apex!alpha!ghost x omega!reader - one man army
(Based on that one post I made earlier and totally didn't write half of this in class)
[NSFW Simon Riley] tags: DUB-CON (because omega heat), omegaverse, oral sex, p in v, breeding kink, praise kink, spit kink, size kink, creampie, aftercare
Before the experiments, before hell turned up the heat, Simon already knew he was an alpha. But this—
This was new.
When he first returned from Mexico, what he saw was traumatizing enough—but more so than traumatizing, it triggered something dormant after months of torture and training. Some failed experiments with needles and gas. Some god-awful abomination. Something formed from neon concoctions and untested drugs. Being buried alive wasn't the trigger. Nor was the gun pointed at his head. But expecting safety in his mother's arms, his brother's embrace, and the joy of holding his nephew again—only to be met with their bodies in a bloody heap, slain, and executed as if they were nothing more than animals—was.
After seeing their corpses, the next few weeks—perhaps months, even—were a blur. He remembered slaughtering his former teammates, then taking another trip down to Mexico. He remembered breaking bones and drawing red—flashes of life taking life as though he were watching from a screen. With sharpened canines and impossible muscle, sensing liquid iron from a mile away. A one man army with no general to hold him back.
It's strange then, that even as an "apex”—as the scientists had so aptly named his condition—on the concept that this was simply another leap in mankind’s evolution—Ghost still found himself willing to heel to a new commanding officer. John Price. Granted, his obedience was more so based on mutual respect than biological bonds, and the same extended to Gaz and Soap. He was too tainted with the scent of chemicals—too pumped full of artificial hormones to be accepted by anyone else. Lucky for him, the 141 was all but normal; an all-alpha pack that, by common sense, should have never worked, yet did.
But it’s not as though he could be near an omega.
He’d tried, after the revenge trip in Mexico. Not to court or claim an omega, but to simply be near one. Exist in the same space. He had barely stepped off base when he had to reel himself back—the stench of sweetness so strong it almost smelled of rot. He wanted to rid himself of it—bury it deep and ever deeper. Bury the omega, himself, and the wretched instincts that drove him. Hence why, from then on, he resolved himself to solitude. The 141 and no one else—stick with other alphas (—lesser alphas—no—) with no omega, warm or soft, or hurt, or bleeding, to push him down and pull that monster to the surface again. For he’d had his revenge, but that didn’t mean he liked what he became. And what he became was anything but human.
But now he’s digging the curve of his fingernails through his gloves, into your skin, into your thighs—marking the flesh with moon-shaped indents while he breathes you in, heady and sweet.
The mission was supposed to be quick. An in-and-out objective that took no more than a day. But it had been days—for he had refused the emergency evac when he caught the smell of vanilla and citrus on the wind, soiled with stress and the sharp tinge of iron. Never before had he refused an order from Price—not once—but there was no turning away from the obvious signs of an injured omega. Certainly not when the mind goes blank, and the rest of the senses shut down. And the rest of the world falls away.
It was a trap, he believes, and knows better now—for he had been sitting in the same cell as you for the past however-long. The bulk of him sitting by the door, a lingering giant, watching with bated breath as you shy away in the other corner. Dark eyes skimming your small, barely-dressed form with what you first thought was disinterest, then realized was anything but. No—it was the gaze of a man just barely holding back, for if he moved or so much as blinked, there was no turning back. The pheromones in the air told you as much: that this man was trying to save you—this time from him. That if he got his claws on you, and sunk his teeth into your neck, you might as well say goodbye to living. He would have his fill until you were nothing but bone—
(—feral—the doctors told him—you’ll be more prone to losing control—)
—but he is kind.
Not the kindness that comes with words and sweet nothings. Kind as in turning his back to you, that you may hide behind the width of him when your captors visit. Kind as in fighting the urge to ease his throat, that you may drink more water. Kind as in sparing you extra mouthfuls of food, and removing his jacket that you may have something to cover yourself(—hide your scent, hide your scent, bathe in his).
So many kindnesses—and so little words. He grunts and nods, and keeps things snippy and short. You talk about your favorite foods, your hobbies, and idle memories. Speak enough for the two of you, really. Fill the space that time may pass by.
And indeed time passes—and the inevitable occurs—as you wait and wait and wait.
When your heat arrives, he crosses the room in two short strides. Lunges, even. He mumbles apology after apology—the first coherent thing he’s said all week—and it’s said with the regret of a mourning man. Because as much as you crave him in your heat–addled daze, as much as you mewl contentedly as he pulls you down—down—deep down, Simon hates it.
He hates that it’s come to this.
