Archive of Our Own ^beta

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.

Chapter Text

Simon doesn't see John again until a few days later.

And, honestly? He would've preferred if he hadn’t.

It’s Wednesday. There’s 10 minutes to lunch and Simon has been thinking about the steak he packed for longer than he would like to admit. His eyes are dry from staring at his computer for the last 5 hours, and to top it all off there's a crick in the small of his back that has him arching funny in his seat to compensate.

(Heavy is the ass of being put together. Or something like that.)

He's trying not to watch the clock over the tops of his glasses, aware he would only be torturing himself further by doing so, but he’s glad for it when he notices his boss rounding the corner.

The man makes eye contact with Simon as soon as he's in frame, fixing him with a look across a sea of cubicles that tells him he can’t get away with being snippy… and that he's probably going to miss some portion of his lunch.

Fuck. It's trouble then.

(Maybe that email to Libby in records had been a bit more blunt than he first thought.)

Simon sits up straighter, but otherwise remains fixed in place, not sure if said boss is going to bark at him across the way after that pointed glare. He’s also not sure if he would be able to resist snapping into a proper salute if he did, memories from his time back in basic hitting him like Vietnam flashbacks.

Thankfully there's no yelling (small mercies), but Simon is further baffled when he sees the alpha turn to someone hidden around the corner and smile in a way that Simon immediately clocks as Claude being… a kiss ass.

Simon updates his danger readings.

Possible brass. 

Or… it's a donation . 

Simon shudders with the thought. One is definitely worse than the other, but from this far away he can't tell if Claude is genuinely stressed or just talking through his teeth to avoid snapping. 

If it’s some random higher-up, he might be able to fake a phone call and duck out of the room. Make it look and sound important enough and no one will question his departure. If it’s a donation… well, he's not going to be able to go anywhere. Civilians are incredibly uptight about getting their recognition. Simon can handle the boneheaded pissing contest of a General or Commander stomping about the space, but the average person who is just used to money getting them subservience is a monster he’s not sure he will ever truly learn to handle without his blood pressure rising at the same time.

He doesn't try to pray for one over the other and doesn't have to stew in anticipation for long. Some more talking happens and then Claude is gesturing in Simon’s direction the next second, so he’s forced to sit there as his supervisor brings his misfortune over and makes it a group project–

Wait.

Was that his neighbor ?

The omega can only blink in stunned surprise as he locks eyes with a familiar set of baby blues, John walking around the corner with his chin held high and dressed head to toe in something smart and ridiculously expensive. That cocky grin from the balcony is quick to follow, finding a home on that young, handsome face the moment their eyes meet.

“I must be seeing things,” Simon mutters to himself as John stalks over. His gaze burns like a brand, and Simon resists the urge to bristle in defense.

Oh. Fuck me sideways , is what he thinks next.

They may have only met once some 5 days ago, but Simon clocks that familiar swag and attitude and, this time, he can tell it's different.  

Somehow, the pup is in his element, and Simon is suddenly suspicious about how this next interaction will go for himself as he watches the pair of alphas make their way over.

(At least he knows what the danger is now.)

“Simon,” Claude says, much too chipper, as he and John come to rest at his desk, “this is Mr. MacTavish. Mr. Mactavish, this is Simon Riley.”

Simon wants to snap his teeth at his boss for just offering his name to a veritable stranger, but he's aware that the only reason he's even being introduced is because John must've done something to elicit this form of pandering. Claude is an older alpha like Simon, with maybe a few years on the omega if the peppering of gray hairs on his temples tell a story. He’s not mean, but he is stoic, and commands a space without having to raise his voice to be heard. His employees stay in line under his firm leadership, and he pays them respect in turn with vacation requests approved, wages increased as they are earned, and weekly emails to commend those who have worked hard around the office.

Simon has been working with him ever since he retired from active service, and the two maintain a relationship Simon can only describe as a work “marriage” with the amount of bickering they do. That being said, he knows Claude well enough to know that the man wouldn't go out of his way to track him down unless he was being forced too out of some corporate obligation. Which makes this whole situation even more grating.

A warning memo would've been nice, is all he's saying.

John smiles at him in a way that he can only read as predatory as he looks Simon over, extending a hand towards him after he’s had his fill.

(Ghost notices his eyes linger on his legs and the leather boots laced up high on his shins.)

“Pleasure tah meet ye, Simon ,” John purrs, lips cocked into that smirk that just dares Ghost to reject his advances once more. It makes Simon want to sneer, the familiar tingle of upset thrumming under his skin.

He almost gives in to the urge when, suddenly, it clicks . 

John’s getting off on this.

No.

John planned this.

The shock of it quells his ire, switches to something more wary. He doesn't know how. Doesn't know why. But Simon remembers clearly telling the runt off last weekend. Remembers ignoring him, refusing to tell him his name and scolding his flirting once he figured out John’s game. Now he's here, making his boss dip his head in begrudging respect and forcing Simon himself into a social corner he can't get out of without coming off as rude in front of his superior and hurting just himself in the long run.

Its underhanded and petty– beyond creepy too since Simon is now wondering how John found out where he works. But when he shakes the other’s hand after another moment of stunned hesitation, Simon doesn't detect anything malicious .

Just… hungry, if you made him choose the closest adjective, anyway. Like a hound catching the whiff of a fox’s scent at the start of the hunt.

He's just not sure he enjoys being the one that’s hunted.

“...It is nice to meet you as well, Mr. MacTavish,” Simon replies, voice carefully professional.

It's almost alarming how he watches John’s pupils blow in real time as he addresses the younger alpha. Despite clearly having come here to get back at him for his comments from the weekend, the alpha’s expression shifts into something like longing and lust as he's spoken to. Which, isn't that a mindfuck? Simons is actually wondering if the lad is a bit unstable with how his body language is being thrown all over the place.

Simon tilts his head at John. Partially to test him and partially just because he is just fucking confused , and doesn't miss how the other immediately darts his attention to the slip of skin on his throat that's not hidden by his shirt collar. 

Hones in on it like a heat-seeking missile, as though the sight of his bare throat is something scandalous .

In the background, Simon’s omega is preening under the absurdity of this situation. It should be rankled and upset by the invasion of privacy, but it's like his omega doesn't care, Simon unable to shake the feelings of impressed and pleased that bubble up as he's confronted by the lengths this young stud is apparently willing to go to talk to him.

John squeezes his hand in a final puzzling move. Starts to pull it towards him, like he might press his lips to the backs of Simon’s knuckles in a gesture that’s painfully old school, but aborts the motion before it can get too far as he seems to realize their handshake has gone on for longer than necessary.

“Just Johnny is fine,” he hums as he lets go of Simon’s hand.

Claude raises a brow at the nickname, and probably the strange shift the air has taken, but Simon misses it because he is once again flabbergasted by John’s gall. 

He can't say the words that come to mind since he is at work and a professional , but John seems to know that (was likely counting on it too) because his smile turns just a fraction more smug while he continues to stare at Simon like he's a treat to be devoured.

His boss clears his throat, and Simon feels his hand come to rest on his shoulder. John’s eyes flick to it.

“Simon is our head of Human Resources here, Mr. MacTavish,” Claude proudly boasts, squeezing Simon’s shoulder fondly as he does. “He has been spearheading our attempts to get more funding for our mental health counseling services.”

Simon quickly clarifies. “Namely making them more accessible to those in active service as well as their families,” he explains. John perks up.

“Oh? Do ye have a background in psychology?” He sounds sincere as he asks.

Simon shakes his head. He's very well adjusted, considering everything he's been through, but he by no means should be in control of shaping someone’s mental health. There are still days where he struggles, and he is working to make those days easier come the future. But while he doesn't want to have a direct hand in anyone's healing journey, the whole topic is something he holds dear for a multitude of reasons. So he doesn't ignore John's question- instead, answering it truthfully.

“No. But as a veteran I understand the complex emotions active service can put on the brain,” he says. “I want to help others who suffer from conditions like PTSD and depression. Or at least, make getting help easy, affordable, and judgement free. Therapy helped me immensely when I was in the service.”

John is nodding along. His expression has smoothed into something serious to match Simon’s, as though he actually gives a shit about what the people in the force go through. A snide part of himself wants to call John out and say he’s just feigning interest. But another part, one that seems to be more and more bipolar around his new neighbor, likes the way John is hanging off his every word like it's gospel.

“Mah dad was in the special forces,” John shares after a pause like he was making sure Simon was done before speaking. “Captain and all that. He dinnae talk much about what went on up here,” he gestures to his temple, “but there were days when he looked… distant.”

The alpha shrugged his shoulders after, picking his stance back up and sticking his hands into his trouser pockets. “He is happily retired now. Him and mah mom spend summers in Acapulco and winters wherever else the wind decides to take them. He always makes sure tah send his shrink a card for the holidays though.”

He smiles at Simon when he's finished, and the omega is once again conflicted. John's scent is honest, having turned a bit smokey and burnt when he brought up his dad. Simon knows he's being truthful with that fact in mind, but the scent’s gone a bit lighter now, a bit hopeful, like he's optimistic Simon will see his efforts and reward him. 

It's also very distracting. The office is a scent-neutral zone, and John is filling it with the tempting aroma of coffee and musk and something crisp like the alpine air Simon’s only smelled during ops in remote northern areas.

(He ignores the way his omega chuffs in delight to the comparison.)

“John mentioned he had a personal tie to the military when he came in,” Claude acknowledges, reminding Simon that he’s there. He leans in closer, lowering his voice but accentuating his next words very carefully. “He’s given us a hefty donation to see to it we make our goals a reality. I’ve also invited him to the gala next weekend as a thank you.”

Ah.

Simon has to fight the urge to roll his eyes.

The gala has never been anything more than an event crafted to stroke the brass and donor's egos. Why, besides the sizable dent it makes in the account's wallet every year, it holds no worthy reason to be brought up. The party is held on an estate in the middle of nowhere every summer, with enough liquor and food to feed the entire base and then some. There's live music, artful flower arrangements, and ice sculptures carved in real time for entertainment. There's even a hedge maze where at least two to three drunks get lost every year and they need to send fire in to find them. 

Simon's only been once and once was enough. Though the food and drink were phenomenal, they were nowhere near good enough to put up with five plus hours of brown-nosing while strapped in his Sunday best, thank you.

“The gala is a lovely event,” he says instead of what he really wants to. Claude sagely nods in response– like he isn't seeing through Simon’s bullshit like its cling film. 

John’s expression shifts subtly as he watches the two of them. Eyes narrowed and darting once again to the meaty paw of Claude's hand on his shoulder.

“So Ah’ll be seeing you there?” He asks. He gestures to Simon– and Simon only. “Ah really would like to hear more about yer plans. We can see if what Ah donated is enough then, or if ye’ll need more.”

Good lord.

Once again, the alpha is just taking the neat little box Simon has in his head for how normal interactions should go and literally chucking it into a dumpster. It’s like he has no shame. Or sense! His boss is literally right here and they are in his workplace and John is just begging for attention like a horny teenager– all but asking him to prom, it feels like.

“I don’t–”

“Of course he will be there,” Claude interrupts, squeezing Simon’s shoulder as he smiles at John. Simon snaps his head to look at him, but the other man ignores him completely in favor of convincing their new walking cheque that he will have his opportunity to schmooze. “I’ll even help him get his files together! This is a big project he’s been working on so there’s plenty to go over. The gala is a perfect place to discuss it.”

Oh. Oh he's going to kill Claude. Nice and slow too.

John’s expression slowly morphs into something pleased as Claude talks. The pup ends up looking like the cat who got the canary by the time his boss finally shuts up and promises him way more than he ever should have.

“Perfect. Ah’m lookin forward to it,” he says, smoothing a hand over the front of his suit jacket. His eyes glitter as he looks at Simon again. “Until next time?”

It takes all his restraint not to hiss at him, but Simon manages. “Of course.”

With that, the conversation ends. John apparently doesn't need any guidance to find his way out. He barely gives Claude a parting glance before he strutting out the way he came, weaving through the new empty cubicles and disappearing around the corner at the front of the room.

____

Simon whips his elbow out as soon as John’s gone, hitting Claude right in the stomach. 

He feels no remorse when the alpha’s soft belly molds to the point of his joint on impact. Delights in the slight delay before his muscles are flexing hard in pain to protect his innards.

Claude doubles over and Simon is on him in an instant. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he hisses, standing up from his chair so fast it almost topples over, wheels rolling across the carpet with shrill squeaks. He grabs Claude, growls deep in his throat as he scruffs the man and gives him a shake. “I’m not some whore you can just throw at him!”

Claude doesn't fight his scruffing. Knows there's no point. But he does return the snarl even though the rest of his posture remains loose-limbed to avoid an actual fight as Simon wrenches him into a semi-prone position.

“You know no one gives a fuck about giving shrinks to soldiers, Riley,” he grumbles, wincing as Simon’s fingers pull at the little hairs at his nape. He swallows around the discomfort, green eyes steely with resolve despite it. “He walked in and gave me a blank check. Said he wanted it all to go to your department– no questions asked! What else was I supposed to do?”

Simon is livid with his answer. “So you encourage his fucking flirting ?” He supposes that's what he's mad about the most. That some Scottish punk still wet behind the ears can just throw money and suddenly Simon is forced to play his game. He shakes Claude again as he seethes. “You know I never go to that stupid gala and yet you practically said I’ll be there on a silver platter for him!” 

He heaves out a breath and it sounds like a dragon has joined the room with them. “I could gut you right now, Claude. I fucking mean it.”

And, oh, doesn't that sound like a promise?

“It's just one dinner, Riley,” Claude says, softer this time, lip losing its curl in favor of placating his subordinate. He may be an alpha, but hell hath no fury like an omega scorned, and Simon Riley was death incarnate not too long ago. He knows when he’s in dangerous waters.

Simon's growl only deepens. A warning rattle that has alarm bells blaring.

“You're not the one being slobbered over,” he spits

Claude grunts as his hair is pulled a bit more despite his submission, Simon’s fingers gripping his scruff harder like he intends to rip it off. He's sure it's going to bruise when this is over. Would be very surprised if it didn't, Claude muses, before wincing again.

He’s really not trying to upset him. Claude had clocked John’s interest within moments of them two talking. But he also knows Simon cares deeply about his pet project, and getting funding for it was always hard. At least this way he can finally get the ball rolling, even if it does mean letting a runt like John Mactavish in close for an evening.

Claude mentally rolls his eyes. He wants to snort too. Can't ‘cause doing so would make him jerk in Simon’s mean hold, but damn is it is funny to see a younger man think he has a chance with a bitch like Simon. Funnier, too, to see how upset Simon is about it.

But, honestly, he gets it.

Simon’s hot, good with kids (not that John knows about that), and has his priorities in order. That's so much better than those pretty young things still growing into their legs and with no concept on how the world works. John is actually pretty smart for choosing Simon to be smitten with.

Hell, a good majority of alphas would choose an older bitch like Simon to settle down with. They know what they want, have life experience, and keeping an older dam happy is rather straightforward compared to the fleeting whims of the young. So, no, he doesn't necessarily blame John for shooting his shot. It’s just… funny John thinks he can offer anything like an older alpha like himself could.

(Simon’d make a nice little housewife, he thinks. But Claude’s also kinda glad Simon’s all teeth and ice. He’sd probably talk about his husband all day like he did his kid when the pup was still in school, and Claude can only tolerate hearing about another man in Simon's life so much before he’s bound to snap. Like John, he’s also smitten, but he’s doing a better job of hiding it, at least.)

The addition of new pain in his back, courtesy of Simon, spurs him back to the present. 

“I’ll arrange it so we're all at the same table. You're not going to be left alone with him, I promise,” Claude tempts, trying to resist the tremble that's quaking up his spine the longer Simon holds him in an arch just subtle enough to be stressful.

Simon’s dark eyes narrow at him in suspicion. “Convenient that detail only comes out now that I've got you by the nape,” he grumbles, clearly not believing him.

Fuck. He nearly forgot Simon was a vindictive little shit.

But, fine. Guess it was time he sucked up to his work wife… If only to keep his balls in the face of this egregious mistake.

Claude makes a show of looking exasperated, but his submission is all too eager. The alpha tilts his chin up without shame, forcing himself to go limp and lean heavier into the grip on his scruff. He knows Simon can handle it, relaxes further when he feels the omega's arm tense beneath his head to compensate. Knowing he won't be dropped, Claude lolls his head back even more to bear his throat- uncollared and vulnerable. Simon's furious brown eyes dart to it, and Claude sees the way his expression softens as he’s mollified.

“I was already planning on how to amend the seating chart when I offered. You didn’t let me explain that before you put me over your knee, though.”

Claude feels the lazy grin that finds its way into his face as he speaks, closing his eyes to help him focus through the pain. Simon scoffs, incredulous, but after a beat his punishing grip relents, and he lets Claude stand back up properly.

He’s scowling as Claude rubs at his nape with a low groan, arms crossed across his thick chest and glasses perched on the end of his nose. If it weren't for the military fatigues, Claude could easily picture him as some sexy librarian instead

“You’re still in shit,” he barks before Claude can think he’s escaped any further form of punishment.

The alpha just chuckles. Reaches over and pats the omega on the small of his back as he steers them towards the exit. “How about lunch, then?” Claude straightens his tie. He can feel the shift of Simon’s muscles through his shirt. “My treat. We can go to that steakhouse up the street.”

The little smirk and fluttering of lashes Simon does as he lets himself be guided away makes him think that, maybe, he could have a shot as Simon’s elusive Alpha. Especially when Simon tacks on that he wants a bottle of bourbon too, like he already knows Claude won't deny him for his audacious request.

Of course, Claude agrees. Just to see the smile that blooms with his easy acquiescence. 

Chapter Text

John is once again fisting his cock at a furious pace– this time hunched over a toilet.

He’s squeezed into one of the men’s stalls of the nearest restroom he could find, still very much in the building where Simon works. That detail sits on the backburner as he works his wrist, his eyes squeezed shut and blocking everything out so that the memory of the altercation he had just witnessed can play without disturbance. The wet sounds of his frantic stroking fill the empty restroom and if he had any shame he’d be mortified over how loud it is, but as it stands the sticky squelching spurs him on.

He sees Simon with his teeth bared behind his eyelids. Strong, beautiful, and so mad John can practically taste his fury. He’s holding Claude by the nape like he’s nothing more than an ornery puppy, and John wishes, desperately , that it was him being scruffed instead.

John groans at the idea, the low sound echoing through the space. Raw and downright pornographic in it’s honesty.

Fuck , he wants it. Wants it so badly he can barely breathe. He had nearly choked on his own tongue when he saw it the first time, jealousy flaring white-hot alongside the bottomless pit of arousal carving a hole in his gullet as he watched another alpha star in his greatest fantasy.  

(Nevermind that this fantasy only existed because of Simon.)

He bites his lip, brows furrowing and bicep burning as he strips his cock. He pictures himself in Claude’s place with the next ragged breath in, disturbing the memory if only to put himself at the center of it.

John doesn't fight Simon as the other snaps at him for his behaviour. In fact, he’s melting into the unfamiliar pain and pressure of being scruffed, Simon’s hand on his nape fitting so snuggly he’s convinced it was always meant to be there.

The throaty growls and pissed off hisses that accompany the mean hold have his dick weeping in earnest, a primal urge to prove his worth brought out as he's overpowered and forced to go limp. He doesn't know how he got his cock out, but he knows he’s trying to pump his hips regardless, grovelling for attention even as he's being reprimanded for being too forward.

Simon grumbles at him as he twitches and writhes, venom dripping off every word as he speaks. “Fuckin mutt,” he growls. “Pure gaggin’ for it, aren’t you? Even though I already told you no.”

John whimpers. Honest to god whines. Nods his head even though it just makes Simon pull his hair from how he's holding him.

“Please” he pants, begs , chest heaving like he's run an ultra as he stares up at Simon. “ Please . Ah can be so good for you, Simon. So good. Ah promise .”

The omega scoffs, dismissive and so fucking hot John nearly comes from the sound alone.

“I doubt that,” he huffs, John groaning low with frustration in reply.

John remembers reading about how, in the time before time, alphas used to drip pre to show how virile they were. He suddenly understands his ancestors and their beastly ways when a glob of slick pre rolls down the underside of his shaft, searing hot against his skin. His prick is standing proud as Simon holds him in an effortless arch with mean fingers bruising his nape, and John, deliriously, just wishes the omega would just breathe on it if nothing else.

Hopes, though, that his wetness speaks to how eager he is. That it will tempt the omega- broadcast just how much of a good fuck he’ll be if Simon gives him the slightest opportunity. Unfortunately for him, as Simon watches him drip, his pretty face pulls into a sneer as his eyes track the bead of arousal.

“What am I supposed to do with that ?” the man mocks. 

John feels like he’s been gut-punched. It’s so fuckin’ petty and mean . Like Johnny’s not slick enough to make his own fucking slip and slide. The indignation slips around his throat like a collar, branding his skin as he chokes out another whine. All of it makes his inner alpha gash its teeth before going belly up, too eager to please to hold onto his pride.

He whimpers in real life the same time he does in his fantasy, groans against the pain and humiliation and throbs again because it's all he can do. Simon’s flinty eyes continue to watch his cock bob in time with his heartbeat, gaze full of contempt. Its maddening and fucks with the already frayed wires in John’s head but spurs him on like a horse despite the sick curl of humiliation. 

Arousal pours into his belly, hot behind the root of his dick like molten metal. He feels the next wave coming and Johnny cranes his neck just far forward enough to watch himself pulse. He twitches, hips jerking forward, and the next glob of pre archs through the air before landing on the ugly office carpet.

His nerves feel like they're on fire. Like the very air is teasing his glans. But his efforts finally seem to please Simon, who lets out an encouraging rumble that has Johnny’s knees buckling.

“Much better,” that gravel rough voice croons. “Knew you had in ya, pup.”

John comes with a ragged gasp. 

He pitches forward, forehead connecting with the tile behind the toilet. Cum lands on his suit before he can point his dick down to avoid making a mess, thick ropes landing in the bowl and on the seat as he presses his hips forward- like he’ll sink into a warm cunt and keep from wasting it all.

It takes all of his shaky self control to avoid squeezing behind his knot, low groans and growls accentuating every pulse as he milks himself. He wants to, wants to as desperately as he wants Simon to scruff him, but he abstains because he knows he can't stay here in some office bathroom and wait 45 minutes for his knot to go away. Not unless he wants to get caught and further ruin his chances of wooing his prickly omega.

(He tries not to think about the fact that Simon is with Claude having lunch right now. Thinks about it anyway, briefly, despite it.)

John only lets go of his tension once the aftershocks of his (half) orgasm let up, dick softening in his hand as he rests against the partition wall. Cum stains his shirt and suit jacket while the last glob drools from his tip. Drops of precum darken the navy blue fabric of his slacks, spattered around his open zipper and his thighs. 

In all, he looks like a mess and his suit is ruined , but Soap can't help the dopey smile that slides onto his mouth as he mulls over the one important development he gained today:

He has a date with Simon.

___

“You’re whipped, mate,” John hears on the other end of the line, his friend and business partner, Gaz, clearly not as enamored with his new omega fascination as he is. John can practically hear the face he’s making as he adds, “And 'Johnny'? Really? No one calls you that. I can't even call you that and I've known you since primary!”

John huffs, sinks down a bit further into the plush seat he's perched on. 

He finally made it to his car- after waiting several minutes to make sure Simon was well and truly gone. His butt had barely made contact with the seat before he was calling Gaz to tell him about how it went.

His driver looks at him briefly through the rearview mirror but doesn't say anything as he picks at one of the crusty stains on his knee, maintaining his course back to the city for the meeting Soap is more than a few hours late for. 

(Which he really should detour towards home before he goes- you know, on account of all the cum he got on his suit while jerking it in the bathroom like a degenerate.)

“Well Ah’m not tryna shag ye, fer one,” he grumbles after a moment. Gaz scoffs again in his ear. He stops picking at his trousers. “And ye haven’t seen him, Gaz. Bloody fuck has no business being as hot as he is. Ye’d tell him tah call ye somethin' dumb too if ye did.”

He's pitched his voice into something whiny in an attempt to persuade his friend, but Gaz isn't taking the bait. 

Beta logic and all that shit.

“Mmm, no,” he drawls, deadpan. “Personally, I don't think you should be trying to chase a tail that doesn't want to be chased, Tav. Didn't he basically call you a pup, like, four days ago?”

He did. Oh, he really did. John still felt a bit of a sting to his pride when he thought about it, but it was overrun by the surge of arousal that pooled in his belly when he remembered that gravelly condescending voice it had been said in.

(Steamin’ Jesus, he really was whipped.)

John gestured about the cab as if the answer to his dilemma would appear if he appealed to the upholstery well enough. “Aye, but that's cause Ah was tryin’ to booty call him from my porch.” Really, he should've seen the reprimand coming. A pretty, collected thing like Simon? Cat-calling was never going to work. The fact that he had done it was no better than an outright insult, honestly. He didn't blame Simon for ripping him a new one.

Gaz hums. “Hm. You do have a habit of acting stupid when you flirt-”

“Shut yer fuckin mouth,” John hisses, Gaz’s cackling in response making his face flame. He jabs a finger at the back of the driver’s seat like Gaz is sitting across from him to receive it. “My game is perfect and ye fuckin’ know it!” 

It was true! He had never failed to pick up tail when he had set his mind to it. Simon was the only one to give him trouble.

(And he's finding he likes trouble– if its 6’4 and bratty.)

“Not when it comes to this Simon fellow,” Gaz chimes, like he's in John’s fucking head and reading the script. “ This omega is going to chew you up and spit you out, Tav. He doesn't sound impressed or amused.”  

