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The door is barely shut behind Ghost before Price is slamming him into it and ripping his mask off in one.
Ghost growls deep in his chest, savage and primal as he bares his fangs in challenge. Alpha aggression wafts off him—that Price should so casually remove his mask, when Ghost has threatened violence on lesser alphas who’ve so much as touched him.
Price has the gall to laugh as he carelessly throws the mask at his desk.
“Come now, none of that, Simon,” he says as he lifts a palm and cups Ghost’s scarred cheek.
Ghost snarls and snaps his teeth at Price’s wrist. Price’s fast reflexes are the only reason that Ghost doesn’t rip a chunk out.
Price grins, aggression rolls off him in waves too and the stink of clashing alphas clogs up his room.
“Always have been a feral mutt,” Price chides.
Ghost’s hackles raise and the moment teeters on violence, promises bloodshed. Price's hand buries itself in Ghost’s short mess of hair and Ghost reaches for the gun at his thigh on automatic, but then Price is jerking Ghost forward the last few millimeters and crashing their lips together.
The kiss is more brutality than not, sharp fangs biting into thin flesh, tongues swirling messy over each other. Ghost’s cock swells in his pants and he groans as Price shoves a thigh between his legs. Too hard, pain and pleasure both as Ghost hitches his hips forward anyway.
They’re still in full gear, the 141 had barely stepped out of their exfil chopper and onto base tarmac before Laswell had commed. She'd immediately requested they send over the highly classified information that'd been their mission goal. Once they'd sent it over and their video call with Laswell was over, they'd had their own quick debrief. After, Price had finally dismissed them all for much needed rest.
They hadn't had any serious injuries but they'd had both firefights and close quarters combat over the course of the mission. They were all a bit scuffed and bruised and worse for wear.
Of course, that was also when Price had caught Ghost’s eyes and gestured towards the door, silently expecting him to follow as he exited the communications room.
Soap had thrown Ghost a look, eyebrow cocked, no doubt thinking that Price needed him for further debrief or paperwork. Ghost had nodded at Soap, though he’d known by the way Price's blue eyes had shaded sharper that they wouldn’t exactly be debriefing when Price led him to his room.
And now here they are, gear creaking and groaning as they try to get closer to each other. The bruises that mottle one entire side of Ghost's ribs light up at the pressure but Ghost barely pays them any attention.
The room stinks of alpha aggression and lust, extra potent with their scent suppression patches ripped off. It mixes in with the gunpowder, dried sweat, and blood that’s mostly not their own.
Were it any other alpha in the room with Ghost the smell would be revolting, acrid in his nose, bitter in his lungs. But because it’s Price, Ghost breathes it in like ambrosia.
It settles heat in his gut instead of just the mindless alpha violence it should spark in his hindbrain, it makes his already aching hard cock twitch in the confines of his jeans.
They've both been hot since the mission, since they'd both watched their pack omegas work. Since Gaz sniped hostiles with Price right next to him, low voice calling out positions and how he wanted each man killed and Gaz following his orders with the ease and confidence of soldiers twice his age. After they’d all moved into the compound, they’d gotten to watch Soap take down hostiles with one of Ghost’s gifted knives, grinning entirely too wide as blood splattered on his face.
Ghost had caught Price’s eye as they’d watched their omegas work and caught that wild glint of pride and possessiveness, of lust—and known that it was well reflected in his own eyes.
So Ghost had known, even then, that this is where it would lead to.
Price pulls away from his lips and then grabs a handful of his ass.
“Get on the bed,” Price says, alpha already starting to layer in his voice.
The words pull heat and anger both in the pit of Ghost’s stomach. Alpha instincts rising up to the blatant challenge in Price’s voice.
Ghost kisses him again instead, bites at Price’s lip hard enough to break skin and then palms at his ass. He starts pushing Price backwards, towards his bed.
Price rips Ghost's hands away from him and shoves him back against the door.
“I said, get on the bed,” Price says, in that same tone of command he uses on the field. “I need a warm hole to sink into.”
It pushes Ghost over the edge, Price's casual expectation of obedience. Like rolling over was something that Ghost could be ordered to do, like he was just as obedient here as he was on the field. Sometimes, Price needed a reminder that he wasn't.
