From The Ashes, She Has Risen

For the next omegaverse snippet I present to you — alphas who also lactate regardless of their sex, omegas who run hot and betas who can display traits of both under specific circumstances.

Why? Because I feel like sucking on König’s tits and John Price swallowing me whole.

Snippet in question>>

seeing straight men be disgusted by booktok smut recommenders has actually radicalized me to the side of booktok smut recommenders. girls your taste may be atrocious but i will never disparage you for exposing mainstream discourse to the concept of soaking through your underwear. spent my whole life listening to men talk about penises it’s about time they get jumpscared by women talking about pussy in crude detail on social media. go forth and goon my warriors

You always find Simon in the same spot—sitting on his couch with a mug of tea in one hand, the TV on but the volume low, like he’s watching it just for background noise. He barely moves when you come in, just shifts his head a little like he was expecting you, even though you never text to say you're coming.

“And then she rolled her eyes at me,” you say as you drop down next to him, letting out an annoyed sigh. “Like I was the one being unreasonable for asking her to hold the door.”

Simon doesn’t react right away, which isn’t unusual. He lets a second or two pass, like he’s thinking it through, even though he probably made up his mind as soon as he heard your tone. Finally, he hums quietly and says, “She’s not worth your breath,” while reaching over to pat the top of your head in that way he always does.

You don’t even bother hiding how much you like that. You lean into his hand just a little, and for a moment you let the annoyance melt off your face.

It’s always like this between you and Simon. You walk in, already mid-rant about something that annoyed you during training or some dumb argument someone had in the mess, and he just listens. Or, well—he sits there while you go off, mostly quiet, only chiming in with a few words here and there.

But he always makes it clear he’s paying attention. The way his eyes shift to look at you when your voice tightens. The way he’ll hand you a blanket or a snack before you even ask. The way he remembers the tiny details you forget you even told him.

You joke sometimes that you adopted him. That you took in this emotionally unavailable soldier who barely likes people and decided that he’s your best friend now, whether he wanted that or not. He never complains. He never tells you to leave. Even when you steal his cookies or fall asleep on his couch, he just lets you stay.

He’s quiet, sure, but he’s also dependable in a way that makes everything feel easier when you’re around him. You can talk to him for hours and he won’t interrupt, won’t judge, won’t try to fix it unless it’s something he can fix. And when it is, he usually does—without making a big deal out of it.

So when you started seeing that guy from base, Simon didn’t say anything. You thought maybe he just didn’t care, or that he wasn’t the type to get involved in stuff like that. He didn’t ask many questions. Just nodded and said, “He treatin’ you right?” in that low voice of his that didn’t give much away.

You smiled and said yes, because at the time, it felt like the right answer.

He stayed the same after that. Still your go-to person for venting. Still the only one who ever made you feel like you could talk without holding back.

But every now and then, you noticed something shift. He wouldn’t look at you as much when you brought up your boyfriend. He’d change the subject quicker. And when you said something like, “he forgot our plans again,” Simon would just sigh and hand you tea or cookies or whatever he had nearby, like he didn’t want to say what was really on his mind.

You remember one night clearly, when you showed up outside Simon’s door after a long shift. You were quiet, which was rare, and you didn’t even try to hide the frustration in your eyes.

“He forgot again,” you mumbled, pulling your knees up onto the couch. “Said he’d pick me up, and then just... nothing. Not even a text.”

Simon didn’t say much in response. He just handed you the remote and tapped your shoulder once, like that was his way of saying you deserved better without actually having to say the words out loud.

But the breaking point came later. One night, you showed up to his room without even thinking, your eyes red and puffy, your hands trembling a little as you wiped at your face. He didn’t ask what happened. He didn’t need to. He just stepped aside and let you walk in, like he’d been expecting you again, like he knew this was coming.

“He cheated,” you said, and the words felt so bitter and small in your mouth that you almost didn’t believe them yourself.

Simon pulled you into a hug before you could even finish the sentence. He didn’t say anything, didn’t try to offer advice or tell you what you should’ve done. He just held you, solid and quiet, with one hand pressed between your shoulder blades and the other smoothing over your hair. You didn’t realize you were crying until your face was already buried in his shirt.

At some point, he moved you to his bed. You weren’t even sure how, but you ended up under his blanket, wrapped in warmth that didn’t come from the sheets, and you felt safer than you had in weeks. His voice was low when he whispered, “Don’t worry about it,” like he was promising to carry the weight of it for you.