The beta sighs dramatically into the phone, and John winces because a sigh never meant anything good. He’s probably not going to like what he hears next. Braces for it anyway, since Gaz has never considered his feelings to say what he needs to say gently .

“Look, I get the appeal and all that, but from what you told me he sounds like the exact fucking opposite of a young playboy who can't sit still to save his life. What do you even plan on doing if you can get him to swoon? He’s probably divorced or widowed and more than likely has a pup or two. You're no family man, Tav.”

John frowned. Well now, some best friend Gaz was. He wasn't even trying to make them sound compatible.

“Maybe that's just because all the other omegas Ah’ve been with haven't been worth the effort, ye dick.”

Gaz sighs again.

“Tav-”

Anger flashes through John faster than he can blink. 

It's sudden and out of nowhere, but it's thick and hot as his alpha rebels against being told he’s not good enough for Simon. 

Not good enough . He growls at the implication. As far as he’s concerned he is the best fit. The only fit. Simon belongs to him in ways he can't explain and John belongs to him in kind. Being told he's not? Well, that has him close to rage .

No one else could pamper him like John can, his alpha protests, spittle flying from it’s teeth. No one could offer him a finer den to nest in, or better food. No one else could fuck him as good either. John’s young and fit and eager to please- the perfect compliment to an omega like Simon (who needs to get his back blown out for several hours to temper that nasty attitude of his). In turn, no one can boss him around like the giant omega can. No one can make him crumble with just the flash of fang and a narrowed eye. Anyone else and John would have bitten their heads off for fucking trying. But when Simon does it? Well, he's as good as a dog on a leash, obedient and biddable to his master’s commands.

All that comes together to say that they are a perfect fit. Claude might be trying to win Simon's attention through work hours, but John has money, time, and obsession to make up for it. Not to mention access to Simon as his neighbor. 

“Fuck ye, Gaz” John snaps, voice so thick with a growl he’s not even sure its comprehensible. He's so angry he's nearly blind, and he hangs up before Gaz can try to say anything more, throwing his cell phone somewhere after he's hung up to be lost until he needs it again. 

John takes a second to reel in how blistering his anger is before he snaps at his driver to take him home, needing to change and work out a way to see to it that Simon is his in the end.

His meeting can go fuck itself for all he cares, he thinks. As far as he’s concerned, the only thing that matters now is his pursuit of his omega. 

His alpha paces its cage, a plan forming. Simon will be pupped before Christmas, he decides. And he’ll be wearing his ring and collar when his family returns for the holidays, vows already exchanged before he introduces them. 

John doesn't care what it takes to make that happen, just knows it must, for his own sanity.

___

He makes it home about an hour later. 

John’s temper has calmed down to a simmer instead of a rapid boil by the time he gets out, but he's still too pissed to bother looking for his phone. So he leaves the car, and the responsibility with the driver, and all but stomps up the walkway to his front door. 

Only to nearly bash his head in when he walks into the damn thing, forgetting that the door locks automatically… and that he didn't bring his keys when he left that morning after a cursory patting of his pockets. He realizes, too late, that the only other way to get in is with his phone. Which he doesn't have, since he threw it in a fit of rage after his talk with Gaz. 

His driver is long gone when he turns around, having sped off as soon as John had exited. All this comes together to say he’s stranded, locked out and unable to contact anyone.

His anger is, rightfully, well on its way to lava hot again when he notices movement next door.

There's a car parked in the driveway, but it's not Simon’s matte black SUV. No, it’s a 4 door sedan, and there's a man leaning up against the driver's side door, hand in his pocket and head bowed as he talks on the phone.

Naturally, John is suspicious. So much so that his own personal plight is suddenly of little consequence, and he attempts to eavesdrop while pretending to look for his keys.

The man across the way is none the wiser as John starts searching the bushes, scuffing his shoe along the driveway. He’s quiet for a moment, staring at the concrete, before he smiles, apparently having been waiting for someone to answer his call.

“Hey, Mom!”

Mom?

John’s pulse is raging in his ears, mind whirling with that simple sentence. 

Simon has a kid?

He looks. Can't help but sneak another peek while picking up rocks. The looks fit, he muses, mindlessly exchanging rock after rock while spying. The kid has dirty blonde hair, and he’s built like a fuckin’ fridge. Big all over, just like his mother. John’s not close enough to see if he has the same brooding eyes as his dam, but, fuck , is he curious.

(Wants to know who the dad is too, so he can kill him for leaving Simon all alone in his big house.)

“Yeah, I just got back. Thought I would surprise you,” the kid continues, trainers scuffing the driveway again. “I thought I would get here a bit later, but I made good time! Definitely avoided that one route. The one you told me was crap last time?”

He laughs and John is about to rip his hair out. 

Is Simon laughing too? Does he talk all soft to his pup? John thinks he might die if he doesn't know. He’s absolutely being a creep but, just like his meeting, he can't find it in him to give a flying fuck.

“No you don't have to come home. I can wait. I'll just go get something to eat-” The kid pauses and scrunches his face for a second before laughing, again . “ Mom , you don't need to take me to dinner. I promise, I know you love me. I don't need dinner to prove that.”

He pushes off the car, paces towards the garage. “Yes, I’ll be okay. I can wait. Yes , mom. Okay. No, I don't need anything. Just the code to the garage, yeah. I'll put the car in so I’m not taking up your parking spot. Yeah, I am, but I can walk. I've been driving for, like, 12 hours. My legs could use it.”

The kid stops, rolls his eyes, but that stupid smile is still on his face. He walks to the keypad, punches in a code before he walks back towards the car, digging in his pocket for his keys. 

“Mom, I'm not going to die. I took breaks! Yes, I’m sure. I don’t- No–”

John watches the exact moment the kid gives up protesting, shaking his head. His shoulders quiver with a silent chuckle that John is jealous he’s not privy too. “Okay. I will. Yes. Yes . No, I'll just order in. Yeah, I missed you too. I'll see you when you get off work, okay? Love you too.”

He hangs up, and John is left standing there in stunned silence, act long given up, watching the kid hop into his car and pull into the garage. He's still standing there like an idiot as the garage door closes, Simon’s son safely inside.

John's mind is going a mile a minute as he processes what he just learned.

One: Simon apparently has a son.

Two: he is quite the protective mother; if the way that conversation went says anything.

Three, and, perhaps, the only thing that’s bothersome about all of this: said son is here to stay, at least for a while.

John mulls over that last part a few times, pokes it with his tongue like a cub when they’ve lost a fang.

He's not upset Simon has a pup. That possibility had already crossed his mind a few times and he decided he was fine with whatever previous offspring came from his dearly beloved’s womb. Hearing that his instincts are strong, too, is also a win. It pleases his alpha immensely to know that when he succeeds in pupping him again he’ll have no problem taking to nesting or being a mother. 

No. The only issue, with any of this, is purely that said son could be a massive cock block. And John’s really not too keen on jumping any more obstacles than he already has to.

He’s not stupid. Obsessed, yes, but not stupid . If he were to piss off Simon’s lad it would cease any chances of courting the older omega. Simon would go from being bratty to vicious , and John knows he has no chance of amending bridges if that happens. So he has to handle this carefully. At least, until, he’s sure he can attach himself to his divalike beau.

John looks back at his door, brow furrowed in thought. 

He has an idea, but for now, he needs to get into his house. Which… well, that will be a more annoying thing to tackle than anything else at the moment.

Sans phone and therefore unable to call for help, John has to resort to breaking into his own house to get in. It involves breaking a window after climbing the gate to his backyard, and he's not too pleased about the glass cleanup or extra work he's added to his plate after he smashes the damn thing, but it gets him access to the deadbolt on the back patio door and that's all that matters.

He showers and changes in record time. Sweeps the glass into a neat little pile to be dealt with by his Roomba before snagging a bottle of wine from his cellar as a peace offering (or bribe) and trotting up and over to Simon’s place.

The driveway is still empty as he rounds the corner, so John knows Simon isn't home. All the better, he thinks, before he steps up to the porch and knocks on the door.

“Coming.” 

John waits patiently for the sound of shuffling to grow closer, once again straining his ears until he's certain the kid is behind the door. He puts on his best smile as the door unlatches and swings open, John coming face to face with his soon to be Step-son.

The kid startles, brow furrowing in confusion at the sight of a suited up alpha on his doorstep. John takes advantage of the slight pause to look at him a bit more closely now that he has an excuse, cataloging all the traits laid bare for him to see.

The kid’s got freckles and a cleft chin. His eyes are a hazel instead of brown, and, now that John is closer, he can see that his hair is more strawberry blonde than dirty like he originally thought. John takes a discreet whiff in the same second and his alpha rumbles with uncertainty when the scent that he picks up doesn't smell like the faint aroma of earl grey and tonka he's left all the windows facing Simon's side of the fence open to huff.

His conclusion is this: This pup either got the shit end of the stick and did his mother a great disservice by looking and smelling more like his sire than his dam…

Or he’s adopted.

“Sorry, can I… help you with something?” The kid asks, sounding wary. 

Showtime.

John stretches a hand out towards him to shake, loosening his body language to not appear as a threat. Upturns his brows too so he looks sheepish for the disturbance as he clasps hands with the kid and nearly shakes his arm off.

“Hey! John MacTavish- Ah’m yer neighbor. And, well, Ah’ve… kinda locked myself out. Was wondering if Ah could use yer phone tah call fer help?” John plays up the role, rolls his eyes dramatically for effect. “Completely forgot Ah left mah keys on the counter, and Ah lost mah phone in the back of an Uber, pretty sure. It's been a rough day.”

“Oh,” the kid says. John immediately senses he's got a foot in the door by the way his expression softens into something sympathetic after a beat. “Sure. Nice to meet you- though I'm sure you wish it was under better circumstances.”

He smiles at John and beckons him in. 

Perfect .

John slips in without further adieu, still playing his part, and follows the younger man after he shuts the door.

They make their way to the living room. Simon's house is clean and tidy, of course, but the decor has John wanting to just strip naked and rub his scent on every available surface he can find as they go.

It's chock full of warm neutrals and wood tones, creams and beiges accented by mahogany and walnut and white oak. There are countless knick-knacks carefully placed to make the place feel lived in and full, but they aren't the standard boring Pinterest moodboard pieces John’s come to expect.

They’re trinkets - little things from past missions Simon likely scooped up as souvenirs. A carved dog. A ratty piece of a union jack patch framed in glass. Others look like pieces bought from estate sales on Ebay. Old tribal masks and paintings. Spear tips, animal teeth- a fucking sword and javelin, tarnished and old , attached to the wall beside the fireplace. There's a horse skull above the archway when John turns back to see if he’s missed anything, empty sockets watching the couch and coffee table where the kid reaches for his phone, his socks sinking into the fluffy fur of a bison hide that stretches underneath the furniture.

“Here you go,” he says as he unlocks his phone and places it in John’s hand. Easy. Trusting.

John smiles again, passes him the wine in return. “Thank ye, so much,” he says. Means it in more ways than one. “Ah just bought that before Ah got home, but Ah figured it's a good trade fer yer help. Yer doing me a huge favor…?”

He trails off, purposeful, and the kid brightens. He's got dimples, John notes.

“Sinclair,” he says. He holds up the bottle in thanks. “I don't drink wine, but my mom does. I’m sure he’ll be happy to have something to sip on. He's such a wine snob.”

Sinclair says it like it’s just common knowledge, but John is mentally struggling to remember what he actually needs to do (call his driver back) as he’s given new ammo to add to his obsession.

“Och, a man after my own heart!” He laughs, punches in a text to his driver since he doesn't want to sacrifice this rare moment to gain intel. “Ah haven't had a chance to meet him proper. Seen him in his garden, though.”

“Yeah, he loves his garden. He's been fixing it up for years. It's beautiful in summer.” 

Sinclair moves past him to the kitchen. John follows out of politeness (and to snoop), eyes raking over marble countertops and glistening stainless steel. A bouquet of flowers stands out on the island, Sinclair fussing with a few flowers once he's put the wine down next to an appropriate glass.

(Simon’s trained him well.)

The flowers are muted pinks and whites and pale greens from a few decorative stems. They look good. There's a card attached to the vase, and John catches on that it's a gift from son to mother.

The phone in his hand chimes. His driver is on his way, but his eta is an hour at most due to traffic and circumstance. 

John hands it back to Sinclair after deleting the thread. “Thank ye.”

“Do you have someone coming?” 

“Aye. Just a bit of a wait is all. Ah can wait on mah steps- Ah don’t want to bother ye any more than ah have.”

Like clockwork, the kid looks worried. Like John waiting outside in perfect weather on his front porch is a crime. “Why don't you wait here?” He offers, and John wants to purr at how easy this is. 

The lad’s a bleeding heart. Good traits to have, especially in his case.

“Ah couldn't put ye out like that,” he says. Sinclair shakes his head. 

“No, it's fine! Really. Besides, that's what neighbors do.”

John smiles, easy. “Awlright. If ye insist. Thank ye, again. Ah have tah take ye and yer mum out fer being such good hosts after all this.”

Sinclair chuckles. “It's nothing. Sometimes we all just need a helping hand.”

Once again they make it back to the living room. The horse skull observes as they settle on Simon’s creamy beige sofa. John talks to Sinclair to pass the time, and to not appear desperate. He needs to win the kid over first and foremost, and he thinks he’s doing a pretty good job of it when he and Sinclair get into a friendly debate about footie some ten minutes into talking.

Sinclair is a college student, he learns. He's only been in uni for two years, but he comes back home every break to spend time with his mom. He's a good kid- graduated from high school as valedictorian and top of his class. He likes to surf, does MMA, and is working on getting his bachelor's in psychology. He wants a doctorate though, so he's aware his time at school is only just starting.

The whole time they talk, John rubs his wrist against the back of the couch, the movement disguised with laid-back gestures as he reclines against the cushions and further spreads his scent.

He wants Simon to know he was here. Hopes Sinclair will tell him, too, just to see if that rankles the omega as much as him showing up at his job did.

(Maybe it will make Simon seek him out, his alpha chuffs. He needs that sultry scent perforating his walls and floorboards. Would thank god if his little acts today get Simon in his house, if only for a moment.)

When his driver is 5 minutes out, he excuses himself to the bathroom. Despite the size of the house, Simon has clearly renovated so that the only bathrooms are the two ensuites: one in Sinclairs room, and one in Simon’s.

It's a bit odd, but John has gathered his mate to be is a bit odd to begin with. He doesn't entertain, so extra bathrooms are not needed, and John is going to take it. Especially when Sinclair doesn't direct him to the washroom in his room, but to his mother’s . 

John tries to not make it obvious that he’s a hair's breadth away from losing his shit as they climb the stairs to the second level. 

Up here, everything is quieter. The floor is carpeted, all the way through, so their steps make no sound as Sinclair takes him to the end of the hall. The door at the end of it is slightly ajar when Sinclair pushes it open and lets him in- pointing across the space to the door left open on the other side of the massive bed that makes up most of the bedroom.

Simon's scent here is so strong the alpha’s head feels fuzzy with it, and it takes all his self control to not face plant onto the bed and make himself a home in it.

John creeps in. His steps are careful, like Simon might manifest out of nowhere and take him out if he doesn't respect the sanctity of his nest. The bed is made, but not to military rigidity like he expected. It’s also so soft looking John has no doubt it’s like sleeping on a cloud,  soft creams and coffee colors once again making up the color scheme. 

He walks past it and into the bathroom, shutting the door and allowing himself a moment to just take it in now that he’s not being watched

Simon’s rituals are laid out before him, a window to the mornings and evenings the man spends with himself. A hairbrush and clippers sit next to one of the sinks on the dual vanity, along with a toothbrush and toothpaste, floss and mouthwash. John picks up the mouthwash with a shaking hand, debates using it if only to press his lips where Simon’s have been. He sets it back down before he can act on the impulse, instead walking over to where the standing shower and soaker tub sit, a towel tossed into the hamper from this morning beckoning John to it with a vengeance once he spies it.

He's less restrained with the cotton than the mouthwash. John grips the damp fabric in both hands and brings it to his nose, eyes fluttering shut as he buries his face into it. He inhales, greedy, and bites his lip to stifle the moan that wants to leave him as he picks out the undertones of citrus-y bergamot and warm tonka under the other scents of soap and fabric softener.

He has to rip it away from his face before his cock can fill his trousers, but the beginning warmth is already coiling at the base. It's begging him to keep going, but John restrains himself with the heel of his palm pressing against his zipper and the towel being dropped back into the hamper.

He backs away from it before he can lose his self control, aware that he's already spent too much time in the space than what is expected. Granted it's barely been 5 minutes, but he knows proper etiquette isn't to dilly dally in a host's bathroom unless you want questions.

John pisses, washes his hands, and then rubs his wrists on the towel before he puts it back on the rack. Rubs his wrist on the door, too, before he opens it up and leaves. 

Sinclair is waiting right where John left him, typing on his phone and otherwise none the wiser to John’s lengthy stay in his mother’s bathroom. They walk back down to the front door without further delay, and Sinclair sees him off.

“It was nice meeting you!” He says. 

John smiles, tips his head to the younger alpha once he’s outside. Though he did come here to snoop, he can't say he doesn't like the kid. Spending the last hour with him was pretty enjoyable. 

“Nice tah meet ye too,” John hums. He juts his chin towards him. “Ye let me know if yer mom likes that wine, yeah? And Ah meant it when Ah said Ah’d take ye both to dinner.”

Sinclair just grins.

He crosses his arms as he leans against the doorframe. Cocks his head. There's a glint in his eye that wasn’t there before.

“Might only consider it if you get locked out again,” he says in kind. But the way he says it sounds… odd.

His hackles raise on instinct.

John can't pinpoint why, but it doesn't match the normal cadence the kid has had for most of his visit. It sounds… knowing. Like he's on to John’s ruse and what he’s doing. 

But how could he, John thinks? They've only just met, and he hadn't been extreme or overly flippant with his actions. If anything, he’s been polite and comfortably restrained, as any good houseguest that's not thirsting over his mother should be.

But… still. Something about it isn’t right.

The words hang awkwardly for a minute as John parses if he's just being weird. The moment breaks when his driver pulls up into his driveway and idles, the soft rattle of the engine barely audible across the way.

Sinclair’s posture returns to something loose limbed and open- even waves to John like they're friends. 

He's all puppy soft again. 

“Have a good one, John!” he bids, and disappears back inside.

Chapter Text

The Boys

Grey👶: Wed 2:35pm

Dick🧀

The Smart One: Wed 2:35pm

Dude wtf is wrong with you

Sinny: Just Now

Lol

Guys

I think my mom has a stalker

Grey👶: 

HUH???

AGAIN???

Bradford:

Alexaaa, play Stacys Mom

The Smart One:

How do you know? Is he there??

Sinny:

Yep.

Hes in the bathroom

Probably huffing towels or sometjing. 

It's been a minute

Grey👶:

Ngl. Same

SMASH

The Smart One:

I hate u so much greyson

_____

John’s been in his house.

That’s the first thought that assaults Simon when he steps over his threshold, the scent of alpha thick in the air and wrong . 

And, immediately, Simon is panicking .

His pup is home. Yes, Sinclair is an adult, but Simon’s instincts can't tell the difference as cold fear grips his poor heart in a vice and makes all sorts of awful scenarios roll through his mind. 

The last time he had had unwanted guests he had lost everything . 

He isn't sure he can come back from that brink if he finds his own child taken from him.

Simon rushes further into the house, scanning for anything to tell him what's happened. John’s scent gets stronger the deeper he goes, and the whine that leaves him is discordant and distressed when his son seems to be no where in sight.

No. 

No. No. No nonono-

“Mom?”

Sinclair?

Simon turns on the stairs, somehow already halfway up them when that voice calls out to him. His eyes land on Sinclair (wild and wide, he's sure) who's got his hand shoved up to the elbow into a bag of chips, headphones on his neck and looking… worried as he stands in the entryway to the kitchen.

“Mom?” Sinclair tries again, softer this time. Like he knows his dam’s not quite all there. “You… okay?”

Oh. 

Oh, thank god .

Simon lets out a shaky sigh. His shoulders unclench. 

“Y-yeah, sweet’eart. I’m okay,” he says, stumbling off the stairs. Long legs make quick work of the distance between them and soon he has his pup wrapped up in his arms, hugging him tight . Sinclair doesn't fight it, just goes where he’s directed, tucked under Simon’s chin and safe . “Just… didn't see you there, is all.”

(If the hug disguises the tremble that is threatening to rattle his bones then that's no one's business but his own.)

Sinclair hums and hugs him back. The bag of chips crinkles loudly between them, wafting the scent of Doritos into the air. The cloying, artificial cheese smell isn't Simon’s favorite, but in that moment he's ready to bottle it since it means everything is fine.

Fine . No blood. No death. Just… nasty Doritos and his perfect son. Alive and well.

He takes a minute to calm his nerves and chase away those last vestiges of fight or flight. Eventually, they part. Simon keeps a hand on him, looking his boy over just to finalise those reassurances he keeps telling himself and Sinclair lets him, digging another chip out to munch on while his dam fusses.

“Was…” Simon tries to figure out how to parse his question without raising alarm. His son doesn't seem privy to the scent permeating every inch of the house. “Was someone… over?”

Sinclair, to his surprise, nods. 

“Yep. Your neighbor. John ?” Sinclair smirks, eats another chip. “He locked himself out of his house. Came over to use the phone.”

What?

Simon recoils dramatically. “You let him in ?”

“Yep.” Sinclair pops the ‘p’ on the word. He waves a chip in the direction of the living room. “Don't worry. We sat on the couch while he waited for his friend or whatever to come pick him up.”

He shrugs. Like the whole scenario is normal . “Nice guy. I mean, he's a little weird, but nice.”

Sinclair continues eating while his mother goes through the five stages of grief at the info.

That sleazy little whelp…

First he finds out where he works. And now he’s sneaking into his house? 

Oh, Simon’s going to gut him, he thinks. The little freak is just asking for it at this point. And roping his son into his schemes? Yeah, no, Simon’s going to show him what an army standard boot feels like shoved up his rectum for all the stress he’s just dumped on him.

But, for now, his son is also on the shit list.

“Didn’t I teach you ‘Stranger Danger’ when you were, like, ten?” Simon snips, snatching the bag of chips when Sinclair reaches in for another. He huffs, crumples the plastic in a fist. “Why the hell would you let him in?”

Sinclair isn’t perturbed. If anything, he’s amused by his mother’s discombobulation.

“I mean, it wasn’t like I didn’t know he was coming.”

What?

Simon narrows his eyes, silently demanding an explanation. Sinclair shakes his head like Simon’s the one who's dense. 

“The cameras?” He gestures like the action will jog Simon’s memory. The omega just furrows his brow more, irritation bleeding into his expression if the way Sinclair sighs dramatically is any hint.

“Okay,” he groans, like explaining this story is going to age him. “Full story. I was talking to you in the driveway and I noticed this dude, like, digging through the bushes and shit–”

“Language.” Simon interjects.

Sinclair growls. “Ugh. The bushes and stuff.” He glares at his mom. Simon just crosses arms, raises a brow at him to continue. 

“ Anyway . He's being weird. And obviously eavesdropping, so as soon as I got in, I went and checked the cameras.” Sinclair points at a non descript door past the stairs for emphasis. It leads to the basement, where, besides hosting a killer in house movie theater, there is an entire room dedicated to the surveillance system Simon had installed when he first bought the place– including a set up to view footage.

“I watched him break his own window, and then he got inside and did something for a bit before he came back out. New suit and a bottle of wine, so I’m guessing he changed?”

Sinclair shakes his head. Resumes the story. “But, yeah, I saw him walking towards the house, so I met him at the door. Figured I could scare him off if I needed to. It's not like you didn't teach me how.”

Simon snorts. Oh, he definitely did.

He may have gone a bit overkill teaching Sinclair how to actually kill someone and not just metaphorically scare them off, but in his experience being over prepared had never been a bad thing. Still, he’s pretty sure the adoption agency would have had a cow  if they had known he was going to teach Sinclair how to break someone's windpipe by the time he was twelve.

“I did. Doesn't mean I want you to have to use that knowledge. You know that,” the omega says.

“I know I know. But, I mean, you weren't home, and he was being a creep. But anyway, I started talking to him, and yeah, he's basically harmless.” Sinclair snickers then, flapping a hand towards the couch. “The whole time we were talking he was, like, rubbing his wrist on the furniture. I think if I were to have left him alone he may have stripped naked and rolled on your couch. He’s down so fucking bad, Mom.”

Simon scowls. “Language,” he gripes again. He plants his hands on his hips. “And I’m glad my stalker is so amusing to you.”

Sinclair wheezes. “Come on, we both know you can snap him like a twig.” He makes a motion with both hands, like he’s breaking a bundle of sticks in two. “And he's harmless . Again, besides the whole faking being locked out thing, he was pretty polite. I kinda like him. He offered to take us both out to dinner.”

Yeah. No.

Simon holds up a hand like that will physically retract the statement.

“Absolutely not.”

“Oh, mom . Come on. You haven't dated the entire time I’ve been your son. At least this guy is, like, putting in the work.”

“ Stalking is putting in the work?”

“Well, not conventionally. But you aren’t the conventional omega.” He grins. “I think you need a freak to win you over.”

Simon grimaces. Like the sentence alone stole a few brain cells. “Ugh. Please, never say that again.”

Sinclair snickers, and Simon decides this all much too much to deal with at the moment. He's still going to go wring John’s neck, but for now he's tired from all the excitement and wants to relax for the evening.

He reaches over, ruffles Sinclair’s hair with the hand not holding the bag of chips. “I'm going to take a bath. I need one after all this drama. Did you order in already?”

“Nah. I saw the chip stash and figured it could tide me over until you got home.”