Ghost lunges, taking Price by the shoulders and swinging him around to slam him against the door. He pulls out the sig from his thigh holster and aims it to the side of Price’s temple.
Silence. Nothing but their panting breaths and what should be the stench of clashing alpha mixing in with the headier scent of lust. It's making Ghost's mouth water, any second he might start drooling like a dog.
Price smiles, slow and lazy, tensed muscles loosening, like Ghost aiming a fucking gun at him, doesn’t register as a threat at all.
“A gun Simon, really?” Price says, voice light and chiding, how he’d chastise a rookie for not being able to straighten out their bed corners. Price smile widens but his eyes go sharp as he leans in close. Ghost follows him with the gun and Price's mutton chops tickle his cheek as Price rumbles in his ear. “Let’s not pretend like you’re not going to be on your knees with my knot shoved in your mouth, begging for it in your ass instead, like an omega in heat.”
It snaps something in Ghost, fury building so fast and so quick that he sees red. It’s the type of all consuming rage that only Price has been able to pull out of him and it’s all the distraction the captain needs.
In one swift movement the gun is swiped from Ghost’s grip and a kick is aimed at his leg. Ghost grunts and falls heavily onto one knee, pain lancing up his bones at the sudden contact with the floor.
Ghost growls, muscles already bunched to spring at Price and go for his fucking throat when the cool touch of metal at his forehead stops him. Ghost stills and looks up at Price as best he can with his own gun in the way.
“Ah, ah, Simon,” Price continues in that same mocking tone. The muzzle grazes down the bridge of Ghost’s nose as Price aims it at his mouth. He taps the gun against Ghost’s scarred lips. “Told you, you'd be on your knees for me.”
Ghost’s lips pull back in a snarl and the gun clinks against his teeth instead.
“That’s right,” Price says as he steps in closer, free hand already starting to unbutton his cargos. He pushes the gun further into Ghost’s mouth, bullying the metal between his teeth, then he shoves the gun into Ghost's cheek and stretches his lips out in an awkward open mouthed grimace. “Open up that pretty mouth of yours.”
Price finally gets his cock out. He's flushed hard and wet, the bulge of his knot at the base already noticeable even if it’s nowhere near swollen yet.
He doesn't feed it to Ghost right away, just gives himself a few leisurely pumps as he keeps Ghost on his knees, mouth open and starting to drool down his gun and his chin.
“Wonder what the sergeants would say,” Price voices as he stares down at Ghost with those usual clear blue eyes shaded dark and icy. “Their stoic alpha lieutenant, on his knees, waiting to suck cock.” Price chuckles. “Alpha cock at that.”
Ghost narrows his eyes, a deep guttural growl building in his chest at the humiliation. More spit floods his mouth. He can't stop the twitch of his hips though, as he thrusts up against nothing, can't stop imagining what their sergeants would say, if they were both here watching this, watching them. If sweet arousal would start to mix with the heady scent of alpha lust, if their pupils would blow and cheeks flush, if they would start slicking—
“Getting wet for me too,” Price says smugly as he eyes the puddle of spit Ghost drools onto the floor and the dark stain at the tent of his pants where he's steadily leaking precum.
Price finally takes the gun from Ghost’s mouth and strands of saliva cling to the muzzle as he pulls it away.
When Ghost tries to close his mouth Price grabs at his jaw harshly, thumb and forefinger digging into his cheeks to keep it open. “Mind your teeth,” Price says as he nudges the gun into Ghost's temple.
Ghost growls but in the end he folds his lips over his teeth. Price smirks, grabs his cock, steps in close, and slides into Ghost’s waiting mouth. He stops just short of hitting the back of Ghost's throat, but Ghost knows that it's not for his own comfort, it's only to draw the whole thing out. Soon enough, Price will be gagging him on his cock, fucking him deep enough that he'll feel it in his throat for days.
Ghost's hips twitch again, and just the rasp of denim against his cock is enough to force a grunt out of him . Price groans at the vibrations, pulling back and thrusting into Ghost’s cheek, distending it like the gun had prior. It pulls at Ghost's lips, uncovers some of his teeth, and It'd be so easy to sink them into Price right now.
“Keep minding these pretty fangs of yours, eh lad,” Price says throatily as he pinches a canine between his fingers and waggles it.
