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[98752-blog]

What Task Force 141’s Houses Would Look Like

John Price

- he lives in a cabin I cannot be convinced otherwise.

- very rustic, defo goes fishing or hunting for fun in his spare time

- likes to be away from the city

- its maximalist in kind of an organised chaos way he can find whatever he need’s immediately but to anyone else it looks kind of insane

- he’d be cleaner if he lived with someone - but yaknow #singledad

- very homey, warm vibes

- if the apocalypse ever hit you’d wanna be here, it’s decked out, secluded, he’s a bit of a doomsday prepper

- has once pissed outside to ‘mark his territory’ but you couldn’t torture that information out of him

- defo has that one room that is mysteriously locked and refuses to elaborate on when asked about it (Gaz secretly thinks it’s really cool) (it probably just has his fishing gear)

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

- very chic, cool tones

- screams “I did economy as an A-Level but I use pinterest”

- probably has had some type of dinner party with the 141 just to subtly flex to them that “in another life I was an interior designer”

- also defo cooks something with wine just, again to subtly flex his culture capital (he just wants some approval guys bless him)

- plant father - cannot be convinced otherwise

- very organised, keeps it pretty clean unless he’s feeling lazy which isn’t very often

- definitely has a record player - do not mention it or he will go on about how it “just sounds better” (with Price in the background nodding in agreement - but in an old man way)

- somewhere has a box of stuff that doesn’t fit his aesthetic but it’s shit he needs to keep anyways

John “Soap Mactavish

- messy as fuck, no rhyme or reason to it he just puts stuff down, forgets its there and thats just where it lives now COUGH man-child COUGH

- puts some of his drawings up on his walls

- defo has a comic book collection and some action figures

- bunch of childhood shit he refuses to throw away - criminal hoarder

- he likes the messy kind of boyish charm it has, every time his mom comes over she scolds him for it

- a bunch of stuff he’s collected from different places he’s gone, he’ll usually grab some stuff while on deployment if he has any free time, like snow globes or whatever

- went to Greece once and got one of those wooden dicks and finds it so funny, he says it’s the living room’s ‘conversation piece’

- he’s pretty clean when on base aswell, it’s just without the millitary’s structure or someone literally forcing him to clean up he doesn’t really care - it’s his house anyways

Simon “Ghost” Riley

- um

- yikes

- yeah you can tell he doesn’t really like spending time at home on leave

- the singular chair infront of the tv is so sad

- king of minimalism - if that’s what you wanna call it ig

- doesn’t bother decorating or getting anything past the bare essentials because what’s the point?

- doesn’t care it’s a shithole, he can afford a better house, but it kind of reminds him of home back in Manchester (crying)

- definitely chain smokes in his bathroom

- he’s got a treadmill there somewhere

- has a box full of his family’s belongings under his bed (crying again)

- no mirrors, only a small one in the bathroom to shave

- only item of decoration is a snow globe Soap gave him once, it sits next to his bed

[98752-blog]

rejecting simon riley because you don’t like blondes and he says, “not blonde all ‘round,” and when you shoot him a confused look he says, “curtains don’ match the drapes, but feel free to check yourself, bird.”

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your lieutenant won't take off his mask for you. ehhhh, but you can make it work, right? (18+, ghost x fem!reader)

"no one sees my face. not even you, bunny."

but you don't mind. his face surely isn't the thing that drew you to him in the first place. no, it was when you were sitting in a loud room, and it immediately went quiet because ghost shuffled in. when you watched him duck his fucking head to get through the door only to stand there broader than the width of it. when he looked down at you with what was definitely a scowl under that mask and grumbled out "little bunny" at you in the filthiest voice you'd ever heard.

he could call you those names all he wants; he likes bunnies.

it doesn't bother you, that he doesn't want to take off his mask. you can still kiss him nasty through it.

as far as you're concerned, that's his face. you pet it like it is as least, cupping his cheeks and pulling him close, nuzzling your nose against his. he huffs underneath it, but he never pulls away, and you lick a fat stripe over the bony cheek of his mask, whining when you taste salt and sand and gunpowder.

you soak it with your spit. you cradle his head, tilting it this way and that, flattening your tongue and licking over his jaw. he holds back a groan as you kiss him open-mouthed through it, pinching his fat cheeks and planting wet kiss after wet kiss over his puckered lips. his lips part easily for you, shaky breaths like music to you, and whenever you let out a soft moan, he can't help the way he fists your ass and pulls you closer.

you want him to taste you. you force his neck back, pulling his chin down, and you lean over him just enough that you can spit on the front of his mask. you press your face to his after, using your tongue to soak it into the fabric, and you practically purr when you feel his tongue pressing back, cotton practically dripping with your saliva as he sucks on it.

you can't wait to sit on his face next. top 10 ways to die, water-boarded by pussy has to be one of them.

