GirlUnscripted

Warnings: omegaverse au, alpha!Kyle Garrick x alpha!Reader, non traditional omegaverse dynamics, if Kyle could live in their skin he probably would have already been there, it's not jealousy if we are not together, mild dissociation (Reader), warped perception of intimacy, protective Kyle Garrick, suicide and mom jokes

You sleep in that day.

And so does Kyle, dragging himself out of the bed closer to 11 in the morning, yawning so much your jaw cramps and squinting at the daylight filtering through the half open black out drapes.

The rain has slowed down closer to early morning and now just kept tapping against the glass of his living room windows, lulling you to take another nap instead of getting ready to move your body anywhere.

"Thought you were an early bird, brother." You comment from his couch, wearing your best — t-shirt and underwear, because yesterday was long and you were in no mood to unpack more than that from your humble baggage.

Will have to get back on the road again in a couple days time anyway.

Not much of a point getting too comfortable.

"Didn't know you can." Kyle remarks, stretching his arms above his head, shoulders softly popping with motion. He is slow first thing in the morning, not in any hurry to get ready when he's off-duty - comfortable and well-rested in a way that makes your own alpha want to stretch out some more.

"Can what?" You hum, eyes slipping down to the slider of his skin where his t-shirt has ridden up, showing a peek of his happy trail - dark hair going all the way under the waistband of his sweatpants. If you focus enough, you can imagine the coarse hairs tickling the tips of your fingers as you stroke it all the way down.

You are still sleepy and pleasantly warm, wrapped up to your chest in one of the blankets Kyle generously provided you with the day before, phone in hand with news you were checking before he emerged.

"Think, mate." Gaz chuckles, catching your eyes, his smile wide enough to show off prominent fangs. He lives alone and have been for a long time now, taking a lot of pride in his loft, where everything is exactly the way Kyle wants it to be.

Large windows covered in drapes - floor to ceiling, half a dozen plants all around the living room - green so bright you can taste the oil paint it could have been painted with, backup lights around the place and a massive carpet on the floors. Dark red and elaborate.

The colour of dried blood, you think, propping your head up on a fist so that you can see his descent down the stairs better. Kyle's bedroom area on the second floor conveniently gave him the best 'seats in the house' on everything that happened below so in all honesty the man didn't have to live his silken bedding to see you better.

"Someone's mean before he had his cuppa." You roll your eyes at him and Kyle's smile only widens as he crosses the room and unceremoniously drops himself right on top of you, knocking the air out of your lungs and earning himself a hissed out "Jesus, mate, get off me!".

Kyle is sleep-warm and touchy, he nudges you to the side so he can comfortable plaster himself half on top of you, getting ready for a cuddle.

'Maybe we can both take a nap here and not move anywhere.' You think wistfully, shifting on the couch to make space for him.

Sergeant noses at your temple, scenting you first thing in the morning and you can't help the rumbling purr uncoiling through your chest.

Itching the bones of your thorax and trachea.

He smells delicious and satisfied, tugs on every string of yours that he knows to get you all pliant and affectionate, rubbing your nose against his before you scent him back, coating Kyle in you without even thinking twice.

"You were starin'. Saw something you like?" He taunts, tugging your blanket open so he can get under it too. Tucks his feet under yours and shivers, pleased, when you scratch down the line of his spine.

"Gave me something to look at." You murmur, huffing out air in his face, your heart full and aching when he noses at your cheeks then, his hands stroking you up and down like you are his favourite cat and Garrick woke up with cuteness aggression. "What can I do if you got your mum's beauty?"

"Mate, your jugular is right here." Kyle reminds, his tone a little too patient and squeezes you tighter than necessary so you'd squeak like a toy that a big dog stepped on.

"You are a cruel beauty, Garrick. But I'm a weak weak alpha." You groan, dramatic and having too much fun with it.

Happy to have him so close.

"You are weak alright. Can see those badges of honor from a mile away." He pokes at one of your hickeys on your neck. "Anything you want to tell me?"

"Got a secret family with two kids stashed away. I'm sorry I lied to you." You say solemnly and Gaz's smile grazes your jugular.

"I'll take mini-fridge in the divorce." He shares. "And your obnoxious magnets."

"Have some heart, Kyle, don't take the magnets." You whine, yelping when he actually bites your neck, pressing down his teeth a touch too hard, jaws of his flexing when you twitch and he bites down harder. "Jesus, okay, take the magnets too!"

"See how easy that was?" Kyle purrs and you force down the urge to purr back, nosing at him in return. "But you're gonna tell me if you do get yourself a pair, will ya?" Isn't really a question, considering that his teeth are still an inch from your throat.

"Mate, I don't have a pair." You promise and he hums, thumb swiping over the other hickey — the one a little lower by your left collarbone.

"What do you got then?"

"An arrangement." You say and wince immediately, because it doesn't sound good, but it's the closest word you have to explain it. "Just some fun couple of times a year. Nothing permanent and won't be." You clarify and Kyle makes an interested sound, turning his head so you two can share your pillow, the silk pillowcase cool under his cheek.

So he can watch your face while you talk.

"Cause your omega doesn't want to?" Kyle threads lightly, invisible fingers running through the file storage of your head. Already knowing what to ask so he can get access and reach deeper.

"He's not my omega, mate." You mumble and half-heartedly buckle under him. "Stop doing this thing to me."

"Which thing?" He clarifies, your legs tangled with his, sergeant's dominant arm wrapped around your midsection.

Boa constrictor, he tightens himself around you and shrugs when you complain.

"Don't be a prick." You pinch his bicep and Kyle hisses, now fully climbing on top of you. "You're off duty, stop interrogating me."

"I'm just askin', it's not a crime." Kyle tilts his head, knees squeezing your sides as a precautionary measure if you decide to try and buckle any harder. "So, your heart's in shambles I take it?"

"I'm not in love with him. Kyle, we just meet up and sometimes, when he wants more than a pint with me I am happy to entertain. Nothing deep there, stop digging."

The thing is, if you haven't told Gaz to stop digging he would have stopped on his own, shifting to a different topic or nuzzling at you like usually, all too glad to have part of his pack visiting and properly secured in his orbit.

