As Your Skin Gives

ghoap x fem!reader | pet!au | masterlist

Chapter Seven: eyes

tw: non-con

That night, Johnny does not let you go.

He keeps you like a long broken promise, arms squeezing around you tight enough to punish himself on your sharp edges, until his blood has coated you in an apology. It’s suffocating breathing the same air as him. Shared breaths. A union that’s almost worse than the joining of flesh.

The heat makes it difficult to sleep. Between the summer breeze and Johnny’s warmth radiating off of him, you’re covered in perspiration when dawn breaks over the duvet in soft streams. Simon’s alarm rouses him not too long after, prompting him to roll over to look at you with a glare. His nose flares. Deep sniffs to the crown of your head before he grunts, fingers pushing Johnny’s arms off of you before he tugs on your collar.

“Time for a bath, Bonnie. C’mon. You smell like a fuckin’ dog.”

It’s the same thing all over again. Doted on hand and feet by a man who’s very existence attempts to convince you that you don’t deserve such grace. Fingernails scraping the grime and dried cum from your skin, angry lines searing into your muscles from his pressure—his fingers grace over your throat, and when it does you fear he might like how tender the flesh is there. That he might want to squeeze and see how far it compresses until the cartilage pops like fireworks in summertime.

Your days continue to pass like this. Pathetic whining from Johnny as he begs Simon to have his way with you. Fingers down your throat to ensure you’ve taken your medicine like a good pup. Body crushed by sadistic love—nothing but a catalyst for debauched fantasies in rotten brains. Your bravery comes slow and careful as you find your voice again, though your words often fall flat. Too gauche to save yourself. Forever looking out the window, yearning for something softer—

—for fresh air.

Sweat clings around your throat like a noose. It nestles underneath your collar, sticky and thick, where the leather adheres to your skin like it’s becoming a part of you. You’re morphing. Becoming the dog Simon so desperately pretends you are. A finger slides between your skin and your damnation, collecting moisture and grime, forcing you to grimace. It’s fine. You wipe your hand on the grass underneath you, and you remind yourself a little bit of sweat is worth it.

You’re outside.

Rays of sun kiss your skin between dancing leaves in the humid summer air as the grass acts as a bed below you. You could cry. You feel it build up in the back of your throat and the corners of your eyes—an odd relief. You never thought you’d be outside again, forever locked in that house with that crazy man and his disobedient mutt. A sweet summer breeze teases your hair and cools your skin as you lean against the trunk of a tree. Nature’s call whispers just beyond the edge of the forest where a cool stream babbles as it smooths stones and sediment along its bed.

This is the most free you’ve felt since you were brought to this wretched place, though it doesn’t come without its drawbacks. There’s a ten foot radius in which you’re allowed to travel, as Simon has taken care to tie you tightly to the tree via your collar, ensuring your bright ideas can’t get the better of you.

Johnny had begged and pleaded fruitlessly for days on end to let you outside with him, and then even more to let you join him in the forest—where he’s surely stalking around now—but Simon refuses to have any of it. You’re left alone with the brute as he tends to a modest garden with flowering tomatoes and cucumbers while Johnny allows himself to be swallowed up by the thick foliage and bramble of the woods.

Still, while Simon works, you are allowed peace. Birds sing and call to one another in the branches above you as you pull budding clovers from the base of the tree. Pale green roots peel easily beneath your fingernails, and you shove them into your mouth. Its flavor is bland—watery and earthen. It’s the closest thing to freedom you’ve tasted for weeks. You savor it. Roll it around on your tongue before swallowing it down.

“Bonnie!”

Johnny calls your name from the environs of the forest, returning from his adventure with a wild array of flowers in hand. Metal clinks as the tag of his collar jingles in tune with his jogging, and he approaches you with a grin. Knees sink into the grass next to you as he holds the flowers for you to take—you’ve gotten better at not flinching when he moves around you.

“Look! Pretty, aren’t they?” he asks.

There’s no rhyme nor reason to the mess of flowers in his fist. Bruised daisies with spindly stems mixed with bright yellow buttercups and blood red poppies. They’re tied together with the thin, malleable stem of some greenery you don’t recognize. There’s a surprising weight to them as you take it into your own hand, thumbing over the cool stems.

“They’re beautiful,” you agree, voice stiff.