Simon nods. “Alright.” He fishes his wallet out of his pocket, hands it and the bag of chips back to Sinclair. “Take my card. Order us something decent on Skip.” He pokes the younger in the chest. “And put the chips back. You’ll spoil your appetite.”

Sinclair sticks his tongue out in a very mature version of a response, but is on his way back to the kitchen without further prompting. Simon sighs and rolls his shoulders, wincing at the crick in his neck that flares up as he does, then goes over to the stairs and walks up to the second floor.

He’s settled on the idea of strangling John when he notes that the alpha’s scent is in his room when he enters. Decides he might make his son run laps as punishment, too, for bringing the menace up here, as John had to have been told where to go to find it.

He prowls around his bed, sniffing. That heady scent isn’t too strong, but it lingers like John has weaved himself into the very fibers of the carpet, and his omega is a mix of discontent grumbles and huffs until he's certain the scent around his bed is purely residual and not that John made the mistake of touching his nest. 

All that grumbling switches to something entirely too pleased though when the bathroom is found to be the opposite, John’s unique mix of musk and coffee and alpine air filling the space like fine cologne. Thick on the tongue, like he wants Simon to taste him.

“Tsk.” Simon sucks his teeth, feels his cheeks heat as the scent cocoons him. “Just had to smell good, didn’t you?”

Simon is still pissed at John. Make no mistake. But… he does smell good. Really good. And it’s kinda unfair, if you ask him. 

Why do the crazy ones have to smell like a weekend in the coziest winter cabin known to man?

(He firmly ignores the fact that it being so potent usually means an alpha is in their prime- ready to fuck, hunt, and fight at the slightest provocation. Ignores how his omega chitters like a whore, too.)

After a brief search for the source (because there must be something left behind to make it so strong ), Simon finds the culprit: a hand towel, still slightly damp from John washing his hands.

It reeks, plain and simple, and the omega wrinkles his nose in a flehmen response subconsciously as he plucks it from his counter. Pine and Fir coat his throat, burning into notes of musk and ozone as he exhales. Chocolate lingers on the tip of his tongue, a final fuck you to his biology.

 It tastes like sex in its purest form, and Simon hates how it has his instincts thrumming.

He carries it back to the door, holding it out pinched between two fingers like the towel is rotten. He sniffs out the patch on the door jam as he opens it and curses the alpha for his ability to leave his marker right at nose height. He can't do much about the scent that’s leached into the paint, but he does toss the towel out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, needing a breather from that devastating aroma.

(Though, it's now going to be in his bedroom , which he’s not sure is much better.)

Flustered, Simon does his best to drown out what remains by turning on the fan and dumping bubble bath into the tub as it fills. The comforting scent of vanilla and rose work their magic by flooding the air, and by the time Simon is taking his bath, he can kind of forget that his neighbor had ever been in his house to begin with.

Simon luxuriates in his routine. He's always liked baths, but admits that actually getting to do them regularly is only thanks to retirement. Active service was always about efficiency and getting comfortable with only having the barest of bones available. But now he takes one almost daily, his shower more for show than anything else.

The omega enjoys the way the hot water works out the tension in his lower back and settles the rest of his nerves. Washing his hair feels like washing away his worries, and he enjoys the relaxation and peace the activity brings him until he's pruny and the water is starting to chill.

Sinclair texts him that dinner is downstairs as he works leave-in conditioner into his curls and scrutinizes his smile lines. He texts back that he’ll be down in five, and then leaves the bathroom in a cloud of steam.

It’s when he’s exiting that he is both reminded of the towel’s existence and informed on where it ended up after he tossed it. Apparently fate was testing him, because the scrap of fabric is sprawled out across his bed– smack dab in the center. Like a big joke.

His omega continues to purr, not too upset, but Simon curls his lip at the thing before slinking into his walk-in to find pajamas and his robe.

Simon is downstairs five minutes later as promised, dressed in something airy and light for the warm weather, with a robe to keep him from getting too chilly as his hair dries.

Sinclair is already stuffing his face at the table when Simon joins him, aware he doesn't have to wait for his dam before he can start. Growing up hungry means Simon was never too picky about his son tending to his needs as they came, the memories of never having enough as a child himself making him lenient with his own pup.

“Steak?” Simon teases as he eases into his seat across from him, a filet and all the fixings piled onto a plate for him. It glistens with the light of the dining room, the pool of juices under it letting Simon know it’s cooked to perfection. “You're taking lots of liberties today.”

Sinclair chuffs. “Well, I figured you'd be pissed once you noticed I let him into your bathroom,” he says, picking up a green bean with his fork. He shrugs. “May as well get a good dinner before you make me do push ups or something.”

He pops the bean in his mouth, eyes shimmering with mirth. Simon squints at him, but his mouth is tugging into a smile even so.

“ Language, ” he chides, for the third time that night. 

He flaps a hand towards the younger alpha, grabbing a napkin off the pile of linens in the center to drape over his lap with the other. “And you bet your ass you're in trouble. He stunk up my entire bathroom.”

“Fair. I kinda wanted to see what he would do though.”

“He could've put cameras in there to perv on me.”

Sinclair smirks. Shakes his head.

“Nah. I checked after he left. Besides, I don't think he has enough brain cells to figure that out? He almost tripped over himself when he saw your bed.”

Simon lets a puff of laughter slip out at that. “I'm kind of surprised he figured out where I worked then.” He picks up his cutlery, starts to carve off a piece of the steak. It’s garnet red in the center, the damn thing practically still mooing. “He showed up there today. Had Claude bending over backwards to suck up to him.”

“What?” Sinclair leans forward, invested. “Wait, he actually found out your name and stuff?”

“Mhm.” Simon inspects the bloodied piece of filet on the end of his fork. “Apparently he's not dense all the time. Showed up just to gloat, essentially. And now I have to go to that awful dinner because he wants to go over where all his donation money is headed.”

A low whistle sounds, Sinclair’s eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “Sheesh,” he says, surprised. Maybe even impressed, though Simon doesn't want to dig too much into that. Unfortunately his son doesn't care about his feelings, and barrels on anyway.

“I dunno mom…. Are you sure you aren't into him?” He gestures to his mother. “The only other person I know that's crazy enough to dox people in their free time is you .”

Ugh. Here we go.

Simon frowns. “Sinclair–”

“Ah! Don’t lie. You did it with every single one of my friends' parents. And my teachers. Greyson still asks me if you are spying on him! He swears no one knew about his dad’s arrest in Mexico!”

Sinclair believes his friend. The guy had gone on a triade once back in highschool after Sinclair had shown him his mom’s security room– full blown conspiracy theory, actually, but the facts of the matter plus Greyson stressing that there was no conceivable way for that arrest to have made it back to their system without some international ties had Sinclair convinced his mom was one nosy, paranoid mother hen. A very lovable one, but still .

Simon, astutely, predictably , ignores the accusation. Sinclair watches for any hint of guilt to give himself the answer he knows is right, but his dam is basically as emotive as a brick wall, and doesn't crack.

Damn those interrogation trainings.

Simon cuts off another piece of steak, pauses before he puts it in his mouth to floor his son once more.

“I think you should get me a glass and something to drink.”

And there it is.

Sinclair deadpans. 

“Really?”

His mother's slow blink and lack of verbal reply is answer enough, though he does itch to press him. He knows his mom had something to do with multiple of his teachers being moved around as a kid. Couldn't find the proof, if there is any, but…

Ah, let's just say his intuition is about 99.99 percent sure his mother was playing puppet. Why else could you explain how teachers would just suddenly disappear halfway through the first week of the school year or later and no one have a good excuse?

He gets up after giving his mom the rightful stink eye, padding to the kitchen to procure the demanded item. 

It’s wine. Always is. Usually sangria in summer, specifically. Sinclair knows the fridge is full of all the fruit and juice needed to make a glass (or pitcher), so he naturally begins to head to the second fridge that's reserved for just beverages to pick a bottle when John’s “gift” cuts his trip short.

It's still on the counter, along with the glass he had paired with it. The deep green of the bottle catches the warm mood lighting from the island lights, highlighting the opacity difference between the rich wine inside and the air between it and the cork.

It's unassuming. Just another item in the house.

… Right?

He glances back towards the dining room, and the soft clank of silverware where his mother is still eating. Then at the empty chair at the head of the table, where a third could sit.

He sighs.

All jokes aside… Sinclair is worried . 

Worried and scared. It's just only in the privacy of the kitchen that he's allowed to express it, however.

His thoughts dip into something more sober as he grabs the glass and walks to the fridge. He wasn't kidding when he mentioned how alone his mother had been since adopting him, he thinks, picking cherries and plums to line the glass. 

He had been ten when he had been picked by, what he thinks, is the best mom to walk the earth. Ten when he had been rescued and shown real love. But even at ten… he had realised early on what a secluded person his mother was.

It was always just them growing up . No friends to get to know and certainly no boyfriends . Simon didn't even introduce him to Price, his veritable uncle, until he was 18. Price had been privy to Sinclair's entire childhood, retold fondly by Simon through phone calls or quick lunch dates, but had never been able to be there in person simply because, well, his mother didn't trust easy.

He wouldn't tell him why , either. Even when Sinclair was old enough to understand, completely, that it could be awful, Simon just… refused. Never gave more than a few words to change the topic. Never gave Sinclair anything to latch onto and pick apart.

Sinclair had accepted, long ago, that he would just never know what kinds of skeletons his mother kept locked away in his closet. He could see the box and the chains, but never the visceral image the box contained.

And so, he worried .

You see, it was hard to not be devoted to someone who had given you so fucking much. Simon was more than his mom. He was his saviour . Sinclair would have rotted away in foster care- been traded between abusive households for how much cash he could bring in- if it weren't for Simon. To him, the giant omega was his real mother. He just had to be abandoned first to earn the privilege to be spoiled and supported at every whim and fancy a young pup could dream of.

He had never known anything but paradise after becoming Sinclair Riley . He was adored and treasured and fussed over. He was spoiled . Always the kid with too many presents, trips to Disney at least once a year, and birthdays so big and well tended he never felt like he was short of friends. All his sports and hobbies were funded and supported, even if he ended up quitting two weeks into the season. Every play or school performance, usually the bane to most parents' schedules, was attended with enthusiasm, recorded, and celebrated .

He was the last vestige of trust and love his mom had. A cup running over with it, really. And… he was terrified of what would happen to the omega if he stopped coming around to let him fill it.

This fear wasn't new, but it had grown over the years. Sinclair had been petrified to tell him he had gotten accepted to his dream college. Had actually contemplated burning the letter so Simon could never, ever know of its existence– since throwing it away would inevitably lead to the omega somehow finding it in his monthly paper shredding sessions. His dream school wasn't just across the country. It was across a whole border on top of being in a different time zond. A world away from the safe, wonderful 4 walls Simon had built around them. Sinclair hadn't even applied there to get away . It had just had the best programs he could ask for. The courses he wanted to pour over and the colors and history he wanted to proudly hail from. And… he had gotten in. A full ride, too. Support practically free flowing thanks to his grades and ambition.

Going would mean everything for his future . But it would also take everything from the very person who had made it possible. And he couldn't stand the idea of telling his mom he was leaving him and Simon thinking he's being… 

Well, abandoned. 

That Sinclair is just off– to Harvard to never see him again– where he’ll make new friends and be on his own and have a whole story without him there. Where holidays would become bittersweet, lonely affairs to reminisce over and all Simon could learn to hope for was the occasional call or text from a son who didn't need him any more.

(Of course, Simon had encouraged him when he had found out. Had made it a big celebration and everything, like usual. Sinclair only knew his impending move was stressing his mom out by the tiny details- the long bouts of silences and the brooding over the kitchen sink early in the morning- when he thought Sinclair was still asleep and not watching from the stairs.)

He wasn't privy to the ins and outs of his mom’s whole story. But he knew he didn't want to contribute. So that's why he made sure to come back every break, to send gifts and cards and keep in touch when he was at school. His mother didn't have anyone else to do that with. And, bless his soul, he had never made that Sinclair’s problem. But as a good son… he knew. 

So he kept the hole patched. Kept the pretty omega he had met at school at arms length so he wouldn't be put in a situation to choose (because he didn’t want his partner to feel like he loved them less if he said no). Didn’t tell Simon about him either, cause he didn’t want his mother to prove he would always be cold to anyone but him (and that having a family of his own be seen as a betrayal instead of celebration).

He knew he couldn’t do it forever. The amount of sacrifice was not sustainable. He just hoped he fixed it before his instincts would lash out at the constraint. Before this love turned to something bitter and he lost the very person whom had taught him how to love.

(They said you learned what love was as you felt it. That acts of kindness doubled up and passed on to each generation. A collage of all the love that had come before you.)

But John? John had been an interesting development, to say the least.

The alpha was crazy. Batshit insane, really. Any other day and Sinclair would’ve called the cops but that famous Sinclair intuition of his also couldn't help but make him believe that, maybe, there was something to consider while he watched the man scent his mother’s house like a stray dog given his first taste of a real home.

Maybe, he thought, crazy was exactly what was needed to shift the– not burden– but responsibility to someone who could do it better… and help heal that missing piece instead of just band-aiding it.

It was true that romance could cut deeper than losing a son, but John gave Sinclair the impression of someone who didn't let go of things he claimed as his. And that tenacious, alpha-like spirit could be just the remedy to combat a wary dam, who would sooner chew his own arm off than trust someone with the fragile remains of his heart because he didn't want to lose them.

(Hell, he was already marking his territory like Simon was his. He'd done everything just short of pissing to prove it.)

So that bottle of wine stood for more than just a bottle of fermented juice. It represented a choice: to meddle, or not. If he uncorked that wine instead of taking it back to John next door, it would symbolise him choosing to try and shift the paradigm. Just like Simon had done for him with all his teachers and friends.

The more he thinks about it, scooping ice into the glass now full of ruby red fruits, the more he leans towards breaking the mold.

John is young. He has time and money to spare, if his Italian suits and Rolexes mean anything. And Simon’s not ancient, only pushing his early forties, but that’s still decades older. But that also means John will be more able-bodied for longer. Able to make his mother's golden years comfortable and well tended before he himself starts to feel the creak of age.

He wasn’t unused to the whole "cougar" thing. Most of the people he knew at Uni were either in an age gap relationship or had been in one. Turned out that age and experience meant a lot to people who wanted to grow and be successful. For his mom it would mean spontaneous trips to keep him from getting stagnant with routine, and gaining a partner that would naturally slow down when he eventually stuck to nesting, time and experience with someone not prone to mood swings helping guide Johnny as he matured out of the playboy lifestyle. Or, if they had more kids, it would mean Simon could actually spend his first pregnancy at home instead of working, and have a sire that is eager to be in the thick of it to help his family and play with the kids or shoulder the late nights.

What he means is: John’s young , and he knows that’s the contributing factor to why his mother dislikes him, but all Sinclair can see are the positives to having a rich, youthful stepdad to pick up the reins.

He could be wrong. He wants to ignore the chance that he is just grasping at straws and pulling meaning out of nothing in order to offload this inheritance. That he could be setting his mother up for failure in the worst possible way by pairing him with a partner who's as impulsive and wild as the Scot next door. 

… But it feels right to wrap his fingers around his choice. To free the cork with a squeak and fill the glass half full with hope. He sets the glass down beside his mom. Smiles when the omega murmurs a “thank you” for his efforts.

He hopes he’s not wrong. Sinclair ignores the tiny seed of doubt in his belly that it could be too hard. That John would make things worse. He just wants his mother to be happy. So they can both be happy. 

He doesn't tell him about the wine, or its origins. Just lets his dam enjoy it while silently betting on braveheart horses.

Chapter Text

The sun has long since left the sky when Simon exits his front door, a pale specter quietly moving across the grass and inky night to the manor adjacent.

The mansion's lights are still on as he ascends the brick driveway, a warm glow diffusing from the many windows and twin sconces illuminating the porch. Simon’s slippers are wet with the evening dew when he climbs the brick steps and rings the doorbell. His cashmere robe keeps the chill and the bugs at bay as he waits for someone to open the door, not sure if he should be expecting a scantily clad maid or a grizzled butler to see to his arrival.

John seems like the type to have both- too lazy to do his own chores and a desperate mutt who caves to pleasures of the flesh much too often. Simon doesn't really have a plan for if he encounters either. Hopes they’ll just mind their own… even if some suspicious sounds end up coming from their employer once Simon gets him alone.

Imagine his surprise when it's the man of the house himself who swings open the door to greet him.

No terribly cliche french maid. No passive aggressive butler. Just John, who freezes upon sight of him– like Simon is some unicorn or other fantastical thing too incomprehensible to fathom. Simon notes he once again has a bottle in his hand (prone to drinking, it seems), but this time it's cognac instead of champagne and he's dressed up in a smart suit rather than his skivvies. 

The suit is very similar to what Simon had seen him in at work, but this one is dark grey rather than blue with crisp pinstripes on the pants and suit jacket. It’s bold and traditional, so mobster it almost hurts, and adds years to John’s persona in the way that's cocky and maverick.

(Simon is once again annoyed that he can't say the alpha doesn't have style.)

Right now though, there's none of that snarky, business shark wit that usually accompanies such a suit. Nope. Instead, John's wide eyed and stammering, so tongue tied he's mute . 

The omega has to endure his bamboozled stare for a fraction too long before the alpha remembers how to talk and starts tripping over himself to get his thoughts out.

“S-Simon! Yer– Ah, Ah mean, what–”

Somehow, this is worse. He's now talking both too much and not making a lick of sense while he does it.

( And he hasn't even tried to invite us in , his omega grumbles, licking its chops and angrily crossing its paws. How rude, leaving an omega out in the cold .)

Simon steps closer after the 4th attempt at a greeting or whatever it is John is trying to do, placing a hand on the door to keep it open. John’s eyes flick to it and then back to Simon, stunned. 

“You met my son,” the omega cuts in. He doesn't yell. Doesn't growl. Just states it, matter of factly. Like they're talking about the weather, and not John invading his home.

The statement hangs in the air. Pointed. John doesn't refute it, but he also doesn't really seem capable of doing much besides staring . It's silent for a long while before Simon tilts his head at the alpha and it takes equally as long for the younger man to notice. John nods dumbly once he realises Simon is waiting for a reply of some sort, eyes fixed on Simon’s mouth like he's hypnotized.

Hm.

( Cute alpha, his omega hums.)

(Bipolar bitch.)

Simon takes another step forward, over the threshold. He's now, by all means, trespassing into John’s territory. Claiming something that's not his. It should make John snap out of his reverie, but the alpha bends to him without thought, backs up and gives Simon unspoken power. 

(His omega purrs at the easy submission like the traitorous little bitch that it is. What a fine alpha , it upgrades its earlier compliment, and Simon huffs.)

He is nowhere near as attracted to the pup as his instincts seem to be, but he does agree that it's refreshing to see an alpha acknowledge his stature and presence with such earnest reverence. Too often being an omega gets him hospitality wrapped in sexist wrappings.

John, however, looks like he's seconds from dropping to his knees and worshipping him. Like Simon could lift his foot and demand John slobber on his toes and he would do so with all the gusto of consuming a five course meal.

He almost feels bad that he's about to flip the script. That's how pathetic John looks.

But Simon supposes he's always had a bit of a malicious streak in him.

He leans in close, watches John’s pupils blow. Makes sure his breath can brush against the younger's face- minty from his toothpaste.

“You were also in my home .”

That last word comes out more growling subharmonics than real speech– the only warning John gets to know that he's suddenly in trouble.

For the second time that day, Simon snatches a hand out and scruffs an alpha. John gasps, body going rigid rather than limp like an omega as he's crimped, and Simon drags him so they're almost chest to chest. All so he can make sure John gets the full force of his displeased rumble as he breaks his act and shows how pissed he really is.

“Did you really think I'd just let you get away with what you did?” He asks, voice low and threatening. He bears his fangs, capped in metal and razor sharp- an after effect of Roba. “You basically snuck into my house- where my pup was. Do you know how stupid that is? Sneaking into an omega’s den like that?”

Simon curls his lip. “And that's not even touching on what you did to my couch and bathroom. Creep .”

John groans.

It’s deep and throaty and raw, but not scared . Not pained. 

It sounds like sin .

Simon pulls back some, bewildered. 

Turned on had not been what he was going for and yet he's met with cornflower blue staring up at him like he's hung the moon, the alpha scruffed in his hold sporting a tent in his slacks that wasn't there before.

The omega laughs, shocked.

“Are you fucking getting off on this?”

It's a redundant question. The proof is poking him in the hip. But John bites his lip. Nods shamelessly anyway, like he can't ignore anything Simon says. His face is flushed, and Simon is sure the grip he has on him isn't pleasant, but John must have some wires crossed because he's not doing a lick to relieve the pain or try and barter his way out.

Fucking freak.

“Ugh. I knew you were a pervert ,” he sneers, shaking John. He delights in the way John shudders in his grip, sees his cock twitch behind his zipper in a lewd display that challenges high production porn. 

Simon feels a rush of power slick down his spine knowing all of it is all because of him .

“I should cut your dick off for the audacity,” he muses next as he stares, entranced, just to be mean. 

Apparently the promise of violence is also right up John’s kink street, because the alpha outright moans next, squirming in his grip.

“Let me put mah mouth on ye,” John begs, voice wrecked. 

In a flash, he drops the bottle of cognac he’d been clutching and that Simon forgot about. The heavy glass shatters on the floor, amber liquid flying everywhere and dousing the space in the heady, spiced scent of Hennessy VSOP. Hands now free, they’re used to paw at Simon's drawstrings, desperate fingers trying to hook onto his waistband and pull . “Just need to taste ye-”

Simon startles when the bottle breaks, instinctually reeling backwards from the sound and knowledge that flying glass could be an issue. The shock of alcohol to his senses next sends him into a moment of genuine shock , body jolting from the barrage. 

As an omega, his sense of smell had always been sharper than others. Even after all the olfactory torture he had been through in his years in the military his nose was still sensitive, and that much alcohol that quickly was like getting punched right in the sniffer, eyewatering pain and all.

He doesn't mean to, but he lets go. The moment his hand releases John the alpha’s moving. He picks Simon up with a massive hand on his ass and one on the back of his head, lifting with a fluid push of his knees. They slam into the nearest wall, Simon's back hitting the plaster but not his head, that strategically placed hand behind it eating the impact.

The gesture, plus the headrush from the liquor, has Simon letting out a startled moan, shocked and aroused into something terribly sweet and pliant. 

( What the fuck? )

His eyes are barely cracked open, eyelids too heavy as his body reels from the shock. But he can see John through the sliver staring up at him… with a look Simon’s not sure he's ever seen before. 

The alpha pants, fangs protruding below his lip. Simon’s pretty sure the man is starting to drool before John lurches forward and adds sensation to his list of overwhelm.

The rasp of stubble on his neck. Wet kisses and the graze of fangs near his throat. Hot hands grabbing at him and kneading places he hasn't been touched in years but the memory is muscle deep . Calluses skimming the backs of his thighs, rough on the thin skin behind his knees. The crease where cheek meets thigh? Turns out it’s the perfect width of John’s middle finger when he slots it in place and spreads him under his pajamas.

He's so wet he hears the soft schlick of his folds parting in between the ragged breaths Johnny’s ( wait, Johnny??? ) taking against his collar bones.

“ Fuuuck, doll,” he rumbles, voice dropping several octaves as he growls his pleasure at Simon’s reaction. The sounds travel through where they are pressed together and straight to Simon’s cunt. He moans, arches further into John like he’s possessed, and the alpha bears his teeth against his chest. 

John thinks he might combust if he doesn't get his mouth on Simon right now. He smells like the most luxurious cake in the world, whipped vanilla and caramel mixed with bergamot cream and musky, exotic tonka sponge. His fangs itch to bite and taste, but even as love drunk as he is, he wouldn't claim Simon without him consenting. 

(Knocking him up, however? A different story altogether.)

John lifts his head, nips at Simon’s bottom lip. It's primal flirting at its core, John deferring to an older omega like his instincts demand. Sucking up to him in the hopes of getting something sweet.  

“Lemme suck ye off, doll. Please . Ah’ll be so good fer ye–” Johnny croons next. He's dumping all his alpha charm into it, more growl and bass than any actual words. Whiney if you pull back the layers of reverb for the truth.

He wants to latch onto Simon's fat tits (his work uniform is obscene for highlighting how perfect his pecs are), suck on him until he’s dripping and then plug him with his knot until it takes . 

(He's never felt this urge to breed before, never burned from the inside out like this, but Simon has him near mad with how much he wants to fill a nest with him. Has him so whipped his browser history is full of car seats and bassinets.)

Simon is still stunned, drowsy with the afterburn and the affirming gestures. John's nip makes him sigh and relax his hips, legs letting Johnny closer as he goes limp. It's just as much instinct as everything else, Simon’s omega pacified into easy submission and only purring louder as the hot bulge in John’s trousers mashes against the outline of his pussy like it was custom molded.

It presses against him from clit to hole, thick enough to make Simon dizzy with the size. He feels slick pulse out of him in a (frankly) concerning rush of warmth in response, and then hears something dripping as he blinks hazily at the ceiling.

Oh…

Is that… him?

Faintly, he registers John's trembling in his arms now, shaking with what's left of his restraint as the alpha reels from the knowledge that his neighbor just came untouched all over his cock.

John had registered he may be off the deep end about 5 days ago, when this whole thing began and chocolate eyes and silver fangs stole his risk reasoning. Knew he was obsessed when he started fantasizing over a domestic morning routine that didn't exist or how he would make up to his omega if they ever got into a spat.

This feels like being baptised – bathed in oud and orange instead of the holy spirit. Touched by the hand of the god he never knew he was waiting to worship.