You didn’t know it then, but he didn’t sleep that night. He stayed up until you were out cold, then got up quietly, left his room, and came back a few hours later like nothing happened. What you also didn’t know—what he would never admit unless you asked him directly—was that he had counted every single tear that rolled down your face. Every shaky breath, every time your chest stuttered with a sob. He remembered the number. Kept it in his head. Then found your ex and hit him that many times. One punch for every tear you cried.

A few days passed, and word started going around base that your ex hadn’t been seen. Missed duty. No one could get ahold of him. You didn’t ask Simon anything. You just looked at him across the mess hall, saw the way he was nursing a cup of tea with a blank expression and fresh tape wrapped around his hand, and something in your chest clicked into place.

You didn’t smile. Didn’t say anything. You just looked at him, and he looked back, and that was enough.

Later, after things calmed down, you found yourself back in his room. Same spot on the couch. Same blanket. Same you and Simon. But this time, out of nowhere, he said, “I’m in love with you.”

It wasn’t dramatic or emotional. He said it like it was just a fact—like he was finally telling the truth after hiding it for too long.

You blinked at him, not even sure you heard him right. “What?”

He shrugged a little, like it didn’t matter if you believed him or not. “Figured you should know.”

You didn’t know what to say right then. There was too much in your head. But a few days later, he took you somewhere quiet, away from base, with a folded blanket under his arm and your favorite cookies packed in a tin. He made tea and handed you the mug like he always did, and when you sipped it, it was just the way you liked it—strong, with that little bit of honey he adds even when you don’t ask.

You sat next to him, legs stretched out on the grass, shoulder pressed against his. After a while, you turned to look at him and said, “You’ve been looking at me like that for a long time, haven’t you?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Like what?”

“Like I’m your whole world.”

Simon didn’t answer right away, but the look on his face said more than words ever could. Then he reached over, patted your head like he always did, and said, “Yeah. That’s about right.”

--------------------------------------------

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212

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.

follow @mother-ilia to be notified of updates | early access to chapters here

is anyone else scared or is it just me and every deer

cw: kidnapping, captivity, manipulation

or

Price captures his future wife

-

You had lost count of the days since you were taken. They had bled together, one agonizing minute at a time as the drip of leaking pipes kept you company.

The basement sapped every bit of life from your frigid body; the cuffs that kept you chained to the wall had long ago rubbed raw into your skin.

They bled during your fits of panic the first few times he came down to feed you. Always insisting on taking off your muzzle himself and dropping the bits of barely cooked meat right into your mouth.

He had a beard and thick chops that twisted when he smiled. You didn’t know why he always smiled at you. Even when you cried and sobbed as he forced water through your lips, caressing your throat with firm hands, he smiled down at you.

The day he let you out you had pissed yourself from terror, screaming and bleating like a lamb in distress. He dragged you up the concrete stairs practically by the scruff of your neck. Sunlight had blinded you into silence as a picturesque home was revealed.

John took to chaining you in his room after that day. He touched you little and spoke even less, but he stared. Always. Every little move you made was watched by wary eyes. Your occasional bouts of tears guaranteed his attention so you learned to only do it while he slept.

You concluded it was short of a month when he took the muzzle off permanently and let you trail around the house with him. When he left he locked you in his room and made you promise to be good. You took the time to try and find ways to escape but were never successful.

Some nights John cried in his sleep. Those mornings were the worst. He would wash you himself in the bath, comb and braid your hair, brush your teeth even. He would feed you fruits and cheese instead of the typical slabs of meat. You wondered who he used to take care of.

Things changed when you bled for the first time in his care. He dragged you into his bed that night, curling you into his arms. That night he whispered three names in his sleep, just barely indiscernible.

You began to speak to him after that, allowing him to invite you to cook dinner with him. He was in the military at one point he had revealed, but when you pushed for more he had locked you back in his room until the food was ready.

The first time he kissed you, you had thrown up and then choked on it, collapsing on the ground. Tears came unbidden, every muscle in your body screaming as you had run away to the relative safety of his room. He coaxed you back out hours later with food and promises of fresh air.

John let you seek him when you missed your family. He always took his time explaining how he saved you from mediocrity, how you were safe and loved now. How he’d give you everything you need, love you better than any man ever could. It’s the promise of him fucking you every night has you listening a little harder, trying to discern fear from anticipation.

To me, Simon has the dumbest hair 90% of the time because he just buzzes it himself (I cannot believe that man pays money to one, do something he could theoretically do himself, and two, spend time with a stranger). The other 10% it's good -- when he first cuts it, an eighth of an inch of pale fuzz left behind, and when it just starts growing out, that's fine. But a lot of the time, especially when he's at home, he just lets it go.

And you, his next door neighbor, will never not give him shit about it.