'I'm happy to entartain.' Your voice repeats in his head, something hot and angry rising in Kyle's chest when you won't look him in the eyes and won't elaborate.

Nothing wrong with having a bit of fun off duty or getting a fill of some action in a dimly lit pub with a stranger.

But this is clearly not a stranger and you don't look like you've had all that much fun.

"Then why even bother?" Kyle asks, fingers tracing the outline of someone else's greed on your neck, eyes heavy on it, because he can't wipe it off but some part of his brain itches to try anyway.

You pause for less than a second, only this close he still feels it, the tension simmering under your skin. The defensive edge you are trying to dull.

"I like making him feel good." You share, tone softening and Kyle huffs out air. "In a way, it is so easy with him because we have an understanding." You look up at the ceiling, carefully picking words and Gaz leans closer. "I suppose he's just more practical about it than I am, which I can understand."

Kyle wants to say that he understands too, but he doesn't want to, because yesterday you looked like hell.

Yesterday you smelled like consistent burn, like bitter herbs, like disappointment and loneliness.

No one smells like that after having a good time.

No one almost cracks in half simply because a mate did a decent thing and picked you up at the train station so you don't have to maneuver through it in the middle of the night.

"It has it's upsides." You add hastily, trying to smoothen out the wrinkled fabric of conversation. Steaming the melancholy out of your tone. "For starters, my ruts don't torture me as much. Still a pain in the arse, but better than before. Maybe people weren't lying when they said that omegas do help us regulate better."

It's a sound reasoning, because really it tends to be hard to find someone to keep your alpha in lane and with how much you manage the rest of the Taskforce it makes sense that you'd need an outlet too.

Kyle just wishes the outlet in question has been as good to you as you are to everyone else.

Kyle just wishes that the omega he can't smell on you, but can find traces of all over your skin would think about 'entertaining' you back instead of taking and taking, because that's not exactly fair, isn't it? That's not exactly an equal exchange.

"You in the mood for breakfast?" He asks instead, sinking back into your body, something in him settling when you wrap your arms around him, palms rubbing his lower back up and down.

"I could eat." You agree easily and nose at his temple. "Let's hit the shower and then we can grab something?"

"Sure. Shower together?" Kyle offers casually, smiling when you give him a long unreadable look, pausing again. "You can wash my back and I'll wash yours."

It's a bit more than that if he was being honest.

You'd wash off all of his scent in the shower. At least, this way he'd make sure some of it stays on, sinks deeper and coats you fully.

Not to mention that if he gets you to use his shower gel, you two are going to smell the same.

A pleased anticipatory thrill passes through him and Kyle huffs out air in your temple.

You'd smell like a proper pack, people would know that the two of you aren't just mates out on a walk. People would know that you've got pack and got Kyle.

Wouldn't that be nice?

"C'mon, help a bloke to save on utilities." Gaz tries again, nosing at your jaw and to his absolute joy you relent, groaning about life's hardships, but nonetheless getting off the couch as soon as Kyle gets off of you.

Your upper lip twitching when your bare feet hit his cold floors, pulling a chuckle out of sergeant who herds you into his bathroom.

"To warm up." Kyle says. "Shower makes everything better."

You aren't sure you agree with him, not entirely. But you could never tell Gaz "no" when he so rarely asks for something.

Only you aren't sure you can give him anything, not if he's looking for a quick shag with a packmate.

John's distance a dayy prior has wounded you deeper than you have anticipated.

You've been hemorrhaging ever since.

Not exactly the right state to give some more, because sex always means prep and aftercare afterwards and endless loop of tasks to do and boxes to check, making sure that everything went smoothly.

That your partner is happy and sated, that they liked everything, that whatever emptiness was opening in them its bleary eyes — you've lulled it back to sleep.

That you did good. That you were good.

"Where do you want to go today?" Kyle asks, voice bouncing off the tiles of his cramped bathroom as he drags his t-shirt off — his voice getting muffled for a second. "I've got a decent list of places to show you, but thought I should ask if there's someplace specific you want to see."

You shrug, unsure and a little numb — head fuzzy when you drag your underwear down.

Will there be an actual conversation or is it just preparation for the moment this plane goes nose down, barraging all the way?

Does Kyle really want to know your opinion on that right now?

Does he care?

"Whatever works for you, mate. I don't know much about local spots — consider me your loyal sheep for the day." You joke, averting your eyes when he chuckles, his back to you and drags his sweatpants down. Turns to the shower stall to turn the water on, waiting a few second for it to warm up.

You've seen Kyle naked before, of course, you have. Even with sergeant perks army provided little privacy and since both of you were alphas it was a routine thing.

Just never before it was…like this.

Before you can psych yourself out, you drag your shirt off, tossing it in the sink and step in the shower right after him.

Kyle is taller than most with his long long legs (they really do all the way to the ground, eh? Johnny's voice in your head whistles) and you have to make a conscious effort not to stare at the flexing muscles of his ass when he shifts his weight from one leg to the other.

God damn it.

They really do, Johnny, you think, all the way to the ground and then some.

"Are you starin' at my ass, bruv?" Kyle asks, tone so gleeful that you can't help the immediate instinct to turn your head away to stare at the wall.

"It's not my fault you're naked." You mutter under your breath, barely audible over the rustle of shower above your head, squinting so that the water doesn't get in your eyes when you finally close the glass door of the shower stall behind.

"If you say so." He says, clearly smug as hell, but there isn't much you can say in your defense given the circumstances.

"Don't let it get to your head, I stared at Ghost's too." You huff in his ear, ducking your head away from pounding shower.

"Who hasn't? His derriere could eclipse the sun." Kyle retorts immediately and you laugh so hard you almost waterboard yourself on accident. "You remember that op we did last winter where he went undercover? Heard they had to destroy some of the shots because Ghost's arse looked fuckin' massive." Garrick shares, passing you his shower gel, smile audible in his voice when you make a choking sound, shoulders shaking.

You are standing right behind him, chest pressed to his back, slippery skin against his and your breath against his ear.

"Makes you wonder the fuck he's eating at Soap's." You chuckle and Kyle hums in agreement, shoulders tensing for a moment when you squeeze the cool gel on them, passing the plastic bottle back.