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estimate for todays visit, for transparency:

they’re thinking that it could be cancer if it’s not stomach parasites like it was before.

if it ends up being something bigger than parasites, they’re recommending ultrasounds and more exploratory things.

if it ends up coming back as not parasites (meaning more tests will be needed for stuff like cancer) i will post the estimate for that, again to maintain transparency.

there’s never any pressure at all for this but i figured i’d put the link to my kofi here just in case. even a reblog would help <3

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OBSESSED with the whole american x 141 man combo. smut ahead!

Not necessarily giving up your identity when you move out of the US, just wanting to explore different cultures and see new things. Then you meet one of the boys, maybe it’s Kyle or Johnny, and they introduce you to your actual, literal husband within a week of knowing you. And Simon Riley isn’t a bad guy, they tell you, just a little rough around the edges. And you’re young, in a new country, you flew on a plane for the first time to get here and it didn’t go down so you feel invincible– and you fuck Simon Riley. 

The mask isn’t even in the equation, he won’t wear it when he’s not on a mission or on base, and he’s got a scar on his cheek that’s textured when you grab his face and kiss him. He tastes like bourbon. You taste like vodka and lime. He lays you down on your hotel mattress and spreads your legs and calls you love while he’s fucking you. 

“Fuck, lovie, like that. Take it like that.” you thought maybe the accent would make it too funny to be sexy but there might be something to be said about pavlov’s dog and the bell here…. 

He’s so big and so on top of you and he’s pushing your legs to your chest to pin you underneath him while he fucks you. You feel sorry for the other people on the floor the next morning but in moment all you can think is Simon, Simon, Simon and all you can do is beg him don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop– 

You’re so happy you got your IUD before you started traveling. 

Simon says sometimes he thinks he did it in the wrong order. You fucked and then he took you out to dinner. You tell him sometimes you wish he would have let you ride him that night. He remedies your wishes immediately, all the time. 

Did you know there’s only one Taco Bell in all of England? You crave chalupa’s so intensely that you once rode a train for an hour and a bus for three just to have the worst Taco Bell of your life. Did you know that almost 50% of Americans own a gun or are proficient with one? Color 141 the most surprised they’ve ever been when you go to a gun range while they’re stationed in Texas and Simon tries to teach you gun safety but you correct him the entire time. 

“I used to go hunting with my dad, Si, I know this.” and then you have decently good grouping that’s just a little to the left and Johnny tries to show you how it’s really done and– misses entirely. 

“Is that how it’s done, Johnny?” you taunt, smiling so cheekily that Simon can’t keep his own smile off his face. 

“Listen up, bonnie, I’ve done more training-” 

“Doesn’t seem like it to me.” you mumble. Simon swear he can see the steam coming out of Johnny’s ears. 

“Lass, so help me God, if you don’t-” 

“Poor baby, Johnny,” you frown, still taunting him, your hips sway as you walk up to him and take his face into your hands, “Did you get beat in a shooting contest by a civvie? Will you live to see another day?”  You shake his head in your hands and Johnny goes red for a completely different reason than his pride and anger. Johnny’s hands twitch, Simon can see him reaching for your sides as you release his face and step away from him. Soon, Simon wants to tell him, she’s going to tell you soon.

[98752-blog]

𝗂𝗆𝖺𝗀𝗂𝗇𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗍𝖿 141 + 𝗏𝖺𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗋𝗈𝗌 𝖺𝗌 𝗋𝗈𝗆𝖼𝗈𝗆 𝗍𝗋𝗈𝗉𝖾𝗌 ; 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝗇𝖾 ── .✦

── .✦ 𝗀𝗁𝗈𝗌𝗍 ; "𝖾𝗇𝖾𝗆𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗍𝗈 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗋𝗌."

it starts at 5 a.m. sharp. a crash of weights slamming against the floor and the unmistakable grunt of a man who takes his morning workouts very seriously. you lurch awake, heart hammering, and for a brief second, you wonder if the building is caving in. but no—just your upstairs neighbor, getting his reps in as loudly as humanly possible. you lie there, staring at the ceiling, silently willing the noise to stop.

it doesn't.

when it happens for the third morning in a row, you trudge upstairs, slippers half on, and knock firmly on the door. after a long pause, it swings open, revealing a sweaty man with cropped blond hair. his eyes are sharp over his black face-mask, a slant of annoyance running through his gaze.

