#alpha simon ghost riley

[frogchiro]

We've all heard of alpha!simon and monster!simon.

BUT WHAT ABOUT A COMBINATION OF BOTH

I usually imply for monster au to have a/b/o elements so this is right up my alley😭

fem!reader, mostly fluff, possessive Simon, just him being a menace to everyone besides you <3

Let's be honest, alpha!Simon is a possessive asshole who needs to have his scent and claim on you all the time or he'll get grouchy and easily irritable which...isn't ideal to say the least. An agitated alpha is never a good sign, especially someone of Ghost's caliber.

Monster!Si is...a little more particular. He's more elusive, like a literal ghost or spectre, a true mystery to everyone, even his closest team members.

But alpha monster!Simon?? A menace to everyone, including you, his precious mate :((

Just...imagine other soldiers and staff members witnessing the sight of you, all happy and smiley just doing your own thing while a literal shadow follows you around like a dark cloud. If you're in a room, it's in the corner, if you're walking around because some paperwork needed to be signed, it's following you around. And god forbid some poor unknowing soul tries to talk and flirt with you; suddenly they will feel eyes watching them, eerie and like those of a beast ready to pounce.

Simon would also have double the nesting instincts! Would insist on guarding your den and subsequently your nest like a guard dog, hissing at you if your tried to gently coax him away from the door and to please stop scaring the recruits.

But that would also mean double big on staking his claim <3 Would scent you like crazy, his shadowy mass enveloping you like a blanket all the while Si is rubbing himself against you like crazy, loud growl-like rumbles erupting from deep within his chest as he licks and rubs against you, positively drowning you in his musky heavy scent <3

[midnightfox23]

I decided to add my sketch to my fic "Revenge". I'm not a professional, but I'm learning, I recently started🙄

[hirik0]

Littel secret

Omegaverse, Alpha Ghost, Omega Soap Soap/Ghost

NSFW: Omegaverse, stress heat, anal sex, multiple orgasem, questionable consent, dick piercing, knotting, Soap is a demanding brat, Ghost has a lot of stamina

When humans where still hunters and gathers Omegas only smell sweet and flowery when they are in heat, outside of heat they smell just as musky as Alphas. Their heat also didn't came that often only twice a year maybe 3 times depending on the area they lived and how many food they had the year. This changed dramatically when civilisations started to rise to regional super powers. In modern time its a rare genetic mutation that causes Omegas to operate the same as in the stoneage. Sergeant John 'Soap' MacTavish is one of these rare Omegas, researcher call them primal Omegas. And it honstely opend him doors in the britisch military that other wise woulddtay closed. The SAS like many elite units in armys across the world only allow Alphas in rare cases Betas in their ranks. So being a mistaken for an Alpha is the only way Soap made it so far. Its also dangerous he would be kicked out for lying about his secondary gender, but as long has he keeps his regular 2 times a year heat on his mind and takes leave to deal with it alone, how should anyone figure out? It was perfect nobody will ever find out or that's atleast what Soap though because his body didn't got that memo. Soaps luck is running out.

They are on a longer stage out mission in safe house or more appartement. It's nice and just Ghost and him. The first time Soap should have clocked that thinks are going south is when he's exhausted. He thinks it's because the 141 had mission after mission for 2 months straight and this is the first time they have something like down time since. His next heat is still 4 months away so he dont clocks this as one of his early heat signals. Ghost notices that something isn't quite right when Soaps scent gets a lot prominenter and slowly changes from this herbal scent he never could quite identify to a more flowery undertone. He thought that Soaps maybe has a new shampoo or something like this. The thing is Soaps smell already drives him insane but now? He wants to fuck Soap till they smell the same. He never wanted anyone so much as he wants Soap and he never wanted an other Alpha before. He never had anything against Alpha/Alpha sex he just never had the urge to try it himself, till Johnny.

The second thing that should have tick of Soaps alarm bells is when he starts to build a nest in the bed he's using for the time being and his urge to resist to steal Ghost bed sheets aswell. After he realised what he did he just destorys the nest. When he finally realises what is happening its to late. He stands in the shower and before he even turned the water on, something wet is running down his thights. He's turning pale and starts to panic when he feels that slick is running out of him. The smell of peaches are filling his nose with a hint of hibiscus. He's in heat, why, it's to early. He needs some time to figure out that this must be a stress heat. Shit, shit, shit, NO its so unfair. He just turns the shower on hoping he can wash away the traitorous heat symptoms. Ghost is comming back from his nightly observation of the target when he smells the Omega in their temporary flat. His frowning, the Omega is in clear distress, he can smell the sour panic and fear clearly. He shrugs thinking that maybe one of the other people in the appartment building must be the Omega in heat. He makes himself a tea and notices that Soaps hadent prepared his coffee yet. He holds in intently listening hearing the shower running.

Soap is desperately washing the never ending amount of slick from him. It's a lost battle he knows it but he is panicking. Ghost will be back at any moment and smell him. He try to tell himself if he's able to get rid of the slick Ghost won't smell his secret. The Alpha with one of the best noses he ever worked with not smelling him even when he's under the shower is very unrealistic to believe but he needs to believeit for the moment. He himself smells how his heat scent is getting stronger and stronger and with it his panic is also growing this can't happen. Why now, why him? Ghost notices how panic and fear scent is getting stronger so is the smell of the heat he recognises the peach smell not sure what the flower is. Soap is still under the shower and hes getting suspicious. Something is wrong. He left his half finished tea behind slowly walking to the bathroom. The scent gets stronger the closer he gets. His frowning feeling how anger is building up. He logically knows that Soap would never let a civilian in a mission but that must be the only explanation. Soap found a Omega in heat and brought them home and risking their mission. He knocks at the door with a littel bit to much force. "Soap you better have a good explanation for what I'm thinking is happening", he says. The smell of panic and fear is getting unbearable. His instincts scream at him to protect the Omega, to make them feel safe. "It's.. Lt I don't know what you're thinking but I swear it's not that", he hears Soap say back, clearly being sistressed. "Then open the door Soap, that's an order", Ghost growls.

At Ghost growling a big flush of slick is leaking out of him. His brain getting cloudy with need, and filthy thoughts. That an Alpha is right on the other site of the door makes everything just worse. And from the peeks he got he knows Ghost knot will be big, and would fill him up so nicely. "Soap", Ghost growls again and Soaps knees are giving up he ungraceful slips down the shower wall. He can barely smell Ghost anger over his own scent. Ghost knocks at the door one last time before he gets his lock picking set. Hes cursing under his breath taking a bit longer then usally because his hands are shaking in anger. He can't believe Soap did this. He's furious ready to chew Soap out, to punish him, hell even to get him kicked out of the 141. He opens the door and need a few minutes to understand what's going on.

Soap looks at Ghost with fear full eyes, tears are gathering. That's it his secret is out, he's fucked. Ghost just stands there looking at the Alpha Omega on the floor of the shower. And still he looks behind the door as if a person would hide there. It's the only hiding spot because the bathroom only has a small window no human could fit through. Ghost looks back at Soap before he growls confused. Wasn't the Omega in the bathroom? Did he make a mistake and the scent don't comes from the bathroom? He trys to make sense of everything. Soap is not moving terrified of what Ghsot will do now. His breathing getting worse and worse while he's feeling panic constricting his chest. "Soap?", Ghost ask finally sounding uterly confused he can smell Ghosts concern. In the end the only think that makes sense to Ghost is that the Omega scent must come from Soap but that's not possible Soap is a Alpha, just like him right? But it's the only logical explanation that is left. "Soap what is going on?", he ask slowly getting closer to the absolute terrified Omega on the floor. Soap starts to cry instead of answering and Ghost instincts are taking over. He turns the shower of and then puts the Omega in a towel before kneeling in front of him, not caring that his pants are getting wet. He carefully touches Soap who is still crying wishing the tears of his face. "Shh, Johnny, talk to me I'm not mad at you", Ghost says calmly while Soap crys so bad he's getting hick ups. "I.. I'm sorry", Soap sobs still absolute terrified. "Don't have to be, please explain it to me", Ghost sooths him further while all his instincts scream at him to make the Omega stop crying. "I'm, I'm a primal Omega", Soap finally spills his secret he keeped for years. Ghost frowns he heared the term before but he never looked more in to it. "You're one of the Omega that produce scent like in the stone age, right?", Ghost ask and Soap just nods along. "What happened Soap?", he asks again the concern in his voice and scent slowly fading. "Don't known never happened before", Soap says sniffing, he still smells of fear and panic and its so hard for Ghost to stay objective. No Omega should smell like this in their heat and he wants to smell a happy Omega. "When is you next heat supposed to be?", Ghost ask still soothing the crying Omega. "Early December."

Soap starts to feel uncomfortable hot, the heat slowly fighting through his panic. He looks at Ghost who don't give away anything but he's clearly thinking. "Should I call Price to get you out?", Ghost ask the most logical question for the situation. "No, please, nobody can know", Soap begs the fear in his scent flaring up again. "Soap you can't stay in heat for a week, on base there's emergency staff for heat and ruts", Ghost trys to reason Soaps scent becoming harder and harder to resist. "I will get kicked out, for lying about my status", Soap says looking at the floor, sounding small and vulnerable. Ghost bites his lips at this, clearly forgotten about this. So what now. A small voice in his brain wispers knot him, its the only solution. No, there must be other thinks they can do first. "Emergency meds are to late right?", Ghost ask and Soap just nods. "Shit. What do you need Soap?", Ghost ask they can figure this out. "Dont know, do this alone since I entlisted", Soap admits. That makes sense to Ghost of curse keeping such a secret means doing heats alone. "What do you normally do?", Ghost ask his instincts raging screaming at him that there is one so easy solution. "Use toys, drink a lot and sleep", Sopa says his face now having a constant blush. Ghost just picks him up from the floor getting a supried gasp from Soap. He uncermonly drops the Omega on the bed before he leaves the room to fetch more blankets. The pout on Sopas face is instantly wiped away when Ghost drops all the blankets and pillows on the bed. Ghost leaves the room again wordless letting Soap build his nest before he gets him some water and canola bars.

The nest is missing something, he just cant figure out what. Ghost is entering the room again and Soaps eyes are locked on his hoddie. He wants it, but how to get it. He probably can ask for it or maybe he can make Ghost ofer it to him. His thoughts are interupted by Ghost just simply climbing in the nest with him. Oh, well that also works, he feels how his blush is getting stonger at this. He didnt even gave Ghost permission to enter but he simply dont care while he burries his face in Ghost chest. He loves Ghost scent, always stealing a piece of Ghost clothing to take with him in his heats, wishing the Alpha is there with him, that he dont have to hide anymore. Spending heats alone suck, even more when you desire an Alpha. "This is a stress heat isn't it?", Ghost ask the obvious while running his fingers through Soaps mowhawk. "Yes", Soap answers before he purrs pleased. Ghost just humms to himself, made sense of course Soap would get a stress heat they worked nearly nonstop for 2 months now. No time to relax, missions neck to neck only madetory rest stoping them from geting ship out again after they end a debrief. Ghost is used to it but for an Omega that also has to fear of getting caught, way to much stess. Soap tucks at his cloths looking with lust clouded big eyes at him. Ghost shakes his head but removes the hoddie and shirt hes wearing so that Soap has skin contact. The pleased purr he gets will become his new drug, he wanted Soap to always make this sound at him.

They just cuddel for a while Soap have fallen asleep and Ghost sneaks out to call Price. He has to inform Price, so that he can work something out till they are back at base, so he can take care of Johnny with out worry. He feels selfish and hates to go behinde Soaps back like this but he has to. "Ghost your next check up is not before Thursday", Price says very concerned. "We have a unexpected problem here", Ghost says bitting his lip feeling terrible guilty. "What happened?" "Soap, fuck Soap is a primal Omega and in a stress heat", Ghost says while cooking himself a another tea, his half finished one still the counter. "Soap is... thanks for telling me Simon I gues you call me behind Soaps back?", Price says catching on how sensetiv the topic is and Ghost can picture how hes covering his eyes with his hand or lighting up a cigar. "Yes, I do this behind his back so we can figure something out. So you know he don't get kicked out." "Mhm, I fuck I will have to talk with Kate about this, we will figure something out, you take care", the 'of him' stays unsaid to dangerous anyone over hearing this. Price probably have lost atleast 15 years of his life, getting grey hair and now has to find a loop hole for Soap. It will not be easy. "Thanks Captain and I'm sorry for not having any good news", Ghost says before ending the call. Unknown to him Soap walked in the kitchen having heared most of the call. He fells betrayed but Ghost probaly did the right thing. Having Price on their site will probably help his case a lot. Ghost heart drops the second sees Soap in the door wearing his hoddie and nothing else. Soap looks at him with big hurt eyes. "Soap, I..", Ghost trys but honestly he's not sorry he did what he had to do. "Just looking out for me", Soap finishes the sentence looking at the floor while tears are running down his face.

Ghost guilt just gets worse when he smells the sadness and hurt from Soap. He drinks his tea bruning his mouth badly because its still hot so he has a few more moments to think about what to say. "Price and Laswell will figure something out", Ghost says knowing it will not make anything better. Soap just nods still looking at the floor using the long sleeve to wipe away the tears. "I will be in my nest", he says before leaving again while Ghost drinks the rest of his tea. Ghost does things for the sake of being busy. He dont really need to do any of these thinks but he wants to give Soap some space. After 3 hours he looks if Soap needs anything, having nothing left to do. Soap is sleeping in his nest still wearing his hoddie. The water bottles empty so Ghost replaces them. "Ghost?", Soap asks voice barely a wisper when Ghost nearly left the room. "Yes?" "Want to cuddel", Soap says sounding a bit like a kid demanding something from their parents. Ghost just smiles before carefully entering the nest again. "Im sorry", Ghost apologies the 'for going behind your back' is left unsaid. Soap looks at him before slowly nodding. "You think they will figure something out?", Soap ask unsure playing with the sleeve of the to big hoodie. "I hope they do", Ghost says not wanting to make promises he cant keep. "We're solid?", Ghost ask after a while. "Still angry about doing it behind my back, but", Soap starts needing time to think about how to finish the sentece. "but, I guess it will be easier now with some help, less lonely." Ghost humms to signal he understands thinking about what Soap says. They stay silent after this both lost in thought.

"Ghost", Soap whines feeling how the heat gets unbareble. "What do you need?", Ghost ask knowing his tiptoeing a fine line here. "Knot", Soap stats in a impacient way, as if to say why didnt you knot me already. "Soap, I...", Ghost stammers his brain telling him they need to talk about this first, laying down rules while his insticts are howling in triumph. "Please", Soap whines strangeling Ghost laps. "Johnny", Ghost warns but it loses impact when he dont shove the Omega of. Soap start moving his hips against Ghost jeans making them weat with his slick. "Okey, Johnny, we need to talk about somethings first okey?", Ghost says stoping the movement of Soap with his hands. Soap makes a displeased sound at this but still nods in agreement. "No biting at all, if you break the no biting rule I will leave. And Soap nothing changes between us after this", Ghost says making a displeased face with how his pants is now sticking to him. "Fine, and now but your big knot in to me", Soap says impatient and a bit to fast for Ghost liking. "You dont have any rules?", Ghost ask concerned. "Cant think of some when all my brain does is graving a knot", Soap admits looking mortifyed. "If you dont like anything you say stop okey?", Ghost says trying to make this situation as proffesional as possible. No feelings just a quick fuck so Soap hopefully gets out of heat as fast as possibel. "Okey", Soap aggres tuging at Ghost hands to signal to get them removed. Ghost keeps them there seeing how demanding Soap will get, before his brain only things about fucking the Omega so good he will ask him to spend his next heat with him. Soap tugs again at Ghost arms looking annoyed. "Ask for it, nicely", Ghost says smirking hidden under the mask. "Can you please, very nicely fuck all the stress out of me? Today?", Soap ask snarky and impatient. Ghost is predenting to think about it before he start moving Soaps hips. The annoyed look of Soap gets replaced by a satisfied smile. "To fuck all the stress out?"; Ghost ask curious while moving his hands up on Soaps waiste. "Yes, its a stress heat, so you need to fuck all the stress out of me", Soap answers and Ghost is sure that this dont work this way. "Fuck you so good you pass out on my knot?", Ghost chuckels asking more as a joke. "You wish you could", Soap says as a challenge and oh Ghost will for sure try now. Ghost picks up Soap from his lap to place him on the bed again, so he can finally get out of the now soaked jeans, they are also getting uncomfortable tight. Soop is moving his hands to open up Ghost belt and fly, hurrying to get the pants of the much as he can. Ghost shakes his head at Soaps impatience. He stand up to get fully undressed besids his mask and Soap is gasping.

Ghost grins at this, knowing that Soaps eyes are clued to his dick piercings. "Like what you see?", Ghost ask knowing the answer is yes, because Soaps scent is getting stronger as he produces more slick. "Shit, isent that a hazard in the field?", Soap ask slowly looking up to meet Ghost eyes. "Nobody sees them normaly", Ghost says shrugging. "Fuck", Soap gasps feeling how his hole is cleanching. "Thats the plan", Ghost chuckels before he gets on the bed again. Soap gives him a telling look clearly not impressed by his littel joke. Ghost thinks about stripping Soap out his hoodie but he thinks it's hoter to let the Omega wear it while he fucks him making the piece of clothing smell off them. He probably will never wash it if he can get it back from Soap, it's also a nice protection from accidental bits just like his mask. Soap gets a bit impatient taking things in his own hands, presenting himself to Ghost using his hands to spread his ass cheeks. Ghost is growling at this, fuck Soap will ruin him, as much as he wants Soap to not have anyone besites him he risks to not want anyone besides Soap.

Sopa looks over his shoulder dirty smile on his face silently asking what Ghost is waiting for. The Alpha swallos before he plans what to do with Soap. Thinking about his options like if he prepares for a mission. "Ghost", Soap whines. "You gave me a challenge littel Omega, let me plan how to succeed it", Ghost says before kneeling on the bed. Sopa shivers at this a flush of slick leaking out him. Ghost swipes some of the slick of with his fingers before using it to loop up his dick with it. Soap is gasping shivering in anticipation. "Bet you taste delicious", Ghost says before shoving 2 fingers in Soaps leaking hole. Soap is moaning waiting to give a smart ass reply but he's to focused on what the fingers are doing. "Just have to lift up our mask to get a taste", Soap pants out, when Ghost finds his prostate. Ghost just humms in agreement, chocking down a 'next time then'. He should not offer a next time. "You should move your arms in the front Johnny", Ghost says while pushing 2 more fingers in Soap. "Don't need to stretch me that much", Soap complains but is moving his arms in front of him. "I have a big knot, dont want it to hurt, want to make sure you're ready to take it", Ghost says having problems to keep his instincts down. Both of them now smell aroused and needy. Soap moves a bit so he can look at Ghost dick again, was to focused on the piercing to register the sice of Ghost. And Ghost is right he is big, his knot probably just as thick as his dick. "Give it to me", Soap demands getting impatient. "Demanding littel Omega aren't you", Ghost states not stoping to stretch Soap as long as his patience let him. "Just know what I want", Soap states pouting a littel bit. "Mhm, that you do", Ghost agrees pulling his fingers out using the slick that's running down his fingers to again lube his dick up. He moves Soaps hips to his liking before lining up his dick.

"Ghost", Soap complains impatient wanting to finally have a knot in him, brain only tracking this goal, to get the knot from the Alpha he's yearning for. Ghost pushes all in one move, beeing suprised how wet and lose Soap is. "Fuck are primal Omega also having special heats, don't think a Omega even in heat is able to do this before", Ghost groans his instincts screaming at him to not hold back that this Omega can take everything he's giving him. "Don't know, it's always like this", Soap says clenching around Ghost, trying to not get jealous about the Omegas Ghost fucked in the past. "Ready?", Ghost ask placing his hands on Soaps hips. "Was ready 10 minutes ago", Soap remarkes looking over his shoulder his pupils blown wide. Ghost pulls out till only his tip is still in and pushes in one hard trust. Soaps mouth drops open a gasp leaving his lips. Ghost trust are deep and hard and Soap loves it. With every trust he pushes Soaps upper body forward. "Thats everything you have?", Soap provokes wanting more. Ghost says nothing trying to ignore Soaps comments, holding his instincts at bay to not fuck Soap till he passes out. "Get better sex with my knot toy", Soap pushes further, trying to get fucked harder with out asking for it. "Is that so?", Ghost asks with faked curiosity. "Yeah, would already have come atleast twice with it."

"You asked for it, no complaining later, Sergeant", Ghost says before he stops holding back. Soap huffs amused before Ghost presses his face in the sheets. The trusts turn brutal the slapping of skin against skin is filling the room. Soap loves it Ghost thick dick rubing against his prostate with every thrust and its heavenly. Its not long till Soap comes for the first time, untouched. And Soap is pressing himself more against Ghost dick. "Si...", he chockes out. Ghost just keeps going so focused on keeping the perfect angle, keeping up the speed and deepness. Soap feels the over stimulation and tears start to fill his eyes. "Ghost", he moans, squirming trying to get away from Ghost now. Ghost grabs his hips stronger making it hard to move them. "Si...mon, ahh to much...", Soap sobs not abel to take more of the brutal asult of his prostate. Ghost don't stop, all he can think about is how good the Omega feels, how good he's taking him, how perfect the Omrga is, that this perfect littel Omega has to be his. "Si, Simon, stop", Soap sobs out and Ghost does stop instantly buried deep in to the Omega. Ghost is panting his mask sticking to his face from his sweat. He carefully pulls Soaps hair so he can see Soaps face. Tears are running down Soaps face, a line of slavia runnig down his chin, Soap looks absolute destroyed by just his cock, his knot not even had began to swell yet. "Better then your toys, Johnny?", Ghost can't keep the question to himself sounding proud and smug about the state Soap is already in. "Yes", Soap sobs, slowly calming down by the break. "Think you can take it?", Ghost ask darkly his eyes eating Soap alive. "Take what?", Soap ask inocently playing dumb, but the look in his eyes tell him Soap knows exactly what he means. "My knot", Ghost wispers directly in to Soaps ear, getting a gasp and a shiver as answer. "Will ride your knot dry", Soap answers licking over his lips. Ghost pulls out at this laying on his bag. "You can try", he says knowing Soap will not back down from the challenge.

Soap sits on Ghost hips, still needing a bit to calm down. He uses the time to touch everything bit of skin. Tracing the scars on Ghost, some he know the mission they are from others are from the time before 141. Ghost gives this to Soap trying to holt the urge down to just pick him up and let him slowly sink down on his dick again. "You ever thought about a nippel piercing?", Soap asks courios. "Had them before I entlisted with 22", Ghost humms, rubbing circles in Soaps thights. Soap purrs at the information pleased to get some rare personal information from Ghost. "Shame I don't feel the ones you have", Soap says hinting on wanting to do this out of heat again hoping Ghost picks up on it. Ghost stops the movement of his fingers, his eyes turning dark. He just pushes Soap up a before moving Soaps ass over his hard dick. He slowly pushes Sopas hips down till he's all in the Omega again. Slick is not even leaking out of Soap anymore it's more like a constant stream of slick. He moans turned on how easy Ghost can move him around even with Soap beeing a rather big Omega. "Simon", Soap gasps scandalised his dick twitching, before he starts circeling his hips and Ghost loves to see all the littel reactions on Soaps face. How hes bitting is lower lip, how hes closing his eyes everytime he gasps, how his mouth goes slack everytime Ghost brushes his still sensetiv prostate. "Thought you wanted to ride my knot dry Johnny", Ghost teases knowing Soap will likely not make it because outside of ruts he has a lot of stamina to fuck an Omega. Its a reason why he was on emergency heat duty before he became the Ghost. "Every last drop, I will get from you", Soap huffs when he starts to move a up and down. And seeing Soap makes Ghost go feral, he loves how Soaps his throwing his head back when ever he hits his prostate just right, loves how he's scratching over his chest and leaving bloddy strips on him. He feels how is knot it's starting to get interested. And Soaps legs are shaking from the effort hes ridding Ghost and Soap whines at him. "Problem?", Ghost ask smug. "I'm peachy", Soap moans getting a raised eyebrow from Ghost, but he still moves his hands to Soaps ass helping him move changing the speed up a bit. Making it slower seeing how Soaps legs are shaking more and more under the effort. "Simon", Soap hisses trying to put some of his weight more on his arms. Ghost starts trusting up in Soap keeping the slow pace, feeling how Soap is clawing his shoulders. "Need..", Soaps whines what ever he wanted to say gets stopped by his second orgasm, covering Ghost whole chest with cum. Ghost stops his movement, watching Sopas reaction. How spit is running down the corner of his mouth, how he closes his eyes and the moan that Soap is making sinfull. Every pornstar wishes they could moan like Soap in this moment.

When the orgasm calms down Soap flops on Ghost chest, not carrying he still wears Ghost hoddie or that the chest is covered in cum. "Looks like you failed", Ghost wispers in his ear darkly. "Failed what?", Soap asks still blissed out. "Riding my knot dry", Ghost chuckels before kissing Soaps forhead. Soap opens his eyes giving Ghost a heated look before stating: "Just taking a break." Ghost laughs foundly at this, rubbing his hands over Soaps back. "Sure you are." "How close was I?", Soap ask when he catched his breath. "Closer then other Omegas ever got", Ghost states. "What's that supose to mean?", Soap asks displeased by the answer. "I usaly fuck 4 to 5 orgasm out of a Omega in heat, before they pass out on my knot", Ghost wispers directly in his ear, a new gush of slick running out of Soap. "You like this, don't you?", Ghost ask groping the as of the Omega. "Liar", Soap says not believing Ghost can go that long. Ghost just flips there positions Soap now with his back on the bed with Ghost over him. Soap is wrapping his legs around Ghost hips not even thinking about it. Ghost takes his as a sign to start fucking into Soap again. Soap moans helplessly and Ghost can't hold back anymore. "So perfect, taking me so fucking perfect, best Omega I ever fucked", Ghost praises Soap. Soap keens at the praise. "Please", Soap wimpers out. "Want my knot?", Ghost asks knowingly. "Yes, please breed me Alpha", Soap begs, making Ghost fuck so hard into him the bed is hitting the wall. "How much you want my knot Johnny?", Ghost ask feeling how is knot is slowly swelling. "Want it so bad, want your cum leaking out of me", Soap moans. "You can do better, Johnny", Ghost says nuzzling in to Sopas neck. The scent of Soap is clouding all his thoughts. "Simon.. fuck I had..", Soap moans out stopping sudenly as if he can't finish the sentece. "Tell me, will knot you so good if you do", Ghost promises. Soap says something in his chest so fast he can't understand it. "Say it again Omega", Ghost growls making Soap come again just by the sound of his voice. "Bought a new toy so I have a fat knot in me and can pretend it's yours", Soap babbles out in his post orgasme bliss. "Yeah, how long you want my knot Johnny?", Ghost ask curios his knot now fully swollen. "Since Chicago", Soap moans, tears running down his face in overstimulation. With his next trust Ghost knot is in Soap and Ghost just praises him. Telling how good he's taking all of him. "Please Alpha fill me up", Soap sobs out. "Call me that again", Ghost orders loving how Soap is calling him Alpha, feeling how he is about to come. A brutal trust agaisnt Soaps prostate and Soap is screaming of the top of his lungs. "Alpha!" 3 trust later and Ghost is cumming deep in to Johnny. And Soap is cumming again and passes out. Making Ghost humm pleased with himself. Fuck he wants to claim Soap so badly and the high of his orgasm is washed away by his frustration to not being able to have Soap that way.