Then he pulls back and thrusts back in and he isn't gentle about it. He shoves himself down Ghost's throat completely and holds him there with a hand tight in Ghost's hair and the gun kept glued to his temple. Ghost’s throat convulses around him, air supply dwindling with every rapid beat of his heart. Price pulls out and Ghost sputters and gags and tries to breathe in air all at the same time but Price doesn't give him a break, just forces himself back in. He does it again and again and again, fucking Ghost's mouth, using him for his own pleasure.
Ghost should be angry, should be furious at being used like this, his alpha should be snarling and baying for Price's blood, he should want to tear out Price's throat with his teeth. And he does, that anger is there, but it's mixing in with his lust and giving a him a high so fucking good he's floating on his rage.
Ghost's eyes slip shut of their own accord and he gets lost in it, in Price bullying his throat, that thick cock seeming to slide in a bit deeper every time.
Ghost wants to touch himself, wants to thrust up each time Price thrusts in, but even in his current position—on his knees, fangs kept obediently behind his lips and tears streaming down his face to join the frothing mess at his lips— he doesn't want to give Price the satisfaction. He'll keep that tiny sliver of pride, if nothing else.
Price shoves back in and then stays buried there as Ghost chokes, throat convulsing and nose buried in wiry hair. Price groans and Ghost wonders, as his air dwindles with every rapid beat of his heart, if Price is going to keep him there until he passes out. Wouldn't be the first time he's done it.
Just as Ghost’s lungs start to really protest, just as his vision starts to go blurry with something other than unshed tears, just as he’s weighing the consequences of using his fangs after all—Price wrenches his head back and slides out of his mouth completely.
Ghost wretches and coughs, adding more spit to the floor as he takes in burning gasps of air. But Price doesn't give him a moment's rest, he shoves the gun under Ghost's chin and forces him to meet his eyes.
“Up,” Price orders, as if he really is giving commands to a dog.
Even with tears streaming down Ghost's face and mixing in with the mess dripping down his chin, even with every breath licking fire down his abused throat, Ghost still bares his fangs. Maybe he is a dog, but Price's hand won't be safe from his bite.
“Now Simon,” Price repeats as he digs the gun harder into the soft underside of Ghost's jaw.
Ghost obeys, for now.
Once he's standing Price touches the gun to Ghost's chest and then walks forward, pushing Ghost backwards until he hits Price's bed. Then he takes the gun away, though he doesn't stop aiming it at Ghost.
“Gear off, shoes too,” Price instructs. Ghost once again obeys;, he strips his gear off to thump one by one to the floor. He reaches down to unlace and kick off his boots and when he straightens, Price is wearing that lazy smile again. “Now strip, and put on a show, aye Simon.”
Ghost holds Price’s stare and then reaches for his shirt. He tugs it up, revealing a scarred torso inch by slow inch.
He gets the shirt off but doesn't let it drop to the floor just yet. He breathes deep and watches as Price's eyes glue to his chest.
Ghost takes his shot.
He throws the shirt at Price’s face and then lunges for the hand with the gun. He bends Price's wrist the wrong way and listens with satisfaction to Price's pained hiss and the clatter of the gun on the floor. With the gun out of the way, Ghost curls an arm around Price's neck and then swings him around to throw him face-up on the bed.
Ghost straddles Price and presses a forearm hard at his throat, payback for cutting off Ghost's own air supply with his cock. Price digs blunt fingernails into Ghost's arm, trying to pry it off him, but Ghost just presses harder and watches with relish as Price goes red with oxygen deprivation.
Ghost has all but won their usual fight into submission. Either Price will tap out or he'll cling to stubborn alpha pride and pass out, and Ghost will get to fuck him either way. At least if Price passes out, he'll have the added benefit of a pliant body to start with.
Price knows all of this too, and his own bared fangs glisten as he claws into Ghost's, but the longer he goes without oxygen, the less force he can exert. His fingers start to loosen.
Victory is so close, Ghost can practically taste it. Can imagine getting Price under him and sheathing his cock in the heat of his body, taking out his earlier rage and humiliation and lust with every pounding thrust as Price—best god damn alpha Ghost knows— moans for it, for Ghost, exactly like the omega in heat he’d debased Ghost being earlier.
Ghost gets caught up in his own victorious fantasy and that’s what proves his downfall.