"Johnny's definitely put on weight since last winter, I'll tell you that. Maybe it's something his omega is feeding them." He suggests, muscles rolling under his skin as you soap up his back, thoughtlessly massaging the gel in, gradually working your way down to his waist and hips.

Trying very hard not to slip your palms to his lower abdomen to palm at the soft length of his flaccid cock. Not a good idea right now, but the phantom feeling is there, teasing with the promise of intimacy Kyle isn't looking for.

"Maybe." You agree easily and stroke his waist in upward motion, mentally counting each rib that you can feel under your fingers as you return your hands back to his shoulders, squeezing the muscle there again before you finally let your arms drop down to your sides. "All done."

"Polished and shiny, I hope." He grins, picking up shower gel again and you quickly hum turn your back to him, now staring at the wall and not at his unmarked nape.

Dark skin glistening with water, beaded drops of it, settling on the silver chain of his dogtags, metal pressing against the skin - yours and his - when you swiped the water off of it.

"Could apply some varnish if you got any." You offer, tilting your head from side to side, trying to work out the kink in your neck, wet hair sticking to your neck.

Kyle huffs out laughter, turning to you - he is the warm presence right behind, whole body radiating heat that sends the goosebumps down your arms, that raises fine hairs at the back of your neck.

You've met a lot of alphas in your lifetime, many were bigger than Gaz. Yet none made you feel like their teeth already were closed around your neck, shy of breaking the vertebrae. Big guy with really big teeth.

You can hear him shift his weight, stepping even closer, his breath against your shoulder when he tilts his head, looking at something in complete silence.

It's not like you've got a lot of scars on your back or a particularly interesting tattoo for him to inspect with such rapt attention.

The pause stretches for the uncomfortably long time, your back feeling more naked than it already is, unnerving vulnerability grazing your underbelly in nauseating anxiety.

"Kyle?" You try to glance at him over the shoulder but he clears his throat, pressing his chest to your back — his too hot palms already soaped up start from the back of your neck, squeezing it so you don't turn around to face him.

"Sorry. Spaced out." He murmurs, water drowning out something else in his voice, his fingers sinking into the tight muscle of yours, grip a little tighter than usually.

There is no way he could say that he stared at your ass much longer than he planned to, because you'll not let him live it down, Gaz knows it.

So instead he murmurs 'stay still', chest warm when you huff out air but stay faced to the wall, letting your head hang lower when his knuckles press on both sides of your spine, massaging.

Lord, give him strength to avert his eyes faster next time and wisdom not to ask you where the hell all of this came from.

Because there's no bloody way you have had it all this time.

'Aye, ah'm telling ye, bruv, like a glimpse of heaven.' Johnny's voice chimes in his head.

Okay, no, now is absolutely not the time to think about the implications of this metaphor.

"You swapped with Ghost before leavin'?" He asks almost casually and when you glance at him in surprise over the shoulder — regrets opening his mouth immediately. Your wet lashes are clamped together and pointy like you are one of those antique dolls he would have killed to have when he was a young lad.

"Swapped what?" You ask, lids falling shut when Kyle massages your shoulders, tightening his grip so he can work through the tension there.

There we go. Finally, something he can do for you.

He hums an off-key tune, allowing himself one more glance down, cheeks burning when your shoulders get softer under his hands.

Maybe it's a good thing he have not seen you from the front.

Not sure he would have been able to keep his mouth shut.

"Nothin'. Don't mind me, I'm just…hot." Kyle brushes off quickly, fingers sinking into the meat of your biceps, soft skin cushioning his grip.

Could get used to this.

Could, but shouldn't.

"Get out of here then, mate. Don't overheat on my behalf." Your brows furrow and Kyle can't help the urge to smoothen out the formed wrinkle between them with his thumb.

"I'm fine." Gaz lies again and noses at your cheek, summer rain spreading through his veins with shower water — warm and full of light — he doesn't know why he is so happy to see you smiling, your wet arm curling around his shoulders so you can pull him closer and nose at his cheek in return, stubble scratching the skin.

You stand with him, heart to heart, your body molding to his like you are made out of clay and he could leave an imprint against the line of your spine, pressing you into him so you'd bind with him entirely.

"F'course you aren't, can see your face flushing." You murmur rubbing your nose against his and Kyle closes his eyes.

Could stay like this for a long time, he thinks. Just you and him and nothing else.

"Water's turning cold." You remark in his ear, your hug around Kyle tightening all of a sudden and the suspicion rises its head in him a little too late, his eyes flying back open.

"Don't you fuckin' dare—" Kyle breathes out, mad and elated at the strength of your grip on him when you twist the temperature all the way down.

He's going to fucking murder you. In your sleep.

Tonight.

"Let me go, you arsehole!" Kyle yells, even madder at the heat in his face because the water is ice cold but you are laughing so hard you actually start chocking on it.

You are laughing at him, just as cold and wet as the sergeant, squeezing him only tighter and your eyes crinkle in the corners when you catch his glare.

Bloody annoying, Gaz thinks, trying to find anything other than flustered anger and exhilaration sparkling inside his jaws.

You turn off the water barely than a few seconds later, laughing only harder at the murderous intent in his eyes, your shoulders shaking.

Kyle hates it.

Kyle is mad and wet and cold.

Kyle would die to hear you laugh like that again.

"I'm puttin' you in a sleeper hold as soon as we're out." He promises, voice hoarse and tight. "I'll tell the lads you killed yourself on my watch."

"Let me write a suicide note, bruv, don't be cruel." You giggle in his ear, warm slick skin pressed against his, your thigh right against his length and Lord, thank you for the sudden cold shower.

Maybe it was a sign.

"Who the fuck you are going to write a note to, you fuckin eejit? Got no mummy to cry to." Gaz growls in your ear, one leg already on the bath mat for balance.

"Don't be silly, brother. I'm gonna cry to yours." You grin even wider and scramble for purchase only when Kyle's arm tightens around your midsection.

Uh-oh.

"I'm going to murder you rigt here." He announces, hauling you — laughing and screaming — out of the shower stall and out of bathroom, not even bothering to tie a towel around his waist.

God, he fucking hates this feeling.

Kyle hisses 'let go of the doorframe, you stubborn cunt', naked as the day he was born — your, just as naked, back, pressed to his chest, legs still trying to kick him away when you grasp for the doorframe and manage to hold onto it.

