Chapter Text
Dynamic equality was great. It was great, really.
Twenty years ago and the interview taking place inside their rehearsal room would have been for the sole purpose of cornering the band into admitting how torturous it was for a group of three alphas not jump their omega vocalist. Or insult their intelligence and humanity by asking how each alpha could stand not to become violently territorial over Paul.
Instead they were stuck in the still-air cell politely ignoring the cream-thick, milk-sweet stench of a past-ripe omega while Daniel described how the damned space helped them write. A twinkle of appreciation flickered deep in Sam's heart. Ever the professional.
Dynamic equality was wonderful. But it didn't negate the reality that three alphas sitting in a shoebox on a New York summer's day with an unclaimed omega didn't wreak of biological distress. The interviewer, some bearable beta from MTV, was outwardly unfazed.
Paul fucked. Paul got fucked? Sam didn't know. But he'd walked in on the tail ends of promising conversations about [insert girl] he'd met at [insert club] in [insert neighborhood]. Sam couldn't ask for much else. He couldn't ask for anything, actually. It was Paul's business how he sated his biology.
The interview paused for the crew to set back up for hallway shots. Sam realized the tension in the space had pressed him from a casual lean to a full-body death-grip against the plaster walls.
The conversation moved from writing to their upcoming world tour, and Sam was relieved by the thought of being far away from this place in a few short weeks.
* * *
After a show in Hamburg, Sam walked in on Daniel fucking Paul in the bathroom. Backs to the door by the urinal — like Daniel had jumped an unsuspecting Paul while he was taking a piss. But Sam knew Daniel, as a person and on an unspoken, innate level, as an alpha. Even in the deepest throws of his biology, Daniel wasn't capable of that level of disrespect in the pursuit of pure, personal satisfaction. So on some level, they had both wanted it. Paul wanted it.
Reality rutted on in front of him: Paul, legs apart and hands braced on the tile wall, head hung low between his shoulders. His hair was in sweaty strands against his face. Daniel's pants were still up, unzipped. Paul's were pooled around his knees. Daniel's breaths were heavy and labored; Paul's came in short bursts as the air was thrust from his lungs by the alpha. There was no emotion present, in action or in scent. Not in a malicious way; not in a brutal way. The scene was simply two bodies acting on an instinct said to have been eradicated sometime in the mid-90s through higher thought.
Daniel's hands white-knuckled on Paul's hips, squeezing the soft, inviting skin there and pulling the omega back onto his long, thin dick. Sam saw healthy slick running down Paul's (soft) thighs. Heard it in the wet way Daniel fucked into him, hard. Saw it when Daniel's dick kept slipping out from it, Paul too hot and loose and wanting to keep him in. The singer was frantically reaching his hand back, grabbing blindly, so needy for Daniel's cock, trying to bring it back to his heat.
Daniel grunted in frustration and moved Paul's hand away, taking himself in hand and moving close, flush against the singer's over-red back and pushing in deeper. Paul groaned then, and Sam swore he heard Daniel breathe "yeah, yeah, yeah" with each thrust.
Sam backed out into the green room just as Carlos strode in, headed for the bathroom. Sam's stomach lurched.
"Paul's in there." His mind told him he got the whole sentence out coherently. Carlos's raised eyebrow said otherwise. The bassist disregarded Sam and pushed into the bathroom. As with many an encounter with Carlos, Sam was left feeling out-of-the know and small.
His ears were ringing too loudly to hear any outcome. He told himself it was from the show.
* * *
Sam had chalked it up to post-gig endorphins. That kind of unsustainable energy that could only be brought down by drugs, drinks, or dicking down. Obviously Daniel and Paul had vouched for the latter vice.
Their world tour (world fucking tour) had ended last month, and the band was back in the city to work on their second album.
Daniel was running late to the studio. Carlos, too, had — to put it in his words — "a prior engagement". Sam didn't pay any mind to the the fact that he would be alone with Paul until he opened the heavy metal door and was assaulted with familiar over-ripe, creamy omega scent.
"What the fuck, man."
Maybe Carlos had been founded in his pissy attitude towards Paul; always treating him like some thickheaded, pseudo-intellectual knotslut who gawked at big words to make alphas feel smart. Sam never engaged in their spats, just assumed that Paul was comfortable enough in himself to care to disprove Carlos's assessment. Too comfortable, Sam grimaced at the stench.
Paul furrowed his eyebrows and sucked on his cigarette. Genuine confusion.