"yes?" he says gruffly, not even bothering to hide the arch of his eyebrow as he sizes you up.

"can you not slam weights around before dawn?" you reply, crossing your arms. "some of us actually enjoy sleeping."

he tilts his head, looking genuinely mystified. "didn't think anyone could hear." he shrugs, clearly unconvinced. “guess you’ll just have to sleep through it. toughen up, yeah?”

you have a sharp retort ready on your tongue, but he's quicker, and cuts you off by shutting the door firmly in your face. in response, you throw a middle finger at his door, before stomping away.

that sets the tone for your neighborly interactions. every morning he’s around, the clanging and slamming jolt you awake. most times you storm upstairs to complain, only for him to give you the same blasé look, scratching at his ear and pretending he can’t quite be bothered.

in an unintentional form of retaliation, you started hanging out in the hallway with mrs. connolly, the sweet old lady next door to him and who’s taken quite a shine to you. you two exchange baking tips and the latest gossip, chattering at full volume about anything and everything. she fills you in on all the building’s quirks and, of course, the mysterious neighbor who’s as elusive as he is infuriating.

“oh, he’s a quiet one, that simon riley,” she says one day, stirring her tea with a conspiratorial glint in her eye. you freeze, the name catching you by surprise.

“simon riley…?” you echo, eyebrows lifting. you hadn’t even thought about his name —he’s always just been that guy upstairs to you.

mrs. connolly nods sagely. “military man, a lieutenant i think. quite a serious one, isn’t he?”

“well, that explains the discipline with those 5 a.m. workouts,” you add dryly. mrs. connolly chuckles, and the two of you devolve into a lighthearted conversation about how “simon riley” sounds like a character straight out of a spy novel.

in the days that follow, you make a point of casually calling him simon whenever he’s within earshot, mostly to see the way his eye twitches with annoyance. mrs. connolly’s intel has given you just enough ammunition to get under his skin, and you can’t help but enjoy the way he seems just a little thrown off when you use his name, even if it’s only to complain about his “dreadful racket” in the mornings.

it’s petty, but it feels like a small victory—and besides, there’s something almost fun about having a little mystery in your otherwise ordinary life.

one afternoon, while you’re deep in a conversation with mrs. connolly about the best way to make shortbread biscuits, your neighbour comes out of his apartment and pauses, narrowing his eyes at you. he stands there, crossing his arms, not saying a word but clearly unimpressed with your little alliance.

“afternoon, simon,” you say cheerfully, raising your mug of tea in a mock toast. mrs. connolly beams at him and then turns back to you.

"well, dear, if he’d just stop waking us up at all hours," she says in a loud whisper. you cover a snicker as he huffs behind his trademark face-mask, muttering something before he stomps off down the hall.

a few days later, you’re halfway down the hall of the first floor, keys in hand, when you catch sight of simon heading towards the stairs, accompanied by another man. this one’s a little bit shorter, with a mischievous grin and a dark mohawk, of all things. you fully intend to ignore them both, but you catch the new guy suddenly staring at you, blue eyes widening in sudden recognition.

“oh, mate, is this the one you’ve been on about?” he lets out a bark of laughter that echoes down the hall, slapping simon on the back. “no way. she’s—” he pauses to look you up and down, with a wide smile, “—a pretty little thing. how’s she givin’ ye so much trouble?”

simon’s jaw tenses visibly even under his face-mask, eyes flashing with irritation. “shut it, johnny,” he mutters, trying to shove him up the stairs.

but johnny doesn’t let up, still laughing like he’s just heard the best joke of his life. “seriously, mate, all that fuss? over her? i thought you had some kind of hardened enemy, and here you are with a… what did you call her? ah, right. a menace.” he winks at you, barely containing his amusement.

simon finally hauls johnny away, tossing one last glare over his shoulder before diapering up the stairwell.

you catch a few words—johnny's teasing lilt and simon’s familiar grumble—before their conversation fades. you can’t help but smile to yourself as you head out, replaying his friends words in your head. a menace? really? you start to wonder just how much you might be getting under simon riley’s skin.

and for some reason, that thought makes you grin the whole way to your own flat.