( I’m going to marry him. )

He lets out a sob of a whine as he finds his new purpose, clutches Simon so hard he’s sure it will bruise. He wants to rip both of their pants open. Wants to fuck the omega stupid on his stairs, pup him with their first right here in the foyer. He almost does, if his alpha didn’t buck at the idea of treating Simon to anything less than a luxurious courtship. 

“Yer fuckin’ killin' me, darlin',” he whimpers, lip wobbling before it turns into a snarl. “Squirtin’ all over me jus’ from some pretty words and me beggin' to get mah mouth on ye’? That's all it takes tah let me make ye feel good? Yer a dream , Si. A fuckin dream , baby. Ah’m gonna eat you whole, sweet thing.”

John’s hearing wedding bells, but Simon grumbles, brought out of the afterglow by the excessive use of pet names. 

True to spirit, the veil has parted enough for the omega to feel indignant. He pushes at John’s shoulders with a low growl when he senses the younger’s ego inflating, baring his teeth at the alpha for daring to gain some confidence during this hedonistic encounter.

Johnny’s immediately tempered, lapping at Simon’s bottom lip in appeasement. Back to whining for it like a kicked dog while he grinds against Simon’s core. The older man huffs and stops shoving at him, but he doesn't relax again, John notices. 

He internally stews in anger about not knowing when to shut his big mouth when he realizes something.

This is the perfect out .

Simon’s displeased with him. There's no better time to make this work. He now has an opportunity to give in to the urges surging through him as well as show his future mate how enthusiastically he can provide.

He drops to his knees in one controlled rush, Simon's thighs on his shoulders when he hikes them from around his waist. The wall keeps the omega stable so that he can bury his face into the wet fabric shrink wrapped to his cunt. Frees his hands to wander and grope the legs now squeezing around his head.

Simon's back arches off the wall likes he's been electrocuted as Johnny sticks his face into his snatch like he's owed it–

And feasts .

The alpha is trying to tongue him through layers of linen and cotton like his very life depends on Simon’s pleasure. And Simon can’t feel the writhing slipperiness of the muscle, but the heat and pressure dragging along the underside of his clit has him keening in surprise regardless, blush flooding his cheeks. He cries out when Johnny starts sucking, trying to drink his essence from the fibers themselves.

His eyes roll back into his head, a hand shooting down to fist the mohawk between his thighs. Somehow, he wrangles his tongue enough to say, like the heavens has been delivered to him, “ Oh , you fucking bastard… ”

Johnny shudders, feels his knot throb. 

Those breathy, cum drunk, but exasperated words were like jet fuel to the inferno already rising, John desperate to hear Simon speak like that again and again and again .

He doubles down on his efforts, eats Simon out through his pants like it's his job . At some point, his fang hooks on a stray fiber, Johnny biting down and yanking .

The pants shred like wet paper. He shoves a hand between his chin and Simon's pussy, just long enough to yank his panties aside, and groans at the image revealed to him. Slick folds and a needy clit, flushed a sinful shade of pink. His cunt is drooling like an open tap, beads of slick dripping onto the floor. He’s got his tongue back out in the next breath, laving over the Landing Strip just above Simon’s clit to catch any missed fluid before diving back into the center.

It's messy. Obscene . John's tongue is hot just like the rest of him, the alpha a walking furnace it feels like. The searing swipes of his tongue are driving Simon wild, sending bolts of electricity up and down his spine. His toes curl when John spears him with his tongue. He starts babbling when that same tongue curls inside him, pressing up against his g spot and massaging . 

It’s too much. Simon jolts and arches off the wall, moans like he's in pain. John doesn't stop. If anything, he eats him out harder, forgoing oxygen for burying his face in his lover's perfect puss. 

When Simon’s squirming starts to upset John’s stance, he just snarls, grabs fistfulls of the omegas ass and slams Simon back flat against the wall. The impact borders on painful, but the only thing Simon can do is mewl . He pries his eyes open just in time to see the alpha glaring up at him with a gaze so hot Simon’s sure his core is melting under it.

“Stay.”

The command is all alpha demand- not to be ignored or questioned. Simon goes boneless under it, keens wantonly when John shoves his face back into his cunt. The alpha’s gluttonous, greedy moans as he gets back to work light up his nerves like fireworks and the omega is crying out as he's brought to climax in the next breath, Simon locking his thighs around John’s head and squeezing .

There's a click somewhere in John's neck (something that most definitely isn't supposed to click), and the crazy fool is done for, hips jerking as he cums in his pants.

He laps up what he can as Simon floods his face again, that sharp pain in his neck now melted into something warm and good . It pairs well with the way his dick pulses with his orgasm, pleasure pulsing from root to tip with every spurt. 

When Simon stops trying to waterboard him he rubs his cheeks on what's left clinging to the omega’s skin. A ravenous purr rattles out of his chest- more diesel engine than anything soft, but Simon's eyes flutter in a way that looks pleased at the sound so John keeps it up. Keeps scenting himself too. Wants their signature smells to mix into something that is both of them. His purrs only increase in volume when he succeeds and settles the alpha going nuts in his chest.

Simon stares up at the ceiling for a good long minute, basically brain dead, before reality hits him like a bat to his face.

He just let his neighbor pin him.

He just let his neighbour eat him out .

The panic floods his system, Simon suddenly sober as he comprehends his predicament. He looks down at John, who's rubbing his neck against his pussy like its cologne. Feels his eyes boggle at the display.

“What are you doing ?” He demands, but it comes out more airy than he intended. Breathless and fucked out instead of angry.

John purrs up at him, blinking slowly. “Offerin’ ye a drink, pet, if ye’ll have one with me?” He grins up at Simon, sated and sleepy. He rests his throat on the top of his mound, all the vibrations from his next words making Simon squirm. “Got a whole liquor bar in the next room. Ah’d love tah crack the vintage for ye.”

It’s an invitation to stay. But Simon just stares- bewildered. 

He just, almost , fucked his neighbor, he thinks. The very man who stalked him. Who met his pup without him knowing. The man who scent marked his bathroom like it was his

The man who had stolen so much of his privacy in the span of one day.

…And it was the best sex he has ever had.

He has to leave .

“Put me down,” he says, voice shaky.

John immediately pulls away, brows pinched, but he lets Simon down without further question. Stays crouched in the glass as the omega scurries to the door.

“Simon?” John calls out, sounding worried. When Simon looks back at him the alpha looks like he's seconds from groveling amongst the shards to get him to stay.

“Ah dinnae mean tah scare ye,” he starts, shuffling closer. Hennessy soaks his knees. Glass sparkles in the fibers of his trousers. He’s holding a hand out to Simon like he's begging for salvation, a wild look in his blue eyes that challenges the concern already flooding them. “Ah really did just mean a drink. Nothin’ else. Ah wanna talk to ye-”

Simon shakes. 

Not from fear. But shock . 

Shock that he let it happen. 

Shock that he didn't regret it. 

Shock that he feels like how Johnny looks - like leaving will kill him but staying might kill him too.

He wants that drink. He wants to ride John’s (probably) stupidly big cock until his thighs burn with the exertion. He wants to let John flip them and use him as a personal toy until he’s left dripping for days after. 

And he has no idea why he wants any of it.

Simon hasn’t had urges like this since he had first presented. That first heat had wrecked him so hard he strategically avoided having one from then on out, dousing his system in suppressants to keep the worst of it at bay when the time came around. This came especially useful once he joined rank, standing out amongst the other omega recruits by manhandling his biggest weakness. He could still be dripping during inspection, but his professionalism never faltered. He never lost his wits.

When Roba happened, he stopped having heats like he used to. He no longer had to flood his endocrine relays to endure. He didn't slick up, didn't get that dizzy urge deep in his very marrow to just bend over and be used. He hadn't felt slick on his own in years, lube a constant now and well stocked in his bedside drawer.

And now he had apparently just shattered decades worth of trauma to not only slick, but squirt . 

Not once. Twice .

All for some Scottish playboy half his age.

Simon rips open the door. His face is hot with shame and anger, but at who he’s not sure. 

“ Don't come to my house again,” he snaps, though the warning doesn't feel like he wanted it to. Not after what he and John had just done.

He slams the door shut behind him anyway, hopes it's a good enough deterrent.

____

The next week and a half pass with Simon nothing but a bottle of nerves.

Every day he expects to get notice that the funding was pulled. To have to feign ignorance on what the reason would be when Claude questions him and pretend to be angry when all he wants to do is melt into the floor with mortification.

He had become exactly what he told John he wasn't– a desperate housewife hussy that lost their mind around dick. Granted, he wasn't married, but that made it worse .

At least with a marriage he could hide behind the excuse of not being satisfied, that his mate wasn't keeping up with his needs. Now he was just a touch starved and lonely older dam. A cranky bitch who was only as snooty as he was because he hadn't been pounded in a while.

And what was worse was that it was true .

Simon knew he could get tail whenever. Had done so almost religiously when he was younger. Sex was fun when he wasn't being held at knifepoint by a heat and knowing what a slag he was on leave is probably what made it such a taboo fetish that he could ignore his cycles. But after Roba he had sort of forgotten about having a partner. Sure, there was the trauma , but he had worked out that grisly section well enough that sex didn't repulse him and he didn't think every alpha was going to rape him. It was just… work. To deal with another person, that was. His hand and trusty toys could do the job just as well.

So John had been his first in a very, very long time. 

And he just didn't know how to process it.

Because it had been fun, if he was fucking honest with himself. The surprise submission on his part, the mind blowing orgasms he’d been treated to. The fact that John had been a gentleman the whole time– eager to serve rather than be served– all pleasure given to Simon first to pick from.

It was a filthy fantasy come to life and while Simon may not have been sexually active for the better part of some 15 plus years, the idea of being worshipped in such a way turned his insides molten.

But he couldn’t let John know he had gotten his claws that deep. Couldn't let himself think about it too much either, unless his brain started to read into nothing and create a new problem he wanted no part of.

It was Saturday– 4pm. The party was in an hour and Simon was, admittedly, having a bit of a panic.

After what happened he had no doubt that John would be even more determined to get in his pants. Which meant this dinner was going to be even more difficult than it already was. 

Five hours of sitting there and entertaining the young alpha. Five hours of having to sit there and resist what was sure to be promises of a good time Simon had already sampled and knew to be true.

In other words: Torture. Sweet, but still torture nonetheless.

Simon gave himself another cursory once over in his closet mirror, checking himself for lint as he wriggled his foot into a black heel. The dress code for the party was painfully black tie, so he couldn't get away with his usual attire of pants and a button up.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. He could get away with a button up– but only if it was the buttery silk one he currently had on, ironed to perfection and buttons hidden behind a smart panel of fabric. The collar of the shirt fits tight around the base of his neck, highlighting the length of it, and the rich, inky color stands out against his pale skin.

He paired it with a maxi length pencil skirt- also silk- that stops halfway up his shins, bare skin hidden behind sheer black pantihose. The skirt sits nice and tight around his waist, following the natural flare of his hips before following like a second skin from the thigh down.

Impossible to move in? Yes. But it was the only skirt he owned, and, coincidentally, the skirt he had bought for the first time he had gone to this god awful party.

(He hopes no one can recognize it, even if the last time he went was over a decade ago.)

Simon smooths a hand over his front, fiddles with a wrinkle on the waistband of the skirt before reaching for the final part of his ensemble in a nearby drawer.

It's a collar. Thick and jet black, about 3 inches wide so that it covers the entirety of his throat. The leather it's made of is buttery soft and of the finest grain, and a built-in buckle in the back makes securing it by himself easy. 

Simon smooths his thumb over it thoughtfully. This collar only comes out when he has to conform to social standards and expectations. Stately in its simplicity but overall plain and made to be complementary to whatever he needs to wear. It has a brass nameplate on the front of it, Lt . Riley stamped into the metal that gleams under the lowlights of his closet.

Simon deftly plucks it from the collection of other collars he owns, all neatly tucked away in the same drawer and organized by color, size, and comfort. Most of them are from before- when he would take partners to bed for stress relief and fun and needed bite guards to ward off alphas who couldn't follow directions. This black one is new in comparison, but has been worn the most out of them all. 

He holds it in his hands to inspect it once more before fitting it around his neck, fiddling with the buckle before it clicks. 

Collar on, Simon takes one last look in the mirror before he leaves his closet.

“Sinclair? I'm leaving!” 

He descends the stairs as he speaks, checking his watch for the time. Sinclair looks up from his spot on the couch, watches his mother reach the ground floor before he speaks up.

“When will you be back?” 

“Eleven, most likely. I don't plan on sticking around past ten.” Simon walks over to the kitchen, snags his keys off the counter. He points a finger at Sinclair as he stuffs his driver's license and credit card into the hidden pocket on the waist of his skirt. His keys go into a clutch he’s brought down with him, tiny but big enough to fit the necessities. “If you go out, text me. If you need anything, call me.”

Sinclair rests his chin on the back of the couch, nods once to show he understands. A smile creeps onto his face though as Simon checks the time again before clacking towards the door to grab his phone.

“So…” he begins, craning his neck some to keep his mom in view. “If you don't come home, should I check John’s place for you?” 

His mom has disappeared into the coat closet to snag his jacket, but by the lack of rustling fabric Sinclair knows he's been heard. He waits a beat for the sound of heels to start up again, and is grinning with all the cheek in the world when the closet door slams and Simon is stomping into view to glare at him.

“You think you're funny, don't you?” Simon hisses. 

Sinclair grins wider. “Hilarious, actually.” He waggles his eyebrows. “And I’m just asking . I mean, you were out of the house for an awful long time last Wednesday.”

Sinclair puts a hand to his chest, puts on his best air of innocence. “I’m just prepping in case I'm going to have the house to myself all night. You always say “be prepared”, and all that.”

Simon growls. Oh, sometimes, he really regrets how much sass he's taught the boy.

“Whatever you think happened– didn’t,” Simon puffs. “I went over there to tell him to stay out of my house. Not… whatever you're dredging up.”

Sinclair rolls his eyes. “Uh-huh.” He twists more, slings his arms over the back of the couch too. “So what happened to those pyjamas you were wearing? Haven't seen them since, which is suspicious.”

The omega makes a face. “Now you're sounding creepy,” he says. He gestures towards the kitchen. “I spilled wine on them and threw them away. They weren't worth saving.”

“Hmmm.” 

Sinclair doesn't sound like he's buying it. No, Simon knows he's not buying it. But he’s certainly not going to tell his son what he and the neighbor actually did. So he fixes him with a look that tells him pressing will get him in trouble, and the young alpha relents with a pout.

“You're no fun.”

“You’ll live. There much more interesting things to fixate on.” Simon comes over and presses a kiss to his temple. “Stay safe, okay? Don't wait up.”

Sinclair grumbles, but says goodbye in turn. Simon’s gone a moment later, coat, keys and phone in hand.

The drive to the mansion is uneventful. It's just scenic countryside for miles and miles until he turns down a nondescript road that leads to the place. By the time he gets there there's a line of cars waiting for the valet, and the mansion is abuzz with people climbing the steps to go inside.

The valet stares at him as he gets out of his SUV, his jaw all but on the floor as Simon smooths the wrinkles from his skirt and makes sure he has all his affects. He's a gangly thing. Looks like he surfs couches for a living too, and blushes when Simon tips him a fifty for his trouble.

“Park it close,” Simon tells him. “I want to leave as soon as possible when I bring back my ticket. These heels aren’t exactly made for walking.”

The valet nods so hard Simon’s afraid his head might fall off, and the omega gives him a smile and a pat on the cheek before he makes his way to the stairs.

The house reminds Simon of a scene out of The Great Gatsby. It’s grandiose and opulent, packed to the gills with people that have never once set foot in a warzone but make the whole thing possible with their war bonds and connections. Simon can hear music the closer he gets to the doors, and when he steps inside he's welcomed with a glass of champagne and the familiar smile of his boss.

“Simon!” Claude beams at him, arms outstretched. 

“On doorman duty?” Simon smirks. “That seems a bit low for you, Claude. Don't you think?”

He crosses the space, meets Claude halfway when the alpha leans in to nuzzle him. Claude chuckles as they separate.

“Tell me about it. I miss the days of having a bunch of privates around to do the grunt work,” he says. “But no. I was just making sure my head of human resources didn't flake on me.”

He beckons the omega to step off to the side with him with a hand on the small of his back. Once tucked away, he looks Simon up and down, green eyes sparkling with something that smells like mischief.

“Is that the same skirt from ten years ago?”

And there it is.

Simon smacks Claude across the chest, scowling. “You know I don't wear them,” he spits, annoyed. Because of fucking course Claude would notice. Nosy alpha.

Simon crosses his arms, only feeling a bit defensive. “This is the only time I ever actually need to wear one,” he sulks. “I wasn't about to waste money getting a new one when it's been 10 bloody years since anyone else has seen this one.”

He didn't have a problem with spending money on investment pieces for his wardrobe. But skirts ? Simon was practical above frivolous, and skirts were just that: frivolous and impractical. 

Claude just grins and licks his teeth, entirely too smarmy for Simon’s liking. 

“It would've been less memorable if it didn't fit you so well,” he counters. “You look good Simon. That's all. Hard to forget an outfit like this when you look stunning in it.”

It's a genuine compliment. Simon doesn't have time to really look it over though because Claude is putting a hand on his back again and gesturing deeper into the manor.

“Come on,” he hums, leading the way. “Maybe we can get a few appetizers in you before John shows up.”

Oh. Right.

For a second there he almost forgot why he was here. 

“Maybe he won’t show,” Simon mused conversationally, letting himself be guided to their table. “That would be nice.”

It’s a small walk to the dining hall. They pass by countless groups of people talking and drinking on the way there, pausing to say hello only when Claude gets noticed and is forced to pay them an audience. 

Simon can feel eyes on him for the entirety of the trek, but no one addresses him. He thinks Claude is to thank for that, the alpha keeping close and keeping an arm around him all the while– a subtle fuck off to anyone with eyes.

Claude pulls out his chair for him when they finally get to their destination: a room full of tables dressed in white cloths and an oversized chandelier that sparkles like a million little diamonds. 

(Simon has a hunch it is actually made of diamonds, but hasn't found the right person to ask to confirm.)

Waitstaff are moving around, putting the last few napkins or cups out before the guests migrate. Claude sits beside him, reaching under his seat to drag out the manilla folder of spreadsheets and reports Simon will need for later. He passes them over with little fanfare, then slings his arm over the back of Simon’s chair to watch the omega inspect his work.

“I went a bit deeper than just last year,” he says as Simon diligently opens the folder and starts his review. “I figured he may want the year before last’s trends too, so I provided those reports, along with your own documents. Also, red or white?”

Simon blinks, looking over at Claude. The alpha has flagged down a waiter while he was perusing, finger pointed at the tray filled with glasses of red and white wine.

“White,” Simon says after a moment, lowering his lashes in thanks before focusing back on the documents. “And thank you, Claude. I had memorized some numbers from then, but having them on paper helps.”

Claude hums. “Of course. I don't want him pulling back on you last minute.” He shrugs. Simon feels his hand flop around behind him in a meaningless gesture. “The numbers are good. He shouldn't have any reason to try and twist your arm.”

He sets the glass of white in front of Simon when the omega is done looking through the papers, leans in to chat as the volume in the room gets a bit louder. 

Guests are starting to come in since they sat down. The orchestra has started playing. Simon listens to his boss gossip with a small smile, offering his input when needed– sometimes directly in the alpha’s ear as the crowd noise crescendos.

It's pleasant. Good.

And then John walks in, and Simon feels all the nerves and anxiety come rushing back.

Chapter Text

John had been at the party for well over an hour before he finally decided to make his presence known to Simon.

In fact, he had been following the blonde since the moment he had stepped out of his vehicle.

It had started in the courtyard, before Simon’s car had even made the last several miles of its journey. Not wanting the omega to see him first, John had taken to lurking in the greenspace with visuals on the gate when he had arrived, just to ensure he would see Simon the moment he appeared.

And to give himself time to give himself a pep talk when the need, inevitably, reared it head. 

John knew he had a bad habit of suddenly bluescreening when Simon was around. He had no doubt he would become tongue tied again the second the omega was within his view– just like all the other times before. His new habit was now just nuisance, predicatble enough that he knew a barrier where he could work through his freeze within the privacy of his own humility was essential– if only so he didn't further dull his image with his prickly lover to be.

Securing a hiding spot amongst the hedges to watch the train of arriving cars and nurse a few smokes while he waited hadn't been hard. Frankly, it was no different than what he had been doing at home. The prior week and a half of keeping to himself had been torture, John forced to get his fix by being a peeping tom from the safety of his darkened balcony and bedroom. Simon had barred him from his home, afterall, and so while not dignified, it was the only way John had managed not to lose it while waiting for the gala.

(If he hadn't been he would've visited the omega’s door daily with flowers and invitations to visit his own den. Either to eat, enjoy his pool, or (preferably) share a nightcap with the finest liquor to suit the job.)

Sure, he wanted to fuck. Felt the urge simmering in his very marrow as he watched Simon leave his bathroom naked every morning before work. But if he was allowed to choose, John found himself yearning for the ability to monopolize Simon’s time. To just have his attention, where he could ask him all the questions he could think of and spoil him with sweet words and sweeter promises–

John sighed– a long, low sound.

Right. Like he knew how to do that.

The alpha sucked his teeth, puffed on his third cigarette at the same time and let the burn of nicotine soothe the sting of his self flagellation. 

John had a confession: he hadn't really dated before. 

Not that the opportunities hadn't been there. No, he supposed a few flings could have been more if they had clicked the right way, but there had never been a significant other.

Chemistry? Sure. John could remember having a handful of deeper conversations where the attraction went beyond just the physical and more into personality- but never enough to make him want to talk more than get his dick wet. Certainly not enough to make him stay. 

Simon did though. And it was agony not being able to pursue that fresh, new high.

He wasn't being dramatic when he said it felt like withdrawal while he awaited the date of the party. The entire experience had felt like he was on the cusp of a horrible rut with no reprieve. Skin too tight. Mood too moody. John had been wrought with shakes and irrational irritability since that fateful Wednesday, snapping at his employees and Gaz in abundance when they dared bother him with work. 

(He had also ripped his house apart during the worst of it, utterly convinced after day four that his den needed to be redecorated to soothe the storm in his blood.)

(It had not. And all the post frenzy clarity only told him was that he was bloody fucking nesting.)

It had gotten so bad he had to make himself relatively unavailable for calls or meetings. He was obviously too volatile to properly interact with anyone, even if John couldn't deny that he was normally a bit of a hothead. This was next level though, and sticking to email where he could address things with text instead of his actual voice seemed safest for all involved until he could wrangle his emotions in check.

But oh, was all his suffering worth it when Simon finally appeared.

He was a vision, John thought as he hid behind shrubbery and watched his mate-to-be bribe the valet. Time slowed the moment he saw him– like the universe was making up for all the teasing glimpses he had settled with. Blurred everything else until it was just legs for days, a snatched waist and blonde curls tousled by practiced hands. Picture perfect clad in all black, perfectly tailored silk and– fuck– red bottom heels.

The sight of those torture devices called shoes had him damn near slobbering. John didn't normally consider himself a foot man, but in that moment he wanted to lick the soles and feel the points pressed into the soft meat of his belly as he lay prostrate, Simon above him and applying pressure just enough to make him gasp and squirm.

(His dick jumped in agreement in his slacks.)

He got so excited he had to press his palm into the root of his cock to keep from chubbing up completely, lolling his head from one shoulder to the other as Simon began his ascent up the stairs behind him, a shrub and tail wind his only saving grace from giving himself away too early.

John didn’t linger in his hiding spot too long after that.

He kept several paces behind his target, melding amongst the steady trickle of guests also moving to go inside. The jealousy he had felt with the valet exchange (of course he was jealous, duh) had tripled when he witnessed Claude and Simon embrace at the top of the stairs. Quadrupled when the older alpha nuzzled Simon’s cheek like they were mates.

It took all of John’s willpower to remain hidden, his alpha raging at the display. His molars suffered the most as he tried to grind them into dust to keep his temper at bay. And much to his dismay, it only got worse as he followed them deeper into the venue. Claude was damn near eye fucking his omega and him slinging his arm around Simon had the vein in John’s forehead throbbing. 

Watching the other alpha then hold him close the whole way to the dining hall almost had him say fuck it and start a brawl right there.

(Perhaps giving Simon the throat of his boss would be enough to get him to smile at him like he did Claude, his alpha suggested at some point. After all, Claude wasn't the one who had Simon’s thighs around his ears and crying on his tongue the other night. Who the fuck did he think he was touching Simon like he owned him?)

When he finally broke after watching them all but whisper in each other’s ear, he made sure his arrival in the room wouldn't be missed by Simon. Couldn't deny how his chest swelled with an addictive primal pride when the omega’s eyes snapped to where he was, almost like Simon had instinctively known where he was lurking.

(So very much like prey knowing when a predator is near, his alpha purred.)

Unlike prey, however, Simon did not cower. He held John’s eye for the entire walk over, something happy and pleased unfurling in the younger’s chest as those chocolate pools didn't stray. He only let himself grin when he finally closed the yawning gap between them, now close enough to feel the heat coming off Simon as he hovered over the corner of his chair.

“Simon,” he crooned, sounding lovelorn even to his own ears. He held his palm out, an invitation to shake. “It's lovely seein’ ye again.”

Simon hesitated, but then slipped his hand into John’s. It was big and warm. Covered in scars that made John both equally sad and prideful that his bitch had the marks to prove how strong he was. 

“Nice seeing you again too, Mr. MacTavish.” 

(Fuuuuck… He liked tha’.)

This time, John couldn't help himself. He brought Simon’s hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of scarred knuckles. Simon sucked in a breath, surprised, but didnt pull away. 