In an instant, the dam that had been building, for much longer than Sam realized, threatened to burst. Every day spent in this reeking room, every backstage brush-up against Paul's body, every alpha-brained thought he had filed away in favor of respect, flooded over his body as rage. Rage at this stupid, young omega spreading his scent around like it was nothing. Like it was cute. Like it didn't have consequences.
"A little fucking decency for once would be appreciated." And overdue.
"Fuck are you on about, man?"
"Don't "man" me." Omega bitch. Sam flinched inwardly at the intrusive thought. I don't mean it, I don't mean it. "You can't keep coming in here like this, man. We're here to work together, not cater to you. We respect your bio, you have to respect ours."
Paul blew out a thin drag through slitted lips. His mouth twitched; neither up nor down. Oh, God. Carlos was right. This whole fucking time that douchebag had been right. The kid was fucking thick as a brick.
"You smell." Sam paced out, voice trembling.
Lips twitched down.
"The omega thing? Didn't know it bothered you. Sorry." A seconds-held glance, then back to his guitar.
Had Sam been a lesser man, a weaker alpha — the alpha he was at Paul's age — he would have taken this for insolence and shoved the younger man against the wall. Slammed his chest into the hard gear there and made it hurt. Backhanded the omega to shut him up before pulling his pants down and fucking into him dry and raw. Taking what he wanted and putting Paul in his place with pain.
"No. "Sorry" doesn't cut it anymore. You either get this-" Sam felt like an idiot, gesturing at the air around them. "-under control, or I'm not fucking coming back."
"Anymore." Paul considered. "Doesn't bother Daniel. Or Carlos."
"Yeah, because Daniel fucks you. Carlos-" Sam paused. Shit, did Carlos fuck Paul? Do they all fuck each other?
His train of thought was mercifully halted by Paul's head snapping up. The years of cool age Sam had watched harden Paul's face crumbled in an instant of innocent fright.
"You've seen that? The Daniel thing?"
It was a seemingly simple yes/no that Sam didn't know how to answer. What exactly had he seen? The Daniel Thing? Daniel with his dick up Paul's ass, that he had seen. Whatever bigger meaning, bigger "thing" it had been a part of was — well, Sam hadn't ever considered...
"In Hamburg, yeah. Not even in a fucking stall?"
Paul looked ashamed. Sam forced himself to ignore it. Wouldn't let the anger he needed to release be softened by any of his care for his bandmate. If he couldn't have his body, he would settle for the light from Paul's eyes.
"We were just-"
"I don't give a fuck what was happening. I just care about what's happening now. Which is that I can't do this. Not with you here, reeking. Ever thought about taking a damn suppressant?"
"That's none of your fucking business, creep." Knothead. Low blow.
"Don't play it like that, babe." Knotslut. Lower. "We work together, we fucking live together half the time. Your bio is as much my business as it is yours at this point."
"Then do something about "your bio" or fuck off." That was loaded. Sam couldn't unpack it. Not now.
So he fucked off.
* * *
Sam slammed his door shut and landed on his couch. One hand reached into his pocket for a pack while the other unzipped his jeans. He balanced his first cigarette between tense lips and pulled his dick out of his underwear. He was half-hard.
He thought about a nameless omega with white, speckled skin and silky blonde hair. He was kneeled between Sam's legs, pumping his cock to hardness, looking up at him through droopy lids with twinkling eyes. Prey with the upper hand.
Not-Paul spit artlessly into his other palm and brought both hands to the alpha's thick shaft — one hand worked his base while the other caught rough and relentlessly against the head. Using both hands to inflate the alpha's ego. You're soo big, alpha, I don't think you'll fit the echo of some old porno supplied.
The blonde's lips were so close to Sam's cock that the his knuckles caught on them with each pump, blushing them red. Sam slid further into the couch and let his legs fall open. He kept one arm slung over the sofa-back, maintaining a semblance of alpha reserve. Like he was in control of the situation. He didn't dare to meet the omega's wicked eyes to see that the farce was obvious to both of them.
Sam's other hand was in Paul's (NOT PAUL, not Paul) downy hair, just at the base of his head. No force. Just a wordless suggestion for him to get the fuck on with it. A physical warning that this situation could be swayed towards Sam's control in an instant.
But Paul (fuck it), Paul relented on his own, resting one hand on Sam's thigh and using the other to guide the tip of his throbbing cock to his lips, not yet even past his teeth. Sam moaned by way of a quick exhale through his nose. He breathed back in a dizzying dose of omega scent: made sweet by nature and addictively bitter by the current situation. Paul's body was calling out to be bred; to have that sharp invitation of need fucked out of him on a knot.
