still makes his gut flip pleasantly.

He churrs, just to see what Saint will do, still mostly asleep.

The Alpha churrs sleepily back, the big hand curled around his thigh flexing.

Always so responsive, his Alpha, now that he knows what to look for. Saint never ignores them, never dismisses them. They’re always attuned to the Omegas, listening, ready to provide. Indulgent, even. Gaz and the others are spoiled - not that anyone would get away with saying so.

“Alpha…” he coos, nuzzling under Saint’s chin.

He does it because he can, and it’s still a novelty. An Alpha so extreme on the spectrum, yet so tolerant of vulnerability and all the liberties he and Soap take. Licking and nipping at their throat, scenting them on a whim, leaning and tugging and pressing close all the time. Not even a grumble for their trouble, just slow blinks and chuffs of amusement.

Alphas usually don’t let anyone but mates or pups near their throats, the submissive subtext and dangerous position grating on their instincts. But Saint has always let Gaz shove his nose against their jugular, or that tender spot beneath their ear, or the hollow where their purr sounds best. Even now, only just stirring, they tilt their chin back to grant him access.

“Omega,” they rumble, and a shiver wracks Gaz from head to toe.

Saint is rare with their voice. Saves it for the field or private moments; the subharmonics are intense, dominating. He barked at an Alpha recruit the other day, a touch less patient in pre-Rut, and the kid practically threw himself to the ground, belly up and whimpering submission. The other recruits dropped their knees and eyes, shying away from the Alpha’s correction.

The response that voice garners in their Omegas is different. Yielding rather than submitting. A happy, gooey melt rather than a brutal breakdown. For Gaz, it sounds like safety, protection, care, leadership. He still gets goosebumps remembering the first time he heard it, during a long-awaited Heat.

“Kyle.”

He jerks a bit, realizing that the voice isn’t just in his memory. Saint is waking, roused by Gaz’s incessant poking and prodding. As always, they don’t seem bothered. Their thumb caresses the back of his neck, sweeps along his hairline, soothing him.

He sits up a bit, anyway. Saint blinks at him through heavy-lidded eyes, obviously not quite with the program yet. That subsonic hum of an Alpha entreating their Pack member to stay, settle, sleep is still vibrating in their chest. Kyle chirps in return, a greeting and assurance in one.

“Time to eat, Alpha.”

Saint blinks twice more, takes a more deliberate breath in. Coming alive again. The subtle shifts in muscle beneath Gaz are enough to obsess over. He’d love to know what they do in that Alpha gym every day, they’re a work of art. Type of body that could go on the cover of porn magazines and Heat partner sites.

Saint yawns, big and wide, teeth on display. Shakes their head a bit to dispel the last of the cobwebs.

“Mm.”

That’s his cue.

He clambers off the Alpha, stretches out long and lithe, maybe showing off just a little. His effort is rewarded with Saint following, nuzzling his hip with an appreciative purr, before standing. They pop their neck with a quick jerk of their chin, before turning to Gaz. Always waiting, always ready.

“The others said they’ll meet us there,” he explains, heading for the door.

Like Alphas of old, Saint always stays at Gaz’s elbow. Easy to speak to, but clearly following the Omega without inciting the sense of being hunted. (Not that Gaz would mind Saint hunting him… not at all.)

“In the usual spot?” Gaz asks, pointing at the 141’s table. At Saint’s nod, he adds, “I’ll get you a tray if you want to go change into the bite guard.”

They hesitate for a moment, considering. Then nod, brushing their wrist against Gaz’s shoulder. He beams, swipes his jaw against Saint’s shoulder, before sauntering to the line.

It’s rare that Saint will wear any less than a muzzle, especially somewhere public like the caf. But post-Rut has them ravenous and slightly less reactive, lowering the bite risk in conjunction with their already iron-clad control. Enough so that they for once feel comfortable settling for a bite guard.