John treasured the gift for what it was.

“Please,” he murmured, lips still brushing pale skin. Tonka and vanilla flooded his senses, nose so close and yet so far from the omega’s wrist. Later, he would blame being so close to his scent for his next words, slurred into the air without filter.

“Call me John. Mr. MacTavish is my father.”

You fucking eejit.

Immediately he knew he fucked up, and yet it was still too late to take it back. John could see the moment Simon took psychic damage from his comment, and felt the cold stone of dread drop out his ass when he fully processed what he had said out loud.

He was powerless to retract the statement, much less stop the reaction. Simon’s face twisted up into something wholly unimpressed, like the line had insulted his mother, and John had never known true embarrassment until that very second.

(Christ on a bike! Did he really just say that? Mr. Mactavish is my father. Fuck, no wonder Simon thought he was nothing but an idiot. He was sitting here spouting this canned nonsense like it was actually charming!)

John felt a sweat break out on his palms and all at once he jerked his hand back, hopefully before Simon could register the excess moisture. He flashed him a nervous smile, barely able to keep from quaking, and he took his seat, reaching for his glass of water to sip from as he mentally recovered from the self inflicted shame.

Claude, meanwhile, had to hide a smile behind his fist and fake a cough to keep from outright laughing.

He had been observing and listening (of course) and watching John blunder that pass so thoroughly almost made him feel bad for the lad. 

Almost.

(Perhaps if he hadn't also been a single alpha eyeing Simon he would've. Right now though it was just good fucking entertainment.)

Simon was so affronted that his lip was still scrunched up as he went back to his wine. Didn't fade, either, while John hid his shame behind his water glass. It was like the expression was frozen on his pretty face without conscious thought– all the more reason for Claude to fight for his life trying not to laugh.The image nearly had Claude choking on his own tongue all over again, the man fighting to keep his humor from being detected by a nonchalant look around the room while his shoulders shook his more laughs disguised as coughs.

Simon tapped his fingers against his glass, thoroughly debating his life choices, before letting out a small sigh and closing his eyes to center himself and move past the horrible come on. 

Right. May as well get on with it.

It took tremendous effort to keep the hiss he wanted to let out from bleeding into his voice, but he managed. “Are you still interested in seeing the numbers?”

John, out of the corner of his eye, perked.

(Oh. The numbers! He could do numbers! Numbers were easy.)

Gaining a bit more confidence at the suggestion of something familiar, John nodded. “Aye.” He gestured to Simon. “Just so we can see how ye can divide up the donation. And if ye need more tah make things happen.”

Simon didn't say anything in response. Only sent a silent raised eyebrow of scepticism his way. Which, that was fine. He would actually be a bit worried if Simon didn't question him. A prime bitch like him should be demanding bank statements and stock portfolios in his opinion. If you couldn't afford him, then you didn't deserve to waste his time.

(Nevermind that this entire discussion of money was about work and not dating. Right now he could care less that they weren't the same. In fact, John hoped that there would be lots of “conservative” terminology in this go regardless. He couldn't wait to whip out his pocket book and make his pretty mate’s wishes come true. Let him get his pet project going before John whisked him away on a pampered maternity leave.)

There was a brief moment of stillness between them, Simon seeming to take the intermission to weigh if the younger alpha was being truthful or not. Ig broke when the blonde dropped his gaze to the tabletop to find the folder, plucking it from beside his napkin. John brought his chair closer, watching Simon gather the manilla folder as he did. Dextrous fingers John could picture sucking on like a content pup soon procured the documents and set them out for him to view one by one.

“These are last year’s markers,” Simon began, pointing at a chart that looked like a pie sliced into a million unequal rainbow slivers, percentages shooting off to the side and labeled, attached only via a tiny thin line to keep the viewer organized. 

John had seen a million like it before. Would likely see a million more. And so he blamed his ability as a quick study for why he didn't hear another word that came out of the omega’s mouth in regards to the chart as he explained how his department fared in comparison to the others. 

(John couldnt give a fuck about the statistics. Never had. It had been a ploy to just have Simon talk to him, if he was honest.)

Simon rambles and Johnny doesn't hear a word of it. Up close, he can see more scaring (minimal, but there) across Simon’s pretty face. He tries to keep his glances discreet as he takes his fill but it's devastatingly distracting in all its beauty, markers of strength and resilience woven into Simon’s very being like a living tapestry. Muted scars across his cheeks, and hairline. One across his lip and the adorable hump of his broken nose. John felt such a strong pull to every little blemish and scar that he had to clench his fist on the table to keep from leaning forward and licking Simon right across the cheek in a show of how whipped he was.

It didn’t help that Simon oozed confidence alongside his power. Another noose around John’s neck, really. Pretty and dangerous? Capable? Experienced? John was in love with all four, hindbrain going gaga.

He watched how Simon held himself, the omega’s low rumble a soothing soundtrack for his gawking. Ankles: crossed and tucked to the side, knees together and leaning towards him to make John feel engaged. Back: straight, but leaning forward some so that John would feel slightly taller as they spoke. Gaze: soft but serious, checking to make sure John is following along, appealing to him by keeping his lashes lowered in learned domesticity.

This was all carefully enacted poise. A master display in the art of being demure. John didn't let himself believe Simon was doing this gentle, patient act out of actual deferment, even if it was perfect and had his alpha howling. It was purely professional, and for some reason that power imbalance did things to John. Especially since he knew that if they were elsewhere Simon would have his nose in the air, ignoring him completely if he wasn't the one groveling.

He drank it in, Simon rambling through all his little pages with John humming occasionally in affirmation. He was so absorbed in memorising the shape of Simon’s nose and the curve of his lips that he only remembered he was supposed to be finalizing a deal when Simon cleared his throat expectantly.

“Did you hear me, Mr. Mactavish?” Simon rumbled when Johnny finally met his gaze.

What?

Snooping once again, Claude nearly inhaled his drink. He sputtered loudly as a few minute drops of liquid eeked their way into his lungs, and Johnny briefly scowled in the other alpha’s direction before he snapped back to Simon.

“Course Ah did,” he hummed. “Ye said yer department is one of the most underfunded, and that yer budget per year has been abysmal. With mah donation, ye can increase the amount of therapists yeh guys have on base, as well as get access to more providers overall fer yer soldiers and their packs.”

Simon blinked slowly– no doubt stunned that John had retained all that. Any other day and it would have rankled him, but instead he found himself rather patient with it, seeing as he hadn’t done much to put his best foot forward with Simon.

(It was more like blunder after blunder, if he was honest.)

He leaned in more, reaching across to gesture towards the proposed budget for the new funds and then tap the wish list of items that Simon would have liked to include. “Only problem ah see is this list here is a wee bit longer than what's on yer budget.”

This time, Simon tensed, defensive energy radiating off of him.

“That is an ideal world list,” he said, voice clipped. Irritated, like John was dull but the edge of worry in his scent read distracting otherwise. “Not everything on that is a need, but a want to improve our employees' time with us.” 

The omega’s face pinched. “Would you rather I only presented the budget?”

That line read more genuinely angry than the previous ones, and John immediately went into soothing mode.

His omega thought he was making fun of him. That's what that spicy scent meant, the burn of charcoal and torched cinnamon singing his nose. John scooted closer again, slung his arm around Simon’s waist, steadying him as he fished his checkbook from his pocket.

“Ye misunderstand me, Simon,” he crooned, sugar sweet. He pushed the book across the scant space between them, Simon staring down at it before his eyes flicked back up to John’s. “Ah ment Ah dinnae understand why ye should have tah get rid of anything off that original list. Guess Ah have tah make my donation a bit bigger to get everything, don't ya think?”

Simon stared at John. Then the checkbook. And then John again. 

“You're joking, right?” He asked, sneering his lip like he expected some sort of shoe to drop. Because, really, did John think he was stupid? What business man just threw money at a project like his. At someone like him?

Yet, when John just tilted his head at him like a confused puppy, Simon laughed nervously. 

“You…” Simon's brow furrowed, confusion bleeding into disbelief. “You're serious?”

John chuffed. “Aye. Ah told ye Ah would make it whatever ye needed it tah be. Remember?” He tapped the budget paper. “That number needs changin’ and Ah need ye tah tell me how much Ah still owe ye tah make yer dream a reality.”

Emboldened by the look that crossed Simon’s face as he finished laying out the rules, John let his thumb swipe up and down the cinch in Simon’s waist, the waistband of the skirt catching on the pad on the downstroke.

Simon was still for a moment. Not even moving as the waiters started to appear over their shoulders with the beginning of dinner service. The lights had dimmed, and the candles on the table were doing most of the work now, lighting up Simon's pale skin with a warm afterglow.

John could see the rest of the table had filled out out of the corner of his eye, giving him an estimate to how long they had been talking as he counted about 6 other strangers' faces. Simon certainly had been thorough for that much time to have gone by, and John almost felt bad for not listening. But the pleased gleam in the omega's eye once again sucked him in, John now oblivious to anything going on beyond SimonSimonSimon.

“You’ll really let me write any amount?” Simon asked. He tilted his chin up, looked down at John like the alpha was bluffing.

John didn't balk. “Any amount,” he agreed. “Whatever ye need. Ah aim to provide.”

It was in his blood. His very DNA. Alphas provided. Omegas did too, but not in the way his breed was made. Pups, housing, food, protection– an alpha’s purpose was to be the sturdy foundation that never cracked, to keep steady and abundant if only to keep his pack wanting for nothing. And god damn did John want Simon to take advantage of his ancestral right. Simon could take the clothes off his back and the skin off his bones and he would let him.

Simon snorted, ignorant to John’s desperate inner monologue. “You’re a businessman.”

“Aye. And this is an investment.”

The wrong thing to say. Again. 

“On people down on their luck?” Simon bristled.

“On improvin it.” John dropped his voice, rumbled out a throaty purr to smooth his intended’s prickles. “Need ya tah sign that, Si, or Ah’m gonna choose the amount and ye probably won't like it.”

Simon's eyes widened. 

For whatever reason, threatening to just donate some absurd amount of money had the omega’s hands finally moving, slowly reaching for the checkbook and the pen on top of it.

The sound of Simon clicking it may have well echoed between them with how intense it sounded, the din of the room and the announcer beginning the thank you tour fading into nothing.

Simon flipped open the checkbook, ran his thumb against the leftover edges of the stack John had already written out before passing it to him. It was almost to the end of the book, about a fourth remaining. 

John had been a busy, busy lad, hadn’t he?

Simon glanced at him once more, needing to make sure the alpha wasn't just playing a game of chicken. John met his gaze with something smoldering and serious, and Simon felt his neck heat up under the intense stare. He broke eye contact embarrassingly quickly, focusing on the budget paper to recenter and focus.

He only needed a minute or two. The math had been done already, and adjusting for tax and whatnot, Simon rounded up to a number that required maybe a good portion more than originally requested, passing the checkbook back to John once he was done.

The whole time he had been deciding, John’s thumb had slowly stroked his side, making Simon keenly aware of the hot hand holding his hip. 

It was different from how Claude held him, Simon thought, distractedly. Claude was always confident. Grounding. His touch was there with purpose as well as favor, claiming in the way his grip would never falter once locked onto one of Simon’s hips. His fingers would squeeze in unison, molding to his side to sit perfectly against him like he belonged there.

But John? John’s hands wandered. 

At first it was just the thumb, but as the alpha now looked over Simon’s proposed new donation amount, his whole hand was moving. Slowly dragging up and down the dip in his side, gripping and squeezing in random spots along the journey. Eventually it felt like John had his bare palm against his skin, all that warmth seeping through the silk and damn near burning him as it brushed up the lower half of his ribs.

John let out an approving rumble. “Tha’s better. And ye sure ye can get all ye need with that?”

Simon felt his stomach do strange things as he found himself pinned under the alphas heavy lidded stare, the way he praised him. “Yes.”

That earned him another Johnny rumble of agreement, the sound tickling his eardrums. Simon had heard plenty of happy alpha noises in his lifetime (his cunt more than not the cause of them), but John’s was new. It was loud and rough, more like a snarl than anything sweet. Like a Rottweiler that didn't want to get his nails done but offered a paw regardless.

“It's yers, then,” John promised.

He pulled away, taking all his warmth with him, to tear the check off. Simon resisted the urge to shiver when he did, picking up his wine glass again to keep his mind off the reaction. John, meanwhile, leaned back in his seat, the omega turning his head when an arm came into view from behind him, John holding the check between two fingers and extending it in Claude’s direction.

“Cash this one too,” he said, bored.

What?

Claude shared his bewilderment. “I- I’m sorry?”

John huffed, irritated. “Did Ah stutter?”

(Oooh. His omega perked. I like this new tone, it chuffed.)

The younger alpha waved the check, annoyed that he was still having to hold it. “Use the excess however ye want, but Simon gets first say fer his budget.”

Simon noted that John did not repeat himself, and that his attitude did not smooth out until Claude took the check. He also noted that as soon as his hand was free, it was back on Simon’s waist. Back to searing his skin and it's distracting rubbing.

John's attention was also back on him. Well, more like the alpha was staring. Intensely too. Like watching Simon take small sips from his wine was like watching art, and that if he looked away for a second he would miss something.

The omega hadn't noticed before how intense John’s attention could be until then, and he actively had to resist the urge to squirm as blue eyes drank him in. Paired it with the touches, he could feel a slow heat creeping into his bones. Not quite arousal, but not nothing either. 

When he ran out of wine he loathed the opportunity of distraction it stood for, hesitantly putting his glass down and now unsure of how to proceed with the rest of the evening.

The discussion for money had gone well. Frustratingly well, and now Simon didn't know what to do. He had been stressing over that fact alone, expecting John to draw it out to keep him talking. But the money had been secured, with interest, and now…

Now they actually had to talk.

Simon stole a glance at John as appetizers started to be placed in front of them, the announcer on stage tittering on about how they were going to have some promotional material played. The alpha was still watching him, head tilted just so and eyes dark despite the candlelight on the table. The darkness of the room didn't help matters, Simon now distracted with how the moody ambience fit John nicely. How comfortable he looked, like he was used to making deals at dinner, millions of pounds exchanged like canapés to please his palette.

(How he oozed confidence. Too much for someone his age, Simon wanted to rebuke, but couldn't since John had it tailored to fit him as well as his suits.)

John’s fingers teased the lip of his waistband. Didn't slip under, just messed with the edge, let his callouses catch on the silk. “Sinclair is adopted, no?”

Simon blinked. 

“... Yes.” His eyes narrowed, suspicious. “Why?”

“He dinnae smell like ye, is all,” John murmured, sounding thoughtful. “Ah thought maybe he just took after his Da and dinnae do ye justice. Adoption makes more sense.” He smiled at Simon. “Looks like ye though. Was tha’ on purpose?”

Oh.

Simon felt the tension that had coiled in him– ready to defend his pup– release when John didn’t make a jab at his adoption. When he didn’t say it was a “waste” that he wasn't Simon’s blood and bone. 

“... No,” Simon said, defensiveness slipping off like a satin chemise. “No I… I adopted him on accident, really.”

John perked. “Oh? Found him on yer doorstep, did ya?” The alpha grinned crookedly.

Simon laughed. 

(Oh… so that's what angels sounded like.)

“No. No, I… I wandered into an adoption fair in my old neighborhood by mistake,” the omega explained, and John didn't miss how soft he looked as he recalled the memories. “Realised I wasn't at the farmers market when every stall was a bunch of kids clamoring for attention. He was the only kid not talking to a family though. Practically hiding behind the booth. I just… I don't know. Seeing him just made something tug at me, and I spent the entire afternoon trying to get him to open up. He looked… lonely. Didn't sit right, you know?”

John didn't know. Prior to Simon he hadn't wanted anything to do with pups or kids of any age. But he nodded anyway, not wanting Simon to stop telling his story.

“How old was he?”

“Ten.” Simon sounded pained when he said it. He looked away, picking up the papers from earlier to give himself something to do. “Mom was a drug addict. Abandoned him after years of neglect. He had been in the system for two years already by the time I met him.”

Simon sneered as he shoved the papers back into the folder. “She didn't even try to get right. Left him with the government so she could shoot it up. Had him thinking she would come back and never did.”

John squeezed his hip. “Tha’s awful.”

“I couldn't leave him,” Simon said. “He was… so sweet. He didn't tell me his mom left him, but he told me he missed her and that he missed having a family. It… it broke me.”

John wanted to hold Simon. To tell him how good he was. To praise him for having more heart than most to take in a kid that wasn't his but treat him like he was. 

Not many could do it, but Simon did. And did it so well the damned kid may as well have been his with how he acted and appeared. 

“Ye’ve had him since he was ten then?”

Simon nodded. John smoothed his hand up his back. “Was his name Sinclair when ye adopted him?” 

He had always been curious. Sinclair seemed too pompous a name for a kid tossed to the system.

Simon let another laugh bubble out of him. 

“No, I picked it.” He smiled, and John hadn't known he was missing perfection until he saw the way those scarred lips quirked up. “His birth name was Jason, believe it or not. Never fit him. Not really. He mentioned he didn't like it. I told him if he wanted to we could change it.” His tone turned wistful, eyes soft. “Our first Christmas together he asked me to pick for him. That was his gift to me. Getting to name him, like he was mine from the start.”

John wanted to kiss him.

It took all his willpower to keep from yanking Simon down to do so. They weren't there yet- nowhere close. But this glimpse into Simon’s life, happening when John himself was just entering high school, was unexpected with how genuine it was, and John wanted more. 

He hadn't expected Simon to entertain him, but in hindsight he supposed he should've known that talking about his cub would be about the only thing his persnickety omega would talk about. Simon was controlled in all other aspects of his life. His cub was the only soft spot he had, proudly boasted about and defended with fang and claw if needed. 

(In the back of his mind, he thought it was also a bit sad that Simon didn't let himself have things beyond his pup. Vowed, also, to work on that as soon as he convinced the omega to let him in.)

“Yer a good dam, Simon,” he said, meaning it. “Don't think he could've asked fer a better one.”

(John liked to believe that, maybe, there was a bit of blush on the man’s cheeks after that.)

They talked throughout dinner, the event itself mostly ignored in favor of each other's company. John still had to work to keep Simon's attention, but it was given more easily than before the conversation about Sinclair. 

If this were a proper date, he'd be pulling out all the stops. But as it stood, keeping Simon’s glass full whenever he emptied it and keeping a hand on his hip was his main priority, both accomplished relatively easily as dinner went on.

It was only when the brag rag finally ended and the lights were turned back on that John readied himself to begin the next phase of his plan. 

Dinner had gone well, and he felt confident that an invitation to walk and keep talking wouldn't be turned down. That and Claude had been looking at them both throughout the service. He hadn't said anything, but John really found himself eager to get away from the “competition” most of all, annoyed with having to constantly be distracted with the presence of other alphas when all he wanted to look at was Simon.

Speaking of, the omega in question was still sitting beside him, having made no move to get up even as others at their table began to do so. His instincts crooned at the idea that Simon already knew where his place was (tucked nicely against his side, of course), and he squeezed the bigger man’s hip in a non verbal ask for his attention. Brown eyes looked down at him, and John leaned in, wanting to keep his invite private.

But just as he was about to speak–

“Well I’ll be damned! Is that Ghost?”

It was like the southern half of the United States had suddenly joined them in the room, an accent so thick and cliché that John nearly gave himself whiplash snapping his head around to find the source of the disturbance.

When he found it, he had to rein in the snarl that wanted to burst out of him, another alpha smiling too wide and looking past him and directly at Simon.

Or… Ghost? 

(Was that a nickname?)

John quickly looked back at Simon, praying to see that same disinterested and irritated look on his face that had been directed at him too many times to count. Instead, he felt dread settle in his gut as recognition sparkled in those dark brown eyes, Simon ignoring him in favor of leaning back in his chair to get a better view at the (rapidly) approaching man.

“Richard? Is that really you?”

(Who named their kid Richard anymore Jesus Christ–)

John tamped down the rising ire in his chest, keeping his arm around Simon as much as possible in a silent stake of territory. He watched as Richard made his way over, and then stepped right up to their chairs, hands on the back of both as he leaned in towards Simon (and bypassed John).

“Aren't you a sight for sore eyes!” The man– Richard– exclaimed. Too loud. Too friendly. “Don't remember ever seein’ you dressed up like this when we were together. Almost didn't recognize you.”

(Together???)

Simon chuckled, ignorant to John having a minor conniption in the background. “We weren't getting invited to things like this when we were serving,” he said, rolling his eyes. He picked up his wine glass, swirled what remained as he crossed his legs one over the other. “If we had, maybe you would've.”

John immediately found that he didn't like this. This banter. This familiarity. He wasn't intimidated by Richard (even if he was a big, tall, hazel-eyed-freckle-face-dimpled-cheeks pretty bastard) but just the fact that he had history with Simon made his nerves rattle, temper ready to flare if it meant keeping what little ground he had clawed his way.

He narrowed his eyes, staring daggers at the back of Richard’s head while the alpha’s shoulders shook with mirth at Simon’s answer. 

“Nah, we didn't,” came the easy acquiescence. He leaned closer then, dipping his head down further towards Simon like he meant to nuzzle it. “But you didn't dress like this on leave either, darlin’.”

Darlin’?

Alright. This guy had officially overstayed his welcome. 

John snorted like a bull, hooking his elbow so that he nearly hit Richard in the nuts when he pulled his arm back and stood. The other alpha just barely avoided his low blow, jerking back from the chairs before whipping his head around to full on glare at him. John returned the murderous look, fixing his jacket once back on his feet. 

“If you don't mind,” he drawled, unable to help the thread of a territorial rumble from leaching into his tone, “Simon and Ah were in the middle of a conversation and we’d like tah get back to it. Ah’m sure ye can catch up to him later.”

By later, he obviously meant never, and thankfully this new alpha wasn't dense enough to think it was an actual promise. He knew because Richard’s face did something strange– a twist, almost, in reaponse to his clear fuck off. His eyes shuttered, going glassy and dead for the briefest of seconds before he wrangled whatever the hell was wrong with him back under control. 

“Really?” 

Richard’s voice was tight. Angry. John felt his hackles rise with it, that alpha instinct to make himself look bigger flooding to the surface in the face of a threat. Couldn't help the way his lip curled either when the other alpha refused to address him after that. “That true, Ghost?”

(Fuckin bastard. Draggin his omega into this-)

John growled, low and bassy. A warning to Richard to leave Simon out of their tiff. As much as John would normally let Simon control everything, right now his opinion doesn't matter. 

This new alpha screamed danger and John wanted him as far away from Simon as possible. The fact that Richard couldn't take a hint and just deal with John on that decision had his fangs aching with the urge to rip out the man's jugular. 

He refused to look away, the stare Richard had pointed at him nothing short of challenging. As such, he missed how Simon looked at them both, and took a split second to contemplate his answer before responding.

“It is.”

Simon stood, towering over them both thanks to the heels. John had a brief moment of panic when he saw the omega reach for the other alpha, but settled when all Simon did was touch Richard’s shoulder and gently push him away. 

Richard didn't break his stare even as he was moved. And as he was guided back, John noted, again, how his expression flashed with something hot before melting into a facsimile calm once Simon let go and settled closer to John. Who moved to stand more in front of Simon once there was enough space to do so, instincts writhing the longer he was in this man’s presence.

“You sure I can't steal you for a bit?” Richard tried, still.

Simon shook his head. Looped his arm through John’s in an unexpected move that had the alpha internally reeling. “Unfortunately no. John and I are going to take a walk and finish talking about the donation he just gave and where it's all going. He’s been very generous tonight.”

John puffed his chest out just a smidge at the recognition. 

Richard didn't like this answer (something deep in John’s gut just told him so) but he didn't protest further. Just smiled in a way that didn't quite reach his eyes, Simon missing it as he checked his seat to make sure he had all his belongings.

“Thanks fer understanding,” John couldn't help but twist the knife as Simon gently tugged him towards the exit.

(The scowl his cheek got him was priceless, even if his alpha rumbled warily behind his ribs.)

Leaving the dining hall and entering the garden through the double glass french doors that opened out onto the patio was like a breath of fresh air. Over the course of dinner, John had grown annoyed with the cumulative scent of over a hundred different people clogging his nose, so the fresh breeze was like granting him a clean slate, perfect for recalibrating to huff the only scent he wanted to smell that night: his pretty date.

He glanced down at the hand wrapped around his bicep, a small smile tugging at his lips. Simon was too tall in his heels to properly link their arms. He didn't mind though. Liked the height difference, actually, and how the shoes made it even more pronounced between them.

(When they were mates, he'd buy Simon whatever heels he wanted. Would never get tired of having to look up at his pretty bitch either.)

Emboldened by the knowledge that they were out here only because Simon had initiated, John steered them towards the quieter parts of the garden, a sign saying Hedge Maze deciding the path. A passing server was yoinked of their wine as they went, John taking care to snag a glass too for Simon to drink out of.

Simon quirked a brow at his antics. Both met his hairline when John poured him a generous cup and offered it. He took the glass only after a few long seconds of watching the younger man, dark eyes full of quiet contemplation.

“... What exactly is your end goal here, John?” Simon asked, voice all low smoke in the night.

John supposed the question was a long time coming. Finally brought to a head now that they were alone and could speak about what was going on between them.

He looked up at Simon. “If ye want full transparency? You in mah nest, Ah suppose.”

The omega wrinkled his nose. His hand left John’s bicep. “I’m not some fetish for you to exploit. I told you that from day one.”

“Aye. Ah know,” John plactated, the removal of Simon's hand feeling like a slap. He resisted snatching his wrist and putting it back. “That's not what Ah mean.”

“What do you mean then?”