“Just like you. So pretty and soft.” He looks at you, and you can see the earth’s reflection in his eyes as it curves around the shape of your body. Large hands reach for you, warm palms cupping your cheeks as you freeze, tree bark digging into your spine as you stiffen. “I can’t get enough of you.”

That brief taste of freedom quickly sours in your mouth as Johnny’s lips crash against yours, and you are reminded that not even in the glory of the outdoors are you safe. He is surprisingly soft with you, a gentle and adoring embrace, but there is a heat behind his skin that bubbles and roars. You feel it fight against him, skin searing and blistering. He’d eat you alive and leave your bones to bleach in the sun if he wanted.

Johnny doesn’t stop at just a kiss. He never does. He’s always hungry. Always yearning. Greedy hands paw at your chest, pinning you against the unforgiving trunk of the tree while your heels dig into the soft earth beneath you. It gives you no purchase as your elbows buckle underneath his weight while you attempt to urge him off.

In your head, you scream as clear as day, but your mouth makes no sound.

“Johnny!”

Simon’s call is the only voice of reason he listens to. The man tears himself from your lips as he looks over his shoulder, chest heaving. Thin strings of saliva keep the two of you connected, but they break with a gentle gust of wind, leaving the moisture to fall on your chest instead. A basket of vegetables sits in the brute’s gloved hands, and you want to laugh at how terribly domestic he looks with dirt stained pants and a sweat slicked brow.

For a moment, he almost looks human.

“Bring ‘er inside,” Simon orders.

Muscles tense in your body as Johnny undoes the tether keeping you bound to the tree. Wilting fibers of pretty flower stems stain your hand, grip having destroyed their beauty in your poor attempt at denying Johnny his only right on this property. You leave them on the ground beneath the tree as Johnny beckons you inside with him. Truly, they are beautiful. Vibrant colors, soft petals—but you will not damn such an innocent thing to the same life as you. Better to rot in the shade of a tree.

By some miracle, you are left alone after you’re locked back inside. You’re perched by the window in the living room, gazing at the dying bouquet of flowers as a curious bird pecks at the decaying flesh of its pollen. You envy it. Not the bird, but the floral mess it tears to shreds. You shouldn’t. You are already in the flower’s shoes. One in the same. Dainty things too soft to fight against the fingers that plucked you up from home. You wonder if, at the end of all of this, you’ll be laid to rest beneath a tree that will sing whispering lullabies to your corpse.

Sharp, grating metal clinks and clatters in the kitchen capturing your attention and ripping you from your daydreams with clawed fingers. A fetid odor wafts around the house, assaulting your nose with a sharp sting that not even the breeze blowing through the window can quell. Curiosity gets the better of you as you slip free from your perch and you quietly wander through the living room. After spending more time than you would like to be trapped in this house, you have every squeaky floorboard memorized; you approach in silence.

Gingerly, you peer around the corner of the entrance to find Simon sitting faced away from you at the table. Hulking shoulders stretch apart a stained white shirt as he scrubs away at something with a blackened toothbrush. Metal parts of varying sizes lay in neat lines in front of him, coupled with the wood stock of—

—a gun.

Beautiful and well loved, the dark stain of the wood stock glistens in the light seeping through the windows as Simon scrubs at the inner mechanisms with a solvent. It’s gutted. Completely useless. Yet, your blood turns to ice in your veins at the very idea of the weapon. Every organ halts its functions, and you’re left in breathless terror. This shouldn’t surprise you. He drugged you, kidnapped you, and now keeps you like a pet—why wouldn’t this monster have a gun? And still, it’s a violent reminder.

A gun isn’t as fun as his bare hands.

Simon huffs as he places the part down in favor of a new one, coating the toothbrush with more solvent before continuing to scrub. Your brain finally begins to wake up as it sounds alarms deep within your psyche, urging you to flee, but as your eyes scan the surface of the table, you quickly realize there is no running away. There is no hiding place where his eyes cannot reach you.

Phone propped up against a tool kit, Simon has a perfect view of everything in the house. The living room where you spent the last hour daydreaming, the empty bedroom, both entrances to the house—everything. There is not an inch of this prison that is not able to be broadcasted to his phone. Even now, the way your body curls around the doorway is within his view, proving your guilty nosiness.