Price slams a fist into Ghost's bruised ribs and the pain explodes stars in Ghost’s vision. His hold loosens and the tiny lick of air is all Price needs to buck Ghost off and slams him face first into the mattress instead.
Price jerks an arm too far behind Ghost’s back and then bears down on it. Pain blooms like fireworks at Ghost's shoulder and Price's gear pokes in the tender places between Ghost's ribs. Every ragged expansion of Ghost's chest pushes his trapped arm up against Price, causing a see-saw of worsening pain. Price is in the perfect position to pop Ghost's arm out of its socket.
Price leans down and the pain ticks up, one centimeter closer to dislocation.
“Do you yield?” Price snarls.
Ghost could keep fighting and he knows that Price wouldn’t relent, knows he’d keep him held down and that if Ghost still struggled, he’d push his arm further and further until it did pop out.
It wouldn't stop Price either, he'd get one whiff of Ghost’s pain and it’d only make him harder, because Price is a freak who hated smelling pain on Ghost unless he was the one causing it. Price would fuck Ghost into the mattress with one arm flopping useless and he’d growl in satisfaction when every thrust flared sharp agony in Ghost’s shoulder.
Ghost has to hold back a groan at the thought.
He’d never claimed to be normal either, it's why he and Price fit so well, why they’d never particularly cared about getting any sweet-smelling omega under them—
Well, until recently that is.
“Do. You.“ Price snarls as he pushes down another fraction. Pain stabs at Ghost’s shoulder and shoots down his arm. His pulse quickens.“Yield?”
Ghost debates letting it happen, debates clinging to his own alpha pride, but coddling a dislocated shoulder after they popped it back in would be more trouble than it was worth.
“Yes,” Ghost rasps.
Price lets go of his arm and flings it onto the mattress. Ghost has to bite his lip against the final flash of pain and the way the movement sends a wave of pins and needles down his arm.
Price gets up and Ghost hears the peel of velcro and jangle of metal as his gear comes off. The bed jostles as Price kneels back on it and then drops his full body weight over Ghost. He hasn't taken any of his clothes off—probably too impatient, probably to further impress who's in control now.
“Good lad,” Price rumbles as he shoves his face into the crook of Ghost’s neck and licks a stripe over his scarred scent gland. The heat and the rasp of Price's tongue have Ghost clawing at the bedsheets under him. His cock twitches where it's trapped between him and the mattress.
Price lets out a throaty groan as he shoves his face further into Ghost’s neck, huffing at his gland like a hungry animal.
“Fuck, you smell like sin, Simon,” Price says and then abruptly pulls away. Ghost has to bite back a sound that would have been dangerously close to a whine at the loss of contact. Price’s hands are back on him quickly enough, though. He grabs Ghost by the hips and brusquely orders up so that he can get at his zipper and tear Ghost's jeans off him.
Price palms at Ghost's ass and spreads him open. “Now, there's a pretty sight,” he murmurs and Ghost would spit vitriol about how he's not some omega who needs to be reminded how pretty he is, but then Price is rubbing a calloused finger over the sensitive pucker of his hole. It’s enough to have Ghost clenching at nothing.
Price chuckles at his reaction and then presses his finger harder, not enough to breach, but enough to remind Ghost that he could, if he wanted to. Price could shove a finger in dry, could shove more than just a finger, depending on his mood. He'd earned the right when Ghost had rasped his yes.
If only to save him the further humiliation of having to pick his seats carefully for the next week, Ghost reaches towards Price's sidetable and the lube contained within it, but Price just yanks his arm back.
“Don't need it,” Price growls, “there’s going to be nothing in you but me.”
Price shifts, Ghost hears him jerking off and then his fingers come back to tease at Ghost’s hole. They’re wet with precum.
Possessive bastard, Ghost thinks as Price smears himself around Ghost's rim and then finally pushes a finger in. Ghost does his best to relax around the barely slick enough intrusion.
Price pushes another finger in entirely too soon and precum isn’t enough to smooth the glide this time. Ghost bites his lip at the spark of pain until he gets used to the stretch. Price pulls his fingers out and then leans in and spits. Warm saliva runs down Ghost’s crack and Price pushes it inside Ghost as he adds a third finger. He saws in and out of Ghost a few times and it's barely starting to feel like less of a stretch when Price pulls out again.