“Ah mean Ah want something permanent.” He tilted his head up at the omega, expression serious. “Do Ah wanna fuck ye stupid? Course Ah do. But really, doll, all Ah’ve been tryin to do since ye chewed me out is talk to ye.”

Simon looked skeptical. Lips pressed into a thin line, he didn't say anything for a moment. John could see the cogs turning anyway.

“You… that's it?”

John nodded. “Aye. Ye had every right tah tell me off. Ah should've known better than to catcall a pretty sophisticated thing like ye. Ye deserve tah be wined and dined. Dunno what possessed me to say all that.”

They approached the maze and entered it, John leading the way as Simon puzzled over his answer.

“I'm twice your age, pretty sure.” Simon’s scowl deepend. “You don't want to date an omega like me. And I'm not so sure why you think I want a pup for a partner.”

“Why no’?”

Simon couldn't help but fucking snort at that.

Where did he begin? 

Simon rolled his eyes, lip curling to show fang. “Age. I'll be near death by the time you start to slow down. Energy. Responsibility. Tastes-” He sucked his teeth. “Really, John, what could we possibly have in common that would ever make something like us work?”

As far as Simon was concerned, it wouldn't. They were in two different life stages, after all. John was young and wild– an alpha in his prime, ready to travel, conquer, and explore. Simon, meanwhile, was getting long in the tooth. Home was a comfort instead of just somewhere to rest his head between adventures. He liked routine and the safe little corner he built for himself. 

(A small part of himself yearned for another pup. One small and baby soft that wouldn't leave for a long time. He didn’t think about it too long though. Conceiving would be near impossible, and he was out of the optimum age range to adopt again. Something something not wanting to become a burden to his children.)

He shook his head. No. The more he thought about it, the more he was sure it was just better to leave things be. John would get bored with an omega like him, and Simon knew he wouldn't be able to tolerate having a partner that couldn’t understand his slower needs and interests (or his urge to nest as his biological clock ticked to zero). 

John, meanwhile, remained stubborn.

(As if there was any other setting for him to be on.)

“Me being younger means ye’ll have someone tah take care of ye,” he countered– like it was that easy. “And Ah don't spend all mah nights partyin’. Not anymore. Ah’m in bed by 10 usually. Wear a mouth guard and all that jazz too. Don't really have much time fer gallivanting since mah da put me in charge.”

“As fer tastes… Ah think we can manage that just fine.” He raked his eyes up and down Simon’s form, lingered on his shoes for most of it. “Don't need tah be a certain age tah appreciate luxury, doll.”

Simon makes a noise that's the definition of spluttering, and John smiles to himself in silent victory at being able to rend the omega out of words. He grabs the man’s hand and guides it back to his arm while hes at it, figures he can demand that when he obviously won this part of the debate for now.

They continue their walk in relative silence after that. 

The hedge maze isn't difficult. John had studied the shape of it from the property website, and so he's confident he is on the right path. The further they go the less and less he can hear of the overall party, the bushes swallowing them both and leaving them in quiet limbo. They haven't even come across anyone in their travels, the two of them well and truly alone.

(John tries not to preen too much with that knowledge, giddy with the excitement of having Simon’s attention all to himself for once.)

When the maze finally spits them out at its center, after endless twisting turns, John is delighted to see a bench in the middle of the manicured space.

It's a two seater, carved out of marble or granite. Inviting with its promise of comfortable solitude and made romantic by the occasional blinking firefly hovering in the quiet space.

He knows Simon’s feet must be hurting from walking as far as they did (though the omega hasn't complained once since their trek started), so John wastes no time and guides the taller man over. Gets him to sit first before joining him on the bench.

John isn't ashamed to say he’s entranced by the way the skirt goes taunt as Simon sits, thighs so plush he's surprised the fabric hasn't ripped as they spread against the stone. He knows Simon would never buy anything that cheap to ever make it a possibility of actually happening, but likes the idea regardless, and lets his mind drift while Simon stews in thought.

(Simon would look good in something shorter, he thinks. Not whorishly short. No, Simon was too refined for that. But something above the knee maybe. Enough to keep him covered, but in no way a hindrance to John’s wandering hands when they reached for him for skin on skin.)

He's brought out of his daydreaming by a derisive snort, Simon’s face pinched into a scowl John is just finding more and more cute the longer he's exposed to it.

John takes that as his cue and scoots closer, putting a hand on the edge of the bench behind Simon as he leans in. Simon does not radiate heat, but there is a soft warmth John can feel as he invades the blondes' space. A warm he wants to burrow into and hold close, but can’t since Simon is once again upset.

Their eyes meet shortly after, the moon their only source of light this far from the house. Simon is glaring at him with wary suspicion under the heavenly luminance, but he's still so beautiful that, even angry, he looks like an angel.

John doesn't really know how to go forward from here. He wants to– needs Simon like he needs air– but the taller man is also so out of his league he’s not sure he’ll ever really be deserving of him (nevermind if he can do anything to convince Simon that he's worth the scraps of his time).

The alpha knows he’s attached himself too quickly. It stupid how hard and fast he's fallen. But for some reason, he also doesnt have a single fuck to give about it. Its a strange, non reliable limbo thats honestly a bit frustrating to be yo-yoing in. But he wants this with his very marrow. He's sure of it. And if Simon doesn't want him back… he's not sure how he’ll recover. Probably won't, if the way the ache wraps around his heart like a vice at just the very idea. He can't help but notice, though, between his self doubts, how close they are. How Simon hasn't pulled away even though John purposefully sat close enough that their shoulders are touching. 

John isn't entirely sure what that means (Simon is still such a fascinating enigma) but he decides to take a gamble, leaning even further forward to brush his nose along the strong jaw before him. Simon makes a noise as their skin touches, tenses, but still… doesn't pull away.

John cracks.

His voice is small and desperate between them, the alpha wriggling closer like an over eager puppy. Given an inch, he's trying to take a mile. 

“Let me take ye on a proper date, dove,” he begs (he does a lot of that now, doesn’t he?). “Just one. That’s all Ah’m asking. Just me and ye.”

A date– a real one– was all he wanted. A chance to show Simon he was good for it– without coworkers or old flames to interfere. He wanted to know what Simon’s favorite food was. His music tastes. What places he had been to and which ones he still wished to see. To out it simply Johnny wanted a chance to learn what a life with him would look like if Simon would just let him in the door. If he would take him in like a tomcat who had grown tired of the streets now that it found a person it had taken a shine to.

John has inched in closer, nose now nuzzling along the edge of the collar sitting snug around Simon’s throat as he pleads. And whether its the contact or the bubble finally bursting, Simon leans away suddenly, forcing distance between them. 

It's not far but it may as well be a chasm yawning between them with the few inches Simon creates, shoulder turned towards John in a silent order to back off.

(He tries not to feel gutted by the rebuff. Fails. )

“There's nothing to try, John.” He growls, glares down at his wine glass once the alpha is no longer breathing on his neck. The muscle in his cheek jumps as he spits, “Eating me out in your hallway doesn't mean we would work.” 

Oh.

Is that what this is about?

The alpha stares as the pieces fit together. It makes sense, he realises. John has gathered that Simon keeps to himself. Prefers it that way, maybe. Either he's been burned too many times or is just a primadonna, John hadn't really cared to analyze which one. But considering both makes the avoidance and anger a bit easier to understand on why Simon was so upset, even if the omega had enjoyed it immensely in the moment.

Even though the other man’s body language is screaming avoidance, John cant help but reach out and touch him anyway. Has to, to make sure Simon understands how honest he's being when he speaks next. 

Simon’s thigh is dense under his palm when he places it down, muscles flinching at the contact briefly like a spooked horse. “Eating ye out wasa dream,” he admits, because it was, “but Ah dinnae just want ye for that. This isnae just sex fer me, Simon.”

Its not. Its something John has no experience in, but wants all the same. There's a longing in him unlike anything he's ever felt. Like a piece of his very soul was missing until that day in their backyards, and he knows Simon would feel it too if he let him in. If he gave John a chance to peacock and grovel and show him what a perfect fit they could be.

But Simon shakes his head, scowl deepening. He breathes through his nose like John is testing his patience and maybe he is, but John isn't going to just let him think that this whole endeavour is as superficial as hes trying to push.

He tries again. 

“Ah want ye,” he stresses, tries to catch Simon’s eye. He's frustratingly avoidant though, brown refusing to meet blue. “Ah can't explain why, doll, but Ah do. Ah mean it.”

“You don't know me from a hole in the ground!” Simon snaps, finally looking at him. His scent has turned burnt again, charred, bitter vanilla the hallmark of his anger. “Why the hell would I ever believe you? After what you've done so far?”

What he's referring to goes unsaid. The stalking. The intrusion. The hallway (not planned, but a sin regardless, no matter how mutual). How can Simon believe this is anything but some sort of fetish turned obsession? No genuine affection, but lust and hormones, base instincts at the wheel of a ship he can only picture as bound to sink. Why would he tie himself to that?

(He already dreaded losing his cub. Knew it was coming, eventually. He couldn't handle losing a lover on top of that inevitable end. Couldn't handle being the only one committed, turned sweet after so long of being not, and then cut loose when someone younger and prettier came around, left to pick up the pieces like so many times before.)

Simon had to look away, the sudden prick of tears behind his eyes frightening.

He's not normally emotional. Never could afford to be, so he blames the wine for the crack in his composure as the barrage of thoughts and the situation hurts something deep inside him. Something fragile and already broken, held together with the blood, sweat, and tears of his cumulative suffering. 

He's avoided it for as long as he can remember. Simon learned early on that he wasn't built for that fairytale when his father beat him instead of loved him. Discarded it entierly he had to claw his way out of his own grave after a betrayal that made trust foreign. John was promising something that sounded perfect, but couldn't possibly be true. He had never been so lucky. Wouldn't start to think he could be now.

It’s quiet for a long moment, the pause pregnant with something not quite tension, but also nothing comfortable. John stares at Simon as the omega battles whatever demons have made his scent shift again, charred vanilla bleeding into something more acrid.

He has no idea what Simon has been through. Knows it was something given the amount of scars on him, but he has no details. No clues to tell him how carefully he needs to tread. But the urge to prove he’s not like the rest (ugh, cringe) only grows the longer Simon stays sitting beside him, tense and upset.

His words tell him that, first and foremost, he needs to assure Simon that this is serious. A daunting task, considering that they are, more or less, strangers by all rights. John is infatuated, but Simon does have a point in saying that they don't know each other. Asking him to believe him when he says he wants forever does sound crazy, so he thinks for a moment on what would work best to coax the larger omega into not immediately rejecting him. 

He thinks for a bit longer. Then… he slides off the bench– sets himself on his knees once more in front of the omega. Simon startles, draws his legs up like he means to pull away but John clamps his hands down on the fat and muscle just above his knees, fingers digging into the silk wrapped around them in a silent request to stay.

They stare at each other for a long moment before John speaks, voice quiet and sincere.

“What do Ah have tah do to prove to ye that Ah’m serious?” John pairs his question with an earnest look. He wants to do this right. “Ah want tah get to know ye. Ah want to spend time with ye. If ye have rules to follow Ah will do it. Whatever ye need from me.”

Unable to help himself, he shuffles closer. Until Simon’s knees push into his chest and he's straddling the taller man’s feet. The carnal image of him just humping Simon’s shin like a dog does come to mind, but only for a nano-second. An intrusive thought he roughly slaps away in favor of keeping to his earlier words. Because this is about more than sex. Yes, he's been driving himself mad with all the dreams and fantasies he indulges in in the privacy of his own home or in his head, but if Simon needs him to be as celibate as a monk in order to prove he he is worthy of him, then so fuckin’ be it.

Simon, meanwhile, rolls his eyes, shrugs his shoulders in an exaggerated gesture to express his exasperation. “I don't know John,” he says, annoyed. “I don't know if there is anything you can do.”

John refuses to believe it. Presses on. “There has tah be somethin’. Anything.”

Simon laughs, and it's mocking. Slightly tipsy too. “What? You’re saying you’re gonna, like, do anything I ask?”

“Yes.” 

His quick answer obviously wasn't what the omega was expecting. 

Simon scoffs, but his expression looks pinched. He looks away before John can really examine it, focus on one of the bushes surrounding them. His free hand clenches into a fist on his lap, scarred knuckles paling under the moon.

It's quiet again for a another painfully long moment. John waits patiently– would wait for as long as Simon needs him to. Knows the reward is worth it. 

Eventually, the omega puts him out of his misery. And gets to the meat of the point in the same breath.

“You're really letting this whole hallway thing get to you, aren't you?”

Oh.

Again.

John wanted to point out that he had not brought it up at all, actually. That Simon was the one who kept referencing it. He didn't, for obvious reasons. But its constant mention did cue him in on a possible new angle to approach from. One Simon had so graciously bestowed upon him.

(A weak spot was a weak spot was all he was saying.)

“Did you like it?”

That gets his attention. 

Simon looks down at him. “What?” 

“Did ye like it?” John repeats. “When Ah ate ye out?”

A blush has started to form. Part alcohol and part arousal, John knows. Simon squirms and then barks out a laugh that feels forced.

“I thought you said this wasn't about sex?” he says, but he looks like he's being backed into a corner at the same time. Caught and helpless to leave.

(John likes this look on him. Nervy, like he might run.)

“It’s not,” John confirms. Can’t help the purr that starts to rumble out of him the longer Simon looks like a deer in headlights. “But ye keep mentioning what we did. And Ah know ye feel some way about it, but… Ah dinnae think it's negative. Is it, Simon?”

Fuck.

Simon’s blush has turned darker now. He keeps making motions like he means to talk, but no words come out. His throat bobs on a heavy swallow, and John wants to rip the collar off and make a new one out of hickeys.

(So his omega really is just acting this way because he feels guilty about enjoying it? Well, he can work with that.)

“Ah can do it again, if ye want,” Johnny continues, watching Simon’s dark eyes dart around in refusal to look at him. “But only on two conditions.”

(Two small things. So very small.)

The alpha waits. Refuses to elaborate until he's asked. He knows he has Simon's attention because the omega goes still for a second, and he patiently waits again for him to get over his roadblock. 

Simon is quiet again for a bit before he finally speaks, low voice hesitant in its delivery.

“... What conditions?” 

(Gotcha.)

John grins. 

“If Ah make ye cum three times, ye have to go on a date with me.”

Simon’s cheeks turn scarlet. Still, he doesn't balk. Not completely. Fidgets before asking: “And the second?”

John squeezes his claves, dips his head to nose at the fabric of his skirt. Tempts himself. “Second is ye have tah ask me proper fer it. Just so ye can’t feel guilty about it later.” He smiles, tilts his head at Simon and rests his cheek on his knee. “‘Cause that's what’s happenin’, isn't it, doll? Ye feel guilty fer enjoyin it.”

“I-” 

Simon huffs, bares his teeth at John. It may have been fiercer if he wasn't such a pretty shade of pink at the same time. 

“I don't know what youre talking about,” he snips, sticking his nose up. Like being a brat now will just erase his earlier bashfulness. “I don't feel guilty about anything.”

John hums. His hands slowly rub up and down the thighs before him, the silk wrapping them reflecting the moonlight in mirage waves. He doesn't respond to Simon’s poor attempts at lying. They are past that now.

“What will it be, dove?” he asks instead.

Simon takes a moment to have a small crisis.

He definitely shouldn't have had as much wine as he did, he thinks. He can hold his liquor, that's not the issue. It's how he thinks while he's under its influence that's the problem. And it's what's giving John a sudden edge he hadn't really had before.

See, where booze made his dad a raging drunk, Simon’s blessed with the way it just makes his cunt wet and his standards low. He wasn't completely dependent on it, but a little buzz had always helped back in the day when he couldn't be sure if the alpha he was taking to bed while on leave could uphold his end of the bargain. A little self insurance, if you will, to make sure he didn't leave the bed unsatisfied.

John made him squirt after he had one glass- nowhere enough to make him hot and bothered. 

He's not really sure what's going to happen now that he's five deep. 

(Fuck.)

Simon licks his lips and looks up at the night sky like it might have answers. It doesn't. The few stars he can see mock him for thinking they care. And for the question he's about to ask.

“...You really think you can get me off three times?” 

He feels stupid as soon as the words pass his lips. Like he's walked right into a trap that’s bold and obvious. But… fuck, he cant deny he isnt intrigued. That night in John's house was a mistake, he wouldn't budge on that, but it had been good. So good. And... maybe he's touch starved and a little drunk and that's why he's continuing to make bad choices

John doesn't answer right away– he's busy watching the emotions flick across Simon's pretty face. The omega is an open book when he's got a few drinks in him, he discovers. That iron fist of restraint no longer holds everything on lock down and makes him so much more expressive.

John likes it. Wonders what he has to do to get this sort of transparency without wine to guide the way.

“Ah do,” he answers eventually, voice dripping slow like molasses. “Are ye going to let me?”

(Bastard.)

Simon squirms in his seat. Little fidgets, made worse when John drags his hands up up up and closer to the convex of his hips before dragging them back down. Predictably, he stalls on his answer. Fights internally with himself over whatever it is that has him thinking too hard.

(John doesn't really mind. He would gladly stay here for the rest of the night if that's all it comes to. Time spent with the other man is all he wants– if he's allowed to be pathetic and needy about it. That, and its so obvious Simon wants it. Seeing him struggle with that fact just does something for him.)

Simon grips the edge of the bench in a death grip, knuckles turning white as he wills away the arousal that's burning low in his belly.

He knows he should resist. Its obvious. But he’s tempted. And he's been so good, he thinks, the alcohol siding with the warmth in his body. He’s kept to himself all these years. Ignored every offer of a shag or fling or whatever the kids call it these days. And maybe that's why this is so difficult. Its not John persay but the promise of a good time. An actual good time and not something sub par where he can easily walk away. John already made him squirt. Twice.

(He hadnt even known he could squirt, for fucks sake.)

What he's getting at is if John is that good already, blowing his mind on a random ass Wednesday, then three here with plenty of alcohol to ease the way, may break him. And then he’ll have to do this all over again– as an actual date.

(Christ. He really is a mess. Get it together, Riley. You know better.)

It shouldn't be a tough choice. But it doesn't feel easy, especially since John is petting him like a cat– those big, warm hands leaving gooseflesh in their wake as they slowly travel up and down and up and down the meat of his thighs.

(Fuck. It's not fair.)

It's the hands– those cursed, hot hands. If John wasn’t touching him Simon could resist his lure, tell him to leave him alone and fuck off. But them, paired with the wine (and how John is looking at him like he wants to eat him), and his resolve is crumbling bit by bit, sanded away with every pass of Johnny’s hands over his skirt.

He finally breaks when John’s thumb skirts over the top of his mound, his omega all but howling for the alpha to quell the fire he's helped stoke at the fleeting pass of heat.

Fuck it. He’ll deal with his regrets in the morning.

He takes a deep breath, then answers.

“Yes.”

Chapter Text

“Yes.”

All at once, John stills.

“Yes?” he echoes, sounding so surprised at Simon’s feet. 

Simon’s surprised too, but the liquid fire in his veins, and currently slicking up his underwear, makes it easy to ignore how pathetic they both are.

He nods, eyes squeezed shut (because apparently seeing John want him is too much for his fragile constitution). “Yes. Fine. Do it.” He sucks in a ragged breath, pussy throbbing with his heartbeat. “Just- hurry up . Before someone bloody fucking finds us.”

(His omega distinctly rebukes his aversion. Getting caught would just make everything hotter, if you asked them.)

An eager chuff rattles against his shins and Simon can't see him with his eyes closed, but he imagines the look Johnny’s wearing all the same. Surely its like the one he had back at his house. Blue eyes near black with lust, looking up at him like Simon himself hung the moon and stars.

(He swallows down the reflexive jump in his throat at the thought, not quite ready to unpack the feelings that suddenly rise with the image.)

He feels Johnny’s hands move to his waistband, the catch of callouses following the border of fabric towards his back and feeling for the zipper. Simon knows when he finds the pull tab, feels the slight tug as Johnny pinches it and shivers as the promise of pleasure creeps ever closer.

He’s tilting his hips up to help without John even needing to ask, body all too eager despite his earlier protests. With how John’s been foaming at the mouth for this opportunity he's expecting his skirt to be ripped off as soon as he lifts up. Instead, he grows confused when those hands pause and don't continue.

Simon holds his slight arch and waits until his thighs tremble minutely with the strain and his anticipation turns to heated, horny frustration that crackles and pops until he feels like he might burst out of his skin.

“What?” He finally snaps, eyes flying open to glare daggers at the alpha.

(What the fuck? This dumb alpha begged to fuck him not five minutes ago, and now that he’s said yes he’s just sitting there? He wants that tongue on him, damn it–)

His gaze lands on Johnny, who looks like he's afraid to say whatever is about to come out of his mouth. The uncharacteristic nervousness doesn't do much to soothe Simon’s new anger, a low growl now rumbling out of him the longer the younger keeps him waiting.

“John–” he growls.

“Ye’ll really let me take ye on a date, right?” 

What?

Simon frowns- confused- because where the fuck did this come from? “What are you talking about?”

Johnny licks his lips. “If Ah can make ye cum, three times like Ah promised… Ye’ll let me take ya out, right? Ye mean it?”

The omega can only pause.

Horny Johnny was a pest, slobbering over the slightest slip of skin like a Victorian man seeing table legs and proudly showing off his dick like a champion stud. But this Johnny? The man who looks younger with such open fear on his face? Who sounds so small when he asks if Simon will keep his promise? 

Simon doesn't know what to do with it.

He had thought about just pushing Johnny away if he did prove to be too good, or just outright denying his end of the bargain if he couldn't manage to. But now he's got grey-blue puppy eyes looking at him like they’ll be devastated if Simon pulls such tricks. Like he might actually shatter the poor boy into a million pieces if he doesn't entertain him. 

It's confusing. And his instincts aren't helping. His omega is whining in his skull and begging him to play nice- to make those sad eyes go away and present in equal measure. He can feel the need to swaddle Johnny under its ruff of fur and soothe his worries, like John is someone he does this with regularly. Which he isn't , and Simon himself is wary with the mere idea, but something about John must just make him agree to stupid things, because he finds himself nodding before the motion really registers.

 “... I will,” he says, after a thick swallow. 

( What are you doing, Riley? )

It's a mistake the moment the words leave him, alarm bells blaring in his head like it's the end of times. He should have taken the opportunity to walk away because now he knows he’s fucked. Johnny’s expression melts into something reverent and relieved (and something in his chest, scarily, melts in kind). 

The combination of it all makes him look away, again , the omega worried he’ll say something asinine if he's forced to look at Johnny when he does shit like that. 

(Like a date with him is going to be the best thing he's ever done.)

His omega is purring, entirely too pleased. Simon hates it, wishes he'd been born a beta so he wouldn't have to deal with the way it gets him in trouble and makes him weak where he shouldn't. 

He clears his throat, shakes off the weird feelings to get his bearings back. Resolves to think with his cunt like he's done every time before John and not… whatever the hell is fluttering around behind his sternum that is surely his instinct’s fault. 

“But only if you actually make me cum, remember?” It sounds like an afterthought if he's ever heard one. A facsimile excuse thrown out that's almost as eloquent as saying “no homo” right after doing something that is very much homo.

John, bless him, just purrs and nods, that rough, rottie rumble bleeding into the air once more. He dives forward, rubs his face against the soft give of Simon’s belly while his hands undo the zipper behind the small of the Omega’s back. “Ah’m not lettin’ ye go until Ah do, promise,” the alpha says, and Simon bites his lip as the skirt lets go of his figure.

John takes it off of him with care despite his obvious eagerness, careful not to damage the fabric or put it on anything that could snag its delicate fibers. Simon hisses as the cool stone of the bench meets his bare cunt when he sits back down, John having removed his panties at the same time in a desire to see him naked, faster.

Without his skirt, everything feels more sensitive, and he's more aware of where they are. How anyone could just stumble upon them and their secret by chance alone. 

The thought does weird things to his head, adding to his arousal in a way he’s not really sure ever's been there before. But now that it's there it makes him spread his legs while John finishes up tending to his clothes, putting himself on display and breathing a bit more rapidly than he was before.

(He and his omega preen when John notices.)

“Fuckin’ stunnin,” Johnny groans. His pupils blow as he locks his attention on Simon’s perfect cunt, the damn thing practically singing to him. It’s drooling , strings of slick stretching to the stone under him as Simon leans back. John takes initiative and pushes his knees farther apart, salivates at the wet impression he uncovers, Simon’s pussy having stamped its beauty on the bench like a signature.

Christ on a bike. Simon was gonna kill him!

For a moment all the alpha can do is stare. He almost can't believe he's actually here. That his plan worked and he has the omega he's been craving half naked and waiting on him. Willingly , and not manhandled into something only partially consensual.

Simon’s skin is warm and he smells so damn tempting this close up. John takes advantage of his new permission and touches. He drags his palms up from the inside of Simon’s knees to the inside of his thighs, palms the tender, milky skin he aches to know what feels like when it's clamped around his waist. He grazes Simon’s cunt with his knuckles before he hooks his hands on Simon's hips and uses his thumbs to properly spread him, dick throbbing as he eyes the meal he's about to feast on. The hole he wants to sink into but can't, not yet.

(Soon though. If he does his job. If he gets Simon to heights of pleasure he’s never known before, he can finally fuck this pretty pussy. Put a pup in it like there needs to be and keep Simon glued to his side.)

He tears his eyes away only to look up at Simon, who's leaned back with a hand to brace himself, eyes lidded and face flushed. His lips are parted and he's breathing through them with the softest pants. 

It's an image right out of one of his favorite wet dreams- the ones where his prickly omega is sweet and pliant, only that way because John bullied his way past his defenses and sunk his teeth into a gooey center. Where Simon gives him fuck me eyes and lets him worship in every way he wants. 