When Soap wakes up he's feeling less hot already. A hand is playing with his hair and the musky earthy smell of Ghost is filling his nose. He can't believe he that Ghost really made him pass out on a knot. Embarrassment is making his face burn. He purrs happy just enjoying the soft touches, trying not to think about the passing out part to much. He's laying on Ghost his head testing on his board chest. "Soap your solid?", Ghost asks calm. "Yeah", Soap answers sleepy. "How's your heat?" "Better." "Good, you think you can handel tonight alone?" Soaps purr stops abruptly and a feeling of disgust and being used is spreading through him. Of course Ghost just knoted him so the mission can go on with out a problem. The nice fantasys he made up in his brain are shattering in million pieces. Ghost told him, that nothing would change, but for Soap everything changed. "Yes" he answers hoping his scent is not already changing from happy to the mix of emotions he is feeling. But of course Ghost smelled it how could he not? They smell like each other, and in a long time Ghost actually likes his own scent that his so similar to his father's. "Soap" "I.. just thought... that you would stay atleast to night..", Soap says feeling pathetic for getting his hopes up. Ghost stays silent for a while and is probably thinking about a nice way to let him down. "I want to, but I can't", Ghost finally says sounding sincere.

Oh

Oh

"But you haven't sleeped at all." Soap knows hes grasping at straws to find a way for Ghost to stay. Ghost laughts amused at this knowing what Soap is doing. Both of them know that Ghost operated on less sleep in way dangerous missions. "Determined littel Omega aren't you", Ghost says fondly starting to play with Soaps hair again. "Im not littel", Soap pouts. "But I really can't target is planning something big, Laswell for sure would love the information of to night", Ghost explains hating to leave the Omega. Soap pouts some more understanding that this is important but more importantly that Ghost really would like to stay if he could. "But you come back right after?", Soap asks the 'to me' hangs in between them unsaid. Ghost pulls Soaps head up by his hair getting a pleased moan out of the Omega. Soap looks in Ghost uncovered face can't help the pleased purr at the look of the gorgeous Alpha in front of him. "Of course, will probably have to fill you up again when I'm back", Ghost growls loving the eager nodding of Soap. He stops the movement of Soaps head with holding his chin and Soaps looks at him like a dear in the headlights. He tilts Soap head up a bit, hearing the gasp Soap is making before he leans down to finally kiss the Omega as a promise.

[callsign-bunnie]

Could you write an arranged marriage AU with king/warlord Alejandro with Rudy being offered to him as spouse so he won't invade the kingdom Rudy comes from? Maybe Rudy would be scared to be offered to Ale because his reputation is scary but then it turns out Ale falls in love at first sight, but Rudy doesn't believe him at first.

SCREAMS, SCREAMS SO LOUD anon I could kiss you, also this is ABO because... idk. It took so unbelievably long because I was setting up an entire AU for it!

--

Rodolfo could have cried when he looked in the mirror. He was dressed to be a bride and he hated it. He'd agreed to this, for his kingdom. Granted, he didn't really have a choice because they were going to send him, regardless, but he had decided to agree to it.

"It could be worse, Rudy." Soap, his best friend and who would be his first lady in waiting, tried to joke. "He could be unattractive."

"His personality far outweighs any outer attraction." Rodolfo shook his head, keeping his voice soft in case anyone could hear him. He doubted they could but he'd like to be careful. "Have you heard what they say about him?"

Soap cringed, reaching up and carefully readjusting Rodolfo's veil, making sure it covered his eyes. It was a deep blue, with gold flakes in it, that gave an impression of stars. "For what it's worth, you're beautiful."

Rodolfo smiled, sadly. "Thank you." He murmured, touching Soap's face. He'd been "gifted" to Rodolfo by his parents on Rodolfo's thirteenth birthday. It was customary in his kingdom for Noble's to offer their child to royalty. It gave them the chance to learn how to play at court, and potentially gave them a seat at a war table or strategy board. Or, in an omega's case, a chance of marrying someone who would be at those table.

Soap grinned at him. "Besides... I'm here. Can you really be so sad with your best friend here?"

"No, I suppose I cannot." Rodolfo agreed and turned back to the mirror. He tried to suppress the way his hands shook as he raked them over the fabric on his body, trying to smooth it out. "I'm terrified..."

"I'm right here, Rudy. It's going to be okay." Soap nodded, meeting his eyes in the mirror.

Rodolfo took a deep breath. "What will he do to me?"

"Nothing. I know you. You have a fiery spirit. You'll stand tall and demand he respect you. Or else. Because that's who you are." Soap smiled, reassuringly. "I've seen you stand up to war generals."

"Not Kings. Not my husband." Rodolfo shook his head. "Not King Alejandro."

Soap hesitated before sighing. "Alejandro Vargas is just an alpha, at the end of the day."

Just an alpha. Right. Alejandro Vargas, king of the Red Kingdom, named that for the amount of blood it's spilled over the centuries it's been established, was more than just an alpha. He was a Warlord. It was the custom of his kingdom. He'd won his first battle at 13, his first war at 18, and he'd quickly started to rebuild the Silver Empire. And at 24, he was succeeding, too. Rodolfo's marriage to Alejandro would cement their kingdom's rejoining of the Empire, the 6th kingdom, of the original 13, to rejoin.

Alejandro had a reputation for being bloodthirsty. He drank with his breakfast, some would say. Rodolfo had been told many times that Alejandro would chew him up and spit him out. He liked to break omegas. Would push them until they snapped. Left a broken shell of their former selves.

And Rodolfo Parra, second born of his family into the second largest Kingdom of the Old Empire, Artemea, (the largest being the Red Kingdom), had to marry him. He wondered, as he finally followed Soap to where the ceremony would take place, how long he'd last. How long would he last before Alejandro broke him like he apparently broke other omegas?

Months? Years? Gods, he'd probably barely last days. Where would he find himself in the weeks after their marriage? A husk, only pulled out for events? He'd seen other Queens befall that state. He'd always vowed that would never be him. Yet, here he was, being dressed and preened for the slaughter.

Rodolfo quickly grabbed Soap's hand when they reached the door he was meant to go through, tensing. "Soap..." He whispered, hardly able to breathe. "I can't do this..."

"You have to, Rudy. It'll be alright." Soap murmured and took his hand, patting it. "I'll be there. Right off to the side. I believe in you."

Rodolfo almost stopped him as he let go of Rodolfo's hand, turning and leaving so he could take his place. Rodolfo took in a shuddering breath and when he heard the Priestess say his cue, he finally went in.

Alejandro was wearing red, a big shocker, with gold accents. As Soap had pointed out, he was attractive. If Rodolfo wasn't terrified of his actions, he would have fawned over him with Soap the moment he found out he was to be married to him.

His face was neutral as Rodolfo stepped in, hard almost.

It only frightened Rodolfo more. He hadn't expected affection in his eyes, but... he'd wanted something. He couldn't read Alejandro's expression at all. He didn't like that.

Rodolfo managed to keep himself from running back out of the room, doing as Soap said he would. He straightened and set his chin, taking a deep breath. Stand tall, don't show your fear. Alejandro may try to break you, but he won't steal your dignity in front of everyone here.

When he was in front of Alejandro, he looked up at him, taking in a breath as he studied Alejandro's features. They were sharp, angled in all of the typical way an Alpha's features were expected to be. Light facial hair, Rodolfo believed it was called stubble, dusted his jaw, though it was clean.

That was one thing the red kingdom was known for. They cared about their looks, their appearance, their presentation. First impressions were apparently everything to them. Alejandro... seemed to be making a clear effort with his.

Rodolfo's eyes traced over his features, though they were easily caught by a long jagged scar that went down the right side of Alejandro's face from the bottom of his eyelid to his jaw. The way it was shaped suggested a slash, not a cut. He wondered which battle had earned him that one.

Honestly, he didn't look all that frightening. Everyone had described him as something close to a monster. Hard eyes constantly searching out violence, jagged features, a stance that could strike fear into the hardest war generals. But... Soap was right. Alejandro was just an alpha.

The priestess started the ceremony. The first part was to hold out their hands. They would clasp them, gently, and then the priestess would bind them together. Rodolfo held out his left hand, trying not to show how much it shook.

Alejandro definitely noticed, though, because a small frown appeared on his face as he took Rodolfo's hand with his own left. His hands were slightly rough on Rodolfo's skin, his skin much warmer than Rodolfo's. Alejandro's skin was slightly lighter than his own, but only slightly. It was only noticeable when they touched. It made sense, Rodolfo spent most of his time in his castle's garden, reading while Soap rambled about anything and everything.

"With this silk rope, I bind you King Alejandro Vargas of the Red Kingdom to Prince Rodolfo Parra of Artemea." Rodolfo watched her tie the rope in a marriage knot around their wrists, forming an infinity symbol around their thumbs. While the knot was formed, Alejandro's hand turned to the side, slightly, and Rodolfo could see a deep scar across his wrist.

He had to put everything into not looking at Alejandro in shock and just continued to stare at the rope on his wrist. He knew what that scar was. And... he had to admit, it clashed against everything he knew about Alejandro.

Alejandro was a very successful king. Why would he feel the need to end himself?

When the knot was tied, the Priestess then got a goblet from the side table. She took a carafe of wine from two tables. One had a Sun on it, the old symbol of the Red Kingdom before it became known only for blood, and the other had a moon, the symbol of Artemea. She poured wine from both carafes into the goblet, speaking a prayer in the old tongue, a language Rodolfo had never felt the need to learn.

The priestess then held the glass between them. Rodolfo was to take it first, so he did. He wasn't sure why. Soap had said, when Rodolfo had asked after the rehearsal ceremony, that the reason was because it was so an alpha could have their first taste of their new wife.

Alphas would place their lips over where their omegas had just placed theirs and it would be as if they were tasting them with the wine.

Rodolfo wasn't quite sure he believed him.

As was customary, Alejandro reached forward and pulled Rodolfo's veil back from his face, slightly, so Rodolfo could pull the goblet up to his lips. It would be hard to do himself, with his hand bound to Alejandro's. He took a small sip, trying not to make a face at the taste of the wine. it was ceremony wine, not good wine, so it did not taste great. But, he got through it.

Then, Alejandro took the cup from him. He turned the cup in an almost rehearsed way and took his own drink from it, his mouth right where Rodolfo's had been. Huh, Soap may have been right.

Then, the goblet was taken from them and Alejandro was lifting the veil over Rodolfo's face. The veil had muted the light a little, so his eyes had to adjust once it was moved, and he glanced around a little to help them.

When his eyes fell onto Alejandro's face again, he was shocked to see his features had softened, considerably, into an expression of almost awe. If Rodolfo didn't know better, he would have claimed admiration was there. "The gods could not have prepared me for how beautiful you are."

Rodolfo flushed dark at Alejandro's words, especially as they were spoken in the native language that both of their kingdoms shared. "Thank you." He responded, to be polite.

He knew the mating bite was next. That had terrified him. Kept him awake at night. He'd imagined Alejandro, his teeth sharp fangs, tearing into his neck. Mauling him. Ripping him open at their own altar.

As he'd seen at other ceremonies, of which he'd attended many, he expected Alejandro to grab him with his free arm, yank him over, and sink his teeth into Rodolfo's neck, leaving Rodolfo with the decision of forcing himself to stay quiet or humiliate himself with whimpering in front of everyone.

Instead, he was surprised when Alejandro moved to him, his arm going around Rodolfo's waist. He didn't pull Rodolfo, instead he cradled him. In fact, Rodolfo barely moved an inch. Then, Alejandro was leaning down, tilting his head. He kissed over Rodolfo's neck, carefully, until he found that spot that had Rodolfo letting out a breath, involuntarily, scenting Alejandro immediately.

With Alejandro so close, he could pick up his scent and it suddenly hit him that he hadn't been able to before. Distinctly alpha, no doubt of it, and he smelled of cinnamon, smoky cinnamon to be exact, maybe a hint of something softer... Rodolfo leaned into the sent, reaching to grasp at the blood red cloak that hung off of Alejandro's right shoulder.

Alejandro didn't hesitate, why should he, to sink his teeth into the spot. At first, pain erupted up Rodolfo's neck and down his shoulder and Rodolfo felt tears spring to his eyes. But then, as Alejandro held it, scenting him, Rodolfo felt the pain melt into euphoria. It was soft euphoria, nothing to drive Rodolfo too wild, but the scent definitely had him dizzy.

Alejandro pulled away a moment later, using his thumb to wipe Rodolfo's blood from his lips, and Rodolfo had to give himself a moment to let his mind clear. He released his death grip of Alejandro's cloak and flushed a little.

Then, again, Alejandro was leaning forward, baring his neck so Rodolfo could do the same. Rodolfo worried he wouldn't bite hard enough. Or he'd bite too hard and it would piss Alejandro off. But, he leaned up regardless, grateful when Alejandro tilted down a bit.

Alejandro temporarily moved his arm to tap where his mating spot was and Rodolfo felt immediately grateful. He kissed it, just to make sure, dizzying again at the scent it released, and flushing. Then, he pressed his teeth to the spot and bit down, as hard as he could without hurting his own jaw. His teeth broke the skin easily and he tensed when Alejandro suddenly grabbed his waist.

Fear flashed through him as he worried he'd bit too hard and now Alejandro would be angry at him. A million possibilities of how Alejandro would punish him for this ran through his mind and he tried to suppress his own scent, but already it was stained with fear. He knew he smelled like wildflowers, but when he was afraid, it turned to something sickly sweet, like honeysuckle that was rotting.

Rodolfo broke away, quickly, and backed away from Alejandro, immediately scanning his face for anger, but he was only met with neutrality again. Somehow, that only scared him more. But, he managed to get a handle on it, suppressing his scent.

Finally, the last part of the ceremony. The priestess came over and Rodolfo bowed his head as a gold crown with rubies was set on his head. It was lighter than he expected and the priestess discreetly secured it on his hair. "As this rope and those bites secure you to your alpha, your alpha secures you to this throne. Long live the new Queen of Aela, the Red Kingdom."

Rodolfo kept his head high and turned with Alejandro to the people watching them. It was a small crowd, nobles mostly, all sitting at tables.

"Today is a most joyous day." Alejandro began and Rodolfo found himself flushing, even if he wasn't sure Alejandro meant it out of affection for him. "I have taken a most beautiful bride and our beloved Artemea rejoins the Silver Empire upon our union. This will connect the Southern half of the continent to the Northern Half, as it did 500 years ago. I believe Artemila and Aelius both smile upon us, glad to see their beloved kingdoms reunited."

Rodolfo met Soap's eyes, who was smiling brightly. He was never afraid, Rodolfo wasn't surprised. Alejandro then guided Rodolfo to their table, sitting with him.

Then, music started, and everyone who was standing also found their seats. Now that Rodolfo wasn't focused, he got a good look around the room. Dark oak decor, several grand paintings... Rodolfo liked it. It was all beautiful. Of course it would be. Soap found his seat beside Rodolfo and a man wearing a silver mask, shaped to be a skull, sat beside Alejandro.

"Mi Estrellas," Alejandro started and Rodolfo found himself blushing at the nickname, finding it fitting, "I'd like you meet General Ghost. My closest friend and the highest in my army."

"Your only friend," Ghost corrected. Rodolfo didn't like the way his eyes picked over him, making him feel exposed. Judged.

Alejandro laughed, shaking his head. "Sadly."

Rodolfo went to bow his head in response to Ghost's bowing, flushing dark when Soap tapped his leg to remind him that he wasn't supposed to do that as Queen. Rodolfo had known he'd be Queen of some kingdom, eventually. Luapin had been who he'd assumed since they were small and Artemea's biggest ally, but... He'd never quite gotten the hang of the switch from Prince Rodolfo to Queen Rodolfo. It was hard.

Princes bow their head out of respect, Queens only nodded an acknowledge. Soap had paid more attention than he did.

Rodolfo nodded, once, instead. "It is wonderful to meet you."

"Your accent is thick." Ghost commented.

Rodolfo wasn't sure whether he should be offended or not, especially since Alejandro had the same accent. "My kingdom still relies heavily on our native tongue." He settled on, shrugging slightly.

Soap tapped Rodolfo's leg again and Rodolfo took a breath, introducing him. "This is So-" another tap, what would Rodolfo do without him? "Johnny Mactavish. He's my first Lady in Waiting." Only, more like, but that was only because Alejandro would pick the rest of them.

"It's nice to meet you," Soap bowed his head to Ghost and then to Alejandro, deeper as he was king. Ghost bowed his head to Soap and then Alejandro nodded a greeting.

The rest of the banquet was rather boring. Just guests offering them gifts, which Alejandro would choose to accept or regift to someone else. None of them particularly interested him, until a mechanical bird which could sing lullabies. Rodolfo watched it with fascination, unsure how it could work like that. It looked almost too real, he caught Soap making a face at it.

Alejandro seemed to notice his interest and smiled. “Here. We’ll keep this one.” He murmured, taking Rodolfo’s hand and gingerly placing the bird in it. Rodolfo flushed. He looked at it, having it play one of the songs.

“I don’t recognize these songs.” Rodolfo said softly. They were beautiful, though, and he liked the sound of them.

“They’re Aelian,” Alejandro explained. “Old Aelian. They’re not used anymore. You can hear the lower notes.”

Rodolfo could hear them, even despite how high pitched the bird sang. “Artemean lullabies are more high pitched, more monotone.”

“He knows. He learned several before your wedding.” Ghost spoke up, chuckling.

Alejandro glared deeply at Ghost and Rodolfo understood why everyone said he was terrifying. Rodolfo genuinely worried for Ghost’s safety. He’d heard a story of Alejandro cutting an advisor’s face during a meeting for speaking out of turn.

“Please don’t hurt him, I’m sure it was a harmless comment.” Rodolfo pleaded, both for Ghost’s safety and for not wanting to see bloodshed at his own wedding.

Both Ghost and Alejandro seemed to stop and stare at him for a moment before Alejandro softened. “Mi Estrellas, I will not harm him. Not for teasing.” He murmured.

Rodolfo relaxed, immediately, and flushed. He turned and looked down at the table, embarrassed. He glanced at Soap, who looked concerned, and offered a smile to reassure his friend. “I’m okay.” He murmured.

More gifts and they seemed to up in interest. A set of hour glasses, one with navy colored sand and one with blood red sand. A matching set for both of them, Rodolfo realized. Alejandro kept that one.

A set of books in the old language. Alejandro smiled, “can you speak it?”

“No. I was never taught.” Rodolfo shook his head.

Alejandro shrugged. “Neither do I.” He regifted them to Ghost, who apparently did speak the old language, and then continued on.

A few leather bound journals, another matching set which Rodolfo took interest in immediately. Alejandro again seemed to notice and kept them. Rodolfo felt surprised, Alejandro seemed to be so considerate of the things he liked.

Then, two blades were set in front of Alejandro by an Artemean noble. “We understand that Aelian omegas do not learn the dance of the blade but… Artemean do.” They bowed to Rodolfo, who smiled softly.

Alejandro seemed surprised. “You can sword fight?”

Rodolfo hesitated, worried Alejandro wouldn’t like that fact. “Yes, we’re taught from a young age to defend ourselves.”

Alejandro smiled. “That’s wonderful.” He nodded. He seemed almost impressed. He stood and lifted one of the swords, sliding the sheath off of it. The sheath was blood red and the blade itself was of obsidian steel and large, clearly built for Alejandro’s arm.

Rodolfo loved the way the black caught the light but even more dazzling was the red adorning the blade, somehow mixed into it. Rodolfo knew the process, it required moonwater to strengthen the gem, which would then be pieced and fuzed to the metal. It was a beautiful process. One Rodolfo enjoyed watching.

Alejandro admired it for a moment and then got the other blade out. It was smaller, the blade thinner, more suited for an omega. It was a bright silver with inscriptions of the moon in the blade. The light caught on it and it appeared to almost glitter. “Stand, Mi Estrella.” Alejandro murmured and gestured.

Rodolfo did as told, immediately, nervous. But, all Alejandro did was have him weight the blade in his arm. It was a little light but Rodolfo had no doubt he could adjust to it with practice. 

“Matching blades.” Ghost commented. “How romantic.”

Alejandro was almost grinning. He compared their two blades which held mostly the same shape with the usual distances. “It’s a showy blade, not suited for heavy combat but... when we travel together, it’s enough.”

Rodolfo ran his fingers of the blade meant to be his. “I adore it...” He murmured. He adored it. 

Soap looked in awe of the blade and Rodolfo gently handed it over so he could admire it. Soap had always loved blades, though Rodolfo had been partial to the bow in combat. “It’s beautiful.” Soap agreed, touching the edge of the blade, which broke the skin on his fingertips immediately.

Soap shrugged. “Respect striker.” He murmured, gesturing to everyone in the room who were in fact staring at Rodolfo with some mixture of awe and respect. Rodolfo’s face flushed red slightly and he thanked Soap for the name.

“Respect striker.” Alejandro nodded. “I like it.” He lifted the sheath. “May I?”

Rodolfo hesitated before nodding, moving away from the table. Alejandro was gentle as he secured the sheath around Rodolfo’s waist. Then, Rodolfo slid the blade in carefully. In combat, he would wear in on his back since his arrows would rest at his side instead, but, for daily wear, it would rest on his waist.

Rodolfo flushed when Alejandro’s hand smoothed over his stomach and then he carefully sat again, watching Alejandro thank who had gifted them the blades. “Thank you, Lord Kate.”

Lord Kate bowed her head. Rodolfo recognized her as an a noble from one of their neighboring kingdoms. She was often at court with his parents, doing business, though she was the Right Hand to King Price, of the Kingdom Drodora, which was on the sea. Artemea was on the sea as well, but Drodora’s main exports came from the sea.

Lord Kate wished them a happy marriage and then returned to her table, where Rodolfo recognized King Price himself sitting there. He raised a glass when he saw them glance over.

Rodolfo flushed and turned back to Alejandro. There were only a few more gifts and all were things for Alejandro, which he regifted most of them. Soap ended up messing with the bird some more, seeing everything it could do. 

Rodolfo felt himself become more anxious as the evening drew to a close. After gifts, it was eating, and then... consummation. Luckily, he knew enough to know that it was not customary in Aelian culture to check the sheets for blood like it was in other cultures but... Rodolfo was still nervous at the idea.

He’d never had sex before. He didn’t know anything about it. Soap had told him a few times about it but... he’d mentioned the first time always hurts. A lot. But, it could get better after that. Maybe for Soap but... if Alejandro was anything like everyone said... 

Rodolfo was terrified. 

When the night drew to a close, Alejandro offered his hand and then they dismissed themselves, as was customary. Rodolfo tried to keep himself from shaking with nerves as he followed Alejandro to their bedroom, taking deep breaths. Soap had told him it would be okay but he didn’t really believe that.

Alejandro let him enter the room first and Rodolfo tried not to jump at the sound of the lock clicking on the door. “I prefer privacy.” Alejandro explained. It was a nice room, large, as expected for a King’s room. It was decorated in red, also expected, and gold. The farest side of the room was all balcony, though curtains drifted in the breeze over it. 

Rodolfo nodded a little, standing at the foot of the bed and just kind of staring at it. He could hear his heart pounding in his chest, it filled his ears and Rodolfo would have believed it filled the room, too. 

“You don’t have to be so tense, Mi Estrella. I won’t hurt you.” Alejandro was suddenly close behind him and Rodolfo couldn’t help jumping that time. He wasn’t sure he believed Alejandro’s words. “What do you know of sex?”

Rodolfo decided to be honest. He didn’t think he could lie with Alejandro so close behind him. “I’ve heard it hurts the first time.”

“It doesn’t have to.” Alejandro started to pull off the jewelry Rodolfo was wearing, starting with the veil. “It only does with careless alphas.”

“Are you careless?”

“No.” 

Rodolfo flushed and closed his eyes, his skin warming wherever Alejandro’s brushed against it. “They say you’re a monster. That you enjoy breaking omegas. That you’ll break me.”

“People love to spin such tales, do they not?” Alejandro chuckled. “The way they speak about me would have many believe I was a dragon. That I could spit fire and rip a thousand men apart with my claws. I am simply human, Mi Querido. I do not enjoy breaking omegas. I will not break you.”

Rodolfo liked the way Alejandro spoke. He liked to flourish with his words. But, he knew alphas who liked to flourish their words often flourished their lies as well. “Are you a dragon?” He asked, attempting to be playful, though it likely failed.

“No.” Alejandro laughed and Rodolfo relaxed a little. “I only wish I could be. Would win this war for the empire faster.”

Rodolfo turned dark red as Alejandro started to pull his clothing off, but he didn’t resist. He did hug himself when he was fully undressed, complying as Alejandro turned him around. “I never imagined myself ever being in the presence of such beauty. It is hard to believe you are real.”

Oh. Rodolfo was very quickly flustered from Alejandro’s words, softening. Even if Alejandro was lying, he would do it with such pretty words and Rodolfo could appreciate those at least. Rodolfo was gently pushed onto the bed and he tried not to fall onto it, moving up so he could lay against the pillows. His eyes followed Alejandro as he undressed himself and then climbed up the bed, settling over Rodolfo.