. . .

it’s late—way too late—and you’re wobbling down the hall, clutching your keys like they’re a lifeline. after a few tries, you manage to get the key somewhere in the vicinity of the lock, only to feel it slip again as you mutter a string of drunken curses under your breath.

that’s when you hear footsteps behind you. slow, steady, and very, very familiar. great. just what you need right now. you glance back, squinting, and find simon standing there, watching you with that infuriatingly stoic expression of his. the face-mask is on, as always.

“need a hand.” he says more than asks, deadpan.

“oh, please,” you snap, turning back to the door and waving him off. “i can—handle it. yes, just fine.”

he huffs, crossing his delicious thick arms, clearly unimpressed with your attempts. after a few more moments of struggle, you hear him sigh and step forward, plucking the keys from your fingers. “right, stand back,” he mutters, only to get a halfhearted smack on his arm.

“i don’t need your help, you big… brute…” you fumble for the right word, finally settling on, “brute.” it’s not your best work, but you’re too tipsy to care.

he just rolls his eyes, holding you back with one hand, his ginormous palm planted on your forehead as you swat at him. “christ woman, could you stand still for two seconds?”

you growl, stomping your foot in defiance, but he just shakes his head, unimpressed. when you lurch to the side, nearly losing your balance, he lets out a long-suffering sigh before grabbing you and, without another word, hoisting you up over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“put me down!” you shriek, squirming against him. “this is… this is kidnapping!”

“noted,” he grunts, adjusting his hold on you as he unlocks the door with his free hand. but the sudden movement—and the disorienting upside-down position—makes your stomach lurch.

“urp, i'm gonna be sick—!”

without a second’s hesitation, simon bolts for the bathroom, dropping you in front of the tub just in time. you throw up quite violently, leaning over the side like a ragdoll, your face a mixture of exhaustion and mortification as you let out an embarrassed groan.

simon stands there, arms crossed, watching you with amusement as you wallow in misery. “feel better now?” he asks, with just the slightest edge of teasing.

you shoot him a glare, though it’s more pitiful than intimidating. “i hate you.”

he snorts, grabbing a towel and crouching down beside you. “yeah, well, someone’s got to look after you, apparently.” he wets the towel and crouches down, grabbing your chin and rubbing your face like one would a messy child.

when he tries to tackle your smudged eyeliner, you wince as he rubs a little too hard, eventually muttering, “there’s… makeup remover under the sink.”

he mutters something and digs under the sink, retrieving a bottle with a squint as if it’s written in another language. he dabs some on the towel, and after a bit of struggling and muttering, he manages to wipe away the worst of the makeup, your face now mostly clean if not a little raw from his less-than-gentle technique.

once he’s satisfied, he mutters, “alright, lightweight. let’s get you to bed,” and, despite your mumbling protests, he drags you up to your feet by the armpits, before steering you toward your room.

simon doesn’t even blink as he works to get you out of your street clothes, his face set in a look of resigned focus. he easily wrestles you out of them, ignoring your slurred complaints all the way through. by the time you’re in your underwear, he’s somehow managed to remain completely unfazed.

he huffs before unceremoniously tossing you onto the bed. you bounce a little, blinking up at him in bleary surprise, but he’s already grabbing the blanket, clearly determined to make sure you’re tucked in whether you want it or not.

“alright, stay still,” he grumbles, trying to pull the blanket over you. but you resist, kicking a leg free with a defiant glare.

“oh, come on, stop bein’ difficult,” he sighs, rolling his eyes. without another word, he snatches your legs, holding them down as he wrestles the blanket back into place over you. you squirm, protesting half heartedly, but he just sighs again, long and exasperated.

finally, he manages to trap you snugly under the covers, and with a look of satisfied triumph, he steps back. you give him a tipsy glare, and the tiniest smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he mutters, “there. now, get some sleep, menace.”