Oh, this is bloody ridiculous.

He loves every second of it.

Railway stations are the places of hope, that much Reader can find out for themselves. A little sweetening for God's loneliest soldier after a long road and no cell service.

It's absolutely pouring by the time you get to London, water dribbling down the glass of your train's car window as the train slows down, approaching the station.

For fuck's sake.

You fish out your phone out of the pocket, checking the chat with Kyle, brows furrowing when you see no new messages from him.

That is right before you notice absolutely no bars of cell reception.

Come on, now.

Frustration mounts in your chest as you step out on the platform, grip a little too tight on your duffel — shoulders tense from a day too long.

It's empty all around you, unsurprisingly so, rain pitter-pattering on the semi-transparent arched roof over your head.

Well, not like you've got places to be right now, you figure and just plop down on the nearest bench, trying to just breathe and think about England.

Technically, you could wait till morning right here just like that.

(Head in hands, alone and miserable?)

Or you could get on another train and go home or somewhere else, text Kyle that you got lost and instead of asking for directions like a normal person you just left the bloody city altogether as soon as you got here.

That's certainly a plan, sure.

"Christ, you look like you got in a fight with Price. Bare-knuckled at that." Familiar voice suddenly announces and you twitch to turn around so quickly you almost slip off the bench.

"Mate, what the hell are you doing here?" You breath out, pushing your hands in the pockets so it's not obvious that they are shaking. So that you can pretend there wasn't a crisis you were going through on the train station in the middle of the night, contemplating skipping town first and coming up with an excuse later.

Kyle smiles, folded black umbrella in hand, his jacket dark blue and fitted — turtleneck peaking out from its collar.

Looks bloody stunning on him, you think absentmindedly and step closer without thinking, wrap your arms around the sergeant in a hug you didn't realise you reached for.

Kyle smells like honey and star anis, like hot tea, like home. Like safe haven.

"Missed you too, mate." He gasps out, arms wrapping around you in return. "No offense, but you look like shite. Captain's beatin' on you in his spare time? Tell me if he does and we'll inform responsible adult."

"Fuck you." You mumble, angling your head so you can happily nose at his cheeks, feeling his muscles move in a widening smile.

"Welcome to London." Kyle murmurs, palm of his — hot and narrow, strokes between your shoulder blades, his whole body molding against yours so he can squeeze you, lifting you off the ground for a moment. "Your guide's here."

"My saviour. Where's the exit here?" You grin, finally letting him go and sling your backpack over the shoulder, not fighting Gaz when he takes your duffel without a word, nodding in the other direction.

"Just a 'thank you' will do." He tosses back immediately, eyes satisfied when you grin even wider. "Couldn't leave my best mate to wander all on your own. C'mon, let's get out of here, I still want to sleep tonight."

Kyle offers you a hand — passes you the umbrella, you realise only after taking his palm in yours and his umbrella in the other.

He stares at you for a moment, before his shoulders start shaking.

"I haven't slept much." You try to keep the defensive edge out of your tone and hardly succeed because he starts laughing, bites his lower lip and looks the other way.

"What, like ever?" He asks, actually starting to giggle at the undignified noise of protest you make, trying to pull back now. Instead Kyle squeezes your palm tighter and tugs you to the closest exit, interlocks his fingers with yours so you can't get out of his grip.

Definitely enjoys it more than he should.

"You're staying with me." He announces suddenly, still towing you down the platform — doesn't even turn to look at your reaction.

Doesn't need to.

Not when you squeeze his hand in return, following just a step behind.

Your throat so thick you can barely croak out 'okay' in confirmation.

That cab's waiting right outside the station, tired beta with dark circles under his eyes in the front seat murmurs greetings when Kyle pulls you in the backseat. Your duffel in his lap, his thigh against yours — solid and heated, warming you up through the cold layer of your jeans.

It's two in the morning and the streets are quiet, but bright with shiny signs and lamp posts. London has seen it all, you think for a moment, thousands each day leaving that train station, even more in the cabs huddling together in the backseat and not looking each other in the face if they can help it.

Because it's dark and quiet and cool all around, because for a few hours when everything else sleeps there is a little space for things that aren't allowed in the daylight — a little leniency for the soldiers that bleed and break so that a little less bad seeps through the cracks.

Kyle's fingers are still interlocked with yours while he's looking out the window, not even thinking about letting go. You don't try to let go of his palm either, his knuckles hard under the pads of your fingers and you aren't sure if it would be okay for you to stroke them, if that's not entirely too needy because Kyle is just nice. He doesn't really need your clingy affections, he definitely can find plenty of those wherever he goes, you know it.

But it's good.

Kyle is solid heat and warm skin, he is honeyed scent and spiced gazes, he squeezes your hand in the backseat of the cab and stays as he is, as close as possible. Shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh.

You don't look in the rearview window to check whether the cab driver noticed how close you sit there. How he still holds onto you, how you don't want to let go out of greedy sucking feeling that has caved your chest in and left it dusted for Price's prints that left more than one imprint.

That reshaped you for the weekend, because that's how it has always worked. You know that well, you always bounce back, you always reshape back to normal and don't think too deeply into the mechanics of this arrangement.

It's nothing special.

Kyle's thumb strokes your hand slowly. Moves in cautious circles while he stares at the street he has probably seen a million times before, the orange light of street lamps bathing him in their light, stroking down the proud slope of his nose and kissing shadows growing around his lips.

Lucky.

You sigh quietly and look out of the other one, head buzzing with the headache settling somewhere at the base of your skull.

"I'm glad you came." Kyle murmurs all of a sudden and you turn your head back to him, jaws tightening because it is unfair how handsome he is, because he looks at you like he really means it, because you want it to be true and you aren't entirely sure if you actually believe it.

"Thanks for the invite, mate." You just murmur and he hums, leaning his head on the headrest, turning it to you so you can splay out in the backseat together, a little too close and getting too warm for comfort. Still not pulling away to cool off some.

"My pleasure." Kyle says, lips — Cupid's bow — merciless and beautiful, they curl upwards when your eyebrows knit and he has a chance to stroke out the wrinkle between them. "If it's the headache, I've got Ibuprofen at home." He adds and you nod, breathing out the tightening of your chest and leaning your head towards his touch. Missing the way his eyes get thoughtful, lids falling lower. Already calculating something when nothing has even happened yet.