Rodolfo took deep breaths to stay calm, settling into the pillows. Alejandro leaned down and kissed him, gently, though the passion there sent warm through Rodolfo’s body. Alejandro’s hands roamed his skin and spread the warmth, making Rodolfo shiver. 

Then, Alejandro’s mouth was moving down to Rodolfo’s neck, kissing and biting over the skin. Rodolfo had had his neck touched before, usually by Soap trying to bug him. This was different. He made soft noises from the sensation, pressing up into Alejandro without thinking. 

Alejandro’s hand found it’s way between Rodolfo’s legs and Rodolfo grasped at his forearms, tensing with nervousness again. “Shh.. it’s going to feel good, I promise.” Alejandro murmured. 

Rodolfo nodded a little, looking up into Alejandro’s eyes. He found tenderness there, affection. It shocked him and was a bit too much so he closed his eyes again, looking away. But, Alejandro turned his head back to face him. “I like your eyes. Keep watching me.”

Rodolfo turned bright red but nodded, gasping as Alejandro was suddenly swiping the slick that gathered between his legs. Alejandro made an appreciative noise and then his fingers were pushing inside. Rodolfo grabbed harder at Alejandro’s arms, keening into him.

It was an entirely new sensation, one which Rodolfo wasn’t sure how to cope with. He buried his face in Alejandro’s shoulder, gasping as his fingers pushed in deeper. 

“You’re so slick…” Alejandro purred, his free arm wrapping around Rodolfo and holding him close. “I have you…”

Rodolfo bucked his hips against Alejandro, moaning as he moved his fingers in and out at a steady and even pace. “Mi Sol…” He whimpered. The nickname was natural to him. He was Alejandro’s star… so Alejandro was his Sun. “I don’t- I can’t-” he wasn’t even sure what he was trying to say.

“It’s okay, mi estrella. I have you…” Alejandro rubbed his face against Rodolfo’s, adding a third finger but keeping the same pace. Rodolfo could feel Alejandro’s scruff against his skin and he couldn’t help whining, pressing his face into the action. Alejandro scented Rodolfo and he melted involuntarily, his mind going hazy from the sensation. This was fantastic… He didn’t want it to stop. “There we go…”

Alejandro pulled his fingers away suddenly and Rodolfo couldn’t help whining, looking at him with an expression of soft betrayal. Alejandro only laughed gently. “Just one moment, mi amor, I promise.” He pulled back, untangling himself from Rodolfo’s arms.

Rodolfo complied and fell back into the pillows, looking up at Alejandro and wondering just what was going to happen next. Alejandro moved himself between Rodolfo’s legs and then he was pushing in and it was intense and Rodolfo was having to grab at the sheets, gasping and squeezing his eyes shut.

Alejandro leaned back down and kissed over Rodolfo’s face, keeping the kisses light and gentle. “How do we feel, mi querido?”

Rodolfo took deep breaths. It didn’t hurt, it was just a lot. “It’s… it’s okay…” He nodded, opening his eyes to look up at Alejandro’s, seeing concern there. He just melted at it, leaning up and nuzzling the side of Alejandro’s face. Maybe the rumors weren’t true, maybe Alejandro was soft and kind. At least, in this moment, he was.

Alejandro pet his hair and Rodolfo melted as his body relaxed into the feeling. Then, Alejandro started to move, which was even more intense. He cried out as Alejandro thrust back in and quickly wrapped his arms around Alejandro’s shoulders, hiding in his neck. 

Alejandro cradled his head, the other going around his waist and continued to move, moaning softly in his ear. Rodolfo flushed dark as it sent shivers down his spine and he pulled away slightly, looking at Alejandro. Alejandro kissed him softly and gave another sharp thrust.

Rodolfo cried out and arched into him, breaking the kiss slightly, though Alejandro chased it and met him again, tilting his head to deepen it. He sharpened his thrusts and Rodolfo cried out his name, breaking away fully. He flushed dark when he saw Alejandro’s eyes darken and then he was thrusting like that every time, biting over Rodolfo’s neck.

Rodolfo at first tensed, expecting the sensation to be unpleasant but it wasn’t, it was wonderful and maybe it was a lot but Rodolfo wanted more. He rolled his hips to meet Alejandro’s thrusts, arching his back into him. 

“Just like that, mi querido. Just like that.” Alejandro panted, moaning again, and bit harshly at Rodolfo’s neck. Rodolfo whined and dug his nails into Alejandro’s back, rewarded with a faster, harsher pace. 

Alejandro licked over the bite and Rodolfo melted, but he kept rolling his hips to meet Alejandro, his movements clunky and inexperienced. Thankfully, Alejandro didn’t say anything about it, though his hands moved down to grab at Rodolfo’s hips and guide him. They moved together and Rodolfo found himself comparing it to the dances he’d had to learn for events.

Rodolfo tensed at a strange sensation in his stomach, looking at Alejandro in alarm. But, Alejandro only smiled affectionately, moving a hand to press down on Rodolfo’s abdomen. He whimpered as it intensified the pleasure, even beyond how intense it already was.

“Just give into it, let the waves wash over you… it’ll feel good, I promise.” Alejandro murmured. His thrusts went even, but still sharp, and the feeling grew and grew until Rodolfo was throwing his head back and crying Alejandro’s name again, his whole body shuddering and trembling.

As Alejandro promised, it felt amazing, like lightning was being sent down his body and then right back up.

Alejandro groaned and thrust sharply, once, twice, and then he was burying his cock deep inside Rodolfo as his knot grew, making Rodolfo feel so full he was almost bursting. Alejandro stilled and buried his face in Rodolfo’s neck, nuzzling him. 

Rodolfo panted and half clung to Alejandro, enjoying the feeling of fullness and warmth. “You were right… it didn’t hurt.”

“It never will, Mi Estrella.” Alejandro murmured. “I promise now- no. I vow to Aelius that I will never hurt you. Not intentionally.”

Rodolfo frowned. A vow to one’s patron deity was a big deal, even if it was known that said Deity had taken away his blessing. Revoking or breaking said vow could have you invoking your deity’s full force of wrath on yourself which… Would be inconvenient at best, devastating at worst.

Aelius was an omega and he was known to be gentle but… the full force of his wrath was certainly something to behold. It could level cities.

Rodolfo trusted that Alejandro was not making this vow lightly. And… slowly he relaxed into Alejandro. “Thank you…” He murmured.

“Mi reina…” Alejandro pulled away slightly, being very careful not to jostle Rodolfo, which Rodolfo was deeply grateful for. He was now sore and very very tired. Alejandro seemed to pick up on the way his eyelids drooped because he gently pet his hair and nuzzled him. “Sleep Mi Reina…”

Rodolfo did not have to be told twice, closing his eyes and drifting off.

--

Okay, so this will have seperate plotlines like Teeth and Skin and the Magic Users AU! Gaz and Roach will have their own plotlines as well!

[gummyfang]

So uhhhhhhhhhh I've been having ABO nsfw on the brain with late bloomer omega!reader who gets their first heat on a mission. I need ppl to vote on which one u want. None of the characters will be in an established relationship regardless of which one wins.

If u have some other suggestion lmk <3

[catkatchuck]

Hello again COD writers!

So... I have this idea cause um too obsessed with abo fanfics, love the idea of ghost being a big scary alpha for others but I complete caring and loving puppy for his omega.

And i love even more imagining soap as an omega, who's absolutely enhanced with how caring ghost is even without realizing. He's just know how to care for a omega, is a simon riley treat. He don't even realizes what he's doing.

So yeah, lowkey alpha!simon doing little caring actions for omega!soap, whos completely shocked when simon asked to come home with him after a mission.

But now imagine how confused and heartbroken soap is when they came to a comfy cottage and a soft body omega great they in the porch.

(Sorry the shit english, isn't my first language. And please tag me if you write or find a story like this)

[yeyinde]

appetite | Alpha!Simon Riley

it's been decades since Alpha!Ghost had a rut. something that's probably for the best, really. his want is as hideous as he is. as ugly as his goddamn mug. it's best kept tucked away, secured under lock and key.

but then he finds you. and you're all alone. unclaimed, on the verge of heat. poor thing. it triggers a voracious rut. decades worth of want spilling out over you. you're it, he knows. feels the certainty in that statement simmering in his hindbrain, in his essence. he'll have you—now, forever. non-negotiable. where you go, he will follow.

but you run from him. stupid girl. didn't anyone teach you not to run from a starving wolf?

dubcon. size kink. size difference. a/b/o dynamics: knotting, rut. breeding kink. spit kink. implied virgin!reader. obsessive behaviour. possessive!Ghost. semi-public sex. reluctant reader bullied into submission lmao. forced bonds. implied kidnapping. basically, you're hunted down and fucked by Alpha!Simon who growls in your ear about how he's waited his whole life for you. and lucky him. he finally found you

AO3

It's been years, decades, since he had a rut. 

(Broken Alpha. Ruined.)

Trauma, they tell him, will do that. Sever the drive in the back of his head, the one that rears—vicious and angry—each mating season, bringing with it the urge to breed. To claim. Own. 

A form of self-preservation. It pitches a plexiglass of protection between him and his instincts, not letting them merge. Join. Done so because to be in rut, to want, to need, is vulnerability. It costs hypervigilance. Turns man into beast. Animal. 

This bodily reaction makes an alpha extend themselves, like an overarching limb, to shield the omega they pick as a mate. Bearing their own neck to save another. 

Naturally, they say, if he couldn't help himself, how could he ever hope to protect a fragile little omega? 

They tell him it could be as permanent or temporary as he allows. Healing, they say. Time. Laughable, really. And utter nonsense because Ghost is fine. 

Trauma tampered. Revenge sought, found. There's no one out there who could ever harm him, and still—

His last rut was before the mission that buried him alive. That turned him into the living dead. A mockery of man. Frankensteinian beast. 

It's not something he cares much for, anyway. From what he remembers of his youth—vague snippets of memories, disjointed, blurred sensation; a profound need, an urge, to sink his cock into something, to plug them up, to bite—ruts have always been a nuisance. In the way. An annoyance that took time away from what he'd rather be doing. 

And as Johnny enters his—skin pallid, waxy; cheeks flushed, eyes darkening like a brewing storm on the horizon; snapping at anything that breathes, whining like a dog, miserable and hot, all the time (ahm’a bleedin’ furnace, s’what ah’m)—he finds he doesn't care very much to go reclaim what he lost. 

No skin off his nose. Nothing to concern himself with. 

Besides. Omegas know better. 

Even before he lost himself, dying, rotting in a tumulus, pretty little omegas with their soft hands and bashful smiles always went out of their way to avoid him. Miserable alpha. His scent alone wards them off—burnt leather, charred bones; sarcophagus dust, dirt—and he found himself alone during his burgeoning ruts more often than not. 

No pretty little thing to tender the sweat on his brow, or bend over and present for him—offering up a sweet little cunt he got to bury himself inside, tie up nice and tight on his knot. 

It was usually his hand. A bottle of bourbon. A printed porn stash he swiped from Tommy, who nicked it off their old man—

And when he did find a partner, it was always transactional. Hand to hand, an exchange of money. All clinical and detached. Empty. Fucking into a concept instead of a person; a vacuum eating away at his soul because he knew, then, that they wanted to be there almost as much as he did. 

But what choice did either have when their home was the rotted gullet of a dying beast?

(Simon told them to stay away from shitty men like him, who broke bones in the throes of his heat, snapped his jowls at anything that got too close, and had to be chained to the bed like an animal during it—)

Nothing to miss. Nothing to mourn. 

And it's not like he doesn't get the urge. Wanting to sink his cock into something warm, wet, is as recurring as a sweet tooth. A prickle in the back of his head after he devours his dinner that says, dessert might be nice. 

He can fuck, but his knot never pops. A worry the doctors had—unsure what the consequences would be in the long run for such a virile, young Alpha already experiencing nature's version of erectile dysfunction so early in life. 

(“pity the poor omega who has to deal with that rut,” they whispered. “might not be much of anything left of them when he's through.”)

Inconsequential now because he's pushing forty and his last rut was a false trigger. One dragged out of him by drugs and torture. The last true rut, natural and instinctual, was when he was eighteen. 

It's doubtful he'd suddenly be cured at his age. 

This is what he tells Johnny when he asks, pries. Broken fuck, ain't he? Unmated. Can't knot. Piss poor excuse of an Alpha. Doesn't he think it's—

“a shame,” Johnny grouses, words muffled slightly by the way he's hunched over the cheap plastic table in the canteen. His fingers dig harshly into his temple. “Alpha like you—” it's enunciated in clipped Queen's English, the barb makes Ghost scoff. “—ack! a waste. ma mam would be livid. no grandbabies t’show off? sacrilegious.”

—funny. If he's being honest. Laughable:

because for as long as Ghost can remember, he's always had a predilection to ruin his favourite toys. slaking his unquenchable lust on their tender skin, biting down to the bone, sipping on their marrow—

not really the sort of thing omegas today go for, is it? 

his want is as hideous as he is. as ugly as his goddamn mug—

Instead, he shrugs. “hardly.” 

“yer no’ missin’ it?” 

“missin’ what, Johnny?”

“knottin’, ye surly prick.” He jeers, then, jabs his elbow into Simon's arm. “a bonnie omega to stick yer prick in. ain't missin’ th’, no?”

“no,” Simon gripes. The last thing Price needs is another order of protection against his Lieutenant. But to humour the alpha in an early stage of rut, he jabs out, hollow and full of wretched derision. “i can barely remember what it felt like. must be heaven, though. is that your plans for tonight, Johnny? gonna go and knot some sorry omega?”

It's meant to prod, poke. Sharp barbs aimed at Johnny's threadbare control, the same one held in place by a fraying, unspooling knot. Alphas in the early stage of rut are considered safe enough to be around. Not yet mindless drones, hosts to an ugly little parasite; a being forced to obey a single, instinctual drive to mate, to gorge themselves into a post-rut stupor. 

Safe. Or so they say. 

But Ghost knows what Johnny's feeling in the same sense as a phantom limb. A broken, fragmented memory. So, he twists his mockery in deep. All in jest, of course. 

And Johnny pales suddenly. Wavers in his seat. The affirmative comes after a bout of contemplative silence. A jagged, choked yeah slips from his Sergeant’s mouth as he drops his head to the table, and groans. Miserable. 

“go fuck yerself, Lt.”

Simon intends on taking Johnny up on that offer, lazying out on the futon with his hand stroking lazily along his flaccid cock, thumbing through the latest series of snapshots Johnny—ever the photographer—snapped up during his previous rut. Images of pretty omegas dressed up in fine silk, blood-red lingerie, and coy little grins on their faces, a vixen pastiche of demureness. Jejune appeal in all its coquettishness.

Innocent sluts—Johnny's preferred type. Ones who'll bat their eyes at him, nervous and full of faux modesty, while they rock back and forth on his face, tugging on his mohawk to make him lick their cunts just the way they like. Sweet, like candy. Dressed in sin. 

He likes to take before and after photos of them—often with the pretty models unaware (adds to it, aye, Lt?). Ones with them batting their eyes at him, soft and shy in all their twee delight, and then fucked out, ruined and chewed up like a broken toy when he finishes with them. Bitten off more than they can swallow. Cheeky brats sobbing for mercy on his bed. 

Likes, even more, to send them to Ghost. A little tease. One he has no compunction about partaking in. Enjoying to his heart's content. 

Or—

Intended to, of course. Because what ends up happening is this:

Price calls just as he's getting into the new series sent to his phone—the tear streaks streaming down this omega’s face are particularly appealing, bound in intricate Celtic knots (Johnny, the artist), and gagged with their own panties—and tells him he has a job for him. 

Something simple. Discreet. And local, too. Bears have been sighted in town—a mama and her cubs. Dangerously close. 

The prelude to the phone call is a clipped take care’a it before the line goes dead. 

Ghost doesn't need to pack much—he can't remember the last time he unpacked his duffle bag, anyway—and stays in the recliner until the mission file comes in, idly stroking his thumb across the pixelated, tear-streaked face of the omega in Johnny's clutch. Moussed. Messy. They make the prettiest picture, don't they? Drool dripping down their chin, a spillover from what the lacy, white panties couldn't catch. 

Flesh peppered with jagged circles, bite marks. Johnny knows better than to claim them, and their neck is bereft of his teeth. Smooth. Unblemished. 

To claim is to bond. To bond—

Well. 

His earliest recollection of a relationship is his parents’. His mum, tied and trapped to a man she wanted no part of, but stuck. Unbondings, divorce, were rare during that time. Unheard of. Even now. 

And under his old man's influence, he's always seen claiming as ownership. As possession. A lingering remnant he’s told is wrong, but can't shake. Can't change. It glues in the fibrils of his mind. A rotten, pulsing scab that no amount of sanctioned reconditioning can ever seem to get rid of, to scrape out of his skull. 

(one he knows would be there no matter what because his sole purpose is exsanguination; bloodletting— 

in his warped desire to protect the things he cares about, he ends up smothering them in the end. a child holding a firefly too tight in its chubby fist.)

But Johnny knows better. Good Catholic boy. Knows to keep a muzzle on himself when he sucks desperate kisses into the small omegas' sweet neck, breaking apart the blood vessels of their scent glands, soaking himself in their musk—potent pheromones of a needy omega in heat. Aching for a bite. To be held down and conquered. 

It's wrong, they say. This ugly mass sits inside his chest like a foreign body. Scandalised eyes drilling into the side of his head like he's a monster for thinking this way. 

And he is. 

(always has been)

But he knows better. Knows to keep those uglier, rotten parts of himself hidden away from prying eyes. Got good at it, too. Enough that they let him into the brothels time and time again. 

Still—

He can remember the closest he'd come during a rut to biting a shrill omega who screamed in his ear until his head rang, ached. Nearly did it, too. Teeth razoring over their jugular, pinching delicate skin. 

Clarity came like a gunshot when he tasted blood. Chiselled a hole through his delirium, broke up the haze, and snapped his jaws up tight, locking them as he finished with a muffled growl, tongue swirling over his teeth for another taste. Another drop. 

His ruts have always been messy. Bloody. Got him banned from several centres, brothels, where they offered up betas drenched in the artificial musk of an omega in estrus. Ones resilient enough to withstand the harsh coupling of an unhinged Alpha in need. 

He had a problem, they said, with treating their workers like chew toys. Biting to break skin, drilling in deep enough to scratch his teeth on their bones. 

Deranged, they hissed. Fuckin’ mental, mate. Stay the hell away!

Some are just prone to violence. Need to be half-sedated before they can mate without ripping their partner to pieces. Ghost has always been that sort. Aggressive. Hard to control. Rabid. 

His appetite is bigger than the expanse of their skin. He sometimes thinks he could eat the whole world and still starve. 

He hums, thumb sliding to cover the omega's neck. Trapped in his hand, his clutch. They're cute when they're ruined like this. Begging. Whimpering. 

His cock gives a half-hearted twitch. His work phone chimes, signaling the end of his leisure. 

shame, he thinks, squeezing his hand until the metal dents, the screen cracks, splinters. Pops. Hairline fractures split across their distorted, tear-stained face. He closes his fist over it until it breaks. Goes black. 

really. such a goddamn shame. 

Some things are just not meant to be—

—but they have a habit of falling into his maw, anyway.

It's a simple set up. 

Man—

beast, monster, thing

—with his empty, growling stomach and teeth made to bite, tear, goes out hunting for a meal. In that search, he finds you. 

You, Persephone personified: damned (eternal), standing beneath a spruce tree. Limned, halo gold, in the waning sunset's bashful kisses, you lean on the rough bark, idling your timelessness away. 

Postcard beauty. Pinup demure. Alluring. 

(creature of sin

and oh, do you reek:

The air is saturated in the tantalising scent of honeybush, roasted hazelnuts, and clove. Saccharine—almost nauseatingly so—but with a hint of spice, black cardamom, cinnamon. He drags in lungful after lungful until it tangles deep within his chest, nearly suffocating. Smothered in this earthy sweetness. Drowning. Drowning—

the perfect dessert)

It unleashes something in him. Chips at the lock buried deep in his mind, cudgelling through the hinges until they pop. Rusted, slick with oxidising oil. It peels back from the gate, unveiling this gaping, ravenous chasm, polluted and gangrenous, rotten down to the marrow. Noisome. Noxious. This frothing pit sloshes, geyser-like, and greedily foams at the maw, the mouth, aching for a taste. Something to quench this gnawing hunger. 

This bottomless abyss hadn't seen light since he was eighteen, and—

The hollow space where his rib once sat throbs, aches. phantom bone. He holds his chest with his hand, feeling for the gap, the chasm, stolen from him. Ripped away, taken.

By you. you—

—so,

it's only fair that he steals something back. 

(quid pro quo, or something, right?)

You greet him with a small nod when he wanders close, eyeing him warily under the black rim of your ballcap. Tense. Small hands curl into fists, partially hidden under the rain-soaked windbreaker nearly two sizes too big. It smells like you—honeyed milk, molasses; lilac, lavender and warm bread—and he fights the urge to pull his mask down, to shove his misshapen nose into your neck, and breathe it in right from the source. Drinking, feasting, on it. 

This want is visceral. It coils in his guts, bubbling in his veins. His musk—heavier than yours, pungent—beads along his scent glands, mushrooming into the air like a fine mist. 

Your nostrils flare. He takes a step closer, eyes skewering into you, taking in everything you have to offer. The rucksack left at the bottom of the tree, stained with dirt and leaves. A sprig of Saskatoon berries peeks out from the lopsided flap. And—

Ah. 

Foraging is off-limits in this area unless granted a permit. One you don't seem to have based on the skittish way you keep avoiding his eye.

His scent thickens, tainted sour with faux suspicion, and you wince, ducking your chin, tucking it close to your chest, hiding from his spearing gaze. 

All it does is give him a voyeuristic view of your fragile nape, your vulnerable neck. 

His teeth ache. Jaw clenched up tight. 

It looks so bare. So naked. 

(Be a shame to keep it that way forever, wouldn't it?)

“Hi,” you stammer, seemingly oblivious to the musk you leak into the air, into his lungs. Forcing some sense of staid indifference into your tone. Like being here, out in the middle of the forest is normal. “Did you need something?” 

On the verge of a heat like this, wobbling where you stand—

He wants to chew you up. Spit out the pieces on the pavement. Drink from the gash he'll rip into your jugular,

quench this unbearable thirst. 

He doesn't know how you made it out here as long as you have, smelling like you do, and the thought burrows through the haze spuming, clotting, on the fringes of his muted periphery. Anger is an icy deluge of white water raging through his veins. 

Under the mask, the remnants of his scarred lip curls. His hands close into tight fists. Balled up. He feels the tension crackling along his muscles, his body. Coiled spring. Ready to leap—

But:

There's clarity. Focus. Where he was meant to become a mindless monster, driven by instinct, he instead feels the pieces of himself snap back into place. Missing puzzle pieces. It shifts. Settles. Locks. 

He wants you. Will have you. It's non-negotiable. Ironclad. You just—

Belong to him, don't you? Pretty little thief. And wandering around like this, reeking like you do, you must want him, too. Need him. 

(protect, protect, protect—)

Honed in, drilling into your face to catch every expression that flickers past, he sees the moment you take a sniff, when realisation blooms in the inkpools of your gaze that you are less than an arm's length away from a starving predator. Supple, soft. All plush flesh seated seamlessly against brittle bone. Fragile. 

“hi,” he echoes, and it sounds hollow. Garbled. Like he's speaking underwater. Thinks, for a moment, that he's buried again. Drowning under the crushing weight of dirt. His own tumulus. Suffocating. Choking on dirt—

But you twitch. Feral little thing. It breaks him out of this nightmarish obtundation; shaking the cobwebs loose. He tracks it like a viper. Attention narrowing, shrinking, into nothing but the way you move. Smell. You anchor him in his place, keeping him stable amid this horrific onslaught of emotions that rip talons down his chest. 

“I–” you breathe in again, lashes fluttering. Strains of silk batting over your etiolated cheeks. You breathe him in. Deep. He sees your chest grow, expanding with his air. His musk. Has to bite down on a growl before it forms, the lash of a whip in his throat. Aching. 

There's something spellbinding about you—caked in a layer of grime, briny sweat clogging your natural scent; wild and untamed. Uncharted wilderness, untouched by man and their dirty hands. A corrie after a rain shower. Snow melt. He wants to bathe in it. Carry it with him wherever he goes. 

As if scenting this thickening desire, your eyes widen. You take a step back, swallowing audibly when he follows. Marionette on strings. Your shadow. 

“I should go—”

And he knows he can't let you do that. 

Won't. 

He hums, a fickle, brittle thing in the far reaches of his chest. 

“Go?” he flicks his hand toward your bag, head cocking to the side in a mockery of contemplation. “Don' think you got a permit for that, do you?”

“A permit…”

He has you. Your eyes lower, falling to the badge on his chest. Game Warden. You stare at it, eyes widening. Swallowing thick. 

With you distracted, he leans in. Curves his body over you mockingly, like he's bending down to whisper a secret in your ear. Cupping a pretty little firefly in the palm of his hand. 

When his shadow falls over you—dark and damning—you flinch back, fists trembling under the hem of your jacket. Brows furrowed, knotted tight. Your lower lip wobbles. You try to hide that, too, by sinking your teeth into your flesh until it floods white under the strain. 

He wants to pry it apart with his own teeth. Take the bruised flesh into his mouth until you start to drool, whining from the abuse he inflicts on you in a mockery of a kiss. 

(wants to tear through it, taste your blood on his tongue—)

“An’ I don't reckon tha's a good idea, pet.” 

You shiver when he places his hand on the truck above your head. Boxing you in completely, nothing to spare—not even an inch. 

He hums at that, cock giving a vicious jerk inside his trousers at the almost impossible dearth between your sizes, at the way he swallows you up in an instant. Has to take a deep breath to steady himself, to keep the inkblack tendrils swirling, gathering, at the edges of his periphery from bleeding in. This starving murder of crows. 

When he speaks again, it's low. Deep. Kittenish licks from the tongue of a tiger; abrasive, rough. Mocking baritone of a shifting canyon, a mountainside, before it buries anyone alive under rubble. 

“Not reekin’ the way you do. Might ‘ave every alpha in a one square mile radius frothin’ at jaws for a taste. Ain't safe out there.”

