Another COD Blog

Kyle kissed him, exploring, he kept pausing, half a breath, changing the angle, and Soap let him, one hand sliding to the nape of his neck where his hair was still a little damp. When Kyle sighed against his mouth it was satisfied.

"You're thinking," Soap said.

"I'm not."

"You've got your thinking face on."

"That's just my face." Kyle kissed him again and Soap felt the tension in his shoulders come loose. Kyle's hands moved to the hem of Soap's shirt and slid underneath, palms flat and warm against his stomach and up to his chest and down again.

Soap groaned against his mouth.

"There we go," Kyle murmured, and Soap bit his lower lip.

They shifted, Kyle got a knee over, pressing Soap back, a few seconds of graceless, mouth-to-mouth, rearranging before they settled. Kyle's legs straddling Soap's. Soap propped up on an arm to reach him.

Kyle got both hands underneath Soap's shirt, thumbs moving slowly, and when Kyle dragged his mouth to Soap's jaw and then lower, teeth grazing his throat, Soap's fingers clutched around the mask.

He pressed it to his face and breathed in. Warm and stale and salty. His other hand found the back of Kyle's head.

Kyle worked down the side of his throat, mouth open. His hands moved to Soap's waistband. Soap's grip tightened.

"That's mine."

Kyle froze.

Ghost was in the doorway, shoulder against the frame, arms crossed. He had the normal black balaclava on tonight. His eyes moved from Soap's face to the balaclava.

Neither of them spoke.

Ghost pushed off the frame, kicked the door closed with his boot, and crossed the room. He stopped at the edge of the bunk and looked down at the two of them and held out his hand.

Soap put the mask in it, defeated.

Ghost turned it over. Then he looked at Soap. Then at Kyle, who had sat up over Soap's legs and was watching. Waiting for the Lieutenant's next move.

Kyle waited under that stare, a challenge behind it somewhere if he'd known Ghost better.

"Sir—" Kyle started.

Ghost looked at him and Kyle closed his mouth.

The silence sat there. Ghost turned the balaclava over one more time and then, instead of leaving, he sat down on the edge of the mattress, what little space there was between Johnny's body and the edge. He looked at Soap for a long moment. Soap got the hint and sat up, Kyle still on his lap.

Ghost leaned forward, unhurried, and let Soap press up to meet him, just soap's lips at his jaw, just the rough drag over the mask and Soap's hand closed around Ghost's arm.

Kyle moved next. He pressed his forehead to the side of Ghost's arm, hand settling carefully at his side.

Then Kyle's hand began sliding round toward his chest and Ghost's hand closed around his wrist before it arrived. He squeezed just hard enough.

Kyle went still.

Ghost glanced between them both.

Kyle leaned in again, slower this time, and pressed his face to the side of Ghost's neck. He breathed in. Ghost's jaw shifted slightly but he didn't move, didn't pull back, just let Kyle stay there. Soap rested his head on Ghost's shoulder and watched Kyle's lungs expand in an inhale.

Ghost was warm and solid and he smelled like soap, salt, and smoke, and something earthy underneath it, and Soap pressed his mouth carefully to the hinge of Ghost's jaw and felt him exhale slowly through his nose. Soap's hand closed around his arm again and Ghost let him hold it again. Kyle made a quiet sound against Ghost's neck and his hand found Soap's knee.

Kyle's mouth grazed Ghost's throat and his hand tightened on Soap's knee and Soap leaned back behind Ghost and Kyle moved too. And Soap caught Kyle's mouth and Kyle kissed him back immediately, charged with something new. Soap grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him closer and Kyle's hands moved away from Ghost and back to Soap and shoved up under Soap's shirt. They were moving back again, Kyle pressing Soap back into the mattress, and Ghost was right there, turned slightly to watch from the corner of his eye.

Kyle's mouth found Soap's throat and his hands shoved up under his shirt and Soap grabbed the front of his and pulled him flush and they were moving. Hips pressing into each other through fabric, soft little moans and curses out on the other's skin, rutting against each other, graceless and hot, and the mask was somewhere in the sheets and Soap could still smell him in his nose like a lingering smoke and Ghost was right there.

Soap couldn't stop looking up at him.

Kyle's mouth was on his neck and his hands were everywhere and it was good, it was really good, and Soap kept looking at Ghost. Ghost who was sitting on the edge of the mattress watching them, focused, taking it in, giving absolutely nothing back. At least, not actively. Present and comfortable, just watching, and Soap's brain kept snagging on it like a scratch in a record. Skipping and skipping and skipping.