You are tired and wrung dry, anxious and aching all over, nerves buzzing with things you don't want to feel or think about too much.

Gordian knot is still there, but so is Kyle. So is warmth.

Nothing unties in that cab on the edge of central London.

But the knot eases.

And you can breathe again.

Some tensions with the captain, some uncomfortable reminders and another train to catch. Time for the first leave and some decompression, so let's just see the outside doesn't crack you down the middle, yeah?

Warnings: alpha!Kyle Garrick x alpha!Reader, omegaverse au, non traditional omegaverse dynamics, is it a situationship or a 22-night stand?, complicated relationships, yearning

Johnny doesn't call.

The thought sits at the back of your head all leave, occasionally reappearing in moment when your phone is right by your hand. Just lying on the table there.

"You waitin' on call from someone important?" Price asks you, eyes glimmering over the rim of his pint when he catches you checking it again.

Captain's around for the weekend before he's out to get back home, doing the usual pub outings Friday through Saturday, up until the farewell Sunday drink where he pretends that he's not trying anything new and grumbles that 'I don't drink this shite' while your order him a morning latte with more Baileys than coffee.

Trains make him nauseous and you found out soon that anticipation of it makes him snippy. Which is not a good combination, considering that he still has a gun on his person and first couple days off deployment you can see how it itches him to have a hand on it.

Bloody miracle no one bagged him yet with the thing, given that he always keeps one in the vicinity when he's not allowed to have one off base.

"No. Nothing like that. Sorry, sir." You quickly pull back from phone as if burned and shake your head.

You are not sure you want to tell him that you gave Soap your personal phone number when you were not supposed to.

If anyone finds sergeant, they will find you next by pulling the phone records first thing.

Makes you envy Ghost sometimes.

None of you have his phone number.

You aren't even sure he has a phone at all, since he only contacts Price through 'burners' and probably has team's flats bugged to keep himself in the loop. You wouldn't be surprised if he was, last time you came from leave, he somehow knew about everything you did while away — staring at you with unblinking eyes while he executed his version of friendly small talk.

As in, asked about how was the game you watched and noted that this much takeout's going to harm your liver. You decided not to ask how the fuck he knew that, instead poking in the dark and jokingly asked him whether he still talks to himself while cooking.

The long look Simon gave you and slow head tilt would have been a sign to sprint in the opposite direction if not a dry huffing sound, distantly adjacent to a chuckle.

Although, the thought passes, circling you back to the matter at hand, if someone gets Johnny's neck on leave, it would meant that l.t.'s already done for.

"Just…got my head in the clouds." You add after a beat and Price looks at you like you should know better and maybe you should. Kyle offered to teach you to lie better but you didn't take him up on that generous offer. Now's that catching up to you.

"You sure 'bout that?" John leans in, his scent — rum and cherries —hits you in the nose. Sharp and tooth-rottingly sweet.

John Price is omega and he has been your pack for years now. Almost as long as you've been on the job itself.

Yet, at times like this one, he still makes you feel like a rookie.

Greener than bloody grass, Johnny once shared, grumbling under his breath on your merry way to the heli. You get what he was complaining about now.

"Is there a way to know for sure that you are making the right choice?" You ask him suddenly and captain gives you a long look.

"This about the job?" He asks in return, short and quick, eyes focused on your face.

Shadows around his eyes lighten when you shake your head again.

Fuck, you wish it was just the soul-searching about the government-licensed permission to kill people abroad and write off casualties as an infelicity.

But you think about Johnny and your mind starts splitting into options and outcomes and variants of phrasing for the things that weren't said and might never be said.

You've told Kyle not to intervene, because Soap doesn't want that. But maybe he needed it, even if he wanted to deal with everything on his own. Sometimes we don't know how much we needed help till we get it.

Maybe you should call him yourself, just to check in. Say something came up so you are in the area and hey, what a chance to get that pint, mate, eh? Maybe you gotta take Kyle too — he knows Johnny better, he'd be on the same page as you and he could reach Soap where you won't be able to even if you want, right?

"Just…personal. I did all I can, but then I started wondering and it drives me down into metaphorical woods, brings metaphorical gun to my head and asks me to answer riddles three to prove if I have actually thought it through or if I'd like my call to the closest funeral parlor to arrange whether I am getting cremated the same date or whether I am getting a shovel to dig myself a hole. Makes me come back to it again and again to check if I did all I could."

"You did." Price says simply and signals bartender for another round. "Can't guess everything, you have to trust your gut." He continues and gives you a look when you open your mouth. "You do all you can, you give all you get and the result is what you get. Can't cheat the fate, certainly not by drivin' yourself up the wall."

When you first met your captain, he had plucked you out of the op where everything that could have gone wrong — went wrong. He never told you why. You knew better than to ask stupid questions, especially since you got your answer much later.

When you saw the familiar fridge-sized frame of your lieutenant, briefing you on the teamwork and who's in the squad. The only piece of pack that didn't really want a pack, but still let you follow him around the place as long as you kept your mouth shut and eyes off the back of his head.

If most judge by people's best, perhaps John Price preferred to judge by their worst and go from there. That one you can guess from how you and l.t. were scooped.

"I just…don't want to leave someone hanging when I could give a hand and pull them up." You murmur in your beer and John chuckles, his palm warm and dry when he pats your nape.

He has callouses on the padding at the base of his fingers, the rough skin there scratching sensitive skin along the back of your neck.

"I'd say you already threw down a bloody rope and lit the signal torch."

"What if they don't understand?" You whine and your captain gives you another look.

"Then they're gonna die daft." He says, tone dry, but his grip on your nape tightens just a fraction, his thumb stroking the side of your neck. "This about Johnny?"

"Yeah." You nod immediately, feeling your ears burn when Price huffs out air, shaking his head like he knew it.

You once heard Nik say that a chatterbox is spy's treasure chest. You are starting to understand real quick what exactly he meant by that in this moment.

"Stop beatin' yourself up, the lad's going to be fine." Price murmurs, his beard scratching your neck when he noses at your scent gland.

Makes a low satisfied click when your body goes pliant.