And it's definitely not safe with him. 

He watches, transfixed, the moment this clicks. When your eyes waver between the hard bulk of his body—spread out, laxed; plumage unfurled—and the noisy clatter of the town just within reach. It's this thicket that cups your scent, that protectively curls over you, and keeps the Alpha's prowling about the market square from sniffing you out. A beaten trail. Hidden desire path no one was supposed to wander down. 

Except the bear problem in the woods, infringing on town, and him, the gun bolstered on his thigh still hot from his warning shots into the bush.

(lost little Lamb—

wandered too far from the herd.)

You take another step, cautious. Small. It brings you flush against the tree. Your polyester jacket whines at the friction. He can see indecision play out on your face. Oscillating between the badge on his uniform shirt, the gun on his massive thigh, and the clamour of muted noise from the town just within reach. Alphas prowling. Their acrid scent is unmistakable even through the dense foliage spreading around you.

It's an impasse. Neither option affords you much choice in the long run—it's either stay here with him, with the heady scent of want, of an Alpha on the incipient cusp of a voracious rut; or risk yourself in town. There are police officers patrolling. Ones who can sedate an alpha who gets too out of hand, but still. 

The mimesis of desire pooling around you might send you into heat sickness. That, or you'll get in even more trouble for fleeing a pursuing officer. Resisting arrest. Jail time, certainly. 

The pendulum wavers. Your knotted fists wobble. 

Then—

Your eyes leave his chest, the gun, trailing over his shoulder. Widening in surprise at whatever is there in the distance. 

He ought to commend you, really. The rouse is quite believable—

But: 

“Not bad,” he murmurs, leaning down further. If you won't jump, he'll push you—

He sees his mistake as soon as it happens. 

As he bends, you drop. Waiting until his attention seemingly drifts elsewhere, to when he's distracted and off balance. Lured in by your faux attempt at distraction. 

And it might have worked on a lesser being, but all Ghost has ever been is raw, unadulterated instinct.

He lashes out as soon as you move again, palm curling over your wrist in an instant. Snapping jowls of a defensive snake. Shackled. Locked. He tugs—

But the movement costs momentum. You use this against him, going limp. Forcing him to take the brunt of your weight on the spread of his fingers. Tricky little minx. His mouth breaks out in a feral smirk, tugging harshly on scars, on burns. Stretching skin. Distorting it under the mask, ugly and vicious. 

Your scent plumes up around him, sickly sweet. His jaw aches, gums itch. He wants to bite, snap his jowls around the scruff of your neck, chew on your skin until you sob out his name—

In seconds, you twist. Swinging your body back in a beautiful pivot, clumsy as it is. You're all animal now. Reckless in your pursuit to escape. Throwing out pheromones at him—purposeful, he realises a moment too late. 

And it works. Distracts him long enough for his grip to slacken. Your arm slips out of his grasp, and you're on your feet in an instant, darting through the thicket in a maddened dash to escape the heavy, starving alpha and his burgeoning hunger. 

Escape, or—

Weighed down by the afterbirth of his sudden rut, a prickle of his old self buoys, brims, from beneath the mess. He shouldn't chase you. Should leave you alone, call someone—Price, perhaps. Bark out between a clenched jaw that he needs a tranquiliser and chains. Will have to break Simon's teeth to stop him from biting into you like a man starved, famished. Tie him to the back of his pickup truck, drag him to the edges of the forest. Knock him out. Knock his teeth in. 

Anything.

Because they said this might happen. The doctors’ who poked and prodded. Therapists—all mandatory, non-negotiable, when he signed his name on the dotted line—murmured about unravelling. His self-control snapping like a twig. Sense of self retreating. All hiding away, protecting itself from the torrent of chemicals flooding his hindbrain. A heavy, unrelenting accumulation of a decades-long bout of rut celibacy all washing over him, all at once. 

Said to lock himself up if it happens. Chains. Shackles. Nuts and bolts. Heavy tranquiliser. Immediate sedation. 

And in Price’s office, in that messy filing cabinet he keeps, is a folder. A playthrough of everything that's supposed to happen if this happens. 

(“but that won't happen, will it, Simon?” 

and he'd rolled one massive shoulder in an easy, effortless shrug. 

“no.”)

The failsafe is that he's meant to call in if it does. Precious seconds of clarity, cognisance, enough time for him to dial the number, to bark out the order. To be hunted down, rounded up, and thrown in a pit. 

where he belongs. 

He should. Should. It's the book. Rules. Coloured in red ink. No option to negotiate. 

But as you slip through the dense foliage, angelic gold against the phthalo green bosky, the knot in his shoulders abates. Uncoils. In this sense of ease that permeates within him, he finds that he's shockingly cognisant. In full control. The plexiglass shatters, and in the ruins he finds purpose. 

You smell good. Too good. Any alpha will scent you in an instant, will claim you. Take you. It makes something in his broken, moulted head shift. Crack. He can't let that happen. Has to protect you the only way he knows how—

To wrap his paws around your throat before any other Alpha has the chance to sink their teeth into you. To claim you. 

All his. Little Persephone tucked tight against his ribs where you belong. 

And if the way the air clots with your cloying smell—heady, potent; the unmistakable ripeness of an omega in heat—then you must want him to chase you. Want him to follow. 

(escape, or—

a game.)

He tracks your movements, honed in on the rustle of the underbrush. When you're out of sight, Ghost flexes his hand, curling his gloved fingers over the leather on his palm. There's an itch in the back of his head. Festering. Rotting. He wants to reach in, rake his claws down the mass, shred it to pieces, but it affixes one simple truth inside of him: 

you need him. want him. why else would you run in the opposite direction of help if you didn't want him to give chase?

And so, he does.

You're a crafty little thing. To throw him off of your trail, you leave scent markers on the tree trunks you pass, doubling back to run in the opposite direction. 

It might have worked on someone else, but Ghost has spent half of his life buried in this thicket, and knows better than to follow smells in the forest. A vacuum, a great chasm; it plays tricks with sounds. Distorts scents wafting through the canopy, mingling with the natural loam, the disturbed humus underfoot. 

Instead, he hums at your cleverness—his smart little omega—and shifts his gaze to the forest floor, roaming over the footprints sinking into the soft soil, the peat and moss. A breadcrumb trail leading right to you. Broken twigs, crushed bushes. 

Ghost follows it. Places each foot down carefully, nose angled upward to catch the fresh wave of your heat leaking through the tangled furze. It beckons him forward. Calls out to him. 

(come, come, come—)

This lost little lamb needs a shepherd. 

He intends to give you just that. 

(—find me)

The path you cut through the forest is a twisting sawtooth meant to throw him off your trail. Traps laid out in tall tussocks, weaved through sweetgrass all drenched in your scent. Pieces of your clothing torn at the hem, the shorn fabric pressed on pine needles and tangles furze. 

These breadcrumb trails—a neat nest of wile, it seems—are cunning, he'll give you that. 

Even with his eyes to the forest floor, he finds himself throwing a wayward glance in the opposite direction, snagged in your webbed subterfuge. Somewhere between the visitors centre and the first trail meandering into the thick taiga, you seemed to have realised that your boots leave indents in the mor. He follows the deep impressions in the podsol until he finds them shoved under a Saskatoon berry bush. Another dead end. 

Clever little thing, aren't you?

But even when strays from the path, he's right on your tail. Confident in his scenting abilities. His prowess has always been tracking down wily little rabbits when they try to flee, picking them off in stasis from high above. The layout might have changed—his perch closer to the ground instead of a deer stand—but his eyes are just as keen. Your winding trail is ingrained in his mind. A long loop through the eastern trailhead, and he knows, instantly, that you'll try to throw him off at the placard where the west trail branches off through the dense conifers, and the east meanders downslope to the hidden stream where hunters like to trawl. 

He feels a pinch of pride simmering low in his guts. Anyone else would have lost you three pitfalls back. He's enraptured by this pursuit. Smitten by you. Your clumsy little escape. Your sweet little ploys. He wants to chew into you, let his teeth leave jagged scars, false starts, on your bones. Permanent. Starlight—dusting meteor showers in milk white. 

Ghost’s belly gives a tremendous growl. He huffs at the ache clawing against tissue, ravenous and unbearably empty. 

He'll have you soon. All to himself. 

The thought makes fresh blooms of pleasure spume from the rot in his chest, prickling through the layers of muskeg and peat, etiolated little sprout. Germinating in wet gangrene. Feasting on necrotised flesh. 

He swipes his hand over a honeybush, catches the lingering scent clinging to the leaves. You must have fallen here. Tangled yourself in the furze, overcome by your heat. 

Poor thing. Tired already. 

He holds his hand up to the fading gossamer of twilight trickling through the dense canopy, clenching the lingering remnants of your scent in his fist. It's fresh. He wants to tuck it in his pocket, carry it around with him. 

He finds you in a small clearing, bent down with your palm resting on the trunk of a tree. Nails digging into the rotting bark, desperately struggling to catch your breath. Your heat is a wildfire. It scorches the earth. Burns his nose. 

You're no longer on the cusp of it anymore, but in the throes. 

His rut, he finds, isn't too far behind. 

Perfect synergy. Meant to be. You call to him, and the gaping, gnarled chasm inside of him answers with a growl—

Before you can blink, he moves.

He falls over you, felled timber. The earth shakes under his indomitable weight. Palms slam into the rough bark of the gnarled spruce you've taken respite against, boxing you in. 

You fall against it with a gasp, hands pushing against his broad chest as he backs you into the tree. Little fists pounding on his sternum, mouth pinched, twisted in a snarl. There are pieces of bush caught on your clothes, tangled in your hair. Leaves. Sticks. A spot of dirt on your nose. 

It's mesmerising. 

The ballcap falls first. Morning sunlight over a boscage in bloom. Pitfalls, ravines. The canyons of your eyes quiver; this new topography shifting, sliding. Tectonic beauty in muted midnight. 

He wants to reach in, feel these granite walls of yours with his bare hands. Clamber up the colluvium, the scree, until he reaches these rugged peaks gleaming at him, angry and feral, in fading twilight. 

Time is endless. There's no limit to how long he has to know you—drink from your rivers, feast on your valleys; find all the hidden nooks, the crannies, shaded under the towering monoliths of your body. Chart your couloir. Defile your flume. Bathe in your estuary. Tangle himself inside your dells. Tame your chaparral. 

Fastidiously. Expertly. Until no part of you is unknown to him. 

Your chest heaves, mouth open as he crowds you further. Pressing into you. Over you. 

He wedges his broad thigh between your legs, presses it tight against your pussy. Your thrashing stills when he touches you, when he angles his knee up, up—

There. Through the layers of clothing that separates his bare skin from your cunt, he feels the heat bleeding out against him. The wetness from your sodden panties. Undeniable proof of how much you want him. Need him. 

 “All wet f’me?”

“Fuck you—!” You spit, angry and feral, but you arch into his touch, pushing your pussy onto his thigh. Aching for friction. 

It makes him hum. A low growl caught in the back of his throat. 

“Reckon I'll be the one fuckin’ you, pet.” 

And he will be. This is fact. 

You shudder, brows notching together in a vicious glare. “I don't want you.” 

It's hissed between the sliver of your clenched teeth. Full of heavy conviction. Forging truth out of lies—

And that's all it is. A lie. A fallacy. 

(and even if it wasn't, unlikely considering the way you arch into him, needy despite the disdain dripping down your brow—he really just can't find it in himself to give a fuck; he'll make you want him—)

Ghost leans down, muzzle pressed against your neck. He inhales deep, audible. Chest expanding, lungs swelling. Full of the aroma bleeding out of your pores. Proof of just how much you do, in fact, want him. Betrayed by your own body. 

He huffs out, paints the air with his derision. “Is that so?” 

Ghost drags his hand down the solid line of the tree, dropping it to rest against the jut of your hip. He ducks his head, watching. Staring at the way his palm nearly swallows you up when he rests it over your waist. Spanning nearly the entirety of it—hip to hip. 

It bludgeons into him. Knocks the air clean from his lungs. 

He's always had a hunger for things he can cup in his palm. The barrel of his rifle. The hilt of a knife. Your wrist in his hand. The curve of your hip. 

His gloved fingers slip under the hem of your shirt. Pads ghosting over your skin. Warmth bleeds through the leather, an unmistakable tell of your heat reaching its first equinox. It'll be all fire, all smoke, from this point onward. Desperate. Feral. 

Groaning deep, wanting, he pushes into you further. Chest rumbling. Eager. 

It takes a great deal of effort to pull his hand away. To bring it up to his mouth, fingers hooking over the edge. 

The fight in you abates—marginally—and you watch him with a keen look of suspicion dancing in the moulted dirt spread over your nullah. Wary. Anticipatory. 

He fights the urge to laugh—deep and delirious—and instead works on prying his mask down over his crooked nose, his mangled mouth. Letting the hem snap under his chin, kept there. Bearing himself to you for the first time. Naked. Exposed. 

Your eyes widen, trailing down the jagged lines, mauled ridges of scar tissue. Drinking in everything he offers in the fading embers of a summer twilight. 

He grins—a rivened, ugly thing—when you let out a heavy, quick breath, and your hips drop, rutting your sopping cunt over the wide heft of his thigh. Gyrating subconsciously. Quietly pleased by the way he looks—as maimed, as beastly as he is. He lets you. Lifts his knee, pressing his cap tight into the bark, and bumping the top of his flexing quadriceps at the apex of your groin, right where he knows your clit sits. 

The breath you take is pulled in through clenched teeth, biting on the rind of a moan. Its shapeless silhouette ducks, hides from sight. 

He lets you have it. Lets you run. 

But it's not without recompense. 

With his upper lip curled, he sinks his teeth into the leather tip of the glove above his middle finger. Letting you see them for yourself—these thrawn teeth he'll bury into your neck. Claiming you entirely as his. 

Your pupils start to eclipse your irises. Lagoons of liquid black blotting over rugged peaks. 

Ghost slowly tips his head back, dragging the glove with him. Eyes setting along his lashline, he drinks in the sight of you swallowing thickly, your gaze darting between his teeth, his mouth, and now—his bared neck. Voracious, greedy, in the way you feast on him. Drilling into the stretch of skin slowly unveiling itself to you. 

The muscles in his neck flex against rimy skin. Adam's apple bobbing with his slow swallow. 

You follow it all, but your gaze seems to fix itself on the brawny arch of his neck, falling—and then glueing— to the thick vein protruding from his flesh, pulsing with the steady rhythm of his heart, and the small, swollen bump of his scent gland beneath it. 

Hunger, he finds, paints such a pretty picture on your face. The greedy, anfractuous glances a bludgeon into him; so heavily affixed with desire that the shake of your head when he pulls the glove free, letting it dangle from between his teeth, and drops his hand back to your skin, is minute. Meaningless. 

You want him as much as he wants you. 

The clause in this, the axiom, is ironclad. Irrefutable. Bound in brass when you shiver at the touch—feverish skin on feverish skin—and arch into his palm for more. Panting through clenched teeth, each hiss striking against that fraying coil leashing his threadbare control. To distract himself from the unspooling knot, the ache in his gums, he charts the first inch of skin he passes with his thumb, committing the sloping plains of your body to memory. The jut of your hip, the stutter in your breath when he runs the rough pad of his forefinger over the slope of your underbelly. 

It's easy to marvel at the sheer enormity of his size compared to yours. Simon hitches his thigh firmly into your clothed cunt, nearly lifting you up off the ground. You teeter on the tips of your toes, falling forward into his chest to stabilise yourself. Little fists curling into the fabric of his jacket, knuckles tight against his the last rungs of his ribcage. Your head lifts, a glare chiselling into the soft fields of your face. 

You hiss something at him—feral and scathing. He drops the glove, leans down to meet you in the middle, and eats your feeble protests from your lips in a bruising kiss. Scorching. His teeth knock into yours. Tongue lashes out to catch the vitriol dripping from your fangs. You make a noise in the back of your throat, and he swallows that, too. Devours it all. 

It's a vicious kiss. All teeth, tongue. Bullying. He lets you sink your teeth into his tongue, huffing into the seam of your lips when you coo, victoriously, at the first drop of blood spilled. 

In retaliation, he sets his hands over your ribs, and lifts you up off the ground. Making you gasp. Mewl. Your legs kick out as the back of your head catches on loose bark, raining it down over your shoulders in flakes. He doesn't stop kissing you throughout. Eyes half-mast, still open, as he drinks in the sight of yours rolling back in your head when his thigh, one the width of both of yours—fuckin’ hell—catches the perfect angle on your clit. 

Loose-limbed, caught, you have no choice but to wrap your ankles around his waist, curl your arms around his broad shoulders. Clinging to him desperately to remain grounded, held aloft. 

His hand falls down, cups the back of your thigh, fingers spanning the entire curve of your cheek. Held tight in his palm. He bucks into you—quick, hard. Letting you feel the unmistakable bulge of his stiffening cock, leaking spend already in the tight confines of his trousers. This groin, inner thighs, already sticky with the mess dribbling out. 

You fall apart at this. Head tipping back, crown thudding against the truck of the tree. He has your lower lip between his teeth, and it pulls, skin stretching until he huffs out another breath, mocking, and unhinges his jaw, letting you go. 

Mewling, whining low in the back of your throat, you clumsily rut your cunt into the hard press of his cock. Eyes hazy, liquid, with your blooming heat. 

Its approach is quicker than he thought it would be, and he hums, tongue rolling over his teeth to catch the lingering taste of you. Under his hand, your skin burns. Singing with the urgency of your desperation. He answers it with a grunt, falling forward to smother you under his weight. 

There's a flash of clarity in your eyes when they crack open. Brief. Fleeting. He feels your sluggish attempt to push him away, to free your hands from between your chests, and he has to dip his head to stifle another groan. It feels good to have you under him like this. Covered entirely in his bulk, his shadow. 

His hand pulls away from your flesh, snaking between your bodies to catch your wrists in the palm of his hand. Only one swallows them up, and the easy way he subdued you—effortlessly—has him nearly coming undone in his trousers. Untouched. 

“Fuck, want it bad, don't you?” he snarls, hips bucking into you. Chasing pleasure. He pulls your hands out, lifting to arm to trap yours in the shackle his fingers make high above your head, and—

It's devious, this. 

Somewhere in the loosening agency of his self, his autonomy, he knows this is becoming dangerous. Something that ought to be stopped before he rips into you with a rabidness that promises nothing at all will remain intact when he's finished. When he's had his fill. He needs to clear his mind. To get away from the way you fit against him so perfectly. Tiny in his wicked embrace. 

Like you were made to fit between his ribs. His teeth. 

He gnashes them together, trying to stem the ache in his gums. 

He wants to fuck you. Needs to—

But as ripe as you smell to him now—tender melon, warmed honeycomb—he knows that you're not yet ready to take him. 

Ghost steps back, letting your feet drop to the soil below. With the sparse inch of space between your bodies, he breathes in the lingering scent of your breath—sharp, burning; imbued with a heady thrum of adrenaline electrifying your nerves—and finds the musk a near-perfect pantomime of ozone. The arid tang in the air just before the air. A lightning strike. It rolls over his tongue, tastes of wet pennies in the back of his throat. Heavy with anticipation. 

Something he feels very keenly as well. An eagerness he hasn't met in decades. Absolutely famished for it, for this familiarity of want. Potent desire. 

He mourns the loss of the way your ass fits in the cradle of his hand when he pulls it free, fingers trailing over the feverish skin of your hips, your belly, as he goes. He doesn't stop until he comes to rest on the button of your trousers, eyes flickering down to catch your gaze. Purposeful, now. Intent clear. 

Nothing is stopping him from taking. Your protests are paper-thin, dissolving the moment it touches the dense blanket of humidity in the air, but he wants your submission. Wants to see your resolve break, crushed by your own hand. 

The gossamer wings of a butterfly, crumpled up in your palm, and offered to him for the taking. How sweet—

You seem to realise his intentions when his thumb dips below the hem of your pants. Just a tease. Brushing against the soft skin he finds there with the curve of his nail. 

Your glare is instant. The sharp tug of a drawstring pinching tight between your brow. Mesmerising as it closes over your lax expression. A fierce snap. He wants to pry it apart. Wedge himself between the seam. Create a gap wide enough for him to fit. 

“I won't beg,” you grind out, acidulous. Firm. 

He huffs, quietly amused by the fight still sparking in you despite the evidence of your arousal, your want of him, evident in the stain at the seam of your pants. His other hand rests on the trunk of the tree above your head, boxing you in when he leans closer. Taunting. “That so?” 

You don't respond, but your glare sharpens, mouth tugging downward in a harsh frown. Displeasure sparks in the air. Cutting into him like fine glass shards. He lets it graze his naked flesh, the warning ghosting over him in needlepoint pinpricks. Entirely too captivated by you to notice the sting. 

Your ire is a heady, tangible thing dripping down your brow, slashing over your cheeks. Anger, however misguided it might be, paints a pretty picture over your face. Darkens the inlets nestled in the corner of your eyes. Drenches the ravines, gorges in a startling chiaroscuro. Limns the alpines, the valleys, in a halo of golden starlight. 

He wants to drink it down. Hold your fury in the palm of his hand—

Crush it between his fingers. 

Because despite the dissent, your desire cuts through, and hews the air in a thick tapestry of want. 

mutinous, teeth bared, but your eyes burn, rage against the prison walls, and scream, please—

His fingers dig into the bark above your head, catching flecks of sap between his nails. Knuckles turning white under the flaxen hair dusting over them, strained. The grip is unintentional. Unconscious. He keeps thinking about you beneath him. The heat of your thighs around his waist was a mere tease. A morsel when he wants a meal—

The pressure in his knuckles grounds him. Cuts through the phosphenes blanketing the edges of his vision, smothering the clarity, the cognisance, that lingers in the centre. Threadbare as it is. 

There’s an ache in his jaw. 

(the need to bite—)

He pulls it off, and shoves his hand tight between your thighs, cupping your cunt in his palm. Feeling the heat bleed through the gusset of your pants. The touch is harsh. Firm. He bullies his fingers into your flesh, letting out a mocking chuff when he feels the fabric dampen.  

“Somethin’s’ tellin’ me otherwise.” 

Your hand lashes out, grabbing the thick of his wrist. Holding firm. It should be a warning, but the obvious gap between your middle finger and thumb makes him groan instead. 

“You're wrong.”

“Am I?” 

You twist away from him when he leans down, chin ducking to your shoulder. Hiding. Denying him your mouth, your taste. This meagre measure of control you grapple for is easy to give. He presses his lips to the shell of your ear instead, letting you run. Flee. For now. 

His voice is thick when he continues, husky. He pitches it low, lets it swirl into the seashell coil of your inner ear, earning him a shiver in response. Your nails biting into the skin of his wrist. Holding tight. 

“‘m a lot of things, pet—” rucked gravel, sodden with his derision, spills into your ear. Your shudder makes him want to bite, to maim. “Wrong ain't usually one of ‘em. But you'll learn that soon enough.” 

Your breath hitches. Expression morphing, shifting. Changing into something adorably beleaguered as he encircles you like a tiger, eyes drilling through the tussock, aimed directly at your head. With his body boxing you in, coiling over you like a hideous shadow, he has you trapped, caught. Little lamb writhing between the paw of a tiger.  

You seem to be keenly aware of this. Your eyes are shrewd, searching, as you probe around for any escape route, but he's a bulwark around you. Inescapable. 

Finding none, you suck in another breath, and slowly lift your chin, glancing up at him through your lashes. The look on your face is—

Enigmatic. 

Something changes in the morphology of your mien. Fracturing. Cracking. 

“Yeah?” You breathe, soft and goading. Your hips buck into his hand, rutting shallowly against the tops of his fingers. Unconscious. Like you just couldn't help it. 

And he supposes you can't. 

A fine sheen of sweat has been building since he took after you into the forest. Gathering around your temple, your hairline. The harsh reminder of your festering heat, once dammed by your raw disdain for him—hatred, he'd say, and doesn't the thought just make him want to laugh; you're all bark, no bite, and he knows he'll have fun breaking you in, breaking you apart—but flooded over by the primal drive to mate. 

And he's perfect for you, isn't he? 

Hideous bastard that he is. It's a sharp juxtaposition to your prettiness, your earthly beauty. 

Under the spinel sky, you break. The hand on his wrist tightens, your hips flexing into his palm. Seeking friction. Needing pressure. Needing him. And pissed off about it. Delicious. 

“Prove it,” you snap, irritation blanching the corners of your eyes arsenic white. Edging into a frenetic desperation hot enough to burn the threads of your resolve. But there's a gleam of reluctance pushing through the syrupy murk folding over you, heavy molasses. You want to give in, but there's something about him, his appetite, that makes you hold back. That makes you visibly sick at the sight of him—

Unfortunately for you, he has no such compunction to shelf his barbarity. To leash his desire, to muzzle the overwhelming urge to crush you under the weight of his accumulated need. It's decades of listless apathy. Divorced from anything resembling human emotion at the root. Carved out, scraped off bone. He was left to stagnate. A misfortunate creature submerged in a bog, dead but unable to rot. 

The deluge of his savage, bestial hunger rages in his veins. It's corrosive, vile, and—

unrestrained. 

Ravenously esurient. He wants to sink his teeth into you and never let go—

but first: 

he needs to eat. 

His meal is a feast, it turns out. Simon gorges himself until he's full. Promises that he'll stop as soon as he's satiated. 

(but he's lying to himself, and to you, because he never is—

never will be.)

Tears pebble along your lash line as he feasts on your sopping cunt, licking at your fluttering rim, slurping up your slick. Your clit is pressed tight against the crooked arch of his nose, sliding and catching on the jagged ridge each time he moves his jaw to dig deeper inside of you as if he's trying to taste the seal of your womb. You pant, whine. The noise muffled half-heartedly behind your palm. Teeth sunk into your skin, lodged against your bone. 

Angry rivulets rain down your cheeks, dangling like fine beads, gems, on your jaw. He wants to taste them next, as soon as he fills his gullet with the earthy tang you release. 

Your tears remind of that pretty omega Johnny sent to him—a brat, he'd said; the best, Lt—and it churns in his stomach, dredging up something awful. Terrible. He wants to make you weep harder. Wants you sobbing, begging. His own little brat to take over the knee whenever he wants—

But that's where the uncanny resemblance ends. 

