'I Always Wanted To Fuck Him' Caption Under A Picture Of A Dark Room With Nothing In It

It’s not a good thing when Soap finds out you’re sick. Not good because he won’t let you do anything at all. Leaving bed? Out of the question. He makes soup for you, some odd Scottish recipe, and hand feeds it to you like a newborn babe. No matter how much you complain he simply shushes you and dips the spoon once more. Soft kisses to your brow because he “couldn’t tell if your fever had broke yet with just ‘is hand”. Your addled brain barely registered the blatant lie. At night, he would brew you tea and help you drink until you were lulled to sleep. He may have also taken advantage of your lack of awareness to curl up beside you, one hand on your hip and the other wrapped tight around you. He was the only man you would ever need. Soap didn’t mind having to prove it.

you're an angel // i'm a dog

kyle "gaz" garrick x fem!reader | omegaverse | alpha!gaz, omega!reader | masterlist

Chapter Four: melt

tw: omegaverse, strong emotions, kyle is having a rough time

These days, the only sound that comforts Kyle is the rushing of blood. 

Dispatched halfway across the world, far from home—away from you—he sits with a gun cradled in his arms and his teeth thirsty. Canines dry. Parched. Needing something. Perspiration. Tears. Blood. His index finger twitches as he pets the side of his rifle, tired eyes going out of focus as his spine curls forward, attention narrowing on the city below; dazzling lights, distant chatter, unsuspecting citizens.

It’s difficult to tell what his blood sings for—what tongues it speaks in. Something deep in his psyche already knows what it is. Something soft. Something he knows he cannot afford to crave, especially at a time like this. Yet the memory of your demulcent voice and pitchy jokes is the only thing that can satiate this intense desire, and he attempts to recall it as heavy soled footsteps approach behind him. 

Oh yeah just… tired. 

He could’ve helped with that issue of yours. Your heat. He should’ve. He thinks he wanted to. Curl up around you, bury you deep in a nest, drown in your scent, fuck you until the ache vanished. Kyle’s playing with his safety now—switch clicking back and forth, a tinny tink accompanying the movement. He wants to play with you like this. A simple push of a button, a flip of a switch. Wants to see what happens when the pretty pet begins to keen. 

Everything grows tight. His body swells. He’s becoming too big for this form. He cannot contain these desires—his mandible nearly shatters at the pressure. 

A hand clasps around his shoulder and he’s forced back into his body. “Ready?”

It’s Ghost. He could smell him coming from a mile away. Brutally overwhelming and brooding; enough to send the little pets back on base running. 

“Always,” Kyle says with an easy smile. 

But he’s not. 

For weeks he takes out this pent up energy out on the field. It dissipates in each bullet he fires, every recoil that reverberates throughout his body—but it’s not enough. His cup is filling before he has the chance to pour it out and he’s leaking. Spilling everywhere; an unsightly creature caught on the brink of normalcy and some animalistic craze. His insides never feel clean enough. He’s squalid. Tainted with something he already knows the name of but refuses to call. 

Kyle tells himself this tempest will quell when he arrives home and his nerves fizzle and relax, but the absence of explosions and radios only means his blood screams louder. There’s nothing to suffocate the way it bubbles beneath his skin, or how it pounds in his ear like a war drum calling for action—for violence, for devotion, to devour. 

He can’t relax. The bed isn’t right. 

He’s torn the sheets off and replaced them ten different times, rearranging the bedding and still finding it unsightly. Kyle finds that he can’t stop himself from sniffing it. Namely his pillow. It smells wrong. Off. Incorrect. An error he wishes to amend but can’t. Not even after a round in the washer does it smell right. 

It smells like a stranger—someone other than him. 

When twilight burns up in the dawn's early glory, he decides that he cannot stay here trapped in these four walls. So he runs. Tumbles down the stairs until he’s outside. The chill morning air feels like shards of ice against his feverish skin as he makes the long walk to base. Hands shoved into the pockets of his jumper, hood pulled up high, eyes flickering to every bit of movement that dances in his periphery—he is some wild creature.

Kyle feels welcomed the moment he crosses the threshold onto base, and the quiet chatter of everyone in the main office is enough to stunt the thundering inside every vein and artery in his body for a short moment. He breathes in, and the faint aroma of coffee fills his nose. Rich and earthy. Then, vanilla. Cream. Soft and sweet—airy. 