Their lieutenant. Watching.

Kyle ground doen against him and Soap's breath punched out and his grip tightened and he pulled Kyle up into a kiss that was mostly teeth, desperate and messy. Kyle groaned into his mouth. Sweaty and hard and shoving against each other. Soap got a hand between them, shoving and pushing enough with Kyle's help to free them both and get his hand around both of their leaking cocks. Kyle moaned in his ear and dropped his head to Soap's shoulder.

Soap looked up at Ghost.

Ghost looked back at him. His expression hadn't changed. There was something in his eyes that Soap couldn't name, and his mind snagged again, some quality of attention there.

Soap grabbed Kyle's hair and pulled and Gaz bit down on his shoulder and Soap's whole body went tight.

Soap reached out and found the mask where Ghost had set it down. He pressed his face into it and breathed in and Ghost was watching and Kyle was shaking against him and he came across his stomach to the smell of his lieutenant.

It took a few breaths for either sergeant to regain some semblance of clarity.

Kyle face pressed to Soap's shoulder. Soap was staring at the ceiling, breathing hard, and Ghost was still sitting on the edge of the mattress. He still hadn't moved.

Ghost looked at them both. His eyes moved from Kyle's shaking frame to Soap's flushed red face, and he took them in for a long unhurried moment, and then he stood.

"Filthy," he said evenly. "Both of you. Go shower."

He picked the balaclava up from under Soap's hand and walked out, pulling the door closed behind him.

Soap stared at the ceiling.

Gaz didn't move for a long time. When he finally lifted his head his expression was nearly blank, not quite back to himself yet.

"Are we—" Kyle started.

"I don't know," Soap said.

Kyle nodded slowly. He glanced at the door then back at Soap.

"He took the mask."

"Yeah."

"So." Kyle exhaled. "We're fucked then."

Soap said nothing for a moment. He pushed away the thought, now held in clarity, of every possible way their days could go from here.

"Aye. One way or another," Soap said eventually. "Shower?"

In the last week, you’ve managed to carve out some sort of existence in the house. There are bookshelves in what you assume is an office, and you’ve found titles there that help occupy your time. Sometimes you even sit on the couch in the living room, eager to escape the same four familiar walls of the bedroom. You come out for meals too, since no one has brought food to your door again, breathing through your mouth as you try to block out their scents.

It doesn’t work.

They’re everywhere.

Their scents, their bodies, even their clothes. You find shirts shoved in couch cushions, jumpers hanging over the back of kitchen chairs or the stair railings. They’re in the living room in the evenings, in the kitchen in the morning, at the table for dinner. One of them is always at breakfast, talking to you even if you don’t respond, keeping you apprised of the day.

“Johnny’s out until the afternoon, chasin’ down a lead. I’ll be here if you need something.”

“Gonna go out for groceries. D’ye need anything?”

“Simon’s on a perimeter walk. Dinnae want to scare ye, but we thought we heard something in the woods last night.”

It does scare you though. The looming threat, the fact that someone wants to kill you, is always in the back of your minding, haunting you like a bad dream. You’re afraid to step foot outside the front door, and whenever you hear them talking in low voices that abruptly stop once you enter the room, you fear the worst. They swear, again and again, that you’re safe, but the worry never goes away, it just lurks in the back of your mind, reminding you why you’re here, why you’re trapped in this house with your mates, a logical, sensible thing turned insane as you balance rational thought with instinct. Your safety is an ever changing thing, crossing lines in your head, trying to do backflips to figure out who you need protecting from.

The outside threat, or them.

Your pills aren’t working.

It’s the fourth morning in a row where you’ve swallowed your usual dosage, one suppressant, one blocker, one painkiller… and felt nothing.

No relief. No numbness.

Nothing, except for the pounding behind your eyes, the nausea crawling up the back of your throat, the never ending muscle cramps.

It’s taking a toll.

“Dove?” Johnny’s voice cuts through the static between your ears, the impossible tug of war you’re playing with yourself. They should be working. Is it because you’re too close to your alphas? Are they being overpowered? Is your body working against them, making you sicker?

Simon says your name, but you ignore him.

Is it even possible? Could their proximity override the effects of your medication? Did the doctor ever say anything about that?

A hand touches your face. It snaps you back to reality and you jerk away, shocked.

Your reaction doesn’t deter Johnny though, whose fingers are brushing across your brow.

“Ye’re warm, sweetheart. Ye feelin’ alright?” You nod, but don’t say anything, tongue heavy like wet cement in your mouth. Johnny looks down at your breakfast plate and frowns. “Ye barely ate.”

