Gaz prides himself on being the most hygienic member of the team. He doesn't exactly smell of roses after three weeks in the field, but he's at least bathing every other day. And he's not gonna be using crystals as deodorant, Soap.
So it's a little bit ironic that he follows Ghost into locker rooms as soon as they land on home soil. The big man doesn't comment, just removes his gear methodically until he's down to his jeans and compression shirt.
"'lright, Garrick. C'mere."
Kyle bites back a groan as he buries his face in the humid curve of Simon's armpit. His mouth and eyes water at the sharp scent of him, old sweat and antiperspirant and man, his man, big and hot and solid.
Simon's chuckle is dark. Kyle is just glad they landed late enough that there's no one to witness him nuzzling closer before Simon pushes him away to strip down fully for a shower.
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CW: Omegaverse biology (can be read as trans!Soap), genitals referred to as pussy, non-con body smelling, general rudeness and lack of consideration for others
Bet you thought I forgot.
The worst alpha in your apartment complex has taken over the gym.
John MacTavish is huge, thick neck and arms and thighs, and he stinks, pumping out pheromones and body odor so strong that the it seeps into the laundry room down the hall. He seems to wipe his armpits with every available hand towel. The sauna smells like nothing but his musk and his pussy.
Three omegas have complained to you in the front office. An alpha from the third floor has threatened to break his lease. The budget for scent neutralizers has tripled, and it’s still not enough.
It’s driving you fucking insane.
Every time you confront him, your head goes staticky and brain fog has you tripping over your words as he smirks down at you. You tried calling him to your office, but his crotch at desk height had you sending him away before you could even scold him. You tried talking to him in the hall outside of his apartment, but he answered the door half naked with a used fucking fleshlight in his hand, and you’d fled.
Now, you cover your face with a neutralizing mask and stomp into the gym. The music that he’s blasting with his stupid portable speaker makes you flinch as soon as the door opens, but you grit your teeth and stand by his feet while he finishes on the bench press.
“Mr. MacTavish,” you growl.
He sits up and swipes sweat from his face with one hand, and flicks it away with a sharp motion. “Told ye to call me Johnny, pretty boy.”
“Mr. MacTavish,” you say again. “You need to be more respectful of the other residents and stop scent marking the gym.”
“Oh, is that what all this is aboot?” he asks, gesturing to his own face with a vague circle. “None of the other alphas can compete?”
The audacity. “This is not a territory dispute. Reign it in or we will begin the eviction process.”
When he stands, you stumble back to avoid knocking your nose against his sternum, then yelp when he catches you behind the neck in a rough grip that turns your knees to jelly. You haven’t been scruffed since you were in fourth form. It’s so unexpected, so vulgar, that you can only squeak when he herds you backwards until your back hits the wall.
He tuts as he yanks your mask down under your chin. The sting on the elastic on the back of your ears and the sheer potency of his pheromones makes your eyes water. And then he flicks your voice box, a sharp, startling pain that makes you cough and suck in a sharp breath.
Which is when he lifts his arm and shoves your nose into the slick, humid curve of his armpit.