John is big and hot, he gets handsy when he drinks and knows that you like his scent on you. Drinks into your reaction when his thumb presses on the scent gland at the base of your neck, right where it meets your shoulder and you shiver.

Your knees widening under the table without a second thought.

"You need to stop tryin' to find reasons to suffer on account of others." John says, his knuckles nipping at the tip of your ear to tug on it playfully. Like a big dog toying, Price has always been a big appreciator of the endless push and pull when it comes to coming and conquering.

"I'm not trying anything. All I do is suffer on account of this team." You grumble, breathing through the nose deeper — head lolling to the side to breath him in more.

"You're a soldier, love. Sufferin's the job." John chuckles, eyes warm and hungry when he lets you catch his wrist to kiss the gland there.

Soft and reverent, not yet grazing it with your teeth or tongue.

The pub's dim and no one's going to say a word about that. No one's around to see how you rub your cheek on Price's scent gland, eyes dazed when his scent coats you like syrup, flows down the back of your throat to pool inside. Warms you up like a good liquor. 

You can never bond with him and he will never mate you, which is nothing surprising - you both have knew it for a while on account of him not wanting a mate (like you) and you not being (enough) in love with him the way he maybe would have enjoyed it happening.

He's just a rough-looking omega off base, no one's going to question why you look at him like that. Why you lean into him like a big pup, worshipful and drunk on him.

Easily another young alpha with weak knees for an older omega that knows how to sink his hooks deep in and pull, unraveling your meat from the bone till you are soft and tender. Till you let him do exactly what he likes, kissing the hands that killed dozens. Nuzzling into a palm capable of snapping your neck if you ever decide to go rogue and leave your pack's lead omega in the dust.

No one's walking away whole from John Price. There is a toll to pay for each and every one of you for this special privilege, for the pack he is the head of, for the precious precious quiet in your head when he looks at you and your alpha no longer wants to claw through your gut.

It just wants to be good and useful. It just wants to make big omega happy, cause this is how it works. This is what alphas do, right? Provide, protect and care. Give endlessly so that your bones stop itching when someone else passes your captain his coat instead of you.

John Price is the pack's big bad wolf, the same one that fed Romulus and Remus, he is the one that built the Rome around your group. He is also the one who will burn it down if the system grinds to a halt. That has always been the deal.

You could love him, you think, leaning in so your captain can nose at your throat, hazy after drinks and hungry for connection, you do love him.

Perhaps, more than you should.

"Sergeant", he calls out, voice hoarse and fond, thumb rubbing your cervical vertebrae now, "stop thinkin'."

You bite down on the inside of your cheek, purr vibrating in your chest as you finish your own beer — his hand still wrapped around your neck. Like a collar.

"Yes, sir." You murmur, blessedly mindless when your captain makes another satisfied sound and drags the zipper on your jeans down right under the table.

Favourite part, you think to yourself, lids dipping down to cover half of your gone eyes, a carrot for the job well done and orders followed and throat shown. Good alpha, aren't you?

By the time Sunday rolls around you are wrung fry and sated, neck blooming with hickeys, your hair still smelling like rum and cherries.

"Safe trip, sir." You hand him his Irish latte on a train station at 8 in the morning to see your captain off.

John takes it silently, not at his most chatty first thing in the morning. Leans his shoulder on yours.

Warm and familiar, his scent smokier with your own. No one's going to look at him twice now on his long journey home. Not when he's smelling like an alpha been all over him, from top to bottom.

Makes alpha in you wag its non-existent tail, because it always feels good, seeing him satisfied. Almost happy with the state of things.

Knowing that he enjoyed your company.

"Aye." Price says, finally peeling himself off of you when his train drags itself up to the platform, the shiny 'Linkoln — Hereford' reminding him why he even let you wake him up so early on a weekend. "Thank you."

John leans in a fraction (you will not be admitting, even at gunpoint, that your pulse jumps, all attention zeroing in on his proximity), breathes in his own scent off of your hair and nods.

"Don't forget to shower." He says and you nod immediately, chest slowly tightening. Like someone pulls on the lace of some corset and its bone casing starts squeezing the air out of you. Stubborn and imminent, even as your lungs protest, trying to expand back. "And say hello to Garrick for me." Price adds, before he gets on his train, leaving you to watch him.

The shoulder he was leaning on before suddenly cold despite the warm sunny morning.

Right.

You'll need a decent shower before your evening train to London.

Kyle will spot the hickeys immediately, but you'd rather he didn't also realise who exactly bled you dry this weekend.

Back in the hotel you politely ask the staff to change the sheets, ignoring the pathetic urge to nuzzle in John's pillow and actually sit in the shower for a good hour. Until you stop smelling like anything, not just Price.

When you finally get out the room's clean and almost sterile.

Nothing smells like John anymore.

Part of you aches at that with more intensity that you'd like to admit to.

You order take out and sit on the edge of the bed for forty minutes, trying not to check your phone again now that you've got nothing to empty your mind or fill your bed schedule.

The first weekend off duty has passed and so far Johnny hasn't texted anything.

It's for the best, you suppose, probably means things are going decent or he's too busy to wallow in misery. Maybe his doesn't like company.

It's always worse when you've got nothing to do, you think, staring out the window. That's when even simple, almost routine loneliness becomes bone-straining.

Good thing you are used to being lonely.

Your food arrives ten minutes later and you tip tall beta who delivered it 20 quid for the inconvenience of seeing you in nothing but a towel.

You close the door before he asks about anything.

Your train's leaving at 9 p.m. which means you'll be in London sometime around 2 in the morning. Not the most convenient time, but you have texted Kyle to let him know about it and that you'll find your own way, meeting him around 10 the next morning.

Fingers crossed you won't get mugged, because frankly, you are not in the mood. Might end in some unfortunate way and you'll need to take another train to hole up in Hereford, closer to Wales, while the blood cools off.

Maybe l.t. can assist with pronouncing you legally dead as well. Then you both can be ghosts, if he's willing to share.

The thought almost cheers you up.

The evening is cool, breeze kissing your cheeks while you wait on the platform for your train, dark duffel plopped down between your feet.