“Not hungry.” You croak. You lean away from him. He’s too close, and the urge to crawl into his arms and press your nose to his neck is overwhelming. You think it could help you, he could help you, be a balm, soothe your pain, take it away and-

Stop.

You shoot to your feet. The movement is too swift, too sudden and you sway, your lack of balance automatically moving Johnny forward, his hands on your arms, holding you steady. “Whoa, easy. Ye alright? Do ye need to lay down?”

“I don’t know.” You look away, trying to hide from their gazes, Johnny’s bright and concerned, Simon’s dark and focused. Two walls closing in on you, squeezing you from both sides.

“Maybe ye should go back to bed, try to get some sleep. Or do ye want to lay on the couch?” You shake your head.

“No, no… I’ll go back to bed. I’m probably just tired.” An obvious lie, but you can’t admit to them how badly you’re hurting. Your pride won’t allow it.

“Alright…” Johnny says as his hand slowly moves from just above your elbow to your back. “Let’s go get ye comfortable.” You stiffen, try to pull away but his touch stays firm, grounded at the base of your spine like an anchor, steering you towards the stairs.

You look over your shoulder before taking the first one. You’re not sure why, something pulls you, some sort of gravity, your eyes finding Johnny’s, and then Simon’s behind him. A foul yearning ricochets through your soul, your body, a desire unlike anything you’ve ever felt spreading through your blood.

An infection.

They made you sick.

They’re making you sick, still. Somehow.

Buried deep, the want burns, begs you to lean in, to give up, to give yourself over. To fall into their mercy and their attempts to soothe you, to let them have you. It takes considerable effort to fight it. To gnash your teeth together and refuse to let it out.

You hold your breath all the way up the stairs, letting the fire grow in your lungs until you reach your bedroom, head swimming as you collapse into the mattress. You should tell him to leave, but you can’t. The effort would be too much.

“Jus’ rest.” Johnny murmurs, back of his hand pressing to your forehead again as he brings your blankets up to your chin. “I’ll check on ye in a bit.” You scowl.

“I’m fine. Just tired.” You bite out before rolling onto your side, staring straight ahead at the wall. He sighs as he stands, shakes his head.

“If ye say so.”

You’re full of restless energy when you wake up.

It’s after sunset, the only light in your room coming from the small lamp that’s on your bedside table, hazy yellow light spilling out from behind the shade.

You feel a bit better, more clear headed, but there’s this… unsteadiness under your skin, something volatile and turbulent trying to get out. Your chest feels too tight, your hands are trembling.

Anxiety, you think. Has to be. You’re not immune to it, have plenty of experience with stomach twisting worry, though it’s never felt like this. It’s a new manifestation, a new way of your body worrying, fixating.

The blankets you’re hidden under are too heavy now, constricting, and you sit up, glancing around, looking for something that may have triggered your discomfort.

There’s nothing, except for the empty bedroom.

The bedroom that’s too large, too open.

It’s problem needing to be fixed, and you know what to do.

You pull the mountain of pillows apart, stacking them in misshapen rows around the edge of the bed, effectively creating a wall between you and the door. All the blankets come next, the extra ones, the weighted one, folded and then unfolded, arranged so each hem is ready to be pulled up over your face at any time to hide you from the world. You reorganize too many times, unable to stop yourself from pulling them around the center of the bed, bundling them up into cozy little groups, ready to be laid in, or on, however you want. You rifle through your duffel, looking for more clothes, comfy pants and shirts, their cotton lengths or fleece insides bringing you a tiny bit of peace as you shove them between edges. The bed is smaller now, and you’re enclosed like a castle sitting inside formidable walls. Tucked away. Safe.

But it still doesn’t feel right.

That feeling in your body, the one stretching and straining in your bones, twisting you from the inside out, hasn’t gone away.

You eye the lamp.

It’s too high, you decide. Too tall. It needs to be on the ground, and you place on the carpet at the corner of your bed, just next to the table so the warm yellow glow is somewhat muted.

Better, but still not right.

Maybe it’s the scent. Everything smells like clean laundry, all the blankets and pillows bearing the same lavender, freshly washed smell, the one that you get from the expensive detergent.

Nothing smells like you except for your clothes.

You grab at a blanket and work the edge of it over your wrists, your neck, your face, doing the same over and over with the others. You rub your face on all the pillows, breathing them in as deep as you can, trying to figure out if the contact is making a difference, or if it’s a fruitless endeavor.

It should work.

It should.