. . .

you’d been avoiding him all week, too mortified to face him after the drunken episode. every time you think back on what you remember—him wrestling you out of your clothes with that deadpan expression, tucking you into bed like you were a petulant child—your stomach flips in embarrassment. and then there was the morning after: he didn’t make a sound. for the first time since you moved in, there was no obnoxious clinking of weights or 5 a.m. wake-up call, only silence.

somehow, that almost made it worse. his unexpected care, his silent, begrudging kindness, sent your heart into a confusing flurry. you couldn’t even summon the courage to complain about the noise the next day. and now, after days of dodging his presence, you finally muster the resolve to face him—or at least to find a way to casually bump into him. you're hoping to catch him outside his door so you can just…say thanks, maybe? apologize? you haven’t quite figured out which.

just as you’re rounding the corner on the staircase after another unsuccessful and very casual bump, there he is—coming up, looking every bit as unfazed as ever.

“was wonderin’ when you’d come out of hiding,” he says, crossing his arms and blocking your way with infuriating ease. he’s dressed like he’s come back from a run, wearing gray sweatpants, running shoes, and a hoodie pulled low over his head, with a cap underneath and his trademark face mask concealing most of his expression. you spot a very slight and small sheen of sweat under his jaw.

even half-covered, he watches you with that unsettling intensity, his eyes just visible under the shadow of his cap. you can feel your cheeks heating under his gaze.

you fumble for words, desperately grasping for something, anything, that doesn’t sound like the garbled mess going on in your head. “i—well, i wasn’t hiding. just, um… busy.”

“sure you were,” he says, his tone low, verging on amused. he tilts his head, giving you that assessing look that’s far too effective at unraveling any sense of calm you’d managed to muster. “and here i thought you’d come to complain about the noise again.”

you open your mouth to protest, but he’s right; you haven’t even thought about his early-morning workouts since that night. you’re suddenly very aware of the quiet thump of your heart, louder than it should be.

instead, you manage to stammer out, “actually, i… just wanted to thank you. for, you know. that night. and… everything else.”

simon shifts, almost as if he hadn’t expected you to say anything like that. “wasn’t much,” he says gruffly, looking away briefly, as if the staircase wall had suddenly become very interesting. “you looked like you were about to keel over. just did what anyone would’ve.”

“still,” you say, feeling your cheeks warm further. “it was… nice of you.”

he raises a brow, his mouth twitching into something that could almost be called a smile. “nice, huh?”

your flustered look must be all the answer he needs, because he lets out a low chuckle that only makes you more embarrassed. he finally steps aside, giving you just enough room to slip by him on the stairs. but as you pass, he reaches out, brushing his fingers against your arm in the lightest touch, almost as if it’s accidental.

“next time you’re planning a late-night escapade,” he says, voice teasing, “try not to make me carry you home, eh?”

you bite back a smile, nodding with as much composure as you can manage, though your heart’s still racing. his hand lingers just a second longer than necessary, and as you hurry back down the stairs, you can’t shake the feeling that he’s watching you go, a quiet smirk playing at his lips.

. . .

after weeks of working up the nerve, you finally decide to take the plunge. with mrs. connolly’s help, you spend an afternoon in the kitchen, crafting a perfect dish to charm simon’s grumpy heart—or at least to impress him enough to say yes when you ask him out. the whole plan is ready in your head: you’ll show up at his door, dish in hand, and maybe, just maybe, he’ll say yes and give you little smirk that’s almost a smile.

but as you pull the dish out of the oven, sweet but old mrs. connolly drops the bombshell. “oh, sweetheart, you know he’s gone away, don’t you?”

you stare at her, your face falling in utter disbelief. “gone? what do you mean gone?”

“he’s off on deployment. poor lad, probably working himself to the bone.”

back in your apartment, you toss the dish onto your table with a huff. you’d been so focused on getting everything just right that you didn’t even notice he hadn’t been around. you huff again, pulling a spoon from your drawer and digging into the dessert, muttering under your breath about infuriating, disappearing men who don’t even give a heads-up when they’re taking off for months. before long, you’ve devoured a good half of the dish, muttering the whole time, annoyed that you’re eating it alone instead of with him.

two months go by, and by now you’ve nearly given up on the whole idea. but then, one evening, as you’re heading up the stairs, you hear familiar heavy footsteps. turning, you see simon, just back from god-knows-where, looking as rugged as ever. your heart leaps, and before you know it, you’ve rushed up to him, breathless, emotions bubbling over.

