aphelionwrotes11

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Typical Soap moment🩷

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they are That couple

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Tfw when men do that thing where they pretend they have no control over their temper. LOL It’s so funny like am I supposed to pretend that I don’t know you’re completely self-aware and present during this rage performance. Or should I pretend you’re the tortured hero in a movie, possessed by a series of fabricated flashbacks of the war and your father

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(a low-effort, self-indulgent post about 141 x sunshine reader with a love for flowers <3)

Moving to a military town had been a gamble. You weren’t military, had no family in the service, and you had no real reason to pick this particular place other than the fact that it was safe, stable, and quiet. The houses were affordable, the people were friendly enough, and you figured you could make a home here. Besides, you were far enough from the base to avoid their early morning drills but close enough to still feel secure.

And it was nice. Really, it was.

The town had its charm. It was small, orderly, and filled with people who were either part of the military or had long grown used to living in the shadow of it.

You just hadn’t expected it to be so… plain.

Everything was muted, designed for practicality rather than beauty. Row after row of beige houses, identical porches, yards that were neat but uninspired. It felt more like a barracks than a town, and you knew you wouldn’t last long surrounded by such monotony.

So, you changed it.

Within a week of moving in, your porch was transformed into a floral wonderland. Ivy and jasmine vines trailed along the railings, hanging baskets, overflowed with cascading petunias, swung from the beams, and the front steps were lined with carefully arranged potted blooms. Roses, marigolds, lavender- anything that could inject some color and life into the dull uniformity of the street.

And the town noticed.

It started small- passersby slowing down, lingering in front of your house, knocking to ask if they can take pictures. Then came the comments at the local market.

“Did you see the new house on [] Street? The one covered in flowers?”

“I thought I was dreaming- looked like something out of a storybook!”

“Oh, that’s her place. She’s always out there, tending to them. Such a sweet thing, always smiling.”

And then came the soldiers.

One morning, while you were watering your newest additions- lilies this time- a group of soldiers on their way to base slowed in front of your house. Their conversation died off, replaced by muttered confusion.

“Didn’t know we had a damn botanical