It's nothing for John to surge up and kiss him as the thoughts flood him, slip his tongue into that pretty mouth and lick the wine from behind his teeth. To swallow the moan Simon lets out as he steals the breath from his lungs.

Simon tastes divine. Like tannins and something sweet , but in a way that just wets John’s appetite and makes him hunger for more . He could spend eternity kissing him, the soft give of his lips and the brush of their noses intoxicating in the best way. He drags his tongue over the point of those silver fangs, slivers at the pain and copper that follows.

It takes all his effort to separate his lips from Simon’s, feels like he's ripping a piece of himself off as he does. “Need ye tah lay down, Dove,” John rasps in his ear after kissing his way across Simon’s scarred cheek, unable to resist tracing one of his scars with his tongue. His breath across his skin makes Simon tremble, and he nods shakily in agreement to the demand.

The wine glass is plucked from his grasp and set aside, John helping manoeuvre him onto his back on the short edge of the bench as soon as it's safe in the grass. Before he can lay down properly the alpha’s jacket is removed and used to keep the chill of the bench from nipping at his skin, John asking him if he's comfortable once he's spread out with his ass hanging off one end.

“Just get on with it,” Simon grits out, forcing some bite into his words to keep from swooning.

John kisses his hip bone and Simon blushes as those damned hands fondle his thighs before lifting them with too much ease and settling them over the top of John’s broad shoulders. His cunt oozes in memory of the last time he was fixed in a position like this, throbbing deep in his core as he clenches around nothing. Briefly, he feels shame at how horny this whole thing has made him (and laments in how far he’s fallen) until there's a tongue on his snatch and the thoughts melt out of his ears.

Unlike last time there is no hurry. No frantic race to the finish though there probably should be– considering where they are. Johnny savors what he's doing and it shows, the passes of his tongue slow, methodical, and controlled. Simon can feel that coil that had started winding up beginning to tighten as pleasure sparks along his nerves.

His head lolls, shoulders melting into the bench. Tilts his chin up and bears his throat to the night like it's the easiest thing in the world. Like he wouldn’t usually prefer chewing off his own arm instead. “ Fuck ,” he murmurs, a breathless, disbelieving laugh on the tail end of the word. 

John’s too good at this. Way too good. 

Simon’s shoved alphas between his thighs before, just as greedy for head as the knotheads he used to take to bed, but John is different . His enthusiasm shines and his technique is flawless, Simon unable to deny that with the way his thighs tremble as he feels that edge approaching at a, frankly, breakneck pace.

John nuzzles in closer, rough stubble rasping against tender flesh. It adds to the symphony, a delicious not-quite-pain that loosens his lips enough to let a moan slip into the warm evening air and Simon reaches down on instinct to thread his fingers into that stupid mohawk and pull.

It's a perfect handhold. He feels styling pomade and wax crumple under his grip as he ruins the younger man’s coiffe and the alpha goes with his tugging easily, like he knows he’s nothing more than a glorified toy to be used . The thoughtless compliance is another mark in his favor, Simon pushing John’s head down the same time he arches his hips up and grinds against his lips and the point of his nose. 

Simon hisses, bears his teeth at how fucking good it feels. John takes it all, opens his mouth and welcomes the abuse, blue eyes so blown out they're black as he watches Simon take from over the crest of his mound.

The way he bends to Simon’s whimsy is enough to have him warm and tingly with a whole different kind of rush, the omega’s next hip roll stuttering before he doubles down. Hard .

“Pure gaggin’ for it,” he huffs, liquid heat injecting straight into his marrow when John’s eyes roll .

Even to his own ears his words sound more like something full of awe than anything degrading. Johnny’s lashes flutter like Simon spilled something straight from the heart as a result, the alpha sighing into his snatch. His tanned hands grip his thighs tighter, and Simon gets one more thrust in before John fights back for control and latches on to his clit.

Simon yelps. There’s no other word for the sound that escapes him at the sudden rapid suction on such a sensitive bundle of nerves. His other hand shoots down to John’s head and grips as hard at the first, no doubt ripping out a few strands from John’s mohawk as he tongues the underside of his clit. The alpha bobs his head like Simon has a dick to blow, pinning him with a stare that's now smoldering.

“Fuckin’ hell .” The blonde nearly chokes on his own tongue, garbling out a guttural growl and letting his head fall back. Its like he's on fire, heart beating a million miles a minute and skin so warm the bench feels frigid. He feels like he can't catch his breath, like John’s sucking it out of his clit with every messy bob of his head. His body jerks, a staggering yowl ripping out of him as John’s tongue does something beyond the sloppy seal of his lips. At the same time the orgasm he had somewhat been chasing turns predator and sinks its teeth in before he can fully comprehend it’s there .

It crashes onto him without mercy and Johnny doesn't provide any relief. He stays on as it crests, suctioned to him like some freaky octopus with his tongue stroking the underside in pulses. It’s turning that already overwhelming wave into burning overstimulation, the wire in Simon’s brain torn between loving it and worried he might piss himself.

Simon thrashes, keen high in his throat. His heels scrabble against John’s back, hands flying from John’s hair to the bench to try and pull himself away . Not that it does anything. Johnny just grips him harder– yanks him back into place with a growl. 

Like a dog with fucking food aggression.

“Ngh- Johnny !” 

Simon’s mouth opens on a silent scream the same time something sinks into his cunt. It's thick and calloused, and slots into place so well there's no way he can stop the gush of fluid that squirts out of him in response, another orgasm ambushing him and soaking the bench.

As well as John, who groans happily.

Simon seizes, hips jerking against his will and fucking himself on what he recognizes as one of Johnny’s fingers-  slipped in while he was distracted. Simon doesn't know what to do besides clench down around it like a vice once it's seated, body rhythmically, instinctually , fluttering around it like it's a cock to milk while he arches on the bench like he's mid exorcism. 

(Fuck. FUCK. It feels good. So good !)

Johnny releases his clit with a lewd pop after way too long, pride welling in the younger’s chest at the needy whine that rips out of the omega.

“Wish ye’d let me fuck ye proper,” Johnny growls, voice pitching into something that’s pure treble and bass. He remains close, nuzzling the soft skin where hip meets thigh as he pumps his finger in and out of Simon, watching the digit get swallowed up like he's in a trance while Simon pants raggedly into the night.

“Fuckin needed tha’, didn't ye?” John asks when Simon doesn't recover, sounding unbearably fond. He twists his wrist and adds another finger, diesel engine purr staring up when Simon bucks into the stretch, greedy hole squelching slick as he pushes in to the last knuckle and crooks his fingers. 

Simon jackknifes, eyes snapping open and leaking tears. His hands claw at the bench, scrabbling at the stone for mercy. “Ohmyfucking god-!” 

Johnny turns his teeth on the butter flesh of the thigh on his right, biting down until Simon yelps again. He slaps at John’s head and John lets go with a snarl, finger still pistoning in and out of the most perfect pussy he’s ever known. His voice is a snarl “Not done yet. Still owe ye one more, remember?”

The moan Simon lets out sounds pitiful, high and fucked out and sweet. The alpha knows he’ll never ever forget it as soon as it graces his ears, and presses a kiss to the center of the indents he left of his teeth before he starts to massage that spongy button he's found inside.

Simon’s walls flutter under his fingertips, clamping down hard before they loosen up as the omega sobs out something unintelligible and arches off the bench again. His silk top is straining against the width of his chest, buttons barely holding on as Simon sucks in heaving breaths and strains. Johnny doesn't think he's ever witnessed something so pretty before, hungry eyes taking in every detail as his fingers slowly work his lover towards another frenzy.

“Yer a work of art, sweet thing,” Johnny breathes, free hand slipping from its place to Simon’s waist. He curls his hand into claws, grips milky skin so hard it might bruise, pushing himself up to hover over Simon and watch his face as it twists up in perfect agony, his fingers the conductor to the symphony.

He's being cruel now, he realises as he watches Simon writhe beneath him, but at the same time Simon’s teased him all night. First with that skirt, then with the quiet, intimate conversation over dinner, and finally…. agreeing to this . 

The alpha knows there's no way Simon will actually let him fuck him in the middle of a corporate retreat, but just the fact that this - this entire crazy scenario- is possible makes his fangs ache in his jaw with the urge to bite and claim.

John really wants to flip Simon over. Wants to make him straddle the bench wide and have the marble leave red indents in the tender skin of the inside of his thighs. Spread so he can’t shy away when Johnny mounts him like a mutt and fucks him until he’s popped his knot so hard there’s no way they aren't stuck for an hour. 

(He imagines getting to fuck the omega so deep he bullies his way into his cervix and experiences a primal fuck that only belonged to his pre-evolved ancestors– Alphas who didn't have to court beyond having a big dick and teeth to provide.)

John bites his lip, exhaling like a bull to keep his head. And his restraint . 

He's not dumb, despite previous mentions. While his luck paid off and got him knuckle deep in Simon’s guts now, the chances he could do what he's envisioning would most likely end with him dead the moment he whips his cock out. 

It aches to acknowledge the fact that he's so close and yet still so far from his goal– balls already so full from denying himself this morning. Arousal flickers into anger with himself for not being able to woo Simon as quickly as he wished, and he drives his digits into Simon so fast and hard that the omega can't help letting out a squeal, this orgasm more like revenge for Johnny than anything for him.

Simon reacts beautifully , finally unable to remain composed and Johnny finally feels some sort of vindication. Satisfaction that Simon feels as out of control as he does right now over how this chase is driving him mad . 

Simon gushes again– harder and hotter this time. It gets all over John’s suit, soaks the front of his pants and makes his dick throb like it's been doused in miracle gro. His knot is burgeoning in his slacks and threatening to pop on the visual, balls tight and full as Simon cumes for a third time and robs him of the chance to be in him while he does. 

John stifles a growl when he feels Simon clamp down so hard the nerves in his fingers pinch off from the pressure, and can only be remiss that it's not his knot suffering such abuse. 

(He’d cum so hard if it was. Pressure was the only thing that felt good to a knot- a vice like what he was feeling would probably kill him with how good it would feel.)

The lieutenant, however, is thrashing on the bench, legs coming up like he’s going to kick John away just to flop back open, muscles betraying the master as his brain evaporates in the blaze that is this third orgasm.

He's so far gone he doesn't even know he's squirted again, the feeling in his belly he would come to realize later as much too close to the burn of an over-full bladder emptying to be comfortable. Won’t know, however, if the heat that comes to his cheeks is because he hopes he pissed himself or the shame that he may already have.

For now though he's gone offline. His eyes have rolled back into his skull and his mouth is slack, tempting Johnny even more with the urge to just spit in his mouth and see if he’d swallow on instinct. He's cumming so hard his consciousness has fled for a brief few moments, and John soaks it all up with an expression that can only be read as obsession if someone were to see.

He rips his fingers out when Simon’s hole ripples between streams, the bear trap letting him up just enough that he can be free. He slaps his soaked hand over the hood of Simon’s clit as soon as it is and delights in the ragged gasp it gets him before he's aggressively rubbing at it, using all his fingers to stimulate the blonde and get the poor man cumming for a fourth time.

He gets a real scream this time. It's definitely too loud, and it sounds like Simon is dying , but it’s perfect and for some reason Johnny feels catharsis as it settles in his audio-memory. The tension bleeds out of him, and he feels sated. 

Fed, for now.

“Fuckin’ perfect, doll. Look at ye-” John groans over the sound of spattering liquid and Simon’s keening. His slacks are soaked now, direct in the path of Simon’s gushing. The sleeve of the hand making him spray like a sprinkler is much the same, cufflinks dripping with watery slick. He keeps rubbing at Simon's abused pussy until the squirt gushing out of him cuts off abruptly, body wrung dry, and Simon chokes on a sob as his body reboots and shakes violently with the aftershocks. Only then does John sit back and take in his work. 

He rubs his wet hands up and over the pale expanse of Simon’s twitching bare thighs, holding him open so he can’t hide his ruin. The older man is humping the air, nothing more than an exposed nerve at this point. John stares but makes no move to touch his cunt. Knows it's too sensitive to stand it– even if it winks at him temptingly with every little twitch and shudder Simon lets run through him. 

He smears the omega's slick into the fine blonde hairs on his thighs to keep from reaching for it despite knowing its tender, cock throbbing behind the prison of his zipper and wishing it was his own cum he was rubbing into Simon’s skin instead. 

When Simon finally isn't panting like he's run a marathon any longer, Johnny speaks. 

“Better, darlin ?”

He doesn't miss how Simon’s breath hitches. Or the low keen that slips out of him, so quiet it could maybe be mistaken for just another exhale if Johnny wasn’t being hyper vigilant. 

Maybe it was mean of him to use another lover’s endearment while Simon’s still coming down (petty, for sure) but John thinks he can get away with it considering he's wearing the proof of his success with their bargain. 

That, and Simon smells so fucking pleased, like he’s bordering on a heat after those four orgasms. He’s also definitely tipsier than before, now that his heart's been pumping. His glassy eyes say it all.

Simon doesn't move from where he's sprawled out, and John doesn't try to rush him. The wet spots are starting to cool, but it's warm enough that their chill is minimal if not completely dismissible. Johnny keeps his hands moving in the meantime, rubbing every bit of skin he can reach on Simon’s pretty torso to let him know he's taken care of until he comes back down.

It takes more than a handful of minutes before John sees a spark of recognition come back to lidded brown eyes, Simon back in his mind again– if only barely.

Johnny lets him lay in the quiet rasp of skin on skin for a minute or two before he speaks. “We need to get ye home, sweet thing,” he says since it feels most appropriate. He loathes the idea but knows Simons is too far down to keep going. Not if he wants to stick to his word. “Almost fell asleep. I saw ye.”

Simon puffs and flutters his eyes shut. Johnny bites his cheek with how fucking beautiful he looks as he does. “Not tired,” Simon slurs, knowing damn well it's a lie. He’s exhausted . He’d sleep on this bench if Johnny left him.

John, thankfully, doesn't believe him. He stands just enough to crouch and scoop Simon into his arms, plucking him from his sprawl forcing him to sit up out of his mess.

Simon is pink as he's propped up, bracing himself with an arm so he doesn't fall over when Johnny retreats. His head tingles as blood rushes back to the rest of his limbs, and it takes all his efforts to focus on what Johnny asks him as he kneels at his feet again.

“What?”

“Gonna clean ye up a bit before Ah put yer skirt back on,” John repeats, endearment bleeding into his words. He chuckles. “Drank a bit too much, didn't ye?”

Simon stubbornly refuses to give him the satisfaction, though his cheeks are hot with the truth. “Quiet, Mactavish,” he grumbles instead, starting to look for his underwear in an effort of avoiding eye contact.

Taking his grousing as permission, John digs into his pocket for his handkerchief, using the swatch of fabric to wipe away a majority of the slick between Simon’s thighs. He stuffs it back into his pocket once he's done, fetching the pile of clothes next. The movement attracts Simon’s attention and the omega is reaching for his panties once he sees them (black, just like the rest of his outfit).

Smack!

John smacks his hand before he can grab the lace, Simon snatching it back out of reflex. Simon gasps, back of his hand stinging.

“What the fuck, Johnny?” he spits, tongue still too heavy in his jaw so it doesn't sound as venomous as he’d like.

“Yer not liftin a finger, ye hear me?” The alpha lets his voice bleed into something that sounds like a command. “ Sit .”

His omega goes belly up, and Simon is no better.

His jaw clicks shut, stunned into silence. Ghost can only quietly watch him in his drunken stupor as Johnny carefully slips his legs into the holes and glides the lace back into place, lifting his hips to settle the elastic around them.

The skirt is next, handled with even more care, zipped up once it fits just right and wrinkles smoothed by John’s big mitts. Simon still doesn't say anything, watching John as the man sits back on his heels.

He beams at Simon. All cocky, young,  smug charm.

“Thank ye, doll.”

It's praise, but nothing like Simon’s been given before. It's different from Price’s “good lad” or Claude’s “Well done, Simon” he sometimes whispers when it's them at the end of a meeting and their coworkers are still in the room. No, Johnny’s appraisal sounds dirty as much as it sounds good, and he feels like he should be embarrassed from the way it makes him burn .

Once again he looks away, glares at one of the hedge walls instead. “I still need my shoes,” he mutters, petulant.

Johnny chuffs, a chuckle mixed in the sound. “Ah’ll carry them. We need tah walk to the parking lot. They're too tall fer ye like this.”

Internally, Simon hates that John is right. He does glare at the alpha this time though, squinting at him as he stands and helps pull Simon to his own feet. 

“Did you not drink?” Simon asks as he's helped. John had as many glasses of wine as he had, but he seemed to be much more alert than Simon felt right then. 

John shook his head. “Nae, Ah had a few zero proof sangria’s. Not as much of a fan of wine unless it's sweet,” he admits, guiding Simon to his arm for balance. 

“Oh.”

How hadn't he noticed? Granted, dealcoholized wine coolers smelled similar enough under the cloying sugars of juices and fruit, but he should have noticed John growing intoxicated as time went on. As he thought about it though, John had been sharp through dinner, engaging him for conversation throughout the entirety of it. Simon would admit that it had been hard to actually remember much else beyond that, Johnny intriguing enough that him apparently being the only one drinking had been unnoticed.

He couldn't say that though. Knew even when he was drunk it would only puff up the younger's pride if he even hinted to a detail like that.

He didn't ask about it further. Johnny made sure they had all of their belongings before taking them back into the maze, leading a wobbly lieutenant back through the shrubs.

When they emerged the party sounded far off, like everyone had gone back inside. There was still the hum of music and the din of laughter, but it was muffled from behind panes of glass.

Simon blinked bleary eyes towards it, but Johnny urged him in the opposite direction around the far side of the house instead. He pulled his phone out as they descended the cascading stairs from the patio, the rush of the artificial waterfall that started from under the elevated backyard growing louder as they neared the bottom.

Simon admired the pond and its bobbling lilies and pads, the stone underfoot pleasant on his achy soles. John made sure to keep them on the path that weaved around the edge of the pond and under the arch of a weeping willow, typing on his phone with one hand. Simon didn't know what for, but also didn't feel the need to ask, surprisingly enough.

(Had to be the four orgasms and five glasses of wine talking, surely.)

They reached the parkade, Johnny keeping Simon on the grass since he was without shoes and flagged down one of the valet boys. He couldn't help but feel smug when it was the same lad that had helped Simon, John telling him to fetch the car after finding Simon’s ticket.

The valet trotted off just as a slick, black car pulled up to the curb, a chauffeur hopping out of the driver's side to round the car and open the back passenger door.

“Get in, Doll,” John murmured to Simon, checking the sidewalk before tugging him onto it.

Simon frowned. “I thought we were taking my car?” Not with him driving of course but for some reason he had assumed and been okay with the idea of Johnny taking him back in his own vehicle.

Johnny shook his head, though Simon caught the glint of want in his eye despite it. “Yer drunk, doll. Ah dinnae want ye to ever think Ah’m tryin to coerce ye when ye can’t consent. Separate cars is better.” 

He gestured towards the back seat of the car in front of them. “Mah driver will take ye home. Ah’ll bring ye car back for ye so ye don't have to come back fer it, and we both get home.”

That was... oddly kind. And also oddly logical.

“Oh,” Simon said again, once again taken aback.

He let himself be led to the car after that, finding no other reason to protest and folding himself into the back seat along with his clutch and his shoes. Johnny kneeled beside the car as he fished his phone out of his pocket again.

“What is yer Boss’s number?”

Again, Simon frowns. “Claude? Why do you need that information?”

“Ah’m gonna tell him yer goin’ home, sweetheart. Send him a tracker link and the car details so he knows ye get home safe.” John turns his phone around, shows Simon what looks like a video feed of him in the back of the car. He gestures to himself and then Simon. “Ah dinnae think ye want to see him smellin like this, or lookin like Ah fucked ye stupid.”

Simon glanced back at the video, feeling himself blush as he takes in what he looks like. It's not a close up of his face or anything, but the picture of him barefoot, shirt wrinkled and hair askew does look lewd .

He runs a hand through his hair subconsciously, fixing what would tip Claude off the fastest and expose him for his early departure. 

When he looks at Johnny, his eyes widen when he spots the obvious dark stain of his slick over the front of him.

“Christ,” he sputters, heat warming his cheeks for an entirely different reason now. 

(Did he really do that? John looks like he's been pissed on!)

He hurriedly recites Claude’s number, Johnny typing it in and showing him the message once it's sent. It's only then that he stands from his crouch beside the car, looking at the pair of lights of the SUV that's been pulled up behind Simon.

“If ye need anything, just ask. Roach will see to it.”

Simon assumes that is the name of the chauffeur standing beside the door and commits it to memory. 

John turns to leave, but Simon stops him. He's still wrapping his mind around everything that happened, and the bargain he had agreed to strike (now required to see to the end), but he feels compelled enough to at least say thank you for the care he's being given.

“Thank you, John,” he said once he’s got the alpha focused on him again.

Johnny chuffs, eyes soft. “Ah meant what Ah said.” He brings Simon’s hand to his lips again, kisses the back of it chaste and sweet. “Ah’m gonnae woo ye proper. Ye’ll see.”

It's corny, but Simon flushes anyway. He blames the alcohol while his omega snickers knowing it's the romantic in him finally being fed.

The car door finally closes and Simon lets himself relax, lolls his head back against the headrest as Roach gets back into the driver's seat and the car starts moving.

Simon feels his phone vibrate in his lap as they leave the manor and he cracks an eye open to look down and read the notification before it can disappear. It's Claude telling him to text once he’s home, and Simon settles further knowing that if something does somehow happen someone will know.

This safety lets him drift, eyes closing as the hum of the wheels outside lulls him to sleep. He's tired enough that he doesn't really care that he is dirty and smells like sex, rest taking priority above comfort. He thinks to himself that a bath sounds nice once he’s home, and falls asleep.

___

Simon wakes when the gentle thud of Roach’s door closing rocks the cab. 

He blinks into the dark, sitting up and looking out the window and seeing his porch light beyond the tinted glass. Roach comes into view next, a gloved hand reaching for the door handle and opening it.

“Do you need assistance, Mr. Riley?” he asks once Simon’s exposed to his neighborhood, door peeled back like a tin of sardines.

“No, thank you.” Simon shakes the last of the sleep from his mind, swinging his legs over and letting his feet touch the pavement of his driveway.

He’s out and reaching back in for his shoes when Johnny arrives. The alpha parks and is by his side in seconds.

“Was the drive alright?” He asks as he places Simon’s keys in his hand. Simon, despite himself, smiles.

“It was,” he says. He tilts his head towards his home, the pull of his bed strong now that he's only a flight of stairs away. “I need to clean up and go to bed.”

Johnny nods, following Simon as he makes his way to his front step. Johnny stops at the bottom, eyes shining with hope when Simon turns again to regard him.

Simon opens his mouth to say goodnight, but Johnny jumps ahead and speaks first. 

“Can Ah take you out tomorrow?” He asks, quiet, like the neighbors might hear if he speaks at normal volume.

Simon blinks. “Tomorrow?”

“Aye,” Johnny dares to put a foot on the lowest step, leaning towards him like he's magnetized. “Fer… our date?”

Shit . 

So soon? Simon knew he should've been prepared for a tight turn around but… still . It feels... scary now that it's actually being propositioned to him

He hasn't been on a date in so long. Well, at all… if he's honest.

His bar flings weren't dates. They were hookups, fueled by cheap drinks and bar snacks and a walk of shame that came the morning after with a hangover to match.

Johnny is proposing something completely different. Something intimate and hinting towards a relationship that lasts longer than a night. Simon’s never had commitment like that, or the promise of it either.

(Hm… well, he supposes that's not true. He's had men begging for him before, other soldiers just as whipped as John after a night on top of him. )

He hesitates. Can't help it, but he sees Johnny’s hope flicker when he does, the alpha waiting for rejection instead of a yes.

…

Fuck it. He's always held his word. 

He can do this.

“... Yes. Tomorrow." Simon clears his throat, stands a bit straighter. Tells himself a straight spine will give him confidence. “What time?”

Johnny immediately perks up. He fumbles to speak, excitement clearly hindering him. “S-seven?”

“Seven works.” Simon tries not to panic at how it's only a dozen and a half hours away. “I will see you then.”

“Yeah,” John says it like this is a dream. He steps back off the step, smiles up at Simon. “I’ll see you then.”

He stays there as Simon disappears inside, and the omega peeks through the tiny window at the top of his door to watch the alpha slowly back away, shrouding himself in darkness before letting himself celebrate with a fist pump as he scurries off to his own house.

It's juvenile, and reminds Simon of just how much of a gap spans between them age wise, but… 

It feels good to be wanted, he quietly agrees with his emotions as he starts towards the stairs, for once not feeling so much dread when he thinks about the alpha next door.

Chapter Text

Simon is very much hung over when he wakes up.

His body aches, the muscles alongside his spine in particular protest as he slowly rolls over to get up. His head saves its pounding for after he’s sitting upright, but Simon still wants to say “fuck you” to the universe for making drinking a sleeper cell.

It takes him a moment to get his bearings. Takes him even longer to actually stand and make his way to the bathroom, wincing at the brightness of the lights when he flicks them on.

He pisses, brushes his teeth and showers as usual, if only a little slower about it thanks to the headache pounding behind his eyes. It settles into something not as severe by the time he finishes up and gets dressed, checking the clock by his bedside before he leaves.

Surprisingly, the house is alert for the hour when Simon exits his room. The tv is on, but not loud, and he can hear Sinclair moving back and forth.

“Sinclair? You're up early,” Simon muses once he’s in the kitchen, his son hunched over his phone at the island.

