Chapter Text
It's a pleasantly warm spring morning when Simon meets his new neighbor.
The sun is out. The birds are chirping. Simon’s sitting on his patio in his backyard, reading the community news page and drinking his tea– as he's done every weekend morning for the last ten years when… someone calls out to him.
“Hey there.”
It's innocent enough. No jeering. No foul language or yelling. The voice demanding his audience isn't even all that unpleasant.
But in all his years of living in this house, Simon has never had a voice thrown at him from over the fence– like a carelessly tossed newspaper on some middle schooler’s summer paper route.
Simon knows he's scowling as he quickly finds the source of the disturbance. He can feel his mouth tugging down into a frown and his eyes pinch into a glare behind his transitions as he locates a figure to his left, perched up on the second floor of the previously unoccupied McMansion next door.
It's a young man, probably barely pushing 25. He's leaning over the edge of the balcony Simon assumes must extend from his bedroom– given he’s dressed in nothing but an open lounge robe and a pair of tight-fitting boxer briefs while he so uncouthly calls for Simon’s attention. He's got a green bottle of champagne in one hand, and a cigarette in the other, legs crossed at the ankle as he leers over the railing.
Simon feels irritation prickle at his consciousness.
“Can I help you?” He asks, not bothering to hide the cut of annoyance that bleeds into his tone. It is one thing to be called out to when he is in his front yard- a public enough space all things considered. But while he is relaxing in the privacy of his garden?
Well, Simon takes issue with that.
He's got on his comfy slippers, and his silk pyjamas under the cashmere robe he invested in when he had first gotten his promotion to administration. He has his tea and his lemon scone beside him on the glass table that throws rippled refractions of light across the stone beneath it. And his garden, something he spent years cultivating into perfection, is his backdrop to what is supposed to be his escape to serenity.
He’s not naked by any stretch of the means. Nor is he doing anything that could be considered inappropriate. And yet he feels like he's just been stripped bare with how shameless the boy continues to watch him from his crow’s nest, ignoring that silent unspoken rule to mind his own and not stare if his neighbor is out and enjoying his peace.
The man (who has a stupid haircut, from what Ghost notices the longer he glares at him) smiles wide. Fuckin’ perks up- like Simon giving him the time of day means something to him.
“Name’s John,” he announces, fucking preening if the way his shoulders do a little wag from side to side means anything, like a lion puffing up his mane. And before Simon’s annoyance with the act can boil over into actual anger, he adds: “Sorry for disturbing ye, but… ach, well, Ah couldn't help myself.”
“Yer a bonnie omega, ye are. Ah just had to talk to try and talk ta ye.”
…
….
Oh .
Simon stares at his neighbor– John – with poorly disguised shock.
Of all the things he had been bracing for, being flirted with wasn't on the agenda. And so boldly, too.
Simon isn't blind. He's aware he’s aged well for a man who’s done more active tours than anyone should and survived cartel torture. For whatever reason, his maker had him take after his mother more than his father, sparring him from the ugly mug he remembers his old man sporting before he finally kicked the bucket. He's all angular, sharp features, age lines only pronounced where he smiles and between his brows, cemented in place from decades in the service squinting behind a sniper scope. His scarring is minimal, just noticeable enough to make him mysterious, smoothed over from the expensive spa treatments he had dumped the money into doing- an investment he's glad for since it means he can walk around without covering himself up or drawing unnecessary attention. He’s kept himself fit, even though he sits behind a desk all day– waist still trim, muscles still toned.
So, no, Simon doesn't think he's unattractive. The amount of flirting he has to endure whenever he goes out says as much.
But to have his neighbor, whom he had just met, assume his gender and sexuality? That's where he's a bit surprised.
No. A lot surprised.
This neighborhood is conservative, as all upper-middle-class neighborhoods tend to be. Full of “traditionalist” people who think omegas should be dainty, pretty women and men should be big, strapping alphas. And if you couldn't fit these parameters, then you at least should be straight. Anything less than that is disdainful, and, on the wrong night, with the wrong crowd, could lead to trouble.
