Price || ALPHA DYSFUNCTION

The clean warmth of spring drifts on the breeze moving from the southern edge of the continent, carrying the faint trace of salt from the Atlantic. The gust snaps the Union flag to its full length, the fabric accented by a flag of complimentary match beneath it donning a logo of a downturned sword with extended wings. Across the banner, a faded script that every soldier on base knows by heart shines beneath the promise of rising sunshine:

Who Dares Wins.

As dawn begins to break over the foggy grounds of Hereford, the distant call of reveille echoes throughout the barracks. Most of the SAS base is quiet with the exception of essential staff running operations behind the scenes. A pack of soldiers is already sluggishly running on the track, breath bellowing in plumes as the grumpy Sergeant leading the group barks the familiar chant—a typical call and response of any functional unit.

Chime!

The faint sound of the bell from the BELL app rings in the hazy glow of morning before being silenced by a sleepy tap. The bundle of disheveled sheets stirs to see the name of a well-known Alpha on base lighting up the screen before {{poss}} reflection stares back from the black glass.

John Price. Captain.

Did he request {{obj}} specifically, or was it just by chance? After all, it was between shifts and technically he had a choice...

No, it was just chance. It had to be.

With groggy movements, the Omega pushes {{ref}} from {{poss}} bed before beginning to prepare for the meeting.

Meanwhile, on the Alpha-clearance only side of base, a restless man shift uncomfortably on his mattress. He thumbs over his phone screen, eying the profiles of the Omegas on-call before sighing and dropping his phone onto the bed.

“This is bollocks. I don’t need this. Some...booty call is what this is.” Palms press into tired eyes, and he stiffly rises from the bunk with a low grunt of effort. “Too old for shite like this. Don’t even need this.”

As much as he complains, Price knows he’s mandated by the contract he signed to use the BELL app. His activity is monitored, and at his last physical he was already warned about the rut that was gnawing on his composure like an irritating, persistent insect. He slides the worn beanie off and drops it on his desk, boots thudding across the floor as he paces the length once, twice. Three times before a notification dings from his phone.

Congratulations! Your Omega is on their way. Please meet them at clearance gate A-1 for retrieval. Have a nice day!

Price slowly blinks as he stares at the screen. The...Omega accepted? Did {{obj}} not read his profile? About his...issue?

“This is going to be a pain in my arse, isn’t it?” With an exasperated sigh, he shoulders on his jacket and proceeds towards the gate, door clicking softly behind him.

Price doesn’t expect much from this visitor, and it’s not because of the Omega designation—he’s never had any issues with any Omegas as long as they do their duty and remain a good soldier in his book. It’s the fact that he hasn’t had a proper, textbook rut in so many years that at this point he’s just accepted the fact that decades of suppressors flowing in his bloodstream have destroyed his natural balance.

He’s mulling over the last few failed attempts with Omegas, all of which left his quarters humiliated that they couldn’t even arouse the head Alpha of the 141, when the scent hits him. His eyes snap towards the clearance gate, where there’s a lone person speaking to the guards and {{poss}} voice is too quiet to hear. Price doesn’t need to hear the confirmation when his instincts and body are roaring to life in a way they haven’t since he was fresh out of basic training.

“You.” Gravel crunches under his boots as he approaches. “You’re the Omega sent from BELL?” He barely waits for a syllable of confirmation to leave {{poss}} lips before his fingers wrap around {{poss}} upper arm. “With me. Stick close.”

The walk is brisk and silent, only broken by the clunk of the deadlock behind him. In the enclosed space, {{poss}} scent is undiluted by the odors of motor oil and gunpowder. His chest expands against {{poss}} back as his nose presses to the shell of {{poss}} ear, holding the intoxicating breath of {{poss}} essence, before exhaling the hot air over {{poss}} skin.

“You sure you want this, love?” Stubble drags along the nape of {{poss}} neck, the delicious shiver making his blood sing. It’s the recognition of an Alpha staking his claim on an Omega, whether {{obj}} know it or not. His fingers curl around {{poss}} hips to turn {{obj}}, pulling {{obj}} against the warmth of him and the undeniable arousal making an appearance after years of nothing but humiliation and frustration.

“You have no idea,” Price slides his fingers beneath {{poss}} chin, his head tilting as he appreciates the rosy flush that has settled across {{poss}} skin, “how long I’ve been waiting for this. For an Omega like you to make me feel this way.”

.