Then—you. 

He sees you before he smells you, but it doesn’t soften the blow. Standing, the back of your thighs leaning against your desk, the top button of your blouse left undone. You’re smiling at your coworker, gaze too bright for how early in the morning it is. You’re cradling a pastry in your hands, giggling at the way frosting stains the corner of your mouth as you attempt to take a bite. He witnesses the pad of your finger swipe along your lips, and how you then press it against your tongue, savoring the flavor. 

What he would give to have licked it directly off your skin, tongue slipping into your mouth, sharing the flavor as he breathes you in. That sillage. It shuts off every neuron in his brain, leaving only the stem alive, where it feeds only the most basic of desires. 

Chase. Run. Bite. Bite. Devour. Bite. Bite Bite. 

Before he sinks his teeth into you, he rushes to the gym. Bursting through the doors, it’s pleasantly abandoned. Nothing but lonely workout equipment and buzzing lights. Discarding his jumper onto the edge of the treadmill, he doesn’t bother to do any stretching before he hops on and cranks up the speed. Everything starts to fade. The blood in his ears. Your lingering scent. It’s just him, the thudding of his feet, and the burning of his calves and thighs. 

Even still, something slices through the grey matter of his brain. Each step he takes he imagines it’s through a forest, deciduous and soft right at the turning of summer into autumn. You’re ahead of him, shoulders dancing as you skip between thick bramble, fingers grazing against trees as you look behind to see him, a grin plastered on your face as you giggle. 

He catches up to you. Easily. Like it’s nothing but second nature. You squeal, titter echoing through the trees as the two of you fall in a plush bed of fiery leaves. It surrounds your head like a halo—you’re an angel beneath him, chest heaving from the chase, eyes yearning for him to take a taste, for him to unhinge his jaw and fit all of you in, quivering scent gland piercing beneath his teeth, filling his mouth with your sapor, with everything he’s ever wanted, with everything he’s ever needed—

“Garrick.” 

—it’s you. He needs you— 

“Garrick?”

—something soft, something warm, something to fill, someone to—

“Garrick!” 

Loud. Grating. Nothing but nails shoved in his ear canals. What’s worse is the hand. Fat palm on his shoulder, slowing him down, nearly tripping him up. Snarling, Kyle slows the speed until it’s stationary and once his mind stops spinning, he snaps his head to the side, jaw clenched, eyes narrowing in on Ghost. 

“What?” he hisses. 

Even from behind his mask Kyle can see the way the man raises his brows. Cocking his head to the side, he crosses his arms. The alpha widens, massive body naturally growing taut. 

“The fuck’s gotten into ya?” Ghost asks. 

“Nothing.” It’s snippy. Short. Rude enough to get his sergeant to chuckle. 

“Yeah? You look like you’re tryin’ to kill yourself,” Ghost challenges. “Come off the treadmill, Gaz.” 

“Why?”

“Because I fuckin’ said so.” 

There’s a retort that dances so deliciously on the top of Kyle’s tongue that he almost spits it out. It builds in him—this sweet anger—and he wants to let it flow. He knows it would feel good, like breathing in fresh air, or stretching muscles that have been sore for too long. Instead, he bites off the tip of his tongue and swallows it down, nearly choking on it in the process. 

Kyle swipes at his forehead when he steps off the machine, smearing a thick layer of perspiration across his arm. He wipes it off on his pant leg before placing his hands on his hips. 

“You smell wrong,” Ghost says casually.  

“Wrong?” He breathes in, attempting to calm the boiling of his blood back down to a simmer, but it refuses to relent. “Suppose I’ve been feeling a little sick.”

The man shakes his head. “No. No, this ain’t sick.” Intruding, Ghost leans forward, nose audibly sniffing. Kyle places a hand against his chest and he freezes, then leans back. “Fuckin’ hell, can you not tell when you’re going into rut, Garrick?”

This claim is almost enough to shock Kyle out of this mindless rage—rut. He doubled his dose of suppressants not too long ago. No, this is something else. Something different. It has to be. 

“No,” Kyle says, shaking his head. “I’m on suppressants.”

“Well they’re not fuckin’ working,” Ghost deadpans. “When was the last time you were even in rut?”