There is a knot in your chest, right at the center of it. Gordian one, by the feel of it, you sigh, tilting your head from side to side. Trying to stretch a little bit, muscles aching up to your ear when you push a little harder and hear a soft pop from your neck. There we go.

You board your train with your backpack and stuff the duffel under the seat immediately, the entire carriage empty all around you.

Your ride isn't a very long one per se and you do like trains. You do like your space and your quiet and the extra leg room.

But sometimes you like to imagine someone sitting in a seat next to you, keeping you company.

Kyle, lazily trading quips with you, already planning the promised tour of London. His elbow nudging your off the armrest, because 'move, mate, I've got longer limbs' just so he can slot himself in your personal space and complain when you try to move away. His eyes laughing when you'd finally get annoyed and turn to tell him to settle already, so he'd pull back and nod you to lean on him instead.

Or Johnny, sketching in his journal, vibrating with the anticipation of getting home, his knee going up and down, shoulders hunched because he forgets to keep his back straight when he gets swallowed by his task. Always trying to curl himself into it. You never took a train with him, but you'd imagine that he can never sleep in transport. Not while it is moving, at least.

Or Ghost, thick thigh pressed to yours, pretending to nap, cheek propper on a fist. L.t. always manspreads wherever he sits, because apparently no leg room is ever enough and no, he cannot just stretch them out, because 'what if someone kicks me in the knee and then its broken, sergeant? You know what will happen then? Won't have a leg to stand on in the next argument with captain.'

Price, you think and the Gordian knot gets bigger, probably downing his entire latte so he can sleep through as much of his journey as possible. Head on your shoulder, arms crossed over the chest. When he falls asleep on someone, you remember, he usually presses his entire face into them.

'Which platform u arrive @?' Gaz texts you suddenly, phone buzzing in your grip.

The pounding in your chest getting abruptly settled when you see his name on the screen. Still not Johnny.

Right, you forgot that you asked Kyle the shortest way out of the train station, not really in the mood to wander all over it in the middle of the night.

'8', You reply quickly, knee jerking up and down. God bless him if he can actually get you directions out of King's Cross station.

Kyle 'hearts' your message, but doesn't reply for a while after that. Probably googling the actual map of the station.

Conductor arrives a couple minutes before the train's supposed to leave, checks the ticket — tossing a few phrases about weather being good for the first time in a while.

"Some rare sunshine did us some good." She huffs out and you nod, too tired and spend, back of your neck aching with tension that will start clawing up to the back of your head so it can pound inside of your skull later.

But it's true, the weather indeed has been lovely today. Made John's eyes an almost iridescent blue.

"Think it's the same in London?" You ask, more to keep the chat going rather than out of actual curiosity, but conductor perks up immediaetly.

"Oh, no, darling, the forecast promised nothing but rain for 'em. Hope you've got your umbrella with you." She helpfully shares.

You look down at your jeans for a very long moment and sigh.

No, no umbrella.

Let's just hope that the rain won't start till morning, giving you a small head start.

Merry Goes Round

Warnings: alpha!König x omega!Reader, past sexual assault, noncon biting, slutshaming and denial, hurt/very little comfort, unhealthy coping mechanisms, omegaverse au

We parted more than a decade ago and you still haunt me. Now in person too, König thinks to himself and doesn’t know what to do or what to say, something mean and bitter in him rising before he catches it by the collar. 

Now is not the time, but when was it then?

Where is he supposed to put this tightly squeezed yarn ball of his feelings?

Simon doesn’t usually stare at people like that, he knows better than bother anyone on his own leave. No need to look for trouble when he’s trying to enjoy some bloody peace and quiet.

But you take him to the beach because you don’t wanna go alone, because ‘watch my bag while I swim, please’ because Simon Riley and his scarred mug are enough to deter anyone from bothering you when you too want to enjoy some peace and quiet.

Peace, Simon thinks, eyes trailing over your wet hair sticking to your nape, there is none for him given the swimsuit you are wearing.

Perfectly fitting and very much wet, it leaves just a bit to imagination when you walk out of the water back to the towel he’s sitting on in the shade — eyes dark and hazy.

“Are you bored? I’m hoping it isn’t too uneventful for you here, l.t.” You start, taking a deep breath in and Simon would love to say that his eyes did not dip to your chest when it expanded. Only that would be a lie and he isn’t good at it.

“I’m fine. Don’t worry ‘bout that.” Simon just tilts his head from side to side, stretching out, sweat shimmering on his shoulders and Lord knows he did not lie when he said that he can get an impeccable bronze when tanning.

“You sure? Cause we can leave in a few.” You offer just in case, but he shakes his head, glancing up at you from under the heavy hover of his brows. Enjoys the view maybe more than he should.

Definitely more than he should.

“No need. I like it here.” And that was as honest as he can get without going into detail because by God he does really like it here. “You up for another swim?” Is a little bit of a goading but you like swimming, right? And Simon likes watching the stretchy fabric of your swimsuit sticking to your skin — his throat working when you nod and turn back to the sea. His eyes dipping down your back and Lord, have mercy.

You are flushed with heat of the sun and grinning from ear to ear when give him a big wave, already waist deep in the water, stretching out a hand above your head so he doesn’t miss you and Simon simply raises his to give you one back. He ain’t missing you for the world, definitely not today.

Simon doesn’t have as much discipline as people usually assume, mostly because he has bigger appetite than most expect. Because you plop down next to him and he has to swallow the urge to lean down and lick a stripe up your neck. Ignores the impulse to burrow his nose between your tits, cooling his burning face with the perfectly wet skin there.

He isn’t much of a poet, but maybe that’s exactly how it would feel to kiss the sea itself when he can taste your heartbeat and salt on his tongue, soft flesh inviting to bite.

Simon doesn’t think much when he offers to help you with the sunscreen, because at this point his head is so empty that you could ring a church bell inside of it and the sound would echo. It’s just a small favour, nothing…inappropriate, he’d say if he was a fucking liar because you sit between his thighs, back to him and when he rubs the sunscreen on your shoulders, his fingers slip under the strings holding the upper part of your swimsuit.

Strokes the skin under, massages the imprint left on your shoulders because heavy is the weight or whatever the fuck they say. Simon’s fingers squeeze and knead your shoulder till you are soft and pliant. A little too quiet compared to usual routine, but that’s okay. Been hot out here today, yeah?