You look around. Up. Down. Eyes dragging from each corner to the next, looking for an offender. A reason.

The closet catches your eye.

Maybe it’s too big, you wonder. Maybe the room is too large, too much. Overwhelming.

You crawl off the mattress on hands and knees, shaking hands reaching for the closet door.

It’s dark in here. Nearly empty, but you can fix that. Easily.

You drag everything you’ve assembled on the bed to the floor, pulling it inside the closet piece by piece, lining the walls with pillows, arranging the blankets so they’re perfect for burrowing, snuggling.

Still not completely right, but better. Something is still off, but this is safer, darker. Everything you need.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been buried in the mountain of your own creation when the bedroom door opens.

Could be hours. Could be minutes. Time is a little blurry.

Everything is a little blurry, if you’re honest.

The pounding in your head has returned, a small headache that grew between your temples until it was beating like a drum, forcing your eyes closed, pushing you deeper into your pile of softness. It soothes you somehow, makes things feel not as terrible.

You stay there, curled up, when the door creaks. When there’s a silent pause, and then footsteps, and you don’t move when the closet is opened, the small amount of light at the back of the alpha causing you to wince.

Simon.

Sea salt and leather floods the space, and you realize with dread it’s a part of what you’ve been missing, that itchy, anxious feeling under your skin partially calming as steps closer.

His knees crack as he crouches, lowers himself in front of you, without a word. The silence settles like a tightrope, too dangerous for you to walk, to speak. You watch him inspect you, the closet, the blankets and pillows, watch the calculation unfold in real time.

“This is nice,” he murmurs, running a hand over some of the blankets, “bit small for your nest though.” The horror is immediate. Is that what this is? Is that what you’ve done? It has all the markings of nesting, all the telltale signs, but for some reason, you can't see it. You've nested before, but it's never felt like this. 

No. You’re not nesting. You just needed to get comfortable. The room was too big, too open to them.

“It’s not a nest.” You growl, instinctively pulling a blanket up to your neck. “I was just… I needed to get out of bed.” He cocks his head.

“It’s not? Sure looks like one to me.” Dismay burns in your blood, and your scent turns sour. Distressed. “It’s okay,” he soothes immediately, “you did good, dove. It’s a good nest.” He’s speaking to your biology, your hindbrain, and your omega preens, the instinct inside of you lighting up at the praise. It’s like a knife in your heart, this betrayal of your sense, and the horror only grows as you start to purr, the light vibration coming from beneath your ribs earning you a small smile from your alpha.

Stop.

Stopstopstopstop please stop-

The purring gets louder. Your stomach tosses, bile burning in the back of your throat, but you can’t stop it. You’re paralyzed, immobile, two factions fighting for control, and you can’t do anything but lay there as his hand comes to rest on your ankle, thumb pressing in, down, working against you in a slow circle. “Such a good omega.”

That snaps you out of it.

The praising of your designation is always something that has disgusted you. It’s dehumanizing, reduces you to a role, a biological factor and nothing more. An omega is the same as any omega, when it comes down to it. All driven by need, by instinct, preening and purring and desperate for knots and bites. Animals done to their bones. 

You won't let that become who you are. You can't. 

You kick his hand away and scoot back, deeper into the corner. The purring and pride has vanished, and in its place is a black rooted, snarled mess of fear and anger and pain. There’s a moment where you think he’s going to tighten his grip and hold on, but it doesn’t last. He stands instead, looks down as he towers over you.

“Dinner’s ready.” You shake your head.

“I’m not hungry.” It’s not true. You woke up with an appetite, and even with this situation, this confusion, the anxiety, the pain, everything, it’s still there.

“You need to eat.” You’re about to refuse again, but his eyes narrow. “Do you need me to bring you downstairs myself?” He will, you know it. You don’t doubt he will drag you out of this closet and down the stairs.

“N-no.” You hate the stammer, the proof in it. How it exposes you, shows how scared you are, how unsure. How this entire situation has changed you, took your life and dumped it upside down.

“C’mon then.” He extends his hand, and the part of you that’s growing out of control tries to take it. Your arm twitches, moves like it’s being played by a puppeteer. It’s only once your fingertips almost brush his that you yank back with a scowl. He chuckles. “Suit yourself.” He’s not leaving, not until you’re out of the closet, and you know that. He could force you, bark at you, drag you out. He’s got you pinned to the ropes, no choice but to do as he says, so you reluctantly crawl forward on your hands and knees, unsteady as you start to stand from being curled up all day.

You give the closet one last look before you close the bedroom door, its dark mouth beckoning you, waiting patiently.