(Simon supposes his “support our veterans” sticker in the bottom corner of his front door window, and the military fatigues he still wears to work every day, are the only reason why he hasn't been given more scrutiny. He's pretty sure all his neighbors think he’s an alpha just on looks alone, too scared to approach and scent his real gender since he never goes to any of the community gatherings or takes the effort to cast more than a halfhearted wave to anyone that dares try to toss him a salutation.)
So, yes, he is gay, and an omega, but considering he’s not brandishing a sign that proudly proclaims he is a poof with a cunt, he's just not sure where this young pup got the idea to assume such details. Or why he thought Simon would reciprocate , given the clear social dynamic of their surroundings that say he should proceed with caution.
Simon lets his tablet rest in his lap and takes his glasses off, needing to look at this boy without anything obstructing the sheer audacity he's making Simon deal with.
“And how do you know that statement won't get you a sexual harassment charge?” He doesn't confirm nor deny. Just blatantly asks where the hell this kid is getting his balls from.
John’s grin sharpens, clear as day despite the distance between them.
“So ye aren’t denying’ that yer pretty?” he all but purrs, leaning harder on the railing.
He puffs at his cigarette, the one Simon nearly forgot he was holding, licking his chops once he's filled his lungs and exhales smoke through his nose. Simon can feel the way his eyes rake over his form as he nurses his vice– like he somehow got permission to ogle now that the omega is engaging with him.
Simon feels his lip curl in response; a warning flash of fang sent the boy's way.
He's close to being too bold.
Simon’s dealt with John's type more than he would like to admit. The military was (and still is) full of alphas who thought they were the Maker’s gift to earth, strutting around cock first and brandishing an attitude a mile high. They were oo proud to admit when they were wrong and too short-tempered to be worth shit in the long run. Those of ‘em who didn't end up dead acting stupid either got promotions they didn't deserve or were discharged (more often than not dishonorably ) and left to wreak havoc on the civilian populace.
Simon is not sure which type John falls into, or if he even is an alpha, but his peacocking grates on his nerves nonetheless. Has his omega letting out a disinterested growl before turning its nose up like John is spoiled milk it had the misfortune of sniffing.
He's not going to settle for just any stray that sniffs him out. And John-boy here was starting to piss him off with his brazen assuredness that Simon would let something young, dumb, and full of cum mount him and send him through any sort of emotional tailspin on the way down.
John chuffs at him in recognition of his display, but… doesn't apologize. In fact, his chuff sounds smug, further chafing Ghost’s mood.
Simon is positive the man knows he’s not making the best first impression (the way hes grinning it just too telling). However, that doesn't seem to stop John from still trying to press the conversation, even as it starts to go up in flames. If anything, the sour tones embolden him, Simon's irritation an attractant instead of a deterrent.
“What's your name, gorgeous?” John schmoozes, Scottish accent thick on his words as he lets a bit of a growl tease his tone. He’s practically hanging over the railing now, thick arms holding himself up as he leans forward, the sleeves of his robe bulging with the muscles filling them.
And, despite his growing disgruntlement, Simon can't help but clock the strength this younger stud oozes. He's not nearly as big as Simon, the omega's sure, but the pup is definitely padded. Top heavy in a way that screams alpha, all his power in his arms, shoulders and broad chest. All rimmed together with a waist fit enough to pump his hips for hours .
More and more boxes are ticking towards that big A, Simon thinks as he denies the other a response. He's not completely turned off. No, no… he's somewhere in the middle. He's not going to ask for a sample, but there's no harm in looking at a prime cut of beef while he can.
(Simon has always liked his men built to kill. Something about his partner being able to fold him in half was instinctually appealing.)
He's still weighing the option of possibly gracing the younger with his moniker, just to watch him fumble over the absurdity of being told his name is Ghost when…
Well, when John opens his mouth again and ineloquently sticks his foot right in it.
John’s tongue teases a fang as he says, with too much something that it sets Simon's teeth on edge– “Bet it's just as bonnie as ye are under all that silk.”
...
....
Right.
Simon scoffs. Curls his lip again. Intrigue gets replaced with cold aggression.
Oh. Definitely an alpha. And definitely not one he's going to entertain a moment longer.
“I'm twice your age, pup.” Simon snaps in a gravelly bark, those scowl lines deepening as this stranger oversteps for the last time.