“Huntin’ season soon, Bonnie,” he says, hands still working. He does not look back. He doesn’t need to. You’re already in his line of sight.

There’s a faint, gruff chuckle that leaves his lips when you silently back away, slinking into your burrow like the scared little rabbit that you are. You want to retreat back to the window, to watch the world pass you by, but it’s too close. It’s too close to Simon, and there are eyes in these walls.

So you wander with your gaze trained above you, seeking out the glimpse of a camera lens as you try to calm your breath. You’ve been here for weeks and had never noticed such an intrusion, always too busy keeping your head low lest you gather unwanted attention. What has he seen you do? What has he watched happen to you? Has he seen it all? Every little thing Johnny’s done? How his favorite pet takes and takes and takes? Does he enjoy it when you’re undone? When you’re so used up you can’t even move?

This is why he looks at you the way he does—asks you questions he already knows the answers to. You feel your fists clench, nails biting into your palms as your fingers quake. What a foul, nasty, terrifying creature. A beast with too many eyes for his own good. If you could, you’d pluck them out of his very skull one by one and eat them.

“Bonnie?”

Johnny’s voice stops you in the middle of the hallway. You’re not even sure why you’re here. Perhaps you were wanting to hide in the bedroom—cover yourself up in blankets as if you’re a child attempting to will away the scary man preparing for his hunt. But there’s something new; an unfamiliar door open, one you have never been quite brave enough to venture through.

Treading carefully, you approach the door to find a strange room. Somehow, it’s quieter here than it is in the rest of the house, yet chaotically strewn about. Bookshelves hold art supplies on old boards, paint stains the floor in various spots, and a large cork board displays inky artwork. It’s overflowing. Pins diving into the walls, hanging up depictions of trees and unfamiliar rooms. In the midst of it all is Johnny, who sits at a large cartography desk marred with small scratches and spilled ink. He’s already looking up at the doorway before you enter, a smirk pulling at his lips.

“I knew it was you. Your feet are lighter than Simon’s are,” he gloats.

Blinking, you can’t help but tilt your head at his tone. He seems different somehow. Relaxed. A pencil lazily sits in his hand, tip resting against paper, graphite smearing along his pinky. You venture a step into the room, and he doesn’t seem to object. In fact, he welcomes it as he gestures to the corner of the room on your right.

“You’re welcome to have a seat,” he offers.

An oversized reclining chair sits nestled against the wall with fluffy cushions. Its seat is sunken in—well loved and used—yet looks all the more comfortable for it. Confused, you narrow your eyes at Johnny as you take another cautious step toward him.

“Are you drawing?” You don’t know why you ask. It’s obvious what he’s doing, and speaking to the man who uses your body against your will on a regular basis is the most degrading thing you think you’ve ever done, yet your tongue moves anyway.

“A bit,” he concedes. “The stream looked nice today. I wanted to draw it before I forgot what it looked like. I like saving memories.”

He turns the paper in your direction, and you can make out the image of it clear as day. Pristine water cascades over smooth stones in a tiny waterfall in the stream, swirling with faint bubbles and lost leaves. You can see every ripple of water; the tufts of grass that kiss the bed, and the flowers that sway in their midst. It’s alarmingly beautiful and expertly captured coming from a man who has only ever brought you pain.

“It’s lovely,” you breathe. A proud smirk pulls at his lips as he brings the paper back into his view, and you swallow. “Do you… have trouble remembering things, Johnny?”

He shrugs. “I used to, but not much anymore. I’m all healed up now.” He states this flippantly as if it’s not a concerning thing to admit, all while tapping the side of his head.

For the first time since you had the misfortune of meeting him, you look at Johnny. Really look at him. You see past the collar and the dumb glaze of his eyes and you catch on to the scars that litter his body. The tattoo on his arm—some sort of coat of arms you don’t recognize—the graphite staining his fingers, the puffy scar that dissects his hair near his temple. There’s a stark difference between the ruggedness he holds and the one Simon displays—Johnny is softer, somehow. Better loved and cared for.

Someone else is in control of your body; someone stupid. Your fingers float through the air as you reach for him, skin brushing against the overgrown mohawk of his hair and then tracing the scar. It’s blunt. Round. Somewhat hidden behind the thick, dark hair on his head, but you feel the way it tugs and protrudes out of his skin. He sizes you up as you press against him, blinks, then leans into your touch.