He hates that he cannot provide you with anything better, because that’s what alphas are supposed to do—not possess—not like his father—but protect and provide. But he will take you on this pathetic excuse for a nest if he has to; he will because he must. Because there is no escape from the way you taste on his lips, when he shoves aside the already-soaked fabric of your stained underwear—or the birdsong of your whines when they reach his ears, when he presses the tip of his tongue to your slit. Lapping like a dog. Gone is the reason of man.
He resolves to shedding his shirt, and lays it on the cold, hard ground beneath you. Save yourself a few scratches, though he knows the rest will come from him. Though he knows it is no mercy for what he will do to you. Though he knows it is inevitable to draw blood all the same—
—if not from the curve of your neck.
You hiccup once—twice—begging for mercy from the pleasure. Straining as you grasp for purchase in the cotton of his mask. The balaclava is hitched over his mouth as he feeds like a creature starved, staining his scars and stubble with the shine of slick. Nectar that glows in the faint glow of moonlight, pouring deep into the prison cell like an endless well. And he spits—mean and degrading—a sliver of corruption against your whole-ness.
And you don’t even know his name.
“Pretty girl,” he mutters, drowning in you. Smearing the saliva against—into—you with his thumb. “Pretty omega.”
Then he corrects himself—
“My girl. My omega.”
It’ll kill you—you tell yourself, as he draws another breath from your lungs. Another pathetic whine, another helpless whimper. It’ll kill you—the way he crawls forward, kneels, and draws your waist upward. So your head rests against the floor, and your hips are flush against his. It’ll kill you—the way you can feel the sheer size of him, when he undoes his pants and pulls himself out—and you do not see, but you feel—oh, you can feel—the notch of his tip against your slick, and the slow, steady press that threatens to ruin.
“T-Too big,” you protest while he noses behind your ear. “It won’t fit—”
“It will. I’ll make it.”
Because you’re made for this—made for him. It’ll kill you—but it doesn’t. It’s a small death, perhaps, but it has you seeing stars—the stretch of him. The way he fills you.
When your nails claw into his chest, adding to the pockmarks and burns, he imagines they’re claws. He imagines that you’re as wild as him when he ruts into you—unable to set a pace, but bullying his way in. He wants to believe—because if you’re just as much of an animal, it would be easier to forgive himself. For touching, for wanting. For needing to consume you whole.
But consuming is as sugary as it is raw and unbridled. One hand may keep your hips tight in a vice grip, but the other cradles your nape—fingers cupping, brushing gently against your cheek. It keeps you steady enough that when his lips meet yours, it’s as tender and fond as a tentative first kiss. And the fervor that follows is slow; a cool burn that contrasts the urge of his thrusts.
Breed. Feed. Provide.
You kiss back.
You can taste yourself on his tongue, just as much as you can taste his spit. And he mouths open murmurs that have you keeling:
“Tight little thing, gonna make you round.”
“Fill you with pups—that what you want?”
“Barefoot an’ waiting for me at home. Can’t wait to come home to ya.”
Your mind flashes with snapshots of domesticity between the pleasure; home-cooked meals and sundresses, eating together in the kitchen. If you weren’t already crying from overstimulation, you would be now. Reminded of comforts you haven’t had in a while—of things from a quiet, far-away place. Somehow offered—pulled together—given freely by this beast of a man, who pulls you to the edge. Meets you at your release.
He buries himself deep, hips stuttering, accompanied by a heavy groan. A growl, maybe—as heat floods you, and an added swell begins to form. Locking him in, keeping you full with his bulge. Ensuring that nothing can escape—not even you.
Not when he's taken the mask from his face.
Scars litter his skin, just like the rest of his body. Sliced through his brow, down his cheek, into his lip. Cigarette burns scabbed over, turned to pink flesh across his nose; testaments of pain yet beautiful like freckles. Like stars that formed him from space-dust.
Safe, your brain murmurs, honey-sweet sinking into his arms. Safe, and consumed—this time not by gnashing teeth, but care and soft embrace. He lowers you back onto the mess of his shirt, pulls you fast against his chest and holds you as if you were the world. And you close your eyes against the doughiness of relaxed muscle, warm inside and out, for as you drift off, you decide: this stranger, this monster—this man is better than any nest.
When morning comes and he lays his head on your stomach, cheek pressed to the softness there, you soothe the locks of blond hair you pulled just hours before—all while he rubs circles on the plush of your thighs, running along bite marks he can’t recall giving. All he recognizes is the healing lesion on your neck. Hot as a brand, accepted as a ring.
“Simon,” he whispers, lifting his head to meet your gaze. “‘s my name. Simon Riley.”
The next time the door to your cell opens, you both will step out. He will lead the way, and he will feast on blood. He will rain destruction and hell on all who ever dared to touch you. A one man army with no general to hold him back; only the omega who remains perched over his shoulder—his darling angel of mine—whose hands he will keep clean, because he will slaughter with his own.