You are tired, he gets it. That’s why Simon even offered help, you know? he hums above your ear, thumb rubbing you nape so you’d hang your head lower — pulse thudding in your ears. Lieutenant is good with his hands, knows exactly where to press down or rub, learning what you like better as he goes.

Catches your shuddering intake of breath when his fingers catch onto the bow on your back and tug on it. Just getting everything covered, he’ll tie it back later, he promises. No one’s looking anyway.

There is something incredibly thrilling about massaging your bare back just like that, your heart just below his palm when he feels it thumping. You cross your hands over the chest, trying to keep your upper part of bikini in place while he does his work on your back.

You do your best not thinking about his fingers slipping to your lower back to massage all around it, about his wide palms stroking your love handles and belly so close to where he can’t touch that it feels embarrassing getting that excited.

He’s just being helpful. You can’t know if he’s even interested. He’s not like that.

Simon is exactly like that when he leans closer and presses his chest to your back — sticky with sunscreen and divine to the touch when he softly squeezes your belly. Rubs the sunscreen in, humming to himself as he goes.

“Arms down.” Simon says and doesn’t ask, knowing that the habit of obeying runs deeper than surface level embarrassment about the possibility of your top fucking slipping off of your tits. “Gotta be diligent about it, yeah? Don’t want you to get sunburned.”

You feel like you already has been with the way he just works his way from your shoulders down your hands — massages the softer flesh around your bicep, slides down to the forearm and then counts bones in your wrist and palm with his fingers. Leaves you slippery and smelling like coconut, breath fanning over your ear with “quit twitchin’.” when you try to look at him over your shoulder.

Simon’s palms finish each hand before he returns to your neck, curls a palm around it casually while covering it with sunscreen too. Taps your chin to tilt your head up when his other hand slides under the untied bikini and gives your left tit a thorough squeeze, massaging the sunscreen in.

Makes a disapproving sound when you open your mouth to say something and pinches your nipple. Tugs on it a little, rubs in the sunscreen at the tip of it too, clearly teasing.

Has the gall to murmur ‘Feels good?’ right in your ear, smile audible, because you are an open book, because you do exactly as he asks, because you let your lieutenant touch you out in the open. “Good.” Ghost breathes out, his other hand leaving your chin and sliding down to get a hold of your right breast too.

He rubs and massages, pulls out the smallest sounds out of your throat — rubs his stubbled cheek against it, enjoying himself more than he perhaps should.

Simon shameless with his hunger, he toys with your nipples and takes a hand away only to return with more sunscreen, his smile almost unnerving when you hiccup at the cool feel of it.

Sensitive.

“Got the lower half to do too.” He shares conversationally in your ear, voice almost giddy when your throat works audibly, but you make no move to stop him. “Could get it later.” Simon offers, tugging on your right nipple now. Rolls it between fingers, almost absentmindedly.

Big and scorching hot, he wraps his whole body around your back, thick thighs bracketing you between his legs.

“Heard that beach’s emptier in the evening.” He adds and you are not proud of a shiver that runs through you, because you know he absolutely did feel it too. “Could also come back tomorrow early in the morning, get a head start.”

You are even less proud of yourself when you tilt your head back to look at him and your eyes almost close at his hands playing with your tits.

“Could do both.” You say, voice hoarse and barely above whisper, but his eyes crinkle and you can feel that the bottom of your bikini is sticky right between your legs. “If your schedule’s open, sir.”

Simon smiles, every inch of a Ghost and squeezes your tits one more time before withdrawing his hands from under your top entirely. Ties a neat little bow on your back, coarse-padded thumb stroking the line of your spine to get himself another shiver.

“I’m all yours. Got schedule open till we have to return back for another op.” He says, your stomach drawing hot and tight.

That’s two more weeks until you two have return to duty.

“Sounds good to me.” You say, voice cracking and turn your head to nose under his jaw. Mouth at the stubble there, lightheaded with hunger he stoked from ember to full blown bone fire. “My schedule’s all open too, sir.” You add, teeth grazing his jugular.

Getting the absolute satisfaction of feeling his own throat work under your lips. There we fucking go.

“Was thinking, sir.” You start and Simon makes a low questioning sound, tilts his head to give you more access. “Can’t be the only one covered in sunscreen. We wouldn’t want you to get sunburned, yeah?” You paraphrase his own words to him and when you look up in his eyes again, Ghost is heavy-lidded and starved, lips wet from when he licked them.

You are adults, responsible for your own experience on the internet - it’s your job to curate what you see.

It’s not my or anyone else's job/responsibility to stop writing certain works for your personal comfort, even if you personally find it icky. The world does not revolve around you, neither does the orbit of my writing. The work that was properly named and tagged all around, which you proceeded to read willingly and disliked afterwards, isn't anyone's issue but your own. You can always block/mute and move on, however coming into MY blog and MY comments and telling me about 'fucked up' and yada yada yada is plain silly. If the dove is dead then it is dead-dead.

You don't like non-con? Don't like incest? Don't like murder?

Take the door out and block, I don't need or want to know how upset you are at a fictional situation, no fictional police is coming to the scene of your fictional crime.

The thought sinks its roots down the depth of his brain when he watches you smoke with Johnny after one hell of a deployment. You two are sitting together on the roof, watching the setting sun — legs dangling in the air.

The air is warm and the evening is impossibly lovely, sundown bathing your frame in pinks, tinting tips of Johnny's hair golden and Kyle just stands nearby, in the closest shadow that the space has.

It's a couple days till Soap is off duty, once again coming back home with Simon in tow.

And the nerves are getting to him again.

You followed Soap on the roof, silently passing him a fag and not offering to discuss the issue at hand.

Given his state, who's to say that it wouldn't have agitated the sergeant further. And you know that if you were in his place, you would prefer to not talk for a while. Not much point in it anyway, when you don't want to ask for help and don't want anyone's pity and can't come to terms with letting it just be.

"Ye want tae ask something?" Soap relented after the first few minutes, shoulders tight and hardened, already bracing for the impact of the shock wave for the explosion that did not go off yet. At least, not anywhere other than his own head.

"Nah, mate. I'm good." You huffed out smoke and shook your head. What can you even ask him about in these circumstances?