“Were… were you hurt?” you ask through the tightening of your throat.

When he nods in confirmation, your touch slips from his head, but Johnny catches you. He’s gentle. Loving. He holds you, tracing the back of your hand with the tips of his fingers as he looks up at you through heavy lids.

“What happened?” You need to stop. You need to shut up but the questions won’t stop pouring out of your mouth. No, you need to know more about them. Gather as much information as you can so when you finally get out of this hell hole, you’ll know exactly who to point at.

Johnny moves your hand to his lips, pressing a fat kiss against your knuckles before rubbing it in with his thumb. “I had a bad day. That’s all, Bonnie.” Once again, his lips are on your hand, tender and soft, before he relinquishes it. The eraser of his pencil taps lightly against the wooden desk as his head quirks to the side, eyes clearing. “Go sit down, Bonnie.”

Against your better judgement, you do. Something thick hangs in the air. A gnarly trepidation that you can’t shake, yet you sink into the recliner so easily that you nearly forget the discomfort. It’s easy to ignore the feeling of dread clawing at your chest when you’re busy searching the walls for eyes—

—and you find it. A small, impossibly tiny hole drilled near the far corner of the room. With that angle, it’s able to view nearly the entire room, save for the space just under it where a bookshelf resides. A faint glint from the overhead light illuminates the lens as if it’s winking at you, taunting and toying with you like the pet you are. Its reminder rings clear in your head, and you take care to engrave it in your mind as you glance back at Johnny.

You’ve got to tread more carefully than this, Bonnie.

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spacecola7

1 month ago

pricexghostxreader is just thee dynamic to me. ghost only trusting price to be any level of vulnerable around, needing price to 'vet' any pretty bird they think could help temper their combined fire with her softness. he has a hard time trusting good things, needs price to reassure him that the pretty soft thing waiting in their shared bed really does just want simon as much as she wants john.

price, who wants the traditional wife waiting at home with a baby on her hip, but isn't willing to give up his right hand, his best lieutenant, his good boy. simon is his long-term project, a soldier he saved from himself and molded into the perfect attack dog. his loyal pet. the bond they have goes deep, and price will not, under any circumstances, give up that heady sense of power he gets when simon just submits, all

both of them requiring an 'anchor' to the civilian world, a reminder of what they do the work for- because they know that when a soldier's whole life is absolutely nothing but the job, that's how you create weirdos like nikto and kreuger.

that's what sets john off hunting for their fat little wife, someone who can keep a home ready for them, who can keep one busy while the other's deployed separately. someone who will give them a soft, warm respite from the hard lives they've been leading.

the dynamic between price and simon is rigid, with price calling the shots always... but ghost isn't a lieutenant for nothing. he needs someone to train, to lead, to mold to his wants the same way price molded him. (and if he's honest with himself, he'll realize his wants and prices wants are damn near the same).

their soft little plaything may not be at the top of the pecking order, but she's so vitally important to keeping them grounded that she may as well be on top. they both need her tenderness and devotion in order to feel like they have worth beyond being killing machines, that what they do in the field has real meaning beyond fulfilling orders from on high.

and their sweet, soft girl who has no clue how vitally important she is, who assumes she's the needy one, living off their combined wages in a house whose deed doesn't have her name on it (yet). who loves and dotes on sir and daddy, who's desperately afraid one or both might not come home and she'll be left alone, forced to leave the house she's worked so hard to make a home for them.

ahhhhhhhhhhh fuck i love this dynamic

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spacecola7

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if you abandon gender hard enough you can unlock the secret state of nirvana where all clothes give you the thrill of crossdressing

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a bit more practice Soaps of different kinds

you know where to find full pics

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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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spacecola7

3 months ago

“for you, i’d steal the stars.”

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spacecola7

3 weeks ago

Okay but Ghost, who is an omega, letting you breed him for the first time. Price had put him on leave after a particularly brutal mission knowing full well that Simon’s heat was on its way. He had crawled his way back to your flat like a wounded dog, whining softly as his body began to give out. It was only fair that he let you knot him afterward, not sharing his equal hope that it would take.

Sorry I haven’t written in so long! Enjoy this because it’s all I have for now lol