You're not a brat. No. You're a headache. The kind that will have him written up, sat like a bad dog in his best suit, as they level him with charges, and orders, and the like. The sort of thing that even the old man wouldn't be able to string him out of—not that he would. Price is three days away from a much-deserved retirement to the mountains and sitting on his hands to keep from snatching up the pretty conservation officer who moons at him whenever he passes by. 

He won't be much help to get Ghost out of trouble. That leaves only Gaz and Soap. And while he's sure they can swing it, he doesn't really want to be under their ahh, guess ye/ya owe us one, Lt/Riley. 

So—

It stands to reason then that he should have you tamed before dawn. Shackled down, locked up tight. Only right considering he's the best in town to keep bears at bay. Do you really want to deal with a mama grizzly and her defenceless cubs? Or a starving male clumsily pawing his way out of hibernation? 

Probably not. 

So. So. 

He pulls back, rests his chin on your thigh. 

“Gonna be good for me, pet?” He asks, lowering his tone considerably until it catches on the gravel below. 

He's not surprised when you hiss through a cloud of tears. “Go fuck yourself—”

Ghost tips his head, suckles your clit into his mouth. Tongue laving over your flesh. Blunt teeth pressing flat against the swollen bead, a tease. You tense, gasping. Hand pushing his head back, back—

“Don't, don't—” you're mewling, nails raking over his scalp. Hips bucking, pulling back. Struggling to get away. The bite marks along your thighs weep fresh blood in your struggle, filling his nose with the heavy scent of iron. 

They serve as a harsh reminder of what he can do with these jagged teeth of his. 

He chuckles, mouth still closed around your clit. The vibrations have you choking, spine curving into a beautiful arch. 

Fingers digging into your hips, keeping you still. Trapping you. He's not quite done with your cunt, yet. And all this wriggling is something he can do without. With his hand pressed to your hips, he notches the other down your thigh. Tracing his index finger over your soft skin, dragging it close to your outer lips. Catching the tacky slick drying on your flesh with the tip. 

Tiny fists rain down over his shoulders. Urging him forward, eager for more. Selfish, spoiled little thing. 

What a monster he's made—

“Patience, pet,” he coos, mocking and mean. Likes the way you react to the patronisation in his tone. All taut shoulders, shaking fists. Bearing your teeth at the slight, the stinging barb. Shaking in an amalgamation of embarrassment and shame. 

You seem to like it when he's a little awful to you. A little mocking. Cruel. 

“Shut up—!” You hiss, lips curling as you glare down at him. “I'm not your pet—”

He ignores you. Bends down to sniff at your cunt instead, and finds his answer is the white hot desire he can taste in the back of his throat when he breathes you in. 

His fingers pry apart your folds, and he greedily drinks in the sight of your drenched hole, clenching down on nothing. Poor you. His heart thunders in his chest, rages. He wants to sink inside of you—impossibly deep—until the beginning of him and the end of you ceases to exist. Rolled into a single being, atoms merged. Bodies fused. He wants to take everything from you. All of it. Eat it out of the cup of his hand like pomegranate seeds, let the skin get stuck in his teeth. 

He wants to devour you whole.

(to eat—)

Settles, instead, for pawing at your cunt. 

Pressing the width of it against your slit, feeling the heat of your core on the palm of his hand. Branding himself with the intensity of your desire. Another scar among many. An uncountable number of jagged asteroids cratering along his flesh, making a home out of a ghost. A shell. 

Reinforced, too, by the absurdity of how terribly contrasted his flesh is to yours. Monstrous. His scarred hand rests over your pussy, encompassing it entirely with extra digits to spare. Folding each finger on top of the other to wedge between the basin of your thighs. And as his gaze comes to rest on the way he swallows you up, he is struck by the garishness of his hand—hideous scar tissue, burns—falling over your pretty cunt. 

Sinful. Frankensteinian beast palming the sweet pussy of a pretty, human woman, and—

Fuck. 

His cock twitches, spits out a thick glob of pre-cum.

Ghost has never wanted to ruin something as badly as he wants to ruin your cunt. You. Mess you up so badly that everyone will know you belong to him, and him alone. To brand you with the tattoo of his teeth on your mons; force a claiming bite on the pillowy skin above your clit. His ownership bracketed between your thighs, at the very apex of your hip bones. Buried into tissue right under the bulge of your womb. A fecund valley for him to lay waste; for you to grow beauty from the rot, the ash. 

Cinder scraps over his nerves. Fells his resolve in a brutal sweep. 

He comes undone at the seams, unravels. 

Simon curls his fingers into a loose fist, passing the rugged peaks of his bone over your soft flesh. Gathering slick on thick, scarred knuckles. He holds it there, folds pried apart by his hand, content to luxuriate in the softness of your flesh, the scorching heat.

Possessively, he unhitches his thumb from the coil of his fist, and swipes it over your clit. More slick leaks out as you keen. 

“Sweet omega like you should ‘ave been claimed by now,” he rumbles evenly despite the sour twist in his guts at the thought. “Might not ‘ave ended up ‘ere, would you ‘ave? Beggin’ the first alpha you see to fuck this sweet little cunt.”

“Begging?” 

“Practically gaggin’ for it, weren't you?” And even though the words are his own, they sit in his gut like a stone. An angry knot tangled in his intestines, snaking its way up his gullet. Bitter. It's quelled by the sight of your bare neck. Ripe for his teeth. And his alone.

But even if you had a pretty ring made by another alpha, Simon knows that wouldn't have stopped him from taking you, anyway. Biting over the claim. Breaking it between his teeth. Precious, loving union shattered by his crooked greed. He'd have relished in it, too. Basked in the way you sobbed as he tore your alpha into pieces. An obstacle turned into a pretty effigy at his feet. Wicker pyre burning to keep him warm.

(he'd have caught dinner for you, too; hunted caribou, moose, and roasted it over the open flame. Fucked you under the blume of orange. Let the fire lick across your skin as he sunk in deep—)

He rocks back on his haunches. Mood labile, quicksilver, as his rut grows. Festers. 

You deny it, breathless, as he slips the mountainous peak of his bent middle finger into your hole, stretching your rim around the scarred cartilage. You pulse around him like the fluttering wings of a hummingbird. Rapid, quick. Wanting. It draws him in. Makes him want to spit on your pretty pussy, and then break you apart on his cock—

“Such a needy cunt, eh? Starving for a good knot, ain't it?”

You hiss out your protests, but clench tight around his knuckle. He chuckles, and it's liquid. Wet rot. Lungs polluted, spitting nocuous, black smoke into the air. 

“I'm not—”

“You are.” 

He pulls back, pursing his mouth, and spreads your lips apart, opening you up wide and vulnerable to his prying eyes. Saliva puddles on his tongue. He gives you a moment to clue into what he's about to do, your fingers tightening, nails digging into his scalp as you do on a shallow gasp of disgust. Then, brutish, he leans forward, and spits. Lets the glob hit your clit, and he has to hold you still when you jerk, cringing away from him, snarling out your displeasure.

“You're disgusting—”

The protests are weak. Your knees tremble, giving away the growing slickness gathering on the insides of your thigh. 

He hums, watches as it oozes down between your folds, over your fluttering hole, before it falls to the ground between your legs. He lets his hand fall back over your cunt, middle finger gathering his spit. Rubbing it around your pebbled clit. It's done detachedly, perfunctory. A means to an end with hardly much concern for your pleasure. Not yet, anyway. 

You've given him nothing in return yet. 

He intends to change that soon. 

As you grapple with the harsh reality he presents to you—one of ownership, humiliation, and pleasure on his whim—he drags his finger down, sliding it between your soft lips until he reaches your hole once more. Petting around the drenched entrance slowly, softly, humming under his breath about how wet you are. 

Your hips drop, greedily chasing after his finger. You won't ask—not yet—but he likes the way you rut against him: all hateful, spiteful. Like you can't decide on what you want more—to bash his head in, or keep it locked tight between your thighs. Sweet thing. 

“Need me, don't you?” He sinks his finger in. Nearly whites out at the pressure, the tightness, he feels. Soft, wet. Squeezing him in a vice as you yowl, whimpering into the stretch like it matters. Like his thick, scarred finger is the most you'd ever taken before. Sweet girl. So naïve. 

He drinks in the sight of your flesh forcibly being parted around his knuckle, matting the wisps of blond on his skin as it leaks down to his wrist, until that, too, is pushed up into you. His whole finger now engulfed in the wet heat of your body as you squirm around the stretch, pulsing around him like a heartbeat. 

He groans when he tastes your discomfort on the back of his tongue. 

“Don't worry, lovie. M’gonna take good care’a you.”

You watch him with slitted eyes as he pushes you down to the forest floor, glaring over your shoulder as he adjusts you the way he wants. Maneuvers you around like a little toy. Forearms braced against the trampled grass, knees sinking into soft moss. Thighs spread. Cunt bare, drenched. Ready to be claimed. Taken. 

He drops to his knees, shuffling close from behind you. His hand drops to your lower back, pressing your torso down further into the ground below. His cock aches between his thighs. Heavy, fat. He reaches down with his other hand to where it droops, smearing pre-cum over his inner thigh. He catches it in his fist, flushed the colours of a fresh bruise—angry red, purple—and strokes along the sensitive skin of his shaft, dragging it up and over his engorged head. Pre-cum weeps from the tip, drools long strains down to the forest floor. Puddles thick between your knees. 

A prelude, perhaps, for what's to come. When he has you tied like a bow around his knot, milking all the pent-up spend from his heavy, full balls. 

It's been decades since he had this—

(“shame.”

he concurs.)

Simon pulls his cock up, taps it against your pebbled clit. Drinks in the sight of you keening, cunt gushing more slick out of your empty hole, dribbling down your thighs. Mingling with the mess he already started making. 

It shocks him how good it feels just to tap his cockhead on your pretty pussy. To drag it through your slit, teasing it against your fluttering hole that drools copious slick over him. 

He wants to make a mess of you. Fuck your pussy until you cum, until all you can feel is the split of him inside of you. Filling you. Ruining you. 

Until all you can think about is the thick drag of him against your stuffed walls. Empty without him plugging you up. Desperate for his cock, his knot—hungry little slut just for him. All for him.

He presses the head of his cock against your rim, letting it catch. Holding it there. A tease. Just a little taste. 

Likes when you whimper, head hanging between your shoulders, fingers curling into the moss below. You make such a pretty picture like this—the expanse of your back bare for his eyes to roam, locking on the dimples of your hips, the curve of your waist. The plump shape of your ass inviting him in—eager for a bite. Your flesh looks bare, lonely, without his mark. The contrast of his own inked palm—fingers webbed with faded lettering, some slogan he picked up in his youth. Hands etched in black. Lines bleeding, bulky. The unmistakable tremble of an incipient artist’s first brush of a needle on real skin. Jagged, garring. Ugly. He lets his hand rest against the small of your back, groaning at the way it looks. 

Sinful.

You're made for soft silk and a fluffy bed. Head resting on a plush cushion instead of your arms, forehead braced over the uncomfortable squeal of your polyester windbreaker that he didn't even have the courtesy to let you take off. No. Just trousers. Panties. Pushed haphazardly down your legs, left in a pile by the spruce tree so he could throw your ankle over his broad shoulder, feasting on your cunt. 

There's a spot of dirt on your asscheek. The curve of it is scraped from the bark, red and raw. 

The glare you aim at him from over your shoulder is venomous. There's a smear of moss on your cheek. 

You're made for epsom salt baths. Being tended to by a besotted alpha who treats you like fine china, only to be taken out on special occasions. Brushed, always, in a fine layer of dust from disuse. Sweet, tender lovemaking under the waning summer sky. Your alpha apologising for ruining you like this, for making you take the brunt of his rut. Poor thing. Gentle kisses, and hands clasped together. 

He can see it so vividly in his eye. So viscerally that it almost feels like a crime when he glances down at his cock, the weeping, engorged head almost comically too big for you. The thick of him could easily swallow your cunt up if he flattened his length against you. Covering you wholly by his girth. 

It's a thought that makes his hand tighten, and nearly chokes him on a moan. 

Even his thighs bracketing the backs of yours is hideous to look at. Bigger, broader—there's a considerable gap on both sides of his legs that he thinks nearly his whole fist can fit there, notched against the outside of your thigh, covering the expanse of his own. Garish. 

He can't wait to lay you down on your belly, lock his thigh tight on either side of your own and rut into you like that. Crushing you under his weight. Swallowing you whole. Until anyone misfortunate enough to wander by thinks he's fucking the cold ground. 

His thumb strokes along your fevered skin, collecting the sheen of sweat building up on the pad. Rubbing it in. He feels it too. This unrelenting swelter. A cage, pushing down from all sides. Inescapable. 

The only way to quench it is on you. In you. 

“Ready for me, pretty girl?” The words are mangled in his throat, thick with want. 

Your shoulders tremble. In worry, he thinks. Scents the air like a viper, letting your emotions curdle in the back of his throat. “Just get on with it—”

He meets you in the middle of that taunt, teeth against your throat. 

Ghost pushes inside with a groan, eyes rolling back at the way you swallow him up. Stretching around the considerable girth, fluttering around him. Pulsing like a heartbeat. 

It's heaven. 

Nirvana nests between your thighs, bracketed by rings of blood. Red. Absolution imbued in tender flesh, parting perfectly around his cock in a loving embrace. 

You haven't confirmed it for him, but the tightness of your cunt around his fingers, the heady scent of discomfort burning the back of his throat when he buried them inside of you, make him mutedly aware that you're inexperienced. A fact he pockets for later because if he thinks about being the first alpha, the first man, to ever claim you, take you, then he might lose his mind, he might fall down that yawning chasm that reeks of damnation, of brimstone and ash, and never recover—

So, he doesn't. Won't. 

Can't. 

His pace is slow as he feeds you the fat length of his cock, eyes drilling into the way you swallow him up. Rim stretching taut, flesh paling under the strain of taking him. With one hand anchored against your hip, holding you tight, and the other curled over your shoulder, fingertips resting on your collarbones, he slowly, slowly, sinks inside of you, bottoming out with a deep groan. 

The outstroke drags with it an iron scent in the air. He huffs, nostrils flaring. Greedy for more. There's discomfort leaking from your pores. His girth is more than you can conceivably take, even with the preternatural help from your heat, leaking slick down your inner thighs in thick rivulets. 

He holds himself there, breathing—heavy, tremulous—through his nose. His hands shake. The pressure, the pleasure, is indescribable. It coils in his guts, spumes liquid bliss in his veins. The way you feel pulsing sweetly around him is—

Equilibrium. 

Every misfiring synapse inside himself is slowed. Imbued with a potent sense of ataraxia. His mind comes to a standstill. Thoughts looping over themselves, tangling into the gossamer threads of control floating in stasis. Unmoored. You unravel him. 

It's further proof that you are his missing part. His ruts in the past have been calamitous. Snarls wrenched from the trenches of his chest; a gluttonous feast—a sacrifice to Hēdonē. Violent, vicious. 

But this—

It's drinking ichor from the vein of Anteros.

There's a crack in the back of his head. The sound of everything, all of it—

Falling into place. 

His hands tighten. Tighten some more. He holds you, sure and firm, keeping you nestled in the anchor of his embrace, unable to run, to flee. You're his. Settled. The caveat is ironclad, bound in permanence. 

And Simon moans. Deep, and low. The noise jutters out of his chest, and seeps into the evening air. Fine mist, crystallising in front of him. Phosphenes of ice cemented his decision, gluing to his cheeks. The nape of his neck. 

His ears burn. 

“Fuckin' hell, sweet thing,” it's a guttural growl in the hollow of his throat. “Where ‘ave you been all my goddamn life?”

It's a nauseating confession, one scraped out from the vacancy between his ribs. It peppers the air in a soft, saccharine kiss. Makes you shiver beneath him, gasping in lungfuls of loam, dirt in your throat. 

He grunts. Stills. He doesn't want that for you. Ever. Would rip off his own limbs before he ever let you feel the crushing weight of dirt congealing inside of your lungs. 

The way he arches over you is damning. Nauseating. He curls his arm around your shoulder, your chest, traps a heaving breast in the palm of his hand, holds tight. The other falls from your hip, closes over your mons. Greedily feeling your slick, hot sex pulsing wildly around him when he passes over your clit, toying with your stretched, swollen rim. It's perfection, this. 

He pulls you up, up, leaning back on his haunches until you're balanced on your knees, nearly sat on his lap. Taking him deeper than before. He drops his head back with another moan when he feels your slick gather, dripping down to coat his balls. 

Everything about you is just—

Perfection. Absolution. 

Your hands fly up, curling over his forearm, mewling when he pinches your nipples between his middle and ring finger. 

“C’mon,” he rasps, leaning forward to press his face into your nape. You smell sweet. “Play with ‘em for me, pet.” 

Nails bite into his skin. You whimper. Squirming around on his lap. But you do as you're told. Slowly, slowly, reaching up. Touching yourself the way you like. Fingers ghosting over your flesh, brushing across your nipples. Pulling, petting, the way you like. He hooks his chin over your shoulder, watches. Devours. Commits each movement to memory. Every sound, every breath. Everything. 

He keeps a slow, languid pace like this. Content to just feel you pulsing around him, listening to the slick, wet squelch of him filling you up. Over and over again. A lazy rut. 

It's unexpected, he knows. You've been bracing yourself this whole time, fingers digging into the podsol, spine tightening up. Waiting for the savagery to befall you. 

When it doesn't come, he feels your quiet acquiescence come in a soft breath. In the way you slowly drop down to meet the deep rut of his hips. Taking your pleasure, pulling him in deeper. There's an edge to your voice, one still dipped in threads of discomfort, a waning pain that rings out, shrill, in the satin spill of moonlight over the indigo forest. 

It's good like this. Tender. Not something he'd have ever imagined for himself, and the reality of it is dizzying. 

Reedy, he groans. Nuzzles his misshapen nose into your scent gland. His gums pulse, ache—

But he ignores it. Swallows it down. 

He's not sure what compels him to do so. Spellbound, maybe, by this unnatural softness that spools silken threads between you. Sutured in tenderness—so unbefitting of the man he is. The monster—

His hips stutter. Jerk. 

“Simon—!”

You whine into it, arching back. Sweat gathers, drips down your spine, smears into his chest, belly. Matts the thatch of hair running in sparse, patchy clusters down the thickness of his midsection. A bountiful spring fattened him up. Made him soft and pillowy over his abdomen. Something you can't seem to get enough of—pressing the flat of your back against him, leaning into it. Groaning when his arm shifts, boxing you in. Crushing you to him. 

Wily little kitten, purring so sweetly in his lap. 

He draws lazy circles over your clit, grunting with each clench of your cunt. You're soft in his arms. Malleable. He slides his hand up from beneath your breasts, catches your jaw in his palm. Fingers spanning from cheekbone to temple and, oh—

Doesn't that just make him preen. 

He drags your chin to the side, catching your mouth in a sickening kiss. All tongue, teeth. He wants to taste, to devour, every part of you. Bones and all. 

It's a fight, though. You tense in his grasp, lidded eyes snapping open, wide and around. Cheeks bulging between his fingers when you twist, trying to pull away. 

“Don't—I don't want to—” he bites the protests from lips. Messy, sloppy. He flicks his tongue over yours, wrapping it around you like a satiated snake burrowing in after a heavy meal. “Don't—f–fuck—”

It earns him a nip. Teeth digging into his bottom lip. Drawing blood. 

He huffs into the seam of your mouth. Only fair, he supposes, and then pulls you down—hard, fast—onto his cock. The air is punched out of your lungs, flooded into his esophagus. 

“Be a good girl for me,” he warns, bucking into you. It's harder this time, deeper. Tempo increasing. Growing. He feels himself thicken. Knot fattening up. Each piston of his hips seems to knock something inside of his head loose. Common sense, maybe—

The fraying knot of his self-control winding tight. Pulling taut. 

He huffs again, feeling himself slip. Lost in the sensation dripping down his spine, the unified pleasure blooming in the pit of his stomach. 

The air plumes with the thickening tang of your arousal—all sweet, spice. You can take it, now, he knows, and tries not to growl when you hiccup his name wetly into the air. 

The muscles in his thighs bunch tight. Corded and powerful. He arches up, up, forcing his cock deep inside your cunt, splitting you apart. Rutting desperately, edging into something animalistic. 

It runs a knife along the thin skin of his hindbrain. Come out, come out, come play—

He moves you again, pulling his hand away from your jaw and pushing you back down the forest floor. He stays glued to your back. Tucks his arm under your chin, and smothers you under his bulk, groaning when your thighs give out, sliding on the sweat-slicked moss below.

“Simon, ah—” your voice tapers off into a breathless cry when he pulls his hand free from beneath you, wrapping it around to join the other. Holding on, clinging to you. Keeping you locked tight against him, under him. You can't move at all like this—

The swell of his knot bumps against your stretched rim. He presses the brunt of his weight into each thrust now, spurned on by the needy way you yowl into his forearm, drooling all over his skin. Begging for it. 

“Please, please, please—”

Your body is jostled forward with each harsh buck of his hips as he gives you everything he has, feeding his cock into your sopping cunt over and over again. Eager now to fill you up, to flood you with his cum. Make you swell with it. Overstuffed. 

Perfect little omega, you rut back into him with each thrust, taking his thick cock to the root. Mewling sweetly when his knot begins to catch. Too much, he thinks. It might just wreck you for good—

pomegranate seeds splitting over your teeth, blood red juice leaking from the tear. spilling into your mouth. just a drop. just a drop, and Persephone is all his

—Perfect. 

He teeters on the edge of ferality and control. Spinning, spiralling. Loosefooted on the wobbling chossy. Coming undone in a magmatic end—wicked heat, ashes, brimstone; he catches fire, and smoulders you under his heat. Letting the flames lick across your skin until you whine his name, desperate and needy, in the back of your throat. The thrill a bludgeon against his skull, spilling pleasure, bliss, in the broken hole you wrought. 

You tighten like a vice around him—tight, tight—and he pistons into you, burrowing deep. Deeper still. Until you thrash around beneath him, soundlessly screaming his name into the dark forest. Begging for mercy, mercy, please—

He won't. Can't. 

He can't get enough of the way you feel wrapped around him like this. Silken, whitehot. Tight. Tight—

It squeezes the air from his lungs. Static in his head—

And then you let go. Pulsing, throbbing around him. Pulling him in deeper, blanketing his mind in white noise. In nothing but magmatic pleasure. 

“Fuck—!” He snarls, almost angry. Vicious. Chasing after his end in the aftermath of yours. Instincts are at war within him, banging against his skull. Demanding recompense. Paid it's pound of flesh. 

It's what he's promised. What it's owed. 

(and he always keeps his promises, doesn't he?)

Most describe their ruts as mindless, driven by instinct. No control. But Ghost has never felt more present, more alive, than when he sinks his teeth deep into your nape, nearly choking, drowning, on your blood.

For the first time in decades, he feels the crater inside himself, suffused with spare, broken parts, seal when you yield with a mangled yowl of his name, raw and fractured as it splits between your teeth. Pretty pussy swallowing up his knot when he bullies it in deep, locking you together.

pretty little lamb—

a perfect fit between his teeth.

His rut is a voracious thing. 

Ghost has you on your back for the second and third round, heels resting on his shoulders as he bucks into you. Makes you stare at him—don’t look away from me, pet—as he commandeers your body with an ease that seems to break apart all demurrals as they form, rendering you sweet, malleable, beneath him to do with as he pleases. 

And you are, aren't you?

So fuckin’ sweet. 

(“gonna give me a cavity,” he rasps, thick with pleasure, into your ear. he has you on your belly now. holds you down with his weight, crushes your chest against the soft moss below, thighs squeezed tight between his own. you can barely make a sound with his forearm digging into the dirt right above your crown, swallowing you whole under his bulk. 

(owns you like, he finds. no one would be able to see you beneath him if they wandered by. encompassed wholly by every iota he has to give—

he cums like that. nose buried in your crown, moaning low, scorched, in the back of his throat as you twitch beneath him, unable to move at all—)

It's early in the morning when he finally finishes, when his rut begins to slowly recede, and a fresh bloom of clarity yawns over his periphery. Moonrise peppers soft kisses over his aching shoulders as he glances at you curled up against his side, sleeping soundly. Exhausted by the hours and hours of mating, fucking. Taking him, his knot, drinking down everything he has to offer. 

The sight that greets him is gnarled fingers wrapping around his rotting heart, affection peeking out between the brackets of his ribs. His appetite for you is dizzying. Unquenchable. He wonders if he'll ever be able to look at you without wanting to crawl inside your body. To reshape your tender flesh around his bulk until it is indiscernible from himself. 

This want is agony. It's dread, desire. Greed. 

His shoulders bite back in protest when he reaches up to drag his dirt-crusted nails through the prickly hair on his scalp. As dawn slowly unfurls across the midnight blue aether, he knows he'll have to leave soon. Can already feel the creeping heat gnawing in the pit of his belly. His rut starting anew. The scant hours he has of mental clarity, moments meant to eat, to feed, and regain strength for the next marathon of fucking, are needed to feel out his next move. 

He glances at you again, and feels the same covetous tug in his chest as he did before, when he was thickly entrenched in the urge to mate. But as the burnt orange of the sun smears hazy fingerprints across the moulted sky, he sees you in a new, cleaner light. You're young. Much younger than he is. 

It's something he ought to worry about. To feel some shred of shame, of despondency over shackling you to himself—a defective alpha with more scars than morality—when you're in the burgeoning bloom of your freshly untethered youth. All jejune beauty outclasses nature itself. Snow melts on the alpines, trickling down to feed the valley below. Life itself—

But you are his. 

The ugly rings around your throat—mangled tissue swelling in the morning dawn, caked in a thick river of blood—all signify that you belong to him. And while it's a little extreme as far as claiming bites go—one would suffice, but he buried his teeth in you over and over again, biting down on both sides of your neck, your jugular, your nape; inner thighs, mons, wrists—it’s proof enough that you are meant for him. Made for him. 

His pretty omega. 

The rest doesn't matter. He ought to feel shame, but instead he luxuriates in it. Stares down at you with a needy sort of possession spuming in the putrid remains of his chest, mapping out the marks he put on you. And the ones he'll add to later, not stopping until covered in the perfect impression of his crooked teeth. Tattoos of his ownership all over your body. 