“where the hell have you been?” you exclaim, hands flying up in exasperation. “do you know how long i—never mind, you probably don’t care, but i—” you trail off, realizing you’re practically throwing a tantrum in the middle of the hallway.

simon leans against the nearby wall, arms crossed, watching you with an amused glint in his eye. “look at you,” he murmurs, a smirk creeping onto his face, “y’damn near look like an angry kitten.”

your cheeks burn, and you open your mouth to snap back, but before you can, he reaches down, gently pulls down his face mask, and leans in. his lips brush the corner of your mouth, soft and fleeting, but enough to send your heart into overdrive. he says something about mrs. connolly putting him up to speed, and you barely have a moment to process it before he straightens up, turns you around with surprising gentleness, and gives you a playful smack on the butt.

“go on, menace,” he says, his voice low and teasing. “get ready. we’re going out. right here, right now.”

dazed and flustered, you glance back at him, heart pounding, and he gives you that almost-smile you’ve been dreaming about.

banner credit

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dreaming bout this

one time my bf was fucking me and he was expecting a call from a job offer at the time and they actually called while he was rearranging my guts so he stopped and answered the phone while still in me and the guy on the other line goes “mind if we just conduct the interview now so you don’t have to come in?” and this boy goes “sure” and then KEEPS FUCKING ME. he was on this phone interview for probably 20 minutes while absolutely wrecking my shit and at one point i started whining and he just put a hand around my throat and went harder and kept talking about sales with this guy on the other line and when i tell you i’ve never been more turned on in my life.....

AND he got the job.

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i dont consider myself a 'fashion guru' by any means but one thing i will say is guys you dont need to know the specific brand an item you like is - you need to know what the item is called. very rarely does a brand matter, but knowing that pair of pants is called 'cargo' vs 'boot cut' or the names of dress styles is going to help you find clothes you like WAAAYYYY faster than brand shopping

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pull our red string of fate harder i'm trying to jerk off

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Manhandled

I just colored my old work

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i want to be overstimulated so bad. i want to have a cock still pumping in and out of me even though i'm already cumming. i want to have my clit get numb from being rubbed so much. i want to cum so many times i've already lost count and i'm crying so hard. i want to beg him to stop, but then he'll threaten to refuse me orgasms and edge me months if i don't cum for him right now.

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"see how well it fits? it's like you were made for me." 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫

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Neighbors Alpha Ghost except he’s extremely polite for a man who is the biggest scariest alpha you’ve ever met. Alpha Ghost who’s lived beside you for years and has developed a rapport of trust with you, the sweet omega that lives next door. Ghost, who trusts you to watch over his place when he’s deployed and in return he helps you repair the various odds and ends in your place. Ghost who routinely asks you if you need anything from the store, and in return you give him baked sweets to take to base.

Ghost who’s gone for weeks at a time for work and you try not to entertain the idea that he may not come back, that one day you’ll wake up to your landlady emptying out his apartment and learning the hard way that you’ll never see him again. Ghost who always comes back, and feels a warm flush of fondness at the relief on your face when you see him again.

Ghost who once came home to find you cornered in the stairwell by an alpha you’d rejected, your face horrified at the things your would be suitor was snarling at you. Ghost who bodily hauled the smaller alpha down the stairs and threw him into the street with a snarled warning to never return, fangs bared beneath his mask. Ghost who returned to make sure you got home safe, and the next day helped you install a secure deadbolt for your safety.

Ghost who allowed himself a rare encounter that night when you hugged him in thanks, swallowing down tears and apologizing for the hassle. Ghost, who’s thought of the moment ever since, of how nice you smelled, how the feeling of you in his arms felt right.

Ghost, who hears you through the thin wall you two share a few weeks later, crying your eyes out. When you answer his gentle knock your face crumples. You confess that said rotten alpha showed up to your job and made a scene, and you were reluctantly let go because of the disturbance. Ghost, who for all his cold hearted demeanor and apathetic nature, feels only anger when you tell him this. Silently, Ghost vows to track down the fellow and discreetly ensure he’ll never hassle another omega again.

Ghost who stays at your request despite himself, allows you to put on old TV reruns and sniffle into his shoulder before you fall asleep there on the couch. Ghost, who’s instincts swell with pride at this omega who deems him safe enough to let into your den, to keep you safe while you rest against him.