Price pulls away from Ghost and spits, though not on Ghost. Ghost hears more slick sounds of a hand jerking over flesh.
Price settles over him again and the heat of his body makes a shiver wrack through Ghost. Price lines himself up and Ghost is nowhere near stretched enough. Price is big, even for an alpha, iIf he fucks him now, like this, Ghost isn't sure he won't split open.
“Price—” Ghost starts but cuts off on a gasp as Price starts pushing in. He’s big—he’s too fucking big—precum and saliva will never be enough to ease his way in.
He slides in slow and Ghost knows it’s not for his benefit, it’s so Price can makes sure that Ghost feels every fucking inch. Price stops before sheathing himself fully, right where his cock starts to flare wider at the base. Then he digs his fingers into the meat of Ghost’s hips and shoves all the way in with one last brutal thrust.
“Fuck!” Ghost shouts as the breath is punched out of him. Price’s knot—even unswollen—is noticeably thicker, stretching him taught in a way Ghost isn’t sure hasn’t actually drawn blood.
“Fuck,” Price echoes above him, baritone gone even huskier, “that’s good. You’re always so fucking tight for me.”
As if Ghost is doing it on purpose for Price, like Price didn't just shove his fucking cock in with minimal prep, spit, precum, and now probably blood as the only lube. Like he isn't going to eventually shove his swollen knot in just as carelessly, regardless of whether Ghost's body can take it or not. The same way Ghost would if he were the one plowing Price's ass right now.
“Sod off,” Ghost spits between grit teeth, “you bloody fucking—ughhh.”
The curse peters off into a moan as Price pulls out and fucks back in just as rough. Ghost fists the comforter until his knuckles are white, bites into it until his fangs tear through the cloth. There's alarm bells tripping in his head, crossed wires that are incandescent with pain and pleasure both.
Ghost bucks back as hard as he can on the next thrust and he's not sure if it's because he wants more or because his body is reacting to the goddamn predator rearranging his insides.
“Yeah, that's right,” Price says as he peels away from Ghost's back, wraps a hand around the back of Ghost's neck, and starts fucking him.
Price fucks like he does everything else, with single minded determination.
It’s usually a toss up to how that determination will play out in the bedroom, sometimes it’s to wring all the pleasure he can out of Ghost and have him a drooling mess under him, sometimes it’s to use Ghost's body like a sentient fleshlight, nothing but a hole to fuck and get off.
This is definitely one of the latter.
Price fucks him until the pain and pleasure start to tip over into just pleasure, until Ghost's grit teeth and the drool soaked comforter between them aren't enough to block the noises Price is forcing out of him.
It's all starting to coil tight in Ghost's stomach, Price’s punishing pace and the barely there friction at his cock trapped between his belly and the sheets—but it's not enough. Ghost wants more, he wants what he'd followed Price into the room knowing he'd get.
“Is that all you got, old man,” Ghost says unevenly, “I'm getting bored down here. What's the matter, can't pop a knot anymore in your old age?”
Price pauses midthrust.
“Oh, you're going to regret that, Simon.”
Price pulls out, but only long enough to get Ghost on all fours, then he finally starts fucking Ghost hard enough that the headboard is probably going to leave a dent in the plaster.
“Shit—”
Yes, this is what Ghost wanted. He wants all that terrifying alpha power in Price's body aimed at him and nowhere else.
Ghost reaches behind and claws a hand into Price's sweaty thigh, urging him on and there—
Price's knot is starting to swell.
Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck, Ghost chants in his mind. His instincts are screaming at him, his inner alpha bucking violently at the thought of letting another alpha knot him.
The coil in his gut—lust and aggression and so much fucking pleasure—is getting tighter and tighter in anticipation of snapping.
Ghost knows that Price must be able to smell it in the air because he glues himself to Ghost's back.
“Almost there,” Price murmurs into Ghost's neck, right over the thin skin of his scarred scent gland. The rasp of his fucking muttonchops is lighting him up inside. Price will smell him on his beard with every inhale for the rest of the day.
Price’s knot swells bigger.
Ghost isn’t made for this, his body isn’t made for this, he’s not supposed to take a knot, let alone a knot like Price’s. The knot of the alpha who leads the 141? It feels like it’s splitting Ghost apart. It’s not even all the way swelled.