Mutual, of course. There's a scant patch of skin, restive and empty, above his heart, save for a fine, jagged line from a serrated dagger. He'll have you bite down on the flesh until your teeth meet inside his muscle. Scarring down to the bone. He'll go, then, to the man who inks him up whenever he has the whim to desecrate scar tissue, and have him etch midnight black against fine silver. Permanent, forever. Always. 

And anyone who kicks up a fuss—stupid as they might be—he’ll sort them out. Prove to them that you are meant to be his. 

(unshakeable:

his spend leaks out of you, drying, tacky and thick, on your thighs. under the sleepy citrine of the dawning sun, it's tinged pink, and looks just like pomegranate juice.)

Ghost rolls his shoulder, and reaches for his discarded trousers. He's covered in a thick layer of dirt, and reeks like soil. But the thought of being buried alive is miniscule compared to the want of being buried inside you again. The urge. Insatiable. He groans with it, cock throbbing already. 

He leaves you naked. No point in dressing when he plans on going home and sinking back inside of you before midday, anyway. An unneeded obstacle, really—

The clearing is close to his truck, and he sets a leisurely pace, yawning into the dawn, as he gathers you into his arms. Carrying you to it as you drool on his chest, brows pinched at the soft jostle of him trudging through the thicket until he reaches it. 

He's not in a rut when he stretches you out in the back seat, spreading your sticky thighs around his hips, sinking inside, bottoming out just as you come to, waking up with a gasp. 

The intense fucking from before lingers in the air. You're soft, molasses; arching into his chest, whimpering out the name he hissed into your nape only hours ago, folding into him with a somnolent submission. It won't last, of course—

You're a vicious little thing, and his back and chest twinge with the rivers you carved into his flesh when he didn't move the way you liked. Wolfish, aren't you? Spitfire hiding under the soft pelt of a slain lamb. He wants to devour you, bones and all. 

He takes his fill of your malleable concession, rutting into you with a sluggish ease. Mapping out the starlight sparking in the depths of your glossy eyes. Magnetic. It pulls him deeper. Unravels him at the seams. 

His hand spans the expanse of your jaw from ear to ear. He holds you like this, thumb buried in the tender embrace of your soft tongue, and begins to understand the reason behind Johnny's niche appetite when you toy with his flesh, coquettish and sweet, suckling him in—pretty seductress—and then mewl when he pushes in too deeply, bringing crystalline gems to corners of your eyes. 

Angelic innocence. The type that demands he prostrates himself at your altar, let his bones be picked clean when you so wish it. And he'll give it to you—body, blood, tissue; all of it. The entirety of him, however broken, shattered the fragments might be. 

He promises it all to you without a word, drilling holes in the gaps of your eyes, chasms wide enough for him to fit. When he cums, it's to a songbirds sonata. Your moans are a whisper, your pleasure swallowed down as it ghosts over his lips, clenching around him like a vice. Pretty bow. He doesn't hold back—groans, baritone; woodsmoke, into the gathering symphony, filling you to the brim. Thick, copious. He wants it to stick. To root. 

When the blood sputters back to his head, he gathers you in his arms once more. Keeps you seated on his lap—shush, pet; s’alright, jus’ close your eyes an’ I'll ‘ave us home in a bit—as he starts the old pickup, and puts it into drive. One hand on the wheel, knuckles blanching white in the glimmering sunrise; sparse forests of muted blond catching, limned in the coruscating light. The other is placed on the small of your back, holding your belly to his. 

Quietly, your body eases. Melts. You press your face into his chest, fingers curling into the fabric, and nuzzle into the heady scent of his sweat, his musk, still clinging to his shirt. Signing, soft and twee, in the cup of his embrace as you slip back to sleep. 

He drives home like this. Mind a quiet place for once. Silent in its contentment, it's comfort. There's an itinerary still left to do, but he pushes it back for now, gaze roaming the dense green of the forest bracketing the road. 

You'll like it, he knows. There's a fen on the outskirts of his territory, a little pond where wild rabbits have been known to make burrows. Deers, elk. Bears. They all come and go. You'll amuse yourself in the untamed wilderness of his abode, drawing delineations of your own as you carve out places in his home just for you. 

And as he makes the turn to his hidden driveway, this buried sanctuary, he can't help but glance down at your crown, and think—

Persephone, finally home.

He finds your identification in your rucksack, nestled underneath the contraband you smuggled from the park—mushrooms, berries, bark, feathers—and sears your name to memory. Every part of you will be unravelled in the coming days, pulled from the depths of your being until it's all ingrained in his head. A gaping chasm chiselled into bone just for you. All for you. 

Your address is a rental. He'll have to call them later today to cut your lease. Your job, too. They'll need to be notified on both your off time for his rut (and your burgeoning heat), and to update your contact information. 

But that's later. Now, he just wants to get home. Sink down into his bed with you beneath him, and fuck you until sundown all over again. Stain the house with the scent of you. With the potent tang of your coupling. 

It's yours too, after all. Should smell just like you. 

And when you wake up later to him fucking his tongue into your drenched hole, fingers toying with your pebbled clit, Johnny will be busy packing the rest of your things into the pack of his pickup truck. The majority of it is already stacked on the porch, waiting for you to rearrange it all in your new house. Lease cut. His name added to your contacts as spouse, husband. Address updated. Marriage certificate laying on the table, only one line unsigned. Waiting for you. 

Maybe it's too fast. You'll certainly protest like it is, bearing your teeth and hissing at him from across the room about too much, too fast, slow down, you don't even know his last name—

(“Riley,” he grouses, arms folded over his broad chest. Eyes burning in the cresting twilight. “S’your last name now as well, pet.”) 

Fast—sure. He might think so too for a brief moment when he as you purring against his chest, submissive and docile after he fucked the fight right out of you, bullied you into agreeing to everything—it's for the best, after all. No one could ever protect you like he can. 

Made for each other. Reinforced when he presses your fingers to the soft spot where his last rib once hung—

(“stole it,” he murmurs into the seam of your lips. “right from under my nose. only fair that i get to steal somethin’ right back, ain't it?”

the look on your face is rapturous when you press your hand to your side, eyes widening when you feel the extra rung—)

He's had decades of waiting. Waiting. And now that he's found you—

He's never letting go. 

You're it, he knows. Feels the certainty in that statement simmering in his hindbrain, in his essence. He'll have you—now, forever. Non-negotiable. Where you go, he will follow. 

(after all, there's something about three-headed dogs and their bones—)

[soaps-mohawk]

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood

Chapter 35: Threads

Summary: Pack bonds are made up of delicate threads, small fibers webbing together the dynamics and relationships that make up each individual pack. The omega stands in the middle, holding the pieces together, keeping the pack from crumbling by clinging to those threads like a strongman holds pillars up with chains.

Pairings: Poly 141 x reader

Word Count: 11,740 words

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, Alternate Universe, angst, descriptions of physical pain, brief description of drowning, medical stuff, panic, crying, panic attacks, nightmares, PTSD, very heavy emotions, alcohol and brief mention of alcoholism, language, fighting (not physically), Kyle being the best boy, aftermath of trauma, brief mentions of the events of the previous chapter, guilt and shame, angst, and finally some comfort after the hurt (but not quite what you'd expect)

A/N: So I may have been slightly wrong, the angst isn't over, but it's not quite as intense as it has been. There are little tidbits of comfort in this one, though it's not like "okay it's over, let me wrap you in this blanket and everything is fine and happy now". It's...you'll see. If you're waiting for the fine and happy comfort then...you might want to wait a few chapters still. The comfort will come on slowly, but it has officially started.

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Screaming. 

Someone is screaming. 

It hurts your ears, high-pitched and ringing. Your hands cover them, but even that can’t block out the sound. 

It’s ringing in your own head. 

Your body hurts, every joint and muscle aching and throbbing. They’ve been locked in place too long, frozen in one position, a safe position. Safety. That’s what you’re seeking, that’s what you’re trying to find. That’s why you’re here. 

This isn’t a safe space anymore. 

The walls are crumbling, the darkness is fading. There’s light seeping in, threatening to pull you out, make you face whatever is waiting on the other side. It’s not a comforting light, it’s bright and piercing and threatening. You don’t want to leave the darkness. You don’t want to face the light. You want to stay there, stay frozen, stay safe. 

Your throat burns, raw and painful with every breath. 

It’s you. 

You’re screaming. 

Hands are flying, mouth open in a scream. It’s a horrible sound, grating and feral sounding. Your body twists and turns as they try to hold you down. No restraints. You’ll just hurt yourself more. 

Blood is flying, splattering on the gurney, the floor, the walls. Yours or someone else’s? It’s hard to tell. 

Simon. 

“Simon!” 

He snaps out of his daze, his eyes darting up to look at Dr. Keller across the gurney. Her hand is around his wrist, your elbow knocking against his forearm as you try to fight whatever it is you think you’re seeing. Maybe you’re seeing nothing at all. 

“I know.” Dr. Keller’s voice is soft despite the chaos of the moment. Her gaze is firm but comforting. She knows. “I need you to hold her still. She’s going to hurt herself further if she can’t calm down.” 

She’s going to hurt someone else too. 

The monitors are beeping and screaming. They managed to get a blood pressure cuff around your arm before you snapped out of the daze he’d put you in and started fighting. You’re like a wild animal, cornered and fighting for your life again with a renewed vigor. Renewed for now. If you don’t calm down again, something will give out. 

There won’t be any coming back from that. 

“Don’t be afraid if you hurt her.” Dr. Keller says, squeezing his wrist. “Bones can be fixed.” 

He catches your wrists in his hand, pinning them down against your chest. He uses his weight to his advantage, pushing his arm into you as he leans down so you’re face to face. You let out another scream, fighting against him but he has you beat. He’s bigger, stronger, calmer. 

“Look at me.” He says, his alpha rumbling low in his chest. It has even the beta nurses stopping in their tracks to look at him. The only one unaffected is Dr. Keller as she uses this moment to her advantage. 

You stop fighting him, breathing in heavy gasps as you stare right up into his eyes. Wild and untamed, pupils dilated in your aggressive state. Dilated out of aggression or dilated out of fear? Perhaps both. Beads of sweat slide down your face, your body hot under his. It mixes with the blood on your skin, blood from your own injuries and from the Shadows you killed. Your cheek is bruised, discolored from broken blood vessels. Your left eye will swell shut soon. He needs to get you calm before then. 

It’s almost cute, the way you bare your teeth up at him. He might have thought it cute in a different setting, if your life wasn’t dangling over a ledge right now. A low growl rumbles in your chest, a warning that has his own hackles raising. He bares his teeth back, an answering growl, deeper and angrier, rumbles in his own chest. The nurses take a step back. Even Dr. Keller pauses at the sound. 

Yet, despite the threat in his growl, it doesn’t deter you one bit. Your knee drives into his side, making him grunt from the impact, but he doesn’t let up. You’re fighting him again, trying to wiggle your way out of his hold. If he pushes any harder, he might break a rib. You’re going to break something if you don’t stop. 

You’re too far gone to recognize anything but fear and danger. You’re only going to fight, only going to attack anything you perceive as a threat. You won’t even recognise him. He has to get you to calm down before you have a heart attack. He considers getting one of the nurses to bring Johnny in, but there’s no guarantee that will work. You’ll just perceive him as another threat, another danger. More people in the room will only make you more aggressive...make your omega more aggressive. 

He’s not dealing with you. He’s dealing with your omega in her raw form, the animal deep underneath forced out of her hiding place. Whoever said omegas are weak never had to face one in this state. 

He stares down at you as you fight and scream, battering his side with your knees but he can hardly feel the pain. His arm is still throbbing where you bit him, but he can hardly see the blood streaked on his skin. 

He has to save you. 

He can’t let all of this go to waste. 

They’ll never recover if they lose you now. 

He moves almost seamlessly, time seeming to slow as he lets you go. He unclips his vest and rips it over his head in one movement, uncaring as it hits the floor with a heavy thud. You lunge up at him but he’s ready, catching you before your lower body can leave the gurney. It’s a risk. A huge risk, but it’s all he can think of doing. It’s hardly the worst place to be if things go wrong, if this fails. If he does fail, at least he’ll know he tried. 

He pushes his mask up to his chin, pressing your face right into his neck. 

Your nose pushes against his scent gland as he cups the back of your head, holding you there. He projects his scent as strong as he can, hoping it can reach some deep part of your mind, some glimmer of you that’s left in there. 

If this goes wrong, you’ll rip out skin and veins with your teeth. He’ll bleed out on the floor before they can even get him on a gurney. 

He wraps his other arm around you, holding you as still as he can. Tears prick his eyes as he holds you, shoving away the beeping machines, the panic still thrumming inside of him. Scruffing you was only round one of this fight. He should have held it longer, should have been brave enough to do it a second time. 

He can still feel it, your neck in his hand, the way you gave in so easily. You had no choice, he gave you none. It was necessary, it was vital that he did it. You wouldn’t have made it this far if he hadn’t. 

He should do it again. It would be easy, just slip his hand down and squeeze and you’ll be gone, lost in your head again and under his control. Maybe then he’d get you to calm down, get you out of this state and free from the danger looming closer and closer. 

Heart attack, stroke, organ failure. 

Why couldn’t Price be the one to go after you? Why couldn’t it be Price standing here making this decision. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispers before slipping his hand down, wrapping it around the back of your neck again. 

Pain. 

You’re in pain. 

You try to fade away again, try to push yourself back into the darkness to avoid the pain, but you can’t. 

There’s no escaping it. 

Your body hurts, every joint and muscle throbbing. Fire licks at your very cells, burning hot through your veins, scorching your skin. Safety. You want safety again. You want to retreat back into yourself, back into the comfort only the darkness can offer you. 

Nowhere is safe anymore. 

Tears are rolling down your cheeks, the light pressing closer and closer. It’s somewhere above you, shining down in offending shades of white. You can see it behind your eyelids no matter how hard you try to squeeze them together. There’s no escaping this light. There’s no retreating back into safety. There’s no safety anymore. 

You’re underwater, slowly rising to the surface. There’s sounds around you, muffled and dampened by the water. You need to breathe, you need to inhale precious oxygen but you can’t get to the surface fast enough. Lungs burning, your fingers claw at the water but you can’t reach it, you can’t swim fast enough. 

Your hands curl into soft fabric as you cough, choking on imaginary water. There’s warmth surrounding you, pressed in on all sides. You’re leaning against something, something hard and solid and warm. The sounds are louder now, mixing into a convoluted cocktail of constant noise. You hate it. 

Pain ripples through your throat as you let out a groan, the sound catching and cracking on the rough edges of your vocal chords. Another choked sound leaves your lips, pain rippling through your very nerves. The skin on your face is burning, simmering ashes being fanned by every tear sliding down your cheeks. 

You’re crying. 

There’s a deep sound coming from under you. It’s vibrating against your body, your pulsing ears focusing on that sound. It’s familiar. You’ve heard it before, somewhere back in the recesses of your mind. 

Your mind. 

It’s there. You can feel it beginning to take shape, thoughts beginning to form out of the fractured darkness. You’re not in your mind anymore, your mind is in you. You’re a being inside of a body, a body wracked with pain. The urge to retreat back is strong, but you can’t. That part of you has been closed off, sealed away by the light. 

Fingers and toes twitch, tingling and throbbing with the cold despite the fire blazing its way through your veins. It is cold, your hand pulling at the softness you’re clinging to. The low vibration begins again, rumbling through you, igniting something in the back of your mind. 

You know it. It’s familiar. 

Something tingles in the back of your mind, starting to come to life. Despite the agony there’s something in there, something warm and comforting. There’s no name for it, no thought flashing through the swirling mass of neurons slowly taking shape. It’s soft and warm and whispering to you. 

Wake up. 

Wake up. 

Wake up! 

Your eyes open before you can stop them. You’re immediately blinded, eyes throbbing from the bright white light above you, a high pitched whine leaving your lips. It rattles through your throat, broken and squeaking through your shredded trachea. You clench your eyes shut again, wincing away from the intrusive light, the movement sending a bolt of pain through your body like an electric shock. You let out another garbled sound, your fist tugging on the fabric it’s clenching. 

“I know, I’m sorry sweetie.” A voice says, the light disappearing before another takes its place, softer and lighter and less painful. 

Your eyes crack open again, still throbbing despite the light being removed. Your entire body is throbbing, pulsing like an exposed nerve. You feel like an exposed nerve, weak and vulnerable. It triggers something deep in your brain, the light starting to dim. Something is rising, something is coming. You want to lay back, let it take over, let it take control. You want to sink into the darkness again. The darkness is safe, the darkness is secure. 

The beeping is getting louder. Beeping, that’s what that sound is. There’s something beeping. It’s getting faster and faster. You’re starting to go numb, the tingling in your fingers and toes fading away. It’s not so cold anymore, the ache in your limbs fading into oblivion. You’re fading into oblivion. 

“Oi! None of that.” 

You’re awake. You let out a disgruntled sound as the warmth and comfort leaves you, deserting you in favor of retreating into the recesses of your mind again. A shiver runs down your spine, your very skin tingling with pinpricks of pain as it goes. 

“Open your eyes again for me, love.” 

Your body moves before you can tell it not to, your eyes fluttering open again. You’re squinting despite the bright light being gone. Any light is too much, your mind seeking out the comforting darkness once more. 

Darkness makes you vulnerable. 

In the dark, you’re blind to things that may be hiding there. 

No. 

No more darkness. 

You want the light. 

Scents flood your brain as your eyes fully open, slamming into you like a wave. It’s too much, nearly choking you again as you try to register everything. The burning scent of sterilizer, the soft scent of clean linens, the harsh scent of chemicals. There’s a soft scent mixing in with the others, something easing the turmoil in your mind just slightly. Above all else, though, is the intense smell of leather and something soft and fresh. It overpowers almost all of them, standing out distinctly. It makes your nose throb, something tickling in the back of your mind. You’re afraid of the scent, yet...there’s something else. Something...familiar. 

“Back with us yet?” The sound rumbles under you again. 

“Nearly there.” Another voice says. “Heart rate is coming down again. Still feverish, though.” 

You’re suddenly aware of your body again, the pains, the aches, the burning, the cold. You’re trembling, your skin prickling from how cold it is. You try to press forward against the warmth in front of you, but the movement has pain slashing through your very cells. Another pathetic whine tears through your throat, every movement sending stabbing pain through your very being. 

“C...C-Cold.” You manage to croak out, the word forming clumsily on your tongue. It feels heavy, like you’re relearning how to speak. 

“I know.” The softer voice says, something dragging across your skin. “We’re trying our best.” 

Something moves against your back, dragging against your skin. Whatever it is, it’s warm, but it’s rough. You push into it, something telling you to get closer, to wrap yourself in it and let it suffocate you. Somehow it’s comforting to you, somehow it’s familiar. 

Slowly thoughts and sensations begin to return to you, your mind dragging itself from the depths it had sunk into. 

It was purposeful. 

You did it to save yourself. 

You’re shaking for a different reason now, suddenly aware of the parts of your body that ache the most. Your shoulder, your cheek, your throat, your wrists. There’s a deep chill that has settled in your bones, sinking past the fever and the pain, past the memories beginning to resurface, past the hopelessness and the anger and the fear. 

“Simon?” You croak out, the name burning its way through your dry throat. You desperately want something to drink, anything to ease the burning desert in your mouth. 

“It’s me, love.” The sound rumbles under you again. 

Leather. Eucalyptus. Warmth. Alpha. 

You groan, trying to shift closer but the tensing of your muscles has pain screaming through your body. A shuddering breath leaves your lips, your body tensing until it passes. 

“Try not to move too much.” The other voice says, a hand coming to rest on your arm. You’re still clutching Simon’s sweatshirt in your hand like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to this earthly plane. 

It might be. 

“Dr. Keller?” You croak out, recognizing that voice. 

“I’m here too sweetie.” She says somewhere behind you. “Take it easy, you’ve had a rough go of it.” 

She’s not wrong. 

The memories are coming back slowly, each one playing through your head like an episode of some fucked up television show. Except, it isn’t a television show. It’s your life. 

You hate it. 

“John?” You ask, trying to get your tongue to work, but you desperately need water. 

“Probably yelling at every person who crosses his path.” Simon says. “He was blazing a path to hell and back earlier trying to get ahold of anyone he could yell at involved in this.” He rubs your back. “He’ll be here as soon as he’s calmed down. Kyle and Johnny are working overtime trying to help restrain him.” 

You'll always be a second thought. 

“You?” You ask, unable to form the whole question you want to ask. Why are you here and not with your pack? 

He's quiet for a moment. “We got here before John and Kyle did.” His hand stills against your back, palm pressing below your shoulder blades. “You wouldn't let anyone close to you. The doc said it's normal, coming out of that state. I had to help keep you calm so you could get patched up. Then you wouldn't let me leave.” 

Your fingers ache from how hard they're gripping his sweatshirt. He stayed. He's the one here with you, not your alpha. 

You let out a groan, the pain starting to intensify. There’s a throbbing in your calf, and a deep ache starting to pulse in your joints. You’re almost glad for it, the turmoil in your mind starting to twist and fog your thoughts pushed aside in favor of the pain screaming at the forefront of your brain. 

“Time for more pain medicine.” Dr. Keller says somewhere behind you. “You’ll probably get sleepy, but rest is what you need right now.” 

You let out another groan, pressing your face back against Simon’s chest. Despite the pain in your body, there’s an even deeper ache in your chest. It’s not a physical one. Your alpha isn’t here. He’s left you again, abandoned you in favor of something else, something he deems more important. 

Tears are brimming in your eyes as they slip closed, the exhaustion and the drowsiness from the pain medicine taking over. 

It’s not quite so cold when you wake up next. It’s brighter in the room, the light not quite so artificial as it had been the first time. There’s no body against yours, no warmth seeping into your skin or scent in your nose. Your fingers twitch, almost like they want to seek it out again. 

You’re alone. 

You let out a quiet breath, your brows furrowing. Your shoulder aches, throbbing in time with the beep of the heart monitor. It hurts less to move as you shift your arm to itch the other. It’s horribly itchy, but your fingers meet gauze instead. 

Right. Phil had cut you there. Not very deep, but still deep enough to hurt. Just another injury to add to the list. 

You try to lift your arm but burning pain shoots through your shoulder. You wince, letting out a quiet moan of pain as you drop it back into the bed. You breathe as the pain shoots through you, swirling through your veins before it begins to settle. 

“You shouldn’t try to move too much.” A voice cuts through the silence. 

Your head whips to the side, your arm shooting out to grip the side rail as pain burns through your body like lava. It seeps slowly from your left shoulder down to your toes and into your very hair follicles. You let out another groan of pain, your eyes squeezing closed as you wait for it to pass. 

“Sorry.” The voice says softly. “I suppose that didn’t help any.” 

You open your eyes, still breathing heavily as the pain begins to fade. Your hand is still wrapped around the side rail as you stare at John. He’s seated next to the bed, his elbows on his knees as he stares at you. He looks tired, eyes puffy with dark circles around them. He’s in a simple green shirt and cargo pants, yet he’s not quite as put together as he normally is. His hair is sticking up in different directions, his beard scruffier than normal. There’s a faint pink line of what was probably once a cut on his cheek. 

It’s the first time you’ve seen him in weeks. 

You should be happy. 

You should be ecstatic. 

You should be relieved. 

Yet, all you can feel is pain and anger and betrayal. 

“There’s nothing I can say that will make this better.” He says, his voice rougher than usual, even after returning from a deployment. His eyes shine with emotion. You hate it. “There’s nothing I can say that will undo what happened.” He runs a hand over his mouth, letting out a breath through his nose. “This shouldn’t have happened in the first place. We should have known better, we should have questioned it.” He shakes his head. “We put too much trust in those above us, and we were all fooled.” 

Tears blur your eyes as you stare at him. He’s not just talking about Shepherd and the initiative. He’s talking about you too. 

“I regret it more than any decision I’ve ever made. I’ll regret it for the rest of my life,” He continues. “You put your trust in me, and I failed you. I let this happen to you because I got too caught up thinking about the greater good of the pack and I ignored what was right in front of me. You’re here because of me, because of the decisions I made. I had one job, and now you’re paying for my failure.” 

He pauses for a moment, tears shining in his own eyes. You should feel surprise, sympathy, something. All you can feel is hatred. He doesn’t deserve to cry over you. He doesn’t deserve this chance to try and explain himself to you, to try and give excuses for his actions. He made his choice. He made it very clear where his loyalties lie, where they’ve always been, where that line was laid before he even claimed you. It was never about you. Nothing was ever about you. It was always the initiative, and then when the initiative turned out to be false, it was about the ‘greater good’. You should have been the greater good. You should have been their focus. Instead they all betrayed you. 

They betrayed you in the end. 

“I made a bad call.” He continues on. “I shouldn’t have left you there. I shouldn’t have made that decision. It never would have played out how I thought it would in my head at that moment. Now you’re here, like this, because I made a stupid mistake.” 

He stares at you for a long moment, as if he’s waiting for you to say something, as if you  should have something to say in response. He’s waiting for an acceptance to his half-assed apology, as if his words can somehow undo the pain, the burning in your wrists, the throbbing in your shoulder, the agony every time you simply move a limb. As if his half-assed apology can somehow undo the weeks of depression and anguish and the worry and the fear. As if his half-assed apology can make up for the way they all cut you off, treating you like a traitor before abandoning you. As if his half-assed apology can undo the hours and hours of torment and pain the man you once thought of as a family friend unleashed on you all because of them. 

The hatred burns almost as hot as the lava in your veins, so hot you’re surprised the tear that slides down your cheek doesn’t start steaming. Your heart rate is picking up again, the monitor beeping with the sound of the anger simmering inside of you. The blood pressure cuff squeezes around your arm, a grunt of pain cracking in your throat. 

“Yeah,” You say, your voice hardly more than a whisper. You turn your head away from him, wincing as an electric shock of pain jolts through you from the motion. You drop your hand from the side rail before he can touch you, tucking your arm back under the rough blanket. “You did.” 

You have nothing more to say to him. 

John enters the room solemnly, the silence nearly palpable as they all wait in anticipation. They’re all looking at him, waiting patiently for their captain, their alpha, to speak. They always look to him, they always rely on him, they always trust him and now look where he’s led them. So rarely does he make the wrong decision, so rarely does he lead them astray. 

What happened this time? 

Why did he so easily turn them away from you? Why did he so easily turn his back on you? 