Ghost who hears from you a week later, when you knock on his door embarrassed but standing strong with your fists clenched at your sides. Ghost, who is amused at your demeanor and listens as you tell him you have money for rent and groceries this month, but not for your suppressants. Ghost half expects you to ask for money, but is floored when you instead steel yourself and ask him to help you with your coming heat because you trust him. Ghost who freezes where he stands and finally tells you he’ll consider it, unable to shake your pleased smile for hours afterwards.

Ghost who sits on it for a few days, ignores the possessive, prowling thing in his chest as he weighs his options but agrees to help you. Ghost, who watches Price raise an eyebrow when he puts in for leave- his lieutenant who never seems to stop working, but approves it anyways. Ghost who researches what omegas need during heats, from nesting supplies to physical touch to…everything else and tries to remind himself it’s just a favor. It doesn’t mean anything, even if you asked him out of everyone else you know.

Ghost who gets a text on a lazy Sunday morning and is in your flat five minutes later willing but oddly nervous. He expects to find you in a state of debauchery but instead pads into your bedroom to find you curled under the covers sweating and glassy eyed, still coherent to smile and offer a weary thanks. Ghost who supplies a bag of scent laden clothes that has you curling into his familiar smell with a pleased whine. Ghost who tries his best at making you food while you arrange the clothes into a nest with sluggish limbs.

Ghost, who stiffly sits at your bedside and dabs at your sweaty brow, ignoring the flare of base instinct at the sweet, hypnotic smell of an omega in heat. His omega, his instincts purr. Just not yet. Ghost who cedes to your demands to cuddle, watching you go pliant and soft in his arms with a sigh, drinking in his scent as you drift off to sleep.

Ghost who wakes up hours later to you squirming and whining against him, panting and hazy eyed as the telltale scent of slick clouds his nose and draws an answering, primal growl from deep in his chest. Ghost who, with great restraint and gentleness works to prep you with large, calloused fingers, taking more time that he should just to make sure you’re ready. Ghost who firmly hushes your complaints and instead allows himself the selfish act of being completely involved in you, far beyond that of a clinical touch. Ghost who smears your tears of desperation with his thumb, murmurs a dark and heady “pretty omega” before finally, finally sinking into you.

Ghost, who maneuvers you as he pleases, watching the awareness fade from your eyes only to be replaced by heat-addled lust and your lips begging for more. Ghost who braces his full weight on you and rocks with slow, powerful motions that have you hiccup and writhe under him, pushing back onto his cock. Ghost who’s fangs pop out as he carefully refuses the instinct to bite the gland of the mewling, whimpering omega underneath him, but failing to restrain the instinctual growl of MINE that thunders in his chest.

Ghost who makes you come so slick dribbles down your thighs and you fist the sheets with a whimper of his name. Ghost who coos praises into your ear and grinds his cock into you so your eyes roll back into your head. Ghost who has you come twice more before he finally empties himself into you and silently feels the instinctual hope that it takes. Ghost who has no need to measure his stamina, ready to go again in minutes as you reach blindly for him, presenting oh so prettily for your alpha.

Ghost who takes all the time in the world for the days that follow, allowing himself to cave to the alpha instinct of providing, protecting, caring for the perfect little omega in his care. Ghost who watches you like shark as you fall asleep in the bath, sitting you in his lap after and making you eat before sinking you on his cock again. Ghost who coos at you as you go slack jawed and glassy eyed as he mounts you once more- ruining the sheets he just changed as you gush around him.

Ghost who wakes on the third day sore in all the best ways, noticing the way you cling to him like an octopus as you sleep. Ghost who pets at you fondly and noticed the scent of your heat finally ebbing away, blissfully shortened by his attentions. Ghost who watches your peaceful face and once more purrs happily at the thought that you’re his.

Ghost who can’t help but think about the next time he’s due to rut, about stretching you out on his knot and feeling the sensation of you clench down on him in climax. Ghost who reminds himself that it’s only one thing to look forward to, that courting is a careful process and that you deserve to be treated well in the duration of it. Ghost who now lays a palm on your scent gland and rumbles deep and primal, fulfilled at you being soaked in his scent, warding off any other alphas. Ghost who promises you and himself to do this right, to be the mate you need him to be.

Ghost who drifts back off thinking how beautiful his claiming bite might look against your throat.

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being talked through an orgasm >>>

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It occurs to me that there are people who weren’t on this website in 2012 and therefore never saw the magical gif that you can actually hear:

It’s been over five years and that still impresses the hell out of me.