Price gets his arms around Ghost’s chest and heaves all 115 kilos of Ghost up on just his knees, not even breaking his rhythm as he does.
The shift in position changes the angle of Price’s thrust, he's nailing that spot inside Ghost that drag out the most humiliating of sounds. Ghost gets a hand around his own cock and starts to strip himself mercilessly.
“I'm going to knot you, Simon,” Price groans. He’s starting to lose his rhythm, starting to barely pull out as he pistons into him faster and faster. “Going to pump so much cum into you that you can taste me.”
“Then come on old man,” Ghost retorts, “fucking give it to me.”
“Fuck,” Price curses, voice going throaty and ragged, “Simon.”
He thrusts in one last time, his knot pops in, swells fully, and he paints Ghost’s insides with wave after wave of cum. Ghost’s eyes roll into the back of his head, he grips his own knot, just on the verge of too much, too painful, and comes too.
White streaks across the sheets as Ghost squeezes his knot rhythmically, milks it like he imagines an omega would, like he knows he’s milking Price’s own knot. Price’s hand closes over Ghost’s fist, just a tad too rough. Ghost grunts as he shoots another rope of cum.
“You imagining it’s someone else on this knot, Simon?” Price whispers throatily in his ear. “Sweet omega cunt milking you dry?”
More white splatters onto the bedsheets, Ghost won’t be surprised if it soaks into the fucking mattress.
“Which one of our sergeants is it, then?” Price asks.
“Fucking Christ—Price.”
“Is it Gaz? Loyal Gaz who’d run into a burning building if we asked him to? Or is it Soap? Who looks at you like the sun shines out of your ass?”
The words sear heat through Ghost’s core and he clenches on Price’s knot in retaliation. He relishes how it makes Price gasp, how it makes him rest his sweaty temple to Ghost’s shoulder and grind in even deeper. Pain flares up at the base of Ghost’s spine that immediately fizzles out into more pleasure.
“I don’t know old man,” Ghost bites back, “who are you imagining?”
“Both.” Price says in a growl. “All of you. My entire pack warming my bed, like they should be. Where you all belong.”
The last word is snarled into Ghost’s neck, the graze of Price’s distended fangs on his mating gland making Ghost whimper. He knows what's coming.
Another guttural growl from Price and then there’s teeth sinking into his gland, re-opening the thick jagged scar—too many times reopened, not the right designation to heal right, even if Price left it alone long enough to.
Ghost shoots a hand up, digging into Price’s short hair, holding on tight enough that it has to be painful. It jostles Price’s teeth at his flesh, gets another snarl from him that Ghost can feel vibrate into his bloodstream.
Another flood of cum is pumped into Ghost, more of it dripping warm down his thighs.
“They’d look good wouldn’t they Simon,” Price says as he unlatches from Ghost's neck. Ghost can feel his own blood drip warm down to his shoulder. “Knocked up with our kids.”
“Fuck,” Ghost curses as he tightens around his knot, imaging it pumping his sergeants full, imagining them fat with their seed and then fat with their kids when it takes.
“Our lethal little omegas,” Price continues, “they’d make a fierce fucking litter between them, wouldn’t they?”
“Yes,” Ghost answers. He jerks when Price digs his teeth into the fresh bite again. “Yes!” he exclaims. “Ours—both of them—fucking ours.”
Price growls into the bite and sets Ghost's blood to boil.
***
Sweat cools on Ghost and Price's bodies as they sit side by side against the now much looser headboard. Price had finally taken his clothes off once his knot had deflated, cargos all but ruined with how much cum had leaked out of Ghost's body while they’d stayed knotted.
They catch their breath and Ghost takes the moment of calm to eye the badly scarred bite at Price's left shoulder. It matches the one at Ghost's neck, though it's even more rough and jagged. Like every good dog, Ghost liked to tear and shake when he bit into his prey.
Price doesn't have a convenient mask to hide a bitten mating gland behind, nor does he have a reputation that allows him to answer any questions about it—on the rare ocassion that Ghost lifts the mask to eat or drink around others—with the word torture and have people beleive it. He has plenty of other scars to corroborate his story, and how else would an alpha like Ghost end up with a clearly non-omega bite at his gland.
Ghost's fangs ache briefly with his own need to bite, and oh he'll be reopening Price’s scar too before the night is done—preferably while he's knot deep in his ass—but there's also something else they need to talk about before the night is done.