What words are there to say? He knew his words would do little to calm the raging storm inside of you, the hurt and the pain and the betrayal they put you through all because of him. 

The rejection still hurts, but it should. They all rejected you as soon as they left you behind. 

It’s only a fraction of the pain you must be feeling. 

“How is she?” Kyle asks, breaking the tense silence. 

“Upset.” He sighs, sinking down in a chair. 

“Fuckin’ sure she is.” Johnny snaps, anger radiating off of him in steaming waves. He’s been on edge, they all have, since the four of them were reunited. He had been there, stuck in the hall as you screamed and fought. He thought the worst when your screams cut off until he was finally updated by one of the nurses leaving the room. “Of course she doesnae want to see any of us! We just fucking left her, just like that, and it was your fuckin’ fault!” 

Simon grabs his beta before he can throw a fist at John, holding him back. Johnny lets out a string of curses none of them understand, fighting against his alpha. Simon holds him tightly, the image of your bloody form fighting against him still at the forefront of his mind. He grips Johnny tightly, muscles straining. Johnny is bigger. Johnny is stronger. 

He has half a mind to let him go. 

John doesn’t move, doesn’t even flinch as Johnny yells and rages. He’d welcome a good beating right now. He could use some physical pain to distract from the ache in his chest. 

“Calm down,” Kyle says, getting in Johnny’s face. “I said calm down!” Kyle yells, Johnny stilling for a moment. It’s not often Kyle raises his voice at one of them. “We’re not doing any good being upset with each other. We all made mistakes over these last few weeks, especially these past few days. None of us are guilt free in this. We all have our omega’s blood on our hands. Fighting amongst ourselves will only fray the bonds more than they already have been.” 

Johnny deflates with a sigh, standing there in Simon’s arms for a moment. Kyle is right. They all can feel it, the way their bonds are fraying. Their pack is resting on a dangerous ledge, tipping back and forth with every strong emotion, every argument, every sour feeling. They’re all holding onto that bond, trying to pull it back to keep it from falling into the abyss. As angry as they are with each other, just one of them letting go will be the end of the pack. 

“There’s nothing we can do to change what happened.” John says, looking up at the other three. “Kyle’s right. I led us all in the wrong direction, but we can’t go back and change it. We can’t undo what happened to us, we can’t undo what we did, we can’t undo what we...” He lets out a breath. “What I let happen to our omega.” 

“She won’t trust us again.” Simon says, his hands still shaking as he releases Johnny. They haven’t stopped shaking since he scruffed you a second time. 

“She won’t.” John affirms, no matter how badly it hurts him. “She won’t forgive us either. The best we can do is to give her what she needs, what she wants. Right now that’s space. Dr. Keller will keep us updated as things develop.” He pushes himself up to stand, looking at each member of his team, of his pack. They all share the same guilty look on their faces, they all hold the same anger at themselves deep inside. “This may be the hardest mission we’ve ever had. No matter what we feel...none of that matters anymore. What matters is keeping our pack together. What matters is that we keep those bonds from fraying. We lose ourselves, we lose everything.” 

“Still sore?”

You nod, wincing as it sends a bolt of pain through your body. 

“I know.” Dr. Keller says, adjusting the ice pack on your shoulder. “Hurts like a bitch, but luckily it won’t cause any lasting damage.” 

You blink at Dr. Keller, staring at her for a beat. You don’t think you’ve ever heard her curse before. You’re not sure she was ever capable of it. 

“What? I use swear words. Sometimes.” She says, almost like she can read your thoughts. “Sometimes expletives fit the moment better than any flouncy, sophisticated words do. This feels like the proper situation to use some.” She lets out a sigh. “Your shoulder will be the worst of the pain, at least physically. The mental pain...well, that’s not something I can treat with pain medicine. Shouldn’t, would be the proper wording there.” 

Some people do use it to numb the pain. 

“We all made a lot of bad decisions these last few days. Your support system, those you were supposed to be able to trust, failed you.” She stares down at you, emotion shining in her eyes. It’s a mirror of John’s own stare when he’d looked at you, but this time there’s no anger burning inside of you. Dr. Keller didn’t betray you. Dr. Keller will mean her apology, because you know that’s what’s coming. “I know you’ve probably heard this a lot over the last few hours, but I am sorry too. I shouldn’t have left you alone like that. I shouldn’t have fallen for that phone call...I should have been there.” 

You stare up at her, tears pooling in your eyes. If she had stayed, things would have been worse. It was almost better she left you. You can’t lose her. You need her now more than you ever did. 

Tears streak a flaming path down your face, a choked sob tearing its way through your trachea up through your lips. It burns your throat, no amount of water you’ve had in the last few hours has been able to ease the ache that’s taken up permanent residence there. 

Graves choked you. It’s the bruising from his hand squeezing your windpipe making you ache. Your voice may never recover, may never go back to normal. Crying hurts, hurts more than just your mind, your chest. It hurts your whole body, yet you can’t stop. 

“I know, I know.” She says, petting your hair as you sob. “I’m not going anywhere this time. We’ll get through this, okay? It’ll be a long road, but you won’t be walking it alone. You’ve got me, and you’ve got your pack.” 

Your gaze hardens at the mention of your pack, the sob in your throat coming out almost as an angry grunt. The thought of them makes your chest ache, the pain of their betrayal burning hot in you. “I don’t want them.” You whisper. 

“I don’t blame you.” Dr. Keller says, leaning against the side rail of your bed. “They let you down. The betrayed your trust in a lot of ways. They made you feel abandoned, and then abandoned you when you needed them most, even if they thought they were doing the right thing at the time. You have every right to be angry at them, upset with them. They hurt you in the worst way they could.” She pulls the blanket higher over you, tucking you in. “You’ve gone through a lot these last few days. Some very traumatic events, on top of being injured and your body going through extreme stress. You’re exhausted in every way you can be. Rest first. Worry about everything else later. Doctor’s orders.” 

“I did it to myself.” You say before she can walk away. 

She turns back to look at you. “What?” 

“I made myself distress.” You say. “I made my omega come out.” 

“That was very brave of you.” She says, giving you a soft smile. “Sometimes we have to take drastic measures even knowing the risks. You did what you had to in the moment and I think it was the right choice. You didn’t know what was going to happen, what was happening. Things worked out and you’re still here. That’s all that matters.” 

You think about her words for a moment. You did make it out. The fact you’re here means someone found you, someone saved you. Someone scruffed you. 

“It was Simon, wasn’t it?” You ask, even though you already know the answer to that. 

You wouldn’t let him leave. 

“You’ll have to ask him for the whole story, but yes. He’s the one that rescued you.” She adjusts the blanket around you again. “Get some rest.” She moves the call button closer. “I’m on the other end of that button if you need me.” 

You stare up at the ceiling after she leaves, counting the tiles above you. It looks like every other ceiling you’ve ever seen in a doctor's office or clinic or hospital. It’s not all that different from the ceiling in the med center on base. 

Base. 

You don’t ever want to see that place again. You don’t want to step foot in the barracks, you don’t even want to think about the clinical sterility of the buildings and the cold comfortless spaces meant for nothing more than to serve their purpose. Just like you. You served your purpose. You proved their point, even if it was never the true point of the initiative. Packs will get stronger with an omega, but it will come at the detriment of that omega. 

The job always comes first. 

There was a time you thought perhaps it wouldn’t. Maybe they could put it all behind them  and put themselves first, put you first. Then they proved they can’t. They won’t even put you first when you’re at the threat of being tortured. You were hurt because they wouldn’t put you first. You are hurt because they wouldn’t put you first. 

You don’t care about them. You don’t care about their excuses. You don’t care about the bonds or the claims or the emotions. 

You’d be happy if they left you here. Just a few days ago you were panicking about them leaving you, about them deciding you weren’t enough and abandoning you. 

Now you wish they would. 

“Has she said anything?” 

“Not much.” He sighs. “She won’t see any of us. I can hardly blame her.” 

“You made a choice, John.” Kate says, hands wrapped around her cup of coffee. “Choices have consequences.” 

“You were right. Then again, you usually are.” He sips at his tea. Bitter without milk, but then again, he’d prefer a glass of whiskey right now over tea. “I don’t know how to fix this.” 

“I don’t think you can.” Kate takes a sip of her coffee. “She’s going to decide when she wants you to fix this, if she wants you to fix it.” 

John lets out a sigh. “We’re her pack, it’s our job-” 

“You’ve failed at your job.” Kate says, her gaze hardening as she stares at him. “You’re good at being a soldier, you’re good at being a leader, you’re good at saving the world, but that’s not your only job. You have a responsibility to take care of your omega, and you failed. You made your choice, and you turned your back on her. She’s not a soldier, John. She’s never been tortured, she’s never been left for dead, she’s never taken a life before and here she’s been through all of that in the span of two days. You made a choice, John. You made a choice knowing damn well what the consequences would be.” 

He sits in silence, staring at Kate. It’s not often she gets mad at him, the frustration evident on her face. It’s a mirror of the anger and disappointment on the faces of his packmates. They’re all feeling the weight of his decision, of his mistakes. They’re all feeling the weight of their rapidly fraying bonds. 

“You have a choice to make now, John.” She stares at him pointedly. “You pick up the pieces from this, you all take the time to recover and heal. Then what? Things aren’t as simple as we thought they were, John. None of us knew what was going to happen. We were all so focused on the potential benefits that we all overlooked just how much of a detriment this would be. Your omega hasn’t had a choice in anything in her entire life. Every decision has been made for her, whether or not she wanted it. She has had no say in any of this. She’s been nothing more than a variable in an experiment, a statistic, a number, a list of pros and cons. She’s been reduced down to nothing more than an object.” 

John winces at her words, the weight on his shoulders growing heavier and heavier. He’s treated you as nothing more than an object, even if not directly. Leaving you so easily, yelling at you when you made an innocent mistake, letting you be tortured because he couldn’t get his head out of his own arse. 

“We all know she’s more than that. Far more than that. But she will never have any say in anything, unless you let her. Outside of your pack, she has nothing. In your pack? She should have the loudest voice.” Kate leans her arms on the table, shifting closer to him. “Right now she has no voice because you’ve proven where your loyalties lie, and they’re not with her. You have one more decision to make, John. Do you keep standing where you are, put the job first and wear your omega down until she’s nothing but an empty shell? Or, do you take this chance while you have it and finally put her first?” 

Kate pushes herself up to stand, grabbing her cup of coffee. John’s not used to feeling small. He’s used to being in charge, being the captain, being in control. People look to him, they listen to him, he’s the one everyone turns to when things go to shit to lead them out. 

He’s not even capable of doing that anymore. 

“Your life as you knew it ended as soon as she was placed in your pack. It’s up to you to decide how it continues.” Kate leaves with those heavy parting words, the door clicking shut behind her. 

John stares down at his cup of tea, the cup half full, or perhaps half empty depending on how one looks at it. It feels more than half empty now, spilling slowly through some microscopic hole in the side. It’ll only be so long before that hole will widen, worn down by the weak paper the cup is made of, the liquid eating away at the cup until there’s nothing but a puddle of tea on the table, slowly rolling towards the edge to dip onto the floor. 

That microscopic hole started as soon as they left you alone for the first time, and none of them were aware enough to even notice it. 

That hole is a gaping wound now. The contents inside turned acidic as soon as he cut you off in his disappointment, as soon as he started digging into the belly of the initiative. That acid has been eating away slowly at the fragile bonds that were in place. Fragile. They really were. No matter how strong they all thought those bonds were growing to be, they were built with fear and anxiety and uncertainty. Uncertainty of the future and what it may hold, anxiety towards a new pack and an entirely new shift in lifestyle, and fear of one day losing a pack member. 

Bonds built upon such frailty can hold no weight should one piece fall. 

How strong can bonds really be when you live with that knowledge, that constant fear that someone could die at any time? Someone in the pack, someone you’ve bonded with, someone you’ve grown a relationship with, might leave and never return because of the risks of their job. How strong can those bonds be? Was that the point of the experiments all along, the 141 and the initiative? Testing the limits a pack could be pushed to, testing if bonds could be formed in such a high stress environment and if so, how strong they’d be? What limits would they have gone to, to test that theory? Would they have gone to the point of sacrificing one of them to test those theories, had the truth not come out when it did? One wrong decision, one wrong step in the field and everything can crumble. Would they have gone to that length to test just how a bonded pack would react, if they could still function after everything? 

The sacrifice was you. 

Kate is right. You’re not part of their world. You’re not a soldier, you haven’t been conditioned to live with that fear, you can’t be conditioned to live with that fear. You shouldn’t have to be conditioned to live with that fear. You had no choice in this. None of it. From the moment you presented, nothing in your life would be yours. From the moment you presented, you would never make a choice for yourself again. 

The sacrifice was you. 

And he played right into their hands. 

The cup is blurring as he stares at it, his eyes blinking rapidly. 

They say an omega is the balance that holds a pack together. It’s a delicate bond, a single thread coiled around the structure of the pack. Wear that thread down until it snaps and everything crumbles. How long have you been fraying? How long have you been silently screaming for help, desperately trying to hold the pieces of the pack together like a strongman holds two pillars up by chains? You never had chains, you’ve been holding everything together with sewing thread, fighting desperately to keep the pieces from crumbling at the risk of being torn in half. 

How long have you been silently screaming? 

It’s all his fault. He’s been wearing you down, he’s been fraying that bond fiber by fiber. He’s been standing there watching you fight to hold the pack together while screaming at him to help, screaming at him to take one of those threads and hold at least half of the weight for you. 

That’s what he’s supposed to do. 

The threads have snapped. You were torn in half by the weight and those threads are gone. They’re crumbling, the bonds coming undone, unraveling minute by minute, second by second. They’re losing each other because they lost you. 

He covers his face with his hands, not even bothering to try and silence his sobs. 

Something has pulled you from the sweet arms of sleep. 

It’s dark in the room, the only light coming from the one behind the bed. The curtains are drawn over the window, keeping you hidden from the darkness outside the window. It’s late, or at least you think it is. You can’t quite see the clock in the darkness with your one good eye. It’s fuzzy in the darkness, too far away for you to truly find where the hands lie. 

Shadows fill the corners of the room, oppressive and claustrophobic. The longer you stare, the bigger they seem to grow as if they might suck the light right out of the room and swallow you in darkness. The longer you stare, the more it seems like there’s something there, something hidden in the darkness. 

Something is staring at you from the shadows. There’s eyes on you, your skin prickling from the uncomfortable feeling of being watched. The more you stare into the darkness, the more the shadows begin to take shape, forming monstrous beasts just being held at bay by the light. 

“Hi, darlin’.” 

No. No, no, no, no. 

“Miss me? It’s been a long time.” 

You shake your head, your heart monitor starting to beep rapidly as your heart pounds in your chest. “N-No.” 

Phil sits forward in the chair in the corner, his face coming into the light. It is him, blonde hair, blue eyes, that disarming grin on his face. He can’t be here...unless he escaped before your pack could catch him. Did they manage to catch him? You don’t know. You hadn’t even thought to ask about Phil or his whereabouts. No one informed you either. 

“No? You didn’t miss me?” He tilts his head, his eyes shining with faux hurt and disappointment. “That’s not very nice of you to say. I thought your father taught you your manners. Have you forgotten them in the time you’ve been away.” He tsks, shaking his head. “Those boys have been letting you get lazy.” 

Your breathing is picking up, panic starting to fill you as you stare at him. It’s impossible. He shouldn’t be here. He can’t be here. He couldn’t have just walked onto base and walked into the medical center, could he? Corporal McKinney fooled everyone for months and drove right off base with you in his car and no one said anything. How much would the guards at the front entrance of the base take as a bribe to let him in? 

Why isn’t your pack outside your door? Why would they let him in? 

They had to have put out a warning. Someone should have put Phil’s face everywhere, sent out a message, something. 

He lets out a sigh, pushing himself to stand. “I guess I’ll have to teach you some manners myself.” 

The glint of metal catches your eye, the icepick catching the light as he steps closer. 

“No, no,” You shake your head, your fingers scrambling for the call button.

Not again. Please, not again. 

Your fingers close around the call button, your thumb pushing it over and over and over again. Someone has to hear it. 

He lifts the ice pick, reaching out for you...

You’re being shaken. A scream tears from your lips as you struggle, trying to get away from whoever is holding you. Your body is alight with pain but you wait for more, for the ice pick to drive into your scent gland again, open the wound and light your body on fire once more. You expect it to come down again and again, filling your body with holes so you bleed out on the floor. 

Where is your pack?

“Easy, easy. You’re alright.” 

You know that voice. 

You’re sobbing, your brain slowly beginning to come back into consciousness. You had been asleep. You were dreaming. The light is on in the room, the harsh fluorescent a welcome presence for once. The shadows are gone, dissipated by the bright light overhead. Phil is gone, wiped away with the rest of the shadows. 

He’s nowhere to be seen because he wasn’t there in the first place. 

It was just a dream. It was just a nightmare. 

There’s a hand on yours, gently easing your fingers from the call button. You’re still trying to press it, your thumb moving almost automatically. You started pressing it in your sleep. 

“You’re okay. Breathe for me.” 

It’s Dr. Keller’s voice. It’s her arms wrapped around you, trying to stop you from moving as much. Your body is screaming in pain, but the panic flooding your body makes you almost numb to it. The pain in your chest is screaming with every rapid inhale, tightening and tightening the more until your fingers and toes start to go numb. 

“Deep breaths.” Dr. Keller says, her own breaths slow as she holds you. “In and out.” 

The inhale catches, the air shuddering into your lungs before you hold it, trying to force your body to calm down, just like the two of you practiced so many times. The heart monitor is beeping rapidly, another thing that must have translated in your state between wakefulness and sleep when Phil had shown up. Your heart is beating rapidly, thudding in your chest almost violently. It’s been through a lot these last few days. You wouldn’t be surprised if it just gave out suddenly. 

“Phil.” You gasp out, still trying to slow your breathing. “Phil was here.” 

“It was just a nightmare.” Dr. Keller says calmly, keeping her arms wrapped around you. “No one has come in or out of this room besides me. The guard outside won’t let anyone else in.” 

Guard. There’s someone outside the door. Your pack? No. She would have said so.

Where is your pack?

Phil was never here. It was just a nightmare. 

The last two thoughts repeat over and over in your head like a mantra as you start to cry, sobs wracking your body. You hate it, the fear, the terror, the anguish you felt as he lifted that ice pick, ready to stab you with it. 

“I hate it.” You croak out, voicing your thoughts for the first time in a few hours. 

“I know.” Dr. Keller says. “It’s normal to have nightmares after a traumatic event.” She adjusts her hold on you, tucking you against her chest. “It’s your brain trying to process what happened, trying to work its way through the trauma of the last few days. It’s cruel, but it’s a necessary part of healing.” 

Healing. 

Are you healing? Can you heal after everything? The pain is intense, not just outside but inside as well. The hurt, the anger, the fear, the anxiety, the panic, the depression, the rage, the betrayal. It’s too much. It’s so much all at once. You hate it. You hate that this happened in the first place. You hate that you have to go through this, have to heal, have to live through more nightmares. 

You hate your pack. That’s why they’re not here. 

For all you know they’ve left you. For all you know they’re on a plane back to the UK. 

Why would they want a broken, angry omega?

“I just want to be okay.” You sob, face pressed against her shoulder. 

“I know.” She says, cradling the back of your head, keeping you tight in her arms. “I'm so sorry this happened to you. I know words can't change that it happened, words can't make it all better, but we'll get you to where you're as okay as you can be again. I promise you I’ll do everything I can to get you there.” She leans her chin on the top of your head, squeezing you against her chest. “We'll get there, no matter how long it takes.” 

How long will it take? How long will your pain and suffering drag on for? Your body will heal eventually, but will your mind? Are you going to be this way for the rest of your life? Will you ever know peace again? But...have you ever really known peace? Your home growing up certainly wasn’t peaceful. Your presentation wasn’t peaceful, and neither was life at the institute. Being chosen by the FBI for this initiative that never existed in the first place certainly wasn’t peaceful. Despite how happy you became with your pack, even that life wasn’t peaceful. What little peace you thought you had was upended in the blink of an eye. 

How easily everything crumbled. 

Will it be possible to put it all back together again? 

Do you want to put it back together again? 

Alcohol is easy to find in a place like this. Soldiers gravitate towards whatever crutch they can find to erase the nightmares they live in. It numbs the pain and the brain and keeps one sane, or at least that’s what his father used to say. 

Of course his father would drink himself into a stupor every Friday night, and he’d wake Saturday morning still in his chair with a full breakfast waiting for him. 

Much like his father, John has lost track of how many times he’s filled his glass. 

It’s been a long time since he’s gotten this drunk. He shook that habit after a shameful morning over ten years ago. He’d just gotten back from a bad deployment, one that gets labeled as a “mission gone wrong.” It failed under his command. He lost a lot of lives, not just his fellow soldiers. He’d drunk himself past a stupor and woke up passed out in a bush covered in vomit outside the gate with a rather angry CO over him. 

He shook the habit after that, easing himself to just a glass every so often on those days he needs to take the edge off, on those days he needs to numb the aches. 

Then Kyle came along. Kyle, his sweet beta with his ethical moral compass. His sweet beta who deserved a better life than what he was pulled into. Dutiful, loyal, principled. A good soldier, but a better man than John could ever be. He could fall into Kyle, bury himself under those soft touches, the soothing whispers, the comfort Kyle could offer him. The screaming in his head became less and less as he allowed Kyle to do what he was meant to do at his core. 

Comfort. 

Then you came along. 

He found himself turning to the liquid medicine less and less because he could bury himself in you. He had an omega, he had someone he could lean on, someone who understood without having to be told. The bond between alpha and omega is something so sacred and special, something to be cherished. 

And he threw it all away. 

He downs another glass, staring at the almost empty bottle. It had been sealed when he got it, brand new and fresh. He can feel it, the fogginess of alcohol clouding his brain. The world is swirling, melting together. He can’t feel much of anything anymore, yet that pain lingers deep in his chest. 

The bond. 

It’s like an open wound, gaping and pulsing. Eventually it’ll slow, eventually it’ll give out. That bond will be cut and everything will crumble. 

It’s all his fault. 

He ended things, he ended the pack, he ended the bond, he ended you. 

Would Graves have killed you? Would Shepherd have given those orders if they pushed onward, if they caught up to him? Graves would have done it slowly, taken his time, reveled in it. They would have gotten a video of it, hours long as you were tortured to death, zoomed in on your face as the life left your eyes. 

The thought makes his stomach churn. He wants to vomit at the mental picture of you laying there, covered in blood, those lifeless eyes staring at him. Eyes that once shone with life and happiness. Despite everything you had been happy. Despite everything that spark inside you was never extinguished. A fiery little thing that would give what they gave right back to them. 

Now you’re not even smoldering. 

You’ve been reduced to ashes, and it’s all his fault. It’s all his doing. 

He skips the glass this time, drinking straight from the bottle.

“Have you seen John recently?” Kyle asks, standing in the doorway to their temporary living quarters. It’s a single room with two bunk beds. Far too tight of a space for their quickly souring dynamics. 

“No, not recently.” Johnny says, lifting his head up from his pillow. He’s been crying again. “You, LT?”

LT. They argued earlier...more like yelled in each others’ faces until they had to be separated at the risk of things getting physical. Kyle’s not even sure what they had been arguing about in the first place. Probably something miniscule and unimportant. Everything seems to be setting them off like grenades. Pull the pin and watch them explode. They’re all on edge, all of them feeling the distance growing wider and wider despite their best efforts to stop it. 

“No.” Simon says simply, staring up at the bottom of the bunk over him. He’s flat on his back, hands folded on his stomach. He looks like a corpse, might have been mistaken for one if it hadn’t been for the slow rise and fall of his chest. He’s still in his mask. He hasn’t taken it off since he arrived in the field. 

It’s late, but none of them can sleep. None of them have been able to get much sleep since they arrived nearly two days ago. Weeks without good, decent sleep wears on the brain too. 

“If he comes back here, text me.” Kyle says before closing the door, resuming his search for their missing captain. 

John has been beating himself up for nearly two days now. Kyle’s never seen his captain quite so distraught and lost. He’s blaming himself, which in all fairness, he should be doing. It is his fault. Kyle will be the first to point blame in this situation, but none of them are truly blameless. None of them questioned it, none of them even argued with him on that decision. They followed blindly as they were supposed to for the first time in a long time. They didn’t question their captain, their alpha, their leader. 

He hates himself for it. 

Why didn’t he question it? Why didn’t he argue? Why didn’t he voice his opinion, fight back against that decision? He trusted his alpha when he shouldn’t have, and you paid for it. 

He’s glad he didn’t have to see you. He’s glad he didn’t have to face down the state Johnny and Simon found you in. He’s glad he didn’t have to see what you looked like even after the blood had been cleaned off and the true horror was revealed. 

He hasn’t gone to see you at all. 

He’s not sure he could handle it. You won’t care either way from the sound of it. You’ve been reduced to a shell, silent and empty. You’ve barely said a word since this morning, instead just lying there and staring at the ceiling according to the doctor when she’d updated them this afternoon.

Your body will heal slowly, but your mind will remain a battleground. 

He leaves the barracks, looking up at the dark sky. It’s clear tonight. He’d probably see the stars if there wasn’t constant light pollution around the base. What do the stars look like here? He’s stared up at the stars constantly in the last few weeks in places there was little light pollution. His only comfort about being away from you so long was the knowledge that you were under the same sky. Be it day or night, the stars were overhead. You wouldn’t be able to see them either way, but they were shining for you too. 

Now you’re both under the same stars, but you’re both still so far away.

He lets out a sigh, lowering his gaze. He has a job to do, a captain to find. 

“Where are you John?” He breathes, looking in all directions, trying to decide which way to go next. He had stopped in at the med center already, but he wasn’t there. No one had seen him, even the doctor. He’s searched everywhere he could think to search, but his captain is nowhere to be found. 

John will kill him if he requests a base-wide search. 

He walks around the side of the barracks, hoping maybe he’ll run into John coming back this way. Usually he wouldn’t bother searching for him, but with his mind how it has been, Kyle can’t help but be worried. Even with the bonds fraying between them, he still has that instinctual need to make sure his alpha is okay. Instincts can’t be ignored. No matter how much bonds between packs fray, instincts will always remain the same. 