Sinclair doesn't look up, eyes fixated on the screen in his hands. “Mhm- hey mom,” he mutters, thumbs flying at the speed of which he’s typing.

Simon raises a brow at his son’s odd behaviour but doesn’t comment on it, floating over to the kettle to make himself some tea. While there he glances at the house hub tablet, reading the tiny calendar notification at the bottom.

“...Any plans for today?” He asks as he fishes the matcha tin from its place in the drawer under the counter, his sieve, whisk, and matcha bowl quick to follow.

“Yes- no, not really.”

…Okay?

Simon can't look away from where he’s measuring his matcha into the sieve, but his face twists in confusion at the answer nonetheless.

Sinclair’s always had a plan or an idea for today. To hear that he doesn't is… odd.

But, still, maybe it's just because he's distracted? Whatever he’s got on his phone seems to have stolen all his capacity for interaction. Simon figures this is likely to be the case and lets the subject drop. 

Because, honestly, what kid would forget their own birthday?

He pours water onto the now sifted powder, the mix soon transforming into a thick, emerald green froth under Simon’s quick whisking. He carefully pours it into a glass once he gets some ice and milk from the fridge, topping his latte off with a squeeze of maple syrup and some black finishing salt.

“Well, if you do come up with any ideas, let me know, okay?” Simon says as he approaches the island, standing across from Sinclair as the younger continues to text. “I have a date at seven, though, so it will have to be in the afternoon.”

That is apparently enough to bring Sinclair up from his phone.

Sinclair snaps to attention. “Wait- you have a date?” He asks. “With who?”

Simon’s ill timed decision to decide now was the appropriate opportunity to take a sip from his latte fills his son in on the answer regrettibly fast.

Sinclair’s jaw drops. “With John?”

“You are thinking about this much too hard,” Simon grumbles.

“Oh I’m thinking about this exactly the right amount,” his pup rebukes, tossing his phone onto the counter to give his mother all of his attention. “But, deadass, you're going out with him? Tonight?”

Simon nods. “Yes. And language.”

Sinclair flaps away his reprimand. “When did he ask? At the party?”

The omega has to keep himself from flushing crimson at the reminder of the soireé. Of the maze. He doesn't want to give his son any more ammo than he already has, nor explain why he's suddenly as red as a tomato either. 

It's a struggle, but he thinks he manages well enough.

“Yes, at the party. We talked and I ended up agreeing.”

Sinclair wrinkles his nose, sniffing out a half truth somewhere in that sentence. 

“Thats it?” He asks, sounding so incredulous Simon feels kind of guilty about lying. Kind of.

Sinclair spreads his hands out across the table, leaning in. “He's as crazy as you are–willing to break into his own house to stage a lie– and you're gonna sit here and say all he did was “ask” and you said yes?”

(Nosy whelp.)

“Didn’t you want me to go out with him?” Simon bites back, woefully defensive. Hes not lying, persay, but he’s definitely not going to tell his son that their neighbor actually finger blasted him into another dimension in order to get him to agree.

Sinclair squints so hard Simon’s not sure his eyes aren't closed, and he knows he's being sussed out.

“Yeah, I did. I do. But you're taking this way too well which means it didn't happen like you're saying.” The alpha points at his mother, suspicious. “Something happened.”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Fine.” Sinclair shrugs, palms still on the countertop. He jerks his head back towards the direction of the front door. “I’ll just wait until John’s here and ask him myself. He’d probably tell me.”

Sinclair grins, reminding Simon of the coyotes he saw while in Mexico. “He’s trying so hard to make friends with me, you know. If I show him the slightest bit of approval, he’s just gonna hound you more. He’d spill so fuckin' fast.”

Simon scowls. “Sinclair,” he warns.

It doesn't land. His pup had realised the crumb of power he indirectly has.

“Plus hes my age.” Sinclair chuckles to himself, having gone full villian arc. “He might actually be fun to hang out with, and if I like him, then you're really never getting rid of him.”

It's not so much threat as promise. Simon knows that. John is in his age group, and from what he's seen of John he seems to be within the wheelhouse of Sinclair's type of friend.

Simon’s had enough trouble with Greyson sniffing around and openly flirting with him. It's easy to ignore since the pup’s been nipping at his ankles since he was ten and is more or less another son, but John? He's only ever known the kid as a sex pest. Ignoring his advances would be impossible.

Bottom line is he doesnt want to take that chance, but the other ootion is not ever going to happen, so Simon chooses the hint of hell rather than outright burning.

“Go ahead. He will tell you the same thing.”

His son isn't impressed. The flat stare he gives him is proof, but his own glare must be convincing enough that the alpha can't outright call his bluff. Even if he has no idea just how huge it is.

Sinclair lets the idea go. For now.

It's perfect timing. His phone dings in the next breath and the topic truly drops as Sinclair snatches it like it's going to disappear if he doesn't move fast enough. Simon settles his hip against the counter, sipping from his drink and mulling over what Sinclair and he can do for his birthday when his son suddenly launches himself off the bar stool after frantically reading– a text? Something else?

Simon has no idea, but the way Sinclair is moving around makes him anxious.

“What– Sinclair?!”

“Bye mom. I gotta go!”

“Go?” Simon follows him out of the kitchen, watches Sinclair scramble around. His pup sprints past him after failing to find something, taking the stairs two at a time and back up to his room. 

Simon throws his free hand up in exasperation. “Go where? It's seven AM!” Simon calls after him. 

“Out!” is the response he gets, though it's muffled by the walls of Sinclair's room as his kid disappears inside. 

Simon hears several drawers open and shut and then the closet door slam before Sinclair comes barreling back down like a bat out of hell, zipping by his mother while he tugs on… a new shirt?

What the hell is going on?

“Sinclair- hold on a moment,” Simon begs, not understanding what the rush is. He follows him to the foyer, watching as the alpha tries to shove his feet into his shoes backwards before finally figuring out that they’re on wrong and switching them. Sinclair huffs and puffs as he does, frantically patting his pockets for his keys and then diving for the bowl on the table alongside the wall to check there when his pockets come up empty. 

“Can’t mom. I gotta go, like, right now,” he says.

“Why? Did something happen?”

Sinclair shakes his head. He finds his keys and then all but rips the door open when they're in his hand. “Nothing happened! But have fun on your date, I'll see you later!”

What?

Simon shakes his head. “But what about–”

The door slams shut, hard enough to rattle the glass and Sinclair is gone so quickly Simon feels like a whirlwind has just gone through his house. 

The rest of his question comes out defeated in the sudden silence in the foyer.

“....Your birthday?” 

___

Sinclair leaving had, admittedly, thrown Simon off for the rest of his morning.

He had tried to let it be. Had eaten breakfast and finished his latte, willing himself not to fuss. He trusted his pup, of course, but his behaviour was so strange that the omega couldn't really shake it off no matter what he did.

Sinclair had never been in a state like that before. Even as a pup he had always been remarkably calm, never getting too excited as to have the zoomies or anything, so seeing him run around like a chicken with his head cut off made Simon suspicious.

Even more so when it sounded like Sinclair didn't plan on coming home– at least not before Simon had to go on his date anyway. Which… they had always celebrated Sinclair's birthday together. Knowing it was today had been partially why he had hesitated to agree to John’s request when it had been asked, but now he felt unsure of what to do.

Maybe Sinclair just… had to do something? But why hadn't he just told him? Why wouldn't he let him know where he was going?

It seemed odd no matter how he tried to spin it or make sense of the sudden change, and so it was really only a matter of time before he decided to do some snooping– if only for his own sanity.

Like every good mother, Simon kept tabs on his son. He lived in another country, far from him and any immediate help he could provide, so becoming some degree of a cyber stalker to make sure he was doing okay in between check-in’s was necessary if you asked the omega.

He never contacted Sinclair beyond texting on his phone, but the burner accounts he had on various social media websites allowed him to sleuth unnoticed where he otherwise never would be able to. Snapchat, instagram– Simon was amazed at just how easily young people made it to track them, taking a few moments to log in before he began to scour stories and reels in search for answers.

Unsurprisingly, it was Sinclair’s friends that helped him figure out what all the fuss was about. 

Greyson had posted a story about getting breakfast and then going to an arcade and bar that was pretty popular on weekends. Simon cross referenced that with other accounts and figured out that it looked like all of his friends had decided to travel and meet up in town, a group photo titled “love u bro” with Sinclair smack in the middle finalizing it.

(Simon briefly wondered why none of them had stopped by. They had never not taken liberties to commandeer his house before.)

He turned off his phone once he had his answers, feeling a little bit better about it all. Surely it was just a mistake, and Sinclair had been so excited to see his friends he just hadn't thought to tell Simon where he was going. The noisy arcade wasn't exactly Simon’s idea of a great birthday, but if Sinclair wanted to do it with his friends he would just pass him his gift and say hello and then leave them be. 

Surely that would be fine. He wouldn't stay. He didn't get the feeling he would be welcome to stay anyway, well aware of how fickle young adults were, but a quick pop in couldn't hurt, right?

Right?

Well, Simon feels like he may have stepped on a landmine when he sees the furious expression that’s etched on his baby’s face when he waves to him to get his attention. In the arcade he most definitely wasn't invited to.

(Hm. Maybe he should've at least texted.)

Simon smiles despite the stormy look he's being given. Figures he can smooth this all over once his pup is close enough to talk. He’d explain he was only here for a minute and be off.

“Sin-” he starts, crooning.

“What are you doing here, mom?” 

The bite to the question rattles something deep in Simon’s subconscious. Tells him, without a doubt, that he’s overstepped a boundary he didn't see.

It takes him so aback that he flounders, momentarily stunned as he tries to figure out what he could have done wrong to warrant a response this vehement. Draws a blank because they've always celebrated together. 

Why is now… different?

Simon clings to his original plan. “I… It's your birthday.” He holds up the bag he brought, tries to ignore the writhing ball of nerves that has rooted in his gut because, surely, he's over thinking this. “You left in such a hurry. You didn't say when you were-”

Sinclair interrupts him, again, eyes sharp with fury. “I didn't tell you where I was going.” 

His tone is all teeth.

(Something's wrong.)

Simon slowly lowers the bag. “No…” he admits, because it's true. “You didn't."

“So how did you find me?”

(Something is very wrong.)

Simon feels like the stone that’s laying in his belly might lodge itself in his throat and choke him.

“Sinclair? What's wrong?” It's close to begging. Hell, maybe it is. His voice sounds strange even to his own ears. Meek.

“You, mom.”

What?

Simon feels like hes been slapped. 

The dread he’d been desperately ignoring has now linked hands with anxiety, and the room feels like it's closing in despite the space and people around them. His son is glaring at him while the room distorts and Simon feels a little sick with how upset Sinclair’s expression is. Like he's furious and just barely holding it in.

Through the panic, Simon knows he should ask a follow up question. Get to the bottom of whatever he's done to get this level of reaction but his tongue has suddenly severed it’s connection with his brain, and that flight or fight sensation he’s recognized as the twisting emotions in his belly has decided freezing is better than the other two options. 

He must look dumb because Sinclair’s face twists into something nasty as he stands there and Simon never once had his son look at him this way.

“I know you don't have, like, any other friends mom, but, christ, can you let me do something without you for, like, two seconds?”

(Oh.)

Shame cracks like a whip though Simon, sudden and sharp and burning. He wants to just curl up on himself and die, but for some reason doesn't, too stunned to do anything but gape like a fish.

He swallows, feels his voice break before he even speaks when the sounds finally eeks out. “Sinclair-”

(I can explain.)

Sinclair growls, and Simon’s jaw clicks shut.

“Just stop, mom. Really.” He cuts his mother a glare that leaves the omega reeling. “I didn't want you to come thats why I didn't tell you where I was going, okay? Can't you just take a hint?”

(This hurts. Thishurtsthishurtsthishurts-)

Simon can't speak. His throat is paralyzed, but his eyes dart to where he can see Sinclair’s pack of friends between the machines of the arcade. The group is watching them, sharing pensive looks, and Simon notices that there’s a new face among them. One that doesn't exactly match the rest. Softer and pretty and…

“Who’s your new friend?” Simon can't stop the words from blurting out of his mouth.

(It’s the end, a mean voice mocks, and it sounds a lot like Roba. It crawls its way out from the dark cellar he keeps his doubts, roots itself in his grey matter and rots.)

(You’re not needed anymore.)

Sinclair looks like he might blow a gasket, eyes widening before he's full on bearing his teeth at his dam. 

“No-”

“What’s their name?” Simon can't stop. The words are just coming out. He's pressing buttons, can see it in the way Sinclair's shoulders hunch and his hackles go up. But still, he can't stop. He can’t. It's like he's possessed.

“You never mentioned an omega. Are you guys dating?”

(Please, just stop talking–)

Every word is another swipe of the knife. Simon is on a raft, about to drift off to sea in the current because he can't stop his own hand from orchestrating his undoing. He knows this, and he keeps cutting.

“Can I meet them?”

“No!”

Its not a yell. It doesnt draw the attention of anyone around them, and yet Simon’s ears ring with the vehement energy the word carries. The vitriol from where it was hissed.

Mercifully, his jaw snaps shut again, and Simon is silent as his son rounds on him, apparently having reached the end of his rope.

“This is why I didn't tell you,” The younger alpha seethes, voice hushed as to not draw attention but that's what makes it worse. “I knew you would do this. You ask too many questions and then you end up doxxing everyone who wants to be in my life!"

Sinclair spits. “I'm not telling you his name. I’m not- I’m not letting you poke into someone’s personal life just because you have trust issues, okay? He’s my friend, and I dont have to tell you anything else.”

Simon can't think straight. It's all static. Just, fuzzy shapes that might be thoughts. 

His stomach feels like it's going to come up his throat, and he wants to vomit as much as he wants to just break down crying. 

(He shouldnt have come here. Why did he come here?!)

He understands what's happening. It slammed into him out of nowhere like a brick wall and it hurts, but he's not dumb. This is where he's supposed to let go, Simon reminds himself. He knew this day was coming. Had told himself he wouldn't ruin it when it happened either.

(He could be a good parent. He could do this. He could do this!)

But for some reason he can't stop his own ruin. Cant put the metaphorical knife down and leave. 

The knife saws until the last of the rope is cut, and his little raft is out to sea all over again.

“I just want you to be safe,” he says instead. 

Please believe me, he thinks. I didn't mean to upset you.

Sinclair doesn't offer mercy.

“You need to get your own life,” he snaps back. Cold. Angry.

Final.

The world stops.

Or, it certainly feels like it as Sinclair's words sink deep into his chest and carve out his heart.

Simon once again… doesn't say anything. Can’t. He's too busy going through shock– whiplashed at the speed from which his day has gone from good to awful– as something in him breaks at those hurtful words. 

And oh, does it hurt. It stings and burns in equal measure. Like a million tiny cuts all slicing at him until he's one big exposed nerve. It makes him feel hollow too, like a part of him got ripped out when Sinclair laid into him. Aches so much that he’s positive that if he looks down he’ll see his heart laying at his feet. 

Just a sad, wet, red lump pumping pathetically on the dirty galaxy carpet.

Simon is familiar with rejection. With being abandoned and tossed away. But he had thought that maybe he had done enough to make Sinclair the one person he could count on to never make him feel this way. 

Instead, he thinks he's created the perfect weapon to leave him devastated.

He should have known, he thinks, as he stares at his son. He loves him, he does. He loves him so fucking much and that’s why this hurts so bad, but he should’ve known he would eventually no longer be worth keeping around. That his son would grow tired of him, no matter how much he doted on him.

Pups would always eventually leave the nest. Simon had known that. He tried to prepare, to tell himself it was okay and that he would survive. But actually having the cord cut, final and sure, leaves him feeling unmoored, and for the first time in years he wishes he had his mask to hide behind. 

The pain, however, is clear on his face. Must be crystal, because Sinclair shutters, like he's rebooting. The anger in his expression switches to mortification, embarrassment, and regret. 

“M-mom?” Simon flinches at the term. Sinclair whines. “I’m sorry, I-”

Simon steps away.

“It's alright,” he says, too soft for how busy the place is. The ring of games and cheers of people a little too tipsy to be appropriate for a Sunday afternoon drown him out but Sinclair hears anyway because he looks like he might cry as the omega puts space between them.

He hands Sinclair his gift robotically. It's neatly tucked into a bag, with tissue paper and a card signed “love, Mom”. It feels wrong to give it to him now, like he could still be pushing too much of himself into Sinclair's life by handing it to him. But it was the Switch he had mentioned over text a few months ago, and Simon had already bought it, so he hopes Sinclair can forgive this one last intrusion.

He makes sure Sinclair doesn't drop it once it's passed over and then backs away a few more steps, curling his hands into fists because if he doesn't he might claw off his own skin to feel something other than the lance that's going through his heart.

“Mom–”

“Have a good time with your friends,” Simon murmurs. He means it. He does. It just… 

He doesn't know what. Just knows he doesn't want to be here any longer.

“I'll see you at home. If you want.”

Sinclair makes a low whining noise. Maybe he reaches for him, but Simon is already leaving. He keeps his strides even, but it's clear he's running away as he makes his way to the exit.

The sun is blinding when he exits the building, taunting him with how nice of a day it is. Simon blinks past tears and the pain of the sudden exposure, tucks his chin to his chest as he descends the stairs and makes his way to his car. 

He blacks out between the arcade and getting home. Comes to to himself sitting in his car in his driveway and clutching the wheel like its the only thing keeping him tethered. 

His face is wet, and his breath is coming all shaky, and he realises he’s crying after several disjointed moments of trying to figure out whats wrong with him.

Inside. He needs to get inside. Before anyone can see him like this.

His hands ache as he lets go of the wheel, the skin on his knuckles tight. His fingers are numb where he fusses with his seat belt. Eventually though he gets it to let go, and he stumbles inelegantly out of the car and to his front door.

He slumps against it once it's closed, sucks in wheezing breaths that don't do anything to help how faint he feels. Fucking christ- he’s having a panic attack! It's been years but the vice clamping down on his ribs is as familiar as anything, Simon letting out a broken, keening whine as he falls apart.

(Why? Why today? Why like this?)

He wishes he knew. Wishes he could've been warned and had time to prepare for this agony, but as it stands its choking him out and Simon isn't so sure he won’t die.

He crawls to the stairs. Honest to god. It's slow and painful and his vision is tunneling as he fights to get somewhere his conscience can consider safe. 

That haven ends up being his closet. It's dark and quiet with the door closed tight and there's endless clothes to pull from to make a nest on the floor. He can barely see past the tears that started falling as soon as he was in his home, Simon shoving his sweaters and pants into something vaugely round and soft shaped in the dark before he yanks a spare comforter out of a cabinet and hides under the whole thing.

It's cool against his superheated skin, a tactile balm that lets him know he's still alive, and Simon sucks in short, ragged breaths between aborted sobs, not enough air in his lungs to fully moan and wail like his splintering soul wants to.

It's something though. A release on the pressure valve no matter how small. Simon gasps and writhes until the panic leaves him, until his body is too tired to do anything but lay there and stare vacantly into the dark.

___

Time passes. Thick like tar and slow.

Simon isn't sure how long it's been when he flickers back online back to awareness, but he can tell from the ache in his joints that it's been a while at least.

His phone has been buzzing off and on in his back pocket but he doesn't have the energy to look. Feels sick with the very idea, if he's honest.

He doesn't leave his nest when he hears the door open downstairs sometime later. Admits that he actually hides under his blankets when there's a tiny knock on his bedroom door not long after.

Sinclairs voice is muffled through the closet, but Simon hears it all the same.

“Mom?” 

The word hurts. It brings up sweet memories and deepens the new wounds he's bleeding out from. Fresh tears prick at his water line and he burrows deeper under his comforter, unwilling to face his son and the state of their new relationship.

(Coward.)

“Mom? Mom I…. I'm sorry about what I said.” 

The voice is clearer now. Sinclair knows he's in the closet. He's a smart pup. Always was. But the door separating them stays closed, no sound of a hand testing the knob to see if it will give.

Simon doesn't know if he appreciates the privacy or if he's more hurt by it instead.

Sinclair continues, voice slipping under the door. “You didn't do anything wrong. I should've told you I was meeting with my friends- with Margo.”

Margo? That must be the omega. The one Sinclair didn't want him to meet. The one he got so angry over Simon noticing.

(Simon hopes they get on well. Hopes, at the very least, they send him wedding pictures if they turn serious.)

He stays quiet. Sinclair keeps talking. 

“Greyson and them brought him up here so I could finally ask him out.” It's an explanation Simon doesn't deserve. “I was nervous, and… I freaked out when I saw you because you can be kind of intense and I didn't want him to be scared off.”

Sinclair sighs. “Which…. I know you're worried about me. I know… I know bad things happened to you and that's why you do what you do. I shouldn't yell at you for that, and I'm not embarrassed of you or anything. I just…. I freaked out and I hurt you and that was so wrong of me.”

Simon sinks lower into his nest. Tries to ignore the way a part of himself goes numb at Sinclair's admission. The quiet part he won't say out loud but is clear enough between the lines.

(Burden. You're a burden. How could he not be embarrassed of you? You're broken.)

Simon wishes he wasn't. Knows though that it’s not possible, no matter how hard he's tried.

Sinclair pauses. Likely waiting for a response. Simon doesn't have one to give- one that won't just make this situation worse anyway. If he opens his mouth now all that will come out will be twisted into what will sound like begging for attention. And while Simon wants that, he's not going to do it. 

He can handle this. Sinclair laid out his boundaries- he won't direspect him by spilling his guts.

“...Mom? Are you okay?”

Simon swallows. He can't respond to the apology. But he can respond to this.

It takes a second to unglue his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “I’m okay, sweetheart.” It’s a lie. He's not okay. He won't be okay for a long while. But that's not Sinclair's burden. “I just… had a migraine. I understand. I'm not upset.”

“... right.”

Simon closes his eyes. “Are you doing anything else with your friends?”

There's some shuffling on the other side of the door. A pause that feels too long to be normal. 

Simon braces.

“... Yeah. Yeah I… um, they actually invited me to come with them on a road trip. They rented a big rv, and they're going to all the state parks.”

Oh.

He’s not really surprised, but the crack in his chest hurts all the same.

This really is the end.

“Are they picking you up?” It takes everything in him to keep the sob that wants to escape from doing so. It sits in his throat, painful beyond belief.

“.... Yeah. They'll be here soon.” 

Simon wipes his eyes on his makeshift pillow (a wad of the comforter). Nods to himself. 

“Do you need any money?”

“I… no, Mom. I…” Sinclair tapers off, like he realises this isn't working. “I want to make sure you're okay. Please.”

Then why did you hurt me?

Simon doesn't voice the thought outloud, but it's there. Intrusive and vengeful.

He's angry– at the situation, at how this all came to be. He's angry at himself and his son, can't help but feel just a bit bitter that his affection over the years was taken for granted. It's normal to feel such in the face of betrayal (he's felt it before) and Simon will feel guilty about it later but not as much as he is angry and sad right now.

He wants to say something snippy. Something cutting. Something petty because he feels stripped bare and worthless, like his son is abandoning him for someone else even though he knows that's not fair and its not true. But it feels like it, and he's so tired of being thrown away.

(No wonder he was so excited about him and John. Sinclair wants to get rid of him- plain and simple.)

Simon shakes his head, forces all the negative thoughts hes drowning in away. Whatever he wants doesn't matter anymore. Sinclair does, even if Simon’s head is torn between loving and hating him in equal measure right now.

“I’m okay, really,” he says, as confidently as he can. Pretends he is, just so it sounds believable. “Its just my head. I promise.”

There's more shuffling. Sinclair is at the door. His tone is morose. Not skeptical, but defeatist. Like he knows he can’t win. Not this time.

“You’re sure?”

Simon nods. “Go have fun with your friends. And Margo.” A wet chuckle leaves him, even though he feels dead inside. “Just… send me postcards? So I know you're okay?”

I know you don't want me anymore. I won't ask for anything else.

“Yeah, yeah of course mom. I'll send you one for every state.” A pause. “Can… can I give you a hug? Before I go?

Oh. He wants to. He wants to so badly. But he’ll never let go if he holds Sinclair now, he knows it. 

“N-no, sweetheart. It hurts to move right now. I'm sorry.”

Sinclair doesn't push, though Simon can tell he wants to. He can’t even see him and he knows the boy looks like one of those shelter dogs from the ASPCA ads back in the 2000’s being told no.

But… it's better this way. Simon needs to stem the bleeding and start to grow a callous before he sees Sinclair again. It's the only way he can get through this.

“Okay,” comes the quiet acceptance from beyond the door. The shadow moves from in front of it- Sinclair backing away. “Did you take your medicine?”

“Yes. It's just… slow.”

There’s just a small hum in recognition of his answer and then more silence. It stretches so long that Simon thinks that Sinclair may have finally fled the room.

“I love you, mom,” Sinclair says, suddenly, cutting Simon’s thoughts back to the present. “You know that… right?” 

He does, despite it all. Simon knows what happened will eventually scar over and they’ll be okay. But he also knows he had no right to demand as much as he did from Sinclair. No right to think he’d be put on a pedestal like Simon did for him.

He knows his place now. He’ll make do.

“Of course.” His voice wobbles, the acceptance painful.

He hopes Sinclair doesn't notice.

“I’ll lock the door when I leave,” Sinclair says after a beat, though it sounds awkward. Like he's not quite sure what to say. 

Then, “You… don't miss your date with John, okay? Please? I think it could be good for you to go.”

Fuck. 

The date.

Simon feels violently ill. He doesn't want to go. He doesn't want to deal with that on top of this or feel like he's being passed to the next person to deal with.

He wants his family back. The one he had before he fucked it all up.

“I will,” he says anyway.

Simon hears the faint click of the door shutting a few moments later, and he's alone all over again.