John startles to attention, spine snapping straight at the aggression. Simon can see how wide his eyes are from his patio.
(The boy’s actually surprised his cheap, sleazy attempts backfired on an Omega with life experience and assets.)
He spits as he continues, “I'm not some easy, insipid conquest.”
John looks properly cowed, baby blues still wide and eyebrows climbing into his hairline. He gapes around his tongue for a moment before actually looking apologetic. And then he bewilders Simon when he looks accusingly at the champagne bottle in his hand- as though the damn thing had inserted itself up his ass and made him talk like a hooker hooter.
Simon scoffs again, rolls his eyes and puts his glasses back on. Picks up his tablet as he decides he's done entertaining… this .
“And,” oh, he almost forgets, “you don't need to know my name, Johnathan .” Simon bears his teeth in a facsimile smile, “But I will remember yours.”
It's an empty threat. He doesn't bother to ever attend the HOA meetings where info like that would amount to anything. No one will know of this blunder besides them– but Simon still enjoys the way it makes the alpha look properly uncomfortable. And, really, his name isn't anyone’s business but his own. Why, his neighbors on the opposite side only knew his last name because of the few times their post had been misdelivered over the years. They certainly didn't know his first name, and Simon had been living next to them for over a decade!
It would be a cold day in hell before he spilled important information to a stranger, that military paranoia one of the few things he couldn't shake.
He's scrolling to find his place, John the one scoffing now as he's disregarded for a screen. Simon sees him shuffle in place on the balcony out of his peripheral vision.
“...Not very neighborly ta not introduce yerself back,” John gripes next, but it's weak and lacks vitriol.
He’s petulant instead of enraged– put out at being put in his place like his son used to get when he got caught in the cookie jar, Simon notes.
He truly is just a puppy if he gets whiny any time an omega dismisses him.
Suddenly, the anger is dissipating. The balloon pops where it was rising in his chest and behind his fangs, Simon huffing out an incredulous laugh.
Young people. Ugh, he sounds like a boomer, but he gets it now.
Simon flaps a hand in his direction with a dismissive flick of his wrist, but doesn’t look up. He might start laughing at the poor boy if he has to see him puffing his cheeks out. “You’ll live,” is all he says, hiding his smirk behind the back of his hand.
He resumes his reading.
John hovers for a bit. Simon can practically hear the gears in his head churning from across the way, but, to his credit, the alpha doesn't try to re-engage him. He just… pouts, for a lack of a better word, lingering on his balcony until, eventually, he disappears back into his home, the sound of the sliding door opening and closing alerting Simon to his departure.
____
John is shoving a hand in his underwear so fast once he's back in his room that it's nothing but a tanned blur.
He needs to cum right now.
Right.
Fucking.
Now.
He fists his cock tightly and nearly blacks out from the shock of ecstasy that seizes his spine. Once he has control of his nervous system again he gathers the wetness that pulses from the tip and bites his own hand to stifle his moan as he starts furiously stroking.
Fuck.
He's never been talked to like that, he pants inside his own head, his eyes rolling back into his skull as he replays his omega neighbor scolding him. Beautiful prick may as well have just grabbed John by the knot and shook him around with how chastised John had felt being rejected by him. How the bite and snap of an older bitch made him want to prove him wrong and beg for the privilege to put his young, virile nuts to good use.
(In this moment, John would happily give him a proper life of never having to work again in exchange for giving John the gift of fathering a few dozen pups.)
As far as he can remember, he has always been the Golden Child. The apple of his parent's eyes and the perfect student and son. Subsequently, he was given a lot of freedom as reward- his parents liberal with their trust as long as John didn't betray it.
He didn't know the word no- he always got what he wanted. From toys to cars to pretty, tittering omegas who were all too happy to warm his knot, he never had someone tell him he couldnt have something. John “Soap” Mactavish wasn't friends with dejection. Didn’t know him, actually.