That’s why he still feels that urge to go and see you. 

John will kill him if he requests a base-wide search. 

He knows how self-destructive John can be despite how composed he makes himself appear. He’s only seen his alpha in that state once, and he has a feeling he’s about to a second time. 

He leans against the wall with a sigh when he reaches the other side of the barracks. Nothing. No sign of him. No texts from Johnny or Simon either. He’d asked Dr. Keller to let him know if he shows up in the med center too, but there’s been nothing. No word. No signs. 

Maybe he should just give up looking. John will find his way back to the barracks eventually. Or he won’t. 

That could be tomorrow’s problem. A distraction, a mission, something to give them purpose and force them to unite again. 

Find their missing captain. Find their missing alpha.

He turns back around to follow the sidewalk back to the front of the barracks when he hears shuffling footsteps dragging on the concrete. He turns, squinting into the darkness between lamps as a figure stumbles through the shadows, muttering under its breath. He knows that voice, he knows that figure. 

John. 

John stumbles forward, nearly falling but Kyle reaches out, catching him. His mind is racing, silently checking for any blood, any sign of injury, but there’s nothing. 

Maybe everything is finally getting to him. Maybe his body has finally been pushed to the limit and it’s giving out. He’s having a medical emergency. 

“Easy, sir.” He says, trying to calm his panic as he fights to keep John upright despite John’s body wanting to fall the rest of the way onto the ground. Kyle takes a breath in, catching the sour scent of alcohol wafting off his captain. 

Not a medical emergency, then. 

He sought out some liquid comfort instead. 

The thought makes Kyle’s chest twinge still. 

“’S all over.” John slurs, his weight getting heavier and heavier. “Everything is over.” He turns his head, blinking slowly. “Kyle?” 

“It’s me, sir. I’ve got you.” He slings John’s arm over his shoulders, making his weight easier to hold. 

“Kyle.” He slurs again, the two syllables blurring together. “Too good to me, Kyle.” John pulls his arm free, stumbling forward. 

Kyle just manages to lessen his fall onto the concrete, making sure John doesn’t smack the back of his head at least. He’ll have some scrapes and bruises tomorrow, though. Right now he probably can’t even feel it. If he was responsible, he’d take John to the med center, let him sleep off the alcohol on the safety of a gurney, but that would probably just cause more problems for everyone. 

John would be pissed when he woke up. 

He lets out a sigh as he stands there, staring down at his captain. John’s on his back, eyes up and focused on the sky, hiccuping every so often. He’s never seen his captain quite this drunk before, though he has heard stories of when John was younger. 

“I’ve killed her.” John mumbles. “I’ve killed all of us.” 

Kyle drops to a knee beside John. “You haven’t killed anyone.” 

“She’s fading away. Soon she’ll be gone.” He murmurs. “We’ll go too.” John pushes himself up to sit. “It’s all over. Everything is over.” 

Kyle grips John’s arms before he can fall back again, holding him in place. “Nothing is over yet, sir. We can still do something. It’ll just take time.” 

John turns to look at him, his eyes hazy and far away. “Kyle.” John says his name softly, reaching out to brush his fingers across Kyle’s cheek. “Pretty boy.” He slumps against Kyle’s chest, his weight nearly making both of them topple over. “Too good to me, Kyle.” 

“I care about you a lot, sir.” Kyle says, rubbing his back. “More than I think you realize.” He murmurs the last bit more to himself than anything. Not that John will likely remember any of this in the morning. “We should get you in bed. We’ve got a long day tomorrow.” 

They do. They have to decide what to do next. 

“Come on.” He says, hauling John to his feet carefully. John lets him, letting Kyle wrap his arm around his shoulders. 

It’s slow going, Kyle half dragging John back to the barracks. He’s quiet at least, only the occasional scuffle of his footsteps as he stumbles breaking the quiet night. He gets John back to their room fairly easily, easing him into the other bottom bunk across from Simon. The room is still and silent aside from the occasional sniffle from one of the top bunks. 

He grabs the blanket from his own bunk, draping it across John instead. Maybe in his drunk state, the scent will bring him some comfort, help ease that ache inside of him.

He’s hoping John’s scent will do the same for him. 

“It’ll be alright, sir.” He says, making sure his captain is comfortable. He stands up, staring down at his Captain. “Everything will be fine.” 

He’s not sure who he’s trying to convince. 

John stares down into his tea as they sit around a table. His head is throbbing, pulsing heavily behind his eyes. It’s his own damn fault, going out and getting drunk like that. He hasn’t done it in years, yet he couldn’t stand the pain gnawing away at his chest. Alcohol hadn’t fixed it. It’s still there, still pulsing away. The alcohol had only numbed it at least for a few hours, and if anything, it made it worse. 

“Kate left this morning back to DC.” He says, glancing up at the other three members of his team. “They're still working on cleanup and helping Alex and Farah track Shepherd. I spoke with Dr. Keller this morning. We’ll be able to fly out soon.” 

The words hang heavy in the air. He hadn’t mentioned you at all, but he’s not sure he could without breaking down. You are improving slowly, Christine had said, giving him a sympathetic look as he squinted in the harsh fluorescents. She knew. She could tell just by looking at him. She’s that good at her job. 

He’s glad they have her. He’s glad you have her.  

“Where are we going tae go?” Johnny asks. 

“We can’t go back to base.” Simon says. 

“You’re right. Going back to base is too risky.” John says. “Shepherd could have eyes there already. And with her mind where it is...” Taking you back would be too much too soon, even without the risk. One of their own had already betrayed them once. They can’t trust anyone anymore. “We need somewhere secluded and quiet. Somewhere no one will know we’re going where we can lay low for a while.” Both out of necessity for their safety, but also for your sake. 

It falls silent between them. Shepherd knows all of their possible safehouses, all of the places they mind go to stay hidden. Those only they know off the record are hard to get to, requiring miles of hiking. You wouldn't be up for that even without the physical injuries, and they doubt you'd let one of them carry you. If they had to get out quickly...

“My parents have a place,” Kyle says, glancing up at them from his own cup of tea. “Out in Cornwall. A cottage near the cliffs. It’s quiet, secluded. No one knows about it but us. Tourist season is over too. There won't be many out there poking around this time of year.” Anyone wandering around out there that close would be suspicious.

“It’s a good option.” Johnny shrugs. 

“It’s our only option.” Simon says. 

“It’s exactly what we need.” Kyle says. “Trying to rent this time of year will only draw attention, and we can't trust we won't be ratted out. Shepherd likely still has allies. We were betrayed by one of our own before.” Kyle says. 

“You're sure no one else knows about it?” John asks, looking at his beta. 

“Just my parents and my siblings. They wouldn’t ask any questions if I told them it was being used.” Kyle shrugs. “It might be our best option.”

John looks around at them. It is their best option for now. He knows Kyle's family is just like the rest of theirs. They know they can't know and they won't ask questions. 

“We had a conversation once, months ago.” John says. “She told me she wanted to live next to the sea someday. She wants to be close enough that she can smell it and see it.” 

He pauses thinking back months ago after Simon left, after you were so affected by his absence. That conversation when you asked if he’d ever leave for you, when he told you if your life was ever in danger because of them he’d leave in a heartbeat. He’s made a liar out of himself. He broke his promise, so many promises, made not just to you. Not just to the pack. 

He glances at the other three, fighting back the lump in his throat, the endless threat of tears that has been rising like the tide and threatening to drown him at any moment. He’s made his decision, he’s made up his mind. 

You have to come first. 

His priorities have changed. There’s no initiative to follow, no orders to be given out. Kate was right. This is their moment to change things, this is his moment to change things. His pack will follow. Despite everything, they’ll trust him to make the right decision. They won’t hesitate to challenge him anymore, but there’s still that deeply ingrained trust in their alpha and captain. 

The alpha comes first. 

No, the omega comes first. 

He takes a sip of his tea, bitter without any milk, but it’ll do. “She wanted to be close to the sea.” He looks back up at the other three having made his decision. “Taking her there might just be what she needs.” 

NEXT ->

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[yawnderu]

Hybrid!Wolf!Ghost is fucking feral. He's always been too good at managing his ruts, hiding away in his room and pathetically jerking off to try and make himself feel better no matter how desperately he wants to shove his cock in any hole— he's good at self-control.

Good at self-control until you come along. A much smaller cat hybrid, too bitchy and too good for even taking suppressants, driving the men in base insane with your scent. His first instinct is to attack— to latch his sharp teeth into your neck and shake you around until he erases that annoying, smug smirk off of your face.

You can feel his warm breath on the back of your neck, hand pushing down on the middle of your spine to test your flexibility while he thrusts into you at a brutal pace, pulling out only to slam his cock into you with a singular forceful thrust.

Low groans and growls mix in with your whiny moans, slick making his cock glisten every single time he tries to pull out only to be sucked back in by your needy cunt. Your body and scent are making his body haywire, forcing him to lean down and desperately rub his face on the back of your neck, trying to mark you with his scent despite the awkward angle.

Simon's thrusts are brutal, bruising your cervix more and more every single time his meaty thighs slam against your ass. His warm hands hold onto your waist and use your own body as leverage to stuff your cunt, stomach flexing as pleasure begins to coil within him.

He slams himself as deep as possible, forcing you to take him to the base as his knot begins to swell into you. He holds you in place, barely pulling out anymore, yet still fucking into you with the same intensity, shooting ropes of hot cum right into your fertile womb, breeding you.

Half-lidded brown eyes stare down at you when you start to whine underneath him, soothingly running a hand up and down your back to get you to relax while his knot keeps you tied and vulnerable.

[fallenneziah]

is it too much if i ask you to do a part two of alpha!ghost and omega!reader 🥹

Ah, don't worry @dragonstoneshortcake I will feed you more.

Alpha!Ghost and Omega!Reader pt2

If you haven't you can go back and read part 1 and 3

Your first heat with Alpha!Ghost was one that would stick with you. Ghost all the same. After that first heat, watching his seed slowly dripping from your fluttering hole. He wanted to do it all over again.

Alpha!Ghost who let's you keep his shirt, telling you, "you might need it sweetheart," with a wink and starts to pack himself up.

Omega!Reader who does in fact need that shirt. Who has unexplainable want to burrow into it. Whimpering at night and holding it tight to suffocate you like a pillow.

Like a rabbit kicking it's back legs from excitement or anxiousness.

Omega!Reader who hasn't experienced anything like Ghost's thick cock deep inside them. Who moan loudly as they think about his knot stuck inside your sweet hole.

Alpha!Ghost who gets in teasing touches during practice. Hand gliding down reader's ass or over their shoulder. Warm breath fanning to their ear, tumbling deeply when he sees the sore bite marks that still remain seared on their skin.

Alpha!Ghost who ruts his cock between his pillow, trying to get friction like that little omega, the chemical reaction of your heat burned into his mind.

Omega!Reader who breaks the cycle and heads to Ghost's office, tenacious and eager. The smell of your delicious pheromones tell him all he needs to know before he's sliding you closer, hands on your hips, guiding you along.

Omega!Reader who takes Ghost's cock in their mouth, sweat tears rolling as Ghost's hips cant up, his voice vibrating in their stomach.

"Oh such a good fuckin' angel... So fuckin' pretty on my cock, so fuckin' pretty..." He groans, stroking your cheek as saliva drips down your chin and you choke down his length.

Alpha!Ghost who plays into and teases reader for being so needy. Spanking their ass as he takes down their pants, bending them over the desk and growling in their ear as his fingers work their hole.

Omega!Reader who whines in reply, bringing this interaction down simply to submit, and submitted. The animal in desperation and the animal willing to give. Basic instincts imbedded in your genes telling you to take him. And take him all.

Alpha!Ghost who doesn't care that your pheromones spread. Others will know it's him taking you. His cock sinking into your hole, pushing you against the desk, nails digging in.

"Look at you- oh fuckin' 'ell sweetheart-" He growls.

Alpha!Ghost who doesn't spare you anymore than last time. He knows you're out of heat and just want his cock, and he'll give it to you. Rearranging your insides and keeping you completely pinned under him. Seeing you squirm and arch before giving up makes him feel so good.

Alpha!Ghost who gets you on his knot, slamming deep inside of you, feeling how far he's pushed, that slight swell in your belly from how deep his cock is seated inside you.

"You look so good on my knot..." He admires his work, he admires your body.

Sitting in his chair and caressing your body. Making you whimper and shiver. His lips and tongue tasting every little bit of you. Your sweet scent just leaking off you.

Alpha!Ghost who hadn't talked with you about what you actually were. You'd fucked twice and he didn't really know If you'd want it further.

Did that stop him from protecting you? No.

Alpha!Ghost who is so protective over you more now than ever. If you're sparring with someone else and they remotely touch you wrong Ghost is up in their face with a nasty snarl.

That's his. You back away. Back the fuck away.

Alpha!Ghost who as far as he's concerned, mated or not, you're his. His seed stains your insides, he's been closest to your smell than anyone in base, he's seen you in heat. He's pounded your brains out.

You. Are. His.

Omega!Reader who finds themselves at Ghost's door often after nightmares. When they'd opt to be alone mostly, they can't help wanting his scent. Hearing him hum as he let's you in, smelling him everywhere.

Omega!Reader burrowing into Ghost's side and his blankets, unable to help being completely consumed by the scent. It's not bad, they sniff him, paw at him, shifting through the night.

Alpha!Ghost who finds it... Rather adorable that you want more of him. Shifting a little so you can press your face up to his chest, inhaling deeply and whimpering into his arms.

Omega!Reader who completely melts when his arms wrap around them, feeling very comforted and safe with him.

Omega!Reader whose nightly occurrences in Ghost's room because frequent. Every other night the two share a bed, sometimes leading to his cock down your throat as you slowly or desperately suck him off.

Or other times it ends with his knot deep inside you, whispering about how he'll get you pregnant. He'll knock you up so good with his pups.

Omega!Reader whose fantasies are all Ghost. Him pounding them full of pups and making them leak. Back arched and crying out his name like it's the only word they know.

Omega!Reader knowing they want so much more with Ghost. Knowing they want off their pills, to let his seed get them pregnant. Who wants to be called his mate. Who wants that so so badly.

Omega!Reader who will notice how Ghost gets flirted with by betas around the base and will end up whining. Like a neglected puppy.

"What's wrong love? Someone step on your tail?" Ghost will tease, unaware the other officers flirting has severely ticked you off.

Omega!Reader who tries to pull Ghost to their whim once, getting so far as a utility closet before Ghost shoves them in, pressing his chest to their back, hearing them whimper desperately for something.

"Shh, think you get to do that sweetheart? No, no angel." He whispers, kissing your cheek and rutting against your ass.

I'm sure you'll work it out together somehow 😉

[midnightfox23]

“Revenge”

Here is the omegaverse fic I promised with Soap/Ghost.

The Shepherd King's people had already reached the MacTavish house, having appointed expensive tributes, in addition, the lands of the Highlanders were famous for cattle breeding, which is why the King demanded half of the provisions for the provinces and the capital for the next winter.

Every year it became more and more difficult, provisions became less and less and livestock died more and more often, the proud MacTavish survived as best they could thanks to their lands, which were famous for their scale and grandeur in the eyes of their rivals.

From the thirty-year reign of King Lanor the Terrible, all nine houses in the kingdom of Ernos were able to exhale from war, until after the death of King Lanor a bloody war for the throne began.

[bigassmoonchild]

Simons Rut

Simon bullied his cock back into you, knot starting to inflate. He groaned, having stuffed you full of three other loads, grunts and groans becoming all you could hear.

His head fell on your shoulder, chest pressing into your back and whines coming from your mouth with the overstimulation. He nipped at your neck, sucking your scent into his throat to coat his tongue. A moan ripped from his neck, eyes rolling back into his head.

You could feel his cock sliding against your g-spot, sending spasms of pleasure through your gut. Biting your gland and remarking you, his knot started catching on you as he slid in and out.

Whines were coming from his throat, his mind lost in the thoughts of breed, mate, fuck a pup into Omega, and you couldn't move from under him, mouth open and drool slipping down your chin.

Your cunt spasmed around him, his knot finally catching you and he pumped his hips shortly. Hips pressing back into him and grinding on him, your own eyes rolling back with the pleasure as you kept spasming around Simons cock.

"Good little Omega, milking me, going to fuck pups into you, need you to be full of me," he growled into your ear, his mouth dropping open as his orgasm finally spread through him, dropping to his elbows and further caging you onto the bed.

Simon stayed like that for a moment, his nose rubbing along your neck as he filled his head with your scent, almost growing drunk on it. When he finally came to, he pushed his weight off of you and slowly moved the two of you over, letting you sit on his lap.

He ran his hands down your sides, your head falling on his shoulder and nudging at his own scent gland, licking at it to fill his scent in your own mouth.

Massaging at your thighs, you felt yourself relaxing around him, eyes falling shut from the exhaustion of cumming so many times around him.

Some time later, Simon was pulling you off of him and allowing you to come back to the present while carrying you into the bathroom, starting the tub after setting you on the counter.

You'd tugged Simon in the tub with you as he'd tried to set you in there and leave. Him joining you caused some water to splash around the sides, but you got to work washing his hair as he held you in his lap.

During his ruts, he was rougher than normal but became the sweetest Alpha, happy when his Omega was more than satisfied before his next wave came through him and had him bending you over the sink to watch yourself get fucked.

[callsign-bunnie]

Map for Regency AU

This is mostly so I can put it in AO3 but here you go!

[multific]

Scent

Alpha!Simon Riley x Omega!Reader

Warning: non-explicit smut. 

Summary: Building nests was part of the process of an Omega going into heat. However you never actually thought you would find yourself locked away in a house with your Lieutenant.

To say that the mission has gone to shit would be an understatement.

They were hunting you down and if it wasn't for Ghost, you would be dead by now.

If it wasn't for him and his sharp reflexes you would be lying with a bullet in your skull.

But you weren't.

Instead, you were in a much worse situation.

At the start of your mission, you took your suppressants, figuring you would be back the next day, you didn't even pack any, so now, you were here, on an uncomfortable mattress, trying to make it homey for your heat.

You never actually minded going into heat. You could just lock your door, fill your room with food and be good for a couple of days.

But this was a very different situation.

You were in a bunker-like building, hiding for survival with an Alpha who was also your Lieutenant. 

Not a situation you wanted to be in.

"You need to rest, I will keep watch." he avoided you, and didn't even come close to you, he just stopped at the door, never entering the room. He did put food down for you on the floor every day, commenting when you didn't eat something.

He was kind.

You knew he could smell your heat coming up, Alphas always did.

You know the upcoming days will be as much of a torture for him, as it will be for you.

You were glad it was Ghost with you, at least he had control over his alpha.

Before you could reply, he already left. Going as far away from you as possible. Yet, your smell still lingered. 

Sure, Simon had control over his alpha, but the temptation was too great. You were perfect. In every aspect of the word. The perfect woman, partner, and omega.

At first, Simon thought you had no place in the army, he thought Price had gone insane but you proved him wrong.

Your kindness wasn't your weakness, instead your strength. 

Simon took a deep breath, his mind and body immediately filled up with your scent, and how sweet you smelled. Simon, out of frustration, hit the wall, making the brick crumble.

He knew he should be there with you, help you, and yet, he was forcing himself away from you. 

Even if everything inside him was screaming for him to go to you, help you, feed you, and keep you safe and comfortable.

He knew he can't.

The next day he brought you another plate of food. 

"Ghost..." your voice came out way too desperate. "Can I have your shirt, please? The smell of the... pillows are..." Simon didn't need to be asked twice. He handed you his sweatshirt in a swift movement. "Thank you." he watched as you cuddled up with his clothes and he couldn't help but wish it was him. He forced himself to stand up and leave.

His scent really did help ease your pain as your heat reached its high. 

Your mind is filled with all the different lewd things. 

And yet, somehow, even with a hazy mind, even with a fog before your eyes, deep down, you knew better than to act upon those images filling your mind.

But you didn't know how to keep your scent at bay, not like there was a method or something. 

And it caused quite an interesting reaction with Simon.

While you were locked in a room, touching yourself to the thought of an Alpha, he kept stroking his cock to the scent and thought of you. 

You both knew it was forbidden, but no one was around, no one could hear your thoughts and your moans.

And for now, it was enough.

---

Thankfully, your heat soon ended, Simon got used to your smell as it slowly weakened. 

You started to grow stronger, and back to normal, but it will take you a couple of days to be fully back in action.

Simon knew this.

"How are you feeling?" he asked from the doorway, while you lay on the mattress on the floor.

"Your smell disappeared," you said with a pout as you looked at him.

"I will give you my shirt then, let's exchange." he said as he held out his shirt for you to take, you gave him the sweatshirt back.

His shirt smelled like you now. 

"We will have to leave in a few days, we have been here for almost a week now. We cannot stay, they will find us."

"I will be good to go tomorrow. I'm still a bit hazy though," you said and Simon nodded.

"How can I help more?"

"You have done plenty, Simon." use never used his name before, it was always Lieutenant or Ghost, nothing more, nothing less. 

You kept it professional. Until now.

"I will bring you more food for dinner, so you can have your strength back."

"Thank you, Alpha." you whispered the last part, but he heard you.

God, he heard you very well. As the door closed behind him, he just stood there, too stunned to move. Everything in him screamed to go inside and to claim you.

But he couldn't. He shouldn't.

And yet, he did.

He turned right back, opened the door and for the first time in four days, he stepped inside, closing the door behind himself.

He looked at you as you lay with his shirt pressed into your face, smelling it.

He knelt down beside you, taking deep breaths to remember your scent.

You opened your eyes and smiled at him.

"Took you long enough." you said as you moved to turn around and leave some space behind yourself.

"Shut it." he whispered before he moved to lay down with you in your nest, holding you close with his nose in your hair. "Omega." he said and it made you humm. "You smell so good." he took a deep breath and you smiled to yourself, not opening your eyes.

You put your hand on his which held you close by your stomach.

"You could have been here for my heat."

"I wouldn't have been able to control myself."

"Of course, you would have. You are Simon Riley... What made you realize that I wanted you here all along?"

"Your smell had a hint of sadness every day. But when I came into the room... you smelled like hope and..."

"Love." you finished for him. "Am I truly that obvious?"

"The smell of an Omega never lies to an Alpha."

"You are right, I'm a lot happier as well."

"Same."

"I wish we didn't have to leave."

"Same." he breathed out one last time before you fell asleep in his arms.

Building nests was part of the process of an Omega going into heat.

And Simon never failed to notice that you made yours bigger, to give room to him.

Taglist: @castellandiangelo @imagines-by-a-typical-fangirl @manduse @jacalineiscomingforyou @mandoloriancookie @brascaris @il0vebeingdelulu @deliciousfestsalad @groovyqueer @lilliumrorum

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

/YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO TRANSLATE OR REUPLOAD ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[shmalk]

141 is filled with alphas, not a single omega in sight. there are a few betas, but they're either low-ranking or transfers that were never going to last.

like you! (beta!reader) who works at reception and takes calls, scans badges and is the first point of contact for the task force.

none of them know your name, none of them even speak to you - maybe price, when you transfer a call to him, he'll mumble a thank you. or even laswell, when you bring her a coffee.

it's nothing, really, you don't mind.

only, one day, a totally normal friday, you've done the exact same style in your hair you always have, and you're wearing more clothes than you were yesterday.

price wants a coffee, sure- you make it, just the way he likes, and head towards his office. you knock, and wait a few seconds until you hear 'come in.'

the office is silent, it usually is - but this time there's more than just price inside.

they're finishing up just as you enter, soap and gaz sitting in front of the desk whilst ghost leant against the back wall.

"my apologies, captain." your voice isn't exactly quiet - why should it be, you've done nothing wrong, but its still respectful. price just nods as you place the cup down on his desk.

"thanks, that's all." he dismisses everyone in the room, and you wait for the boys to file out before you do, soap and gaz both giving you a cheeky smile.

ghost is the one to hold open the door, standing just adjacent to the doorway with his arm sprawled against it. its a heavy door, and you swallow as you pass him.

"thank you," you all but mumble out as you rush past him - straight into the break room.

you can't help but rant about the situation to your roommate whilst you're packing up your things, your phone tucked between your jaw and shoulder.

"i mean- he held the door open for me and i couldn't even look him in the eye to say thank you!" you stress, throwing your bag into your passenger seat before leaning back against your car. "god, all i wan't right now is a plate of sushi and some boba."

"too bad its pizza night, dweeb."

"thats not fair! i could loose my job, i should be allowed to eat my comfort food when im stressed out."

you stress about it over the whole weekend, and when you return back to work on monday you try to act as casual as possible. of course, you don't see ghost - price doesn't order a coffee, and youre break time comes around quicker than you expected.

you had brought- oh, theres- your favourite sushi, and a boba drink sitting where your food was supposed to be. in somewhat messy hand writing, on a small piece of paper, theres your name.

signed ' s. riley. '

i am a sucker for sweet lil moments like this !!

in my head i think that simon would like a beta, or an alpha, but in this lil snippet (which is CERTAINLY getting turned into a fic) he's big and broad and gets worried when he's with alphas because they can't think straight, he tells them what to do and he does it.

but you? you dont react to his scent or chase him down to get him to court you - so, of fource, he courts you. <3

[evilgwrl]

Alpha!Simon practically gnawing at the flesh on his arm, talons digging into muscled thighs as he gets a sniff of your scent, the sickly smell of honey glazed cherries.

You’re such a pretty mess, all whiny in his sheets later, slick coating your inner thigh as you moan out, sweat clinging to your skin. So impatient for him :(

He’s all over you, licking at your neck like a rapid dog, teeth grazing every artery as he inhales, cock rushing with blood.

“A-Alpha,” you whine, ass flush in the air, presenting to him, “I need you.”

His growl is feral, claws digging into your hips as he relentlessly pounds into you, walls gripping his cock as they clench in submission. You’re so complacent, so perfect for him.

His omega.

“Take this fucking knot baby, gonna pump you full of a litter. Gonna look so perfect all roun’ with my babies, ain’t you?”

Your moan was enough as your slick gushes down your pussy, cries gaping from wall to wall as your pulled back against Simon’s chest, hair thrown to the side as he sinks his teeth into your neck and sucks.

His thrusts get sloppy as he sucks in the metallic taste, knot forming as he cums, ropes of silk filling your tight hole up, ready to stick and give you kids.

His litter.