Price produces a case of cigars and lights one. Ghost waits until the smoke has Price leaning languidly against him before he speaks.
“They’re mated,” Ghost says, as if they both don’t know that already, as if it wasn't a requirement for omegas to be able to join the military in the first place. They had to be mated, otherwise they were a liability, a distraction to their own team or a weakness for enemies to exploit.
It was a rule Ghost had never paid too much attention to, not even when Price had first announced they'd be getting two new members and handed their files to Ghost. He’d opened up the folders and only raised a brow when he'd seen OMEGA stamped in bright red letters next to the sergeants names.
Ghost hadn’t questioned Price's decision though, he trusted Price's judgement, and he’d been proven right when Soap and Gaz had finally joined up.
Their omegas were feral things in their own right and a perfect addition to the 141. Soap lived for the kill. His eyes lit up whenever his bombs blew their enemies to pieces and Ghost had seen him lick his lips often enough watching Ghost knife somebody for it to be a coincidence. Completely contrary, Gaz’s borderline indifference to killing tugged at different parts of Ghost and a very specific part of Price. Price could order him to kill anyone and Gaz would do it without question, simply because Price had been the one to ask.
Price inhales another deep lungful. Smoke spills from his mouth as he talks.
“You think those alpha cucks waiting at home deserve our sergeants?”
No. No they didn’t. And from what little of their mates Ghost has heard Soap and Gaz discussing during downtime, they didn't hold them in high regard either. They'd both made it quite clear that they'd only mated so they could enlist.
And if Price is talking about he and Ghost's unexpected attraction, their absolute fucking craving for their sergeants when other omegas have never so much as turned their heads—then it has to be for a reason.
Price doesn't do anything without a reason.
Ghost doesn't answer Price's question as he turns and digs through the side table for the pack of smokes he always leaves here. He finds the box, pulls one out, brings it to his mouth, and leans over to Price expectantly.
Price takes his lighter and flicks a flame on. This close, Price's blue eyes look especially frigid with dancing fire reflected in them. It’s moments like these that remind Ghost that Price is a deeply fucked up man who stops at nothing to get what he wants. It’s why the military gives him so much leeway with the taskforce. Turn a blind-eye to the methods, reap the results.
Ghost leans in further to light his cigarette and more of Price’s cum leaks out of him as he shifts.
“No,” Ghost finally answers, closes his lips around the stick, and breathes in his first lungful of smoke. He sits back, lets the nicotine settle in his lungs, and turns to Price. His words carry in the cloud he blows at him. “I don't.”
Price snaps his lighter shut, approval in his eyes.
“Remember the drug operation we raided a few months ago?”
Ghost hums an affirmative.
“They were a standard operation—standard drugs for standard drug trade,” Price explains as he tosses the lighter onto the bed and leans back against the headboard. “We were called to intervene because Laswell received intel that they were beginning to expand into less standard drugs. We wanted to nip it in the bud.
“We confiscated their stash when we raided and among it we found what they’d started to expand into.” Price takes another inhale of his cigar, the cherry burns a deep orange. “Synthetic omega heat inducer.”
Ghost pauses with his cigarette halfway to his mouth.
Any type of underground inducers, whether for heats or ruts, were very bad news. No wonder the 141 had been called in.
The way Price is talking about them, Ghost is starting to get an idea of where this is going.
“We handed most of the haul over to be destroyed,” Price continues, “but I kept some of the inducers. I had a feeling they might come in handy in the future.”
Ghost doesn’t say anything, just takes his aborted drag.
He does know where this is going and his cock twitches as if it could get hard again this fast outside of a rut…or a heat.
“We have another mission coming up,” Price says, “just us and the sergeants. Mostly recon, though we’ll be infiltrating a weapon dealer’s warehouse in the arse middle of nowhere, towards the end.” Price pauses. “There’s no telling what type of contraband a weapons dealer might be hiding, don’t you think Simon? Could be biological weaponry, and there's just no way to predict accidental detonation.”
Price's nose flares and Ghost knows he's smelling Ghost's answer in the scent of his rising arousal.
Ghost takes another huff and lets the smoke slip out of his mouth and between the teeth he bares in a predator's slow smile.
“No telling at all.”