So maybe that's why it's such a shock to his system. He had fully expected his neighbor– fuck, he didn't know his name– to fall for his ruse. John had snagged a few older dams from their impotent mates or cuck husbands over the years, and the chase had never needed to extend longer than a few minutes of forward, raunchy flirting to secure a willing cunt to fill. He had been feeling the urge to sow his wild oats for a few days now (stressed from the move, no doubt), and the pretty blonde thing next door had looked like the perfect remedy to his ailment.
But something in John had switched– gone completely belly up– when he’d been snapped at.
His brain shut down, his wires crossed.
Suddenly, John wanted to bring this stranger flowers and beg for forgiveness. To bring him meat still bloody on the bone and all the glittering jewelry he could find. John wanted a nest with that big, brawny omega in it, naked and pupped full and all John’s for the taking.
John groans again, bucks his hips up into his fist. His dick dribbles over his hand like a leaky faucet, easing the slide of his hand.
Fuck– he needs to know who he is. What his name is. If he has a mate–
Oh, fuck, what does he care? Mate or no, John has to have that omega. Under him, preferably, but any position will do. As long as John can be inside him–
John needs him spread out on his bed like yesterday, dick throbbing in his grip as he imagines crawling between thick milky thighs towards something no doubt puffy and pink and slicker than grease.
John is gonna pin the man down, have him flat on his back so John can watch him cum as he breeds him. He wants to see the face of the man who’s made him suddenly want his seed to catch, watch the ecstasy smooth out his features and turn him pink and dripping and sugar-sweet.
The pleasure building in his gut snatches his spine and sends him doubling over. John’s wrist keeps its brutal fast pace, contrasting sharply with the slow lovemaking he's picturing.
And yeah, that's what he wants. He's desperate to cum right now, fuckin’ gaggin' for it, but if his fantasy were real he’d make his bitch come on his cock slow, take him over the edge and tie them together while he whispers filth into his ear and those ashy blonde curls–
He’s cumming the next second. John’s gasping like he's taken buckshot to the chest, heart stuttering the same time his knot pops over his fist and he's shooting ropes across his bedroom floor.
The Alpha cums so hard he’s sure he blacks out for a second, blinking his eyes open to the ceiling and realizing that at some point he had jackknifed up with his throat to the heavens while he chased the rapture unfolding in his fantasy.
He shoots his soul onto the Persian rug five more times. John sucks in another trembling breath as the tsunami waves of pleasure crashing down on him dull down to gentle ripples. He pauses for a second just to get his bearings before coming to terms with the fact that he's gonna have to let his knot go.
The alpha breathes through his nose to stifle a whimper as he reluctantly lets up the pressure behind his knot. Soon as he's free, his hands are shaking in anticipation of the dull ache that he knows will settle low in his groin.
Predictably, after a few seconds, the pinch grips him at the base of his dick and drops out his balls, the pain forcing one last futile spurt from the flared head of his cock. It wasn't a sharp, unbearable pain, but Soap still whined in discomfort anyway, body throbbing from a wasted opportunity to seed and hips shying back like doing so would save him.
Fuuuck… knotting dry always ached like a bitch. John would have much preferred a certain wet hole to tie himself deep into. Keep it plugged full until he made himself a daddy...
He snorts, angry like a bull. John shuffles over and braces himself against the doorframe to his ensuite to wait, glaring at his reflection in the mirror as his dick twitches between his legs. His orgasm was ruined and left him half-satisfied. Not full to bursting, but nowhere near empty enough to be able to endure for long. He could already feel the way his balls were fattening back up, possessed by primal desire to bend someone over and fuckbreedclaim.
Christ. The omega did a number on him. Hes never felt this restrained before, and its all coiling under his skin while he's dick outand knot popped!
John lets his head hang, shakes it slow while his hands form into fists against the doorframe. His dick dribbles again as his brain latches onto his frustration and floods his consciousness with more images of the snappy delight next door. John is steadily dripping not long after, pearls of cum stretching to the floor between his feet. The alpha is so lost in thought over the way his world has just tilted sideways he doesn't realize he's just panting and drooling on himself while he simps over his neighbor. Probably wouldn't even care if he did- not with how brown eyes and blonde curls both lull him and tease him in equal measure.
He doesn't process the amount of whipped he is until another grueling 45 minutes passes, when his knot finally lets up and all the blood can finally go back to his brain.