The omega slackened his jaw and took all of Sam into his mouth, gagging as the head brushed the back of his throat. He replaced his mouth with his hand and sucked wetly, up and down, up and down,
and Sam beat his own dick faster, tighter, spit down on it from where he sat and thought about what Paul's slick would feel like on him, how velvety smooth he felt inside, how hot he would be after a show, how Sam's cum would look on his back, on his face, when he heard
Creep.
Paul's voice echoed from earlier. And it scared this shit out of Sam. It had been out of character. And a mischaracterization. Because Sam wasn't a creep, right? He cringed at the scene, how he had had an omega backed into a corner. Alphas got physical. Omegas only had their words. And Paul had chosen well, because fuck if it didn't still sting.
Sam looked down at his dick, semi-hard and resting on his hastily undone zipper. He lit his cigarette and groaned.
Creep.
* * *
Sam went back to the studio the next day. Daniel was inside, a grounding sight. Perched on his stool, legs crossed, hunched over his guitar. Sam poured a drink but stayed standing.
"Missed you yesterday. We got something down on Track 4 finally. It ended up being just the two of us. It was kind of nice, one-on-one."
Sam's chest tightened. Wondered if Daniel and Paul had had another "thing". Had they put pen to paper before or after Daniel bent Paul over? Had they fucked on his chair, by his set, in his demeaning little claim to space? He covertly took in the scent in the room. Just Daniel's peppery, cinnamon self, fresh and purposeful like he had just scented the place recently. Probably had, the little weirdo. Always claiming this shoddy space he had put so much work in to get. His territory.
"Paul said you went home sick." There was a kind pause. Sam instantly regretted his momentary lapse of anger. "Feeling better?"
"Yeah. Yeah." Sam rested on his nervous tic, flicked non-existent ash off his cigarette and took a sip of his drink.
Daniel's gaze stayed respectfully on his fret, began adjusting the strings to no real end.
"There's nothing wrong with acknowledging your biology, by the way. I get frustrated, too. But so does Paul. Definitely why he stinks up the place like a motherfucker. Makes Carlos smell like a bed of roses."
Sam stilled his hand, mind caught on Paul. Of course being an omega cooped up with three unmated alphas would be as hard on him as the other parties involved. Different, moreso disturbing to the omega than it was frustrating to the alphas, but equally so, nonetheless.
Out of respect, perhaps an unnatural amount of it, Sam had put any consideration of Paul's own dynamic out of his mind. At first, back at the start, it was common sense. Paul had been 20. He had been 30. But time had passed and he never spent too long thinking about how the blonde with the right amount of baby-fat was a victim of his own dynamic, too. Didn't think about how his own alpha scent assaulted the singer, forced Paul to remember that he was to many still a sexual object to be had. Reminded him that he was destined to be a subordinate by nature, when he had come so far as anything but.
"I take care of it sometimes. Of him. And me. I don't think he'd mind if you did that, too. It's, like. I don't know. It's natural. Good for the band's chemistry."
Sam couldn't get himself to swallow. Kept the beer sitting in his mouth, stale and flat. He knew his scent — mortification, arousal — was making its way towards Daniel.
Good for the band's chemistry, Sam huffed lovingly. If only it were as easy as a quick fuck to regain equilibrium. It used to be like that. But Sam was older. His body had aborted the illusion that his mind was in control of his biology some time ago. Now when he hooked up his chest growled bite, bite, bite. Mate, mate, mate. Knotting after he came was no longer a release. It hurt him, like pressure building up each time. Pressure on his body. Pressure on his ego that he hadn't claimed an omega to be his yet.
Letting off steam with an omega he'd grown fond of, even a little protective of, was beyond a reckless idea. He didn't mention it to the younger man.
"Is he coming today?" Paul.
"He said he was feeling sick, too. Actually, he booked it yesterday once I got some good lyrics out of him." Daniel smirked up at Sam from his guitar. Sam could only laugh. Half-disbelief, half-relief.
"Task master," Sam laughed. Daniel's smirk became a smile.
"Yeah, well. Check up on him sometime?"
In Daniel's style, his alpha presence was established in practical suggestions. So different from Carlos's commanding glares or Sam's own blunt physicality when he was their age.
Interpol was Daniel's baby. Or his mate. Sam yielded to the reality that this put him under Daniel's territorial control. More than half of the time Sam just felt lucky to be along for the ride. He didn't mind taking orders from the younger alpha. He owed him a lot; they all did. And thankfully, for the betterment of the band, Daniel was not afraid to ask them to pull their weight.
Sam sighed. Rested his chemistry. Relented dominance to the other alpha, withdrawing his frustrated scent and submitting with silence before setting down his drink for his drumsticks.
"I'll check in."