"You look so goofy," you tell him when you see him in the hallway, one arm holding your groceries and the other fiddling with your keys. "Just cut it, Jesus Christ."

He rolls his eyes or tells you to fuck off, because you've known each other long enough for that kind of thing. He's lived in the building for years, never having seen a reason to leave, and you've been there for a few yourself. You're friends in the way that you may not call or text or schedule time to hang out, but you can scarcely think of anyone you see more often.

"Seriously," you go on, unlocking your door and speaking louder so he can hear you when you go inside. "It's just like two inches sticking straight off your head, why are you walking around like that?"

"Doesn't bother me," Simon answers, moving to lean against your doorframe and watch you as you put up your things. "Seems to bother you an awful lot though."

Your back is to him while you move around your kitchen, but you can tell he's smirking, and you scoff.

"Yeah, it bothers me. You get a face like that and you go and screw it up with the dumbest excuse for a haircut I've ever seen."

It's not the first time you've flirted with him, or even the most direct time, but it still gives him pause. He doesn't wear his mask when he's not working, most of the time anyway, because he thinks it draws too much attention and he'd prefer to just slip into the shadows wherever he goes. But you seeing him, and you letting him know that you like what you see, it does something to him, every time.

"You cut it then," he says.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You're the one so torn up about it, you fix it."

You snort, finally turning back to him, saying, "I'm not a barber, stupid."

"No, you sure seem like a coward though."

A few minutes later, you're both in Simon's bathroom. He's got his shirt off, straddling the toilet so you can reach his head, and you're behind him with clippers in your hand, looking down at him. You've never seen this much of him, never even seen the place where his tattoos stop on his arm, and it's a lot to take in.

You want to take your time, commit every scar, every freckle to memory, but he turns his head, smirking again.

"Told you you were a coward."

Without a word, you turn on the clippers and get to work.

It's not hard, it's just a buzzcut. The hard part is in touching his ears, gently pushing the lobes down to trim around them. It's in sneaking glances over his shoulder to watch his chest as it rises and falls while you work. In trying not to notice the tiniest little hitch in his breath when you lean in closer and rest your hand on his back while you get the hairs on the back of his neck.

The worst part though, is the beauty mark that sits perfectly in the place where his neck meets his shoulder. Specifically, the worst part is the strong, almost uncontrollable urge to bite it.

When you're done, you turn off the clippers and set them on his bathroom counter, then dust off his shoulders for him. Just before he stands, you can't deny yourself any longer -- you won't be able to reach it when he's not sitting so perfectly like this -- and give a quick, soft kiss to the mark.

During all the time you've known Simon, he's barely responded to your flirting. To you, he doesn't seem interested, and to him, you don't seem serious. But a kiss, faint as it may have been, is different, and before you can register it, he's on his feet, turned and standing over you.

"Hair looks better," you say softly.

He grunts in response, and before you know it, his mouth is covering yours, hot and insistent. It's a heady feeling, having him so close, and before you can get used to it, his hands are on you, first on your waist, then on your hips, then on the backs of your thighs as he lifts you up and holds you against him.

He maneuvers you both out of the bathroom and towards his bedroom, where he unceremoniously tosses you on his bed. You look up at him, letting your eyes trail freely over his body now, going down when you see him place his hands on his belt.

"Not so mouthy now, are you?"

The model son

Forget me nots are his flower I will not take criticism. Also deer motif has nothing compared to Arthur Morgan dog motif. That man is a hound through and through

something or other, Gaz x Reader.

you and gaz have been going out for a couple of weeks. classical gentleman. knocked your standards up a few pegs and then some. treats you gently and poetic with comfort. makes you laugh.

and all of these things make you nervous to bed him.

hands tremble a bit as you fiddle with his dress shirt buttons, doing your best to focus on the gentle grip that pulses over your hipbone. mind on overdrive when he shoves his hands up your dress.

loosing the ability to worry in your first orgasm.

he flips you over across the counter, face cooling on the granite. a breath as he hikes up your dress, and you both realize something rather quickly-

you forgot to mention the tattoo.

approaching a decade old. a stick and poke from your late teens. sits right above your ass. you go to say something when you feel his thumb press against it.

“what do we have here…”

doesn’t take his eyes off it when he fucks you from behind. makes sure to kiss it after licking your cunt clean from his spend.

he’s a fan.

“well i guess visibly religious people can be at pride but only if they make it really obvious that they’re there as an ally” i’m not a fucking “ally” i’m fucking queer and i’m going to show up to pride in tzitzit and a kippah and if that’s a problem for you then you don’t have to go to pride.