Gaz happily loads up their plate with their favorites, glancing around every once in a while for his other Pack members. Ghost and Price had paperwork to catch up on and Soap switched recruit duty with Gaz so that he could rest a little longer after that final round. They must not be done just yet - no surprise there, they’ve timed it to avoid the worst of the meal crowd.

As Gaz steps out of the line, a tray in each hand, he’s surprised to find the table absent of his Alpha. Saint’s adept with their muzzle and their bite guard, it hardly takes them any time at all to place or remove either.

Then he spots them by the water fountain. They’ve clearly gone to grab an extra cup, dehydrated from Rut. But they’ve been held up by someone.

Gaz recognizes them as a recent transfer, an Omega operator with a decent record. He has no opinion about them one way or another, hasn’t had much chance (or reason) to work with them.

Or at least he didn’t have an opinion until right this moment.

Because they’re not just talking to his Alpha. They’re leaning into Saint, tilting their head just so to show off their pristine mating gland. They’re peering at Saint through their lashes, swishing their hair to release their scent.

And that would be fine and good. At a cafe, a bar, a club, the bloody grocery store - hell, even here. It would be, if they were acting that way with anyone else. Gaz would even cheer them on.

But that’s Saint. That’s the 141’s Alpha. Their Alpha that they’ve built a bond with, that takes care of them, that they love.

And Saint is treating them the way they do every Omega. Calm and stoic, head tilted in non-threat. Listening to what this Omega could need of an Alpha. Only the subtle clench of their jaw and stillness of their chest indicating that they’re even remotely uncomfortable. Speaking to a strange Omega with no muzzle on, post-Rut, in a crowded place.

“Look like you’re about to explode, what’s got you burning pheromones?” Ghost asks.

Gaz didn’t even hear him approach but he’s too busy wrestling down his less flattering instincts to be startled.

Omegas don’t usually have the territorial edge to their protectiveness that Alphas have. Usually. Not never.

“Look,” Gaz growls, jerking his head.

Ghost follows his piercing gaze. “Ah.”

There’s a beat of silence as the Omega sways closer, obviously purring even if they can’t hear it at this distance.

“Well?” Ghost prompts.

Gaz takes a couple steps forward before he even realizes it. Pauses when Ghost’s hand lands on his shoulder, staying. Right. Best not to cause a scene, even if obscene instinct is demanding he climb Saint right there.

Instead, he clears his throat.

“Alpha!” He barks. Not needy or wanting. Demanding.

Saint’s head whips around, silvery gaze locking on Gaz instantly. They don’t look away as they dip their head politely to the other Omega, a silent goodbye, and stride across the room in a handful of long strides.

The rolling chur they let out is questioning, surprise in the arch of their dark brows when Gaz shoves his face in theirs. Scenting them there too, where the skin is so rarely available for it.

“You're irresistible, Alpha,” Ghost chuckles.

Saint grunts in distracted greeting, still looking confused. A big hand circles the back of Gaz’s neck, not quite a scruff.

“Settle,” they murmur, ducking their head to kiss his temple. “Eat.”

And Gaz would be more ashamed of how loud he instantly starts purring - if not for the way Saint’s eyes soften and the corners of their mouth curl slightly up, fond.

“Same to you,” Gaz huffs, tugging their belt loop.

Most Alphas would take at least mild offense, would tell him to watch it, only half joking.

But Saint chuffs in acquiescence and sits, leaving their own Omegas to stand over them - even if momentarily.

Ghost and Gaz settle in, just in time for the Johns to step out of the chow line as well.

“What did that bird want?” Ghost asks as he digs in.

Saint doesn’t take their eyes off their last two pack members. They shrug.

“Looked like they were chattering up a storm,” Gaz notes, only a little tart.

Saint flicks him a devastatingly attractive smirk. “Couldn’t hear them over you.”

And Gaz doesn’t need to hear them say it, to know that Saint loves him just the same.