His eyes only darken when Kyle doesn’t answer. 

“It’s fine,” he tries to brush off. 

“Go to the showers,” Ghost huffs as he turns around, hand waving him off. 

Left floundering, Kyle attempts to walk after him. “Simon, c’mon man, don’t fucking do this to me.” 

“I said go to the fuckin’ showers,” he reiterates. “Don’t make this any worse than it already is. This shit’ll kill you, Garrick, and I’m not lettin’ that happen.” 

He tries to pretend like it doesn’t wound him wandering off into the locker room like a dog with his tail between his legs, but it does. There is something worse than this festering heat that grows within him—something that not even the frigid water spewing from the spout can tame. He attempts to drown it out as he shoves his head beneath the flow, but it still screams just as loud as it always has. 

Shame. Shame for not being enough. 

For letting everyone down. 

It only takes ten minutes for John to find him. Work boots beat against the concrete floor, and Kyle can hear the way he groans when he sits on the bench just outside his cubicle. Though the stall door and shower curtain protect him from view, he still faces away. Head bowed as if already repenting. 

“Thought I told you to get a stronger dose,” John says, tone even. 

“I did.” Every word Kyle speaks has teeth too sharp for their own good, and his eyes squeeze shut at the cacophonous sound. “I can’t go up anymore. They won’t give it to me.” 

John sighs long and heavy into the echoey air. “Take the week off.” 

“What?” He’s reeling, fingers curling into the palms of his fist, until the nails nearly break skin. “No, I’m still good, I can still do this.”

“Do what, Gaz?” John asks with a chuckle. “Ferry my paperwork to the sweet pet in the office? Help lead drills? We just got back from deployment. Consider this R&R, not a punishment. I’m sure some pretty omega will come limping around when she smells the stench on you.” 

He wants to scream, but instead he rubs at his face, palms pressing into his eyes, water beading around his collarbones. Nothing seems to work. Every pore in his body pumps out more and more sweat—his true nature has come to haunt him. To finally take him. 

To teach him a lesson. 

“Alright, Gaz?” John prompts when he doesn’t get a response. 

“Okay. Right. Yes, sir,” he mutters. 

John says his farewell, but Kyle can hardly hear it over the frustration clogging his throat. It grows, and grows—then shatters. Fist against the wall, white tile kissing his knuckles, shockwave reverberating through his arm until he feels the dull sting in his shoulder. He curses to himself. None of this was supposed to happen. Things weren’t supposed to end up like this. 

Huffing, Kyle turns the water off, fingers lazily twisting the spout, and as he reaches for the towel hanging on the curtain rod, he pretends not to notice the small cracks he left in the tile behind him.

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I’m fine, girl……

Price: "Keep up, boys. Little sergeants who get left behind get eaten."

Soap: "Did he just call us little?"

Gaz: "I'm more concerned with the getting eaten part."

Masterlist

Simon Ghost Riley:

Mean Simon

Oral King

Coffee AU

Cowboy Simon

The Years

Intimacy

Omega Simon

John Price:

Highlife

Kidnapper Price

Fated Mates

Kyle Gaz Garrick:

Also An Oral King

Old Times

Johnny Soap MacTavish:

Soap’s Missus

In Sickness

Dealing With Depression

Thinking about Omega!Soap and Omega!Reader being each other’s biggest defenders. They bond heavily simply because they both fill similar roles within their pack. A lot of the time, this simply translates to the fact that they are always found scenting and cuddling. They share nesting materials and often prefer to just make one big nest for them to occupy together. They’re both able to pick up on small signals of what the other may need. Which sets this really funny situation where they both will hold grudges against other people for no other reason besides omega-solidarity. However, it does have an unintended consequence.

Disagreements within the pack happen. It’s a natural part of having mates and living within a pack dynamic. But whenever big arguments happen, it’s easy to suddenly have two omegas who are clearly pissed off. It’s natural for you and Johnny to feed off of each other’s emotions, especially when the bonds are already frayed from the fight.

A lot of the time, this simply happens in an effort to protect one another, to provide comfort. It’s not an intentional act to other a member of the pack. However, it does help fast-track resolutions. You aren’t going to out-stubborn your omegas.

in horse world they diagnose you with Suspiciously Chill Disorder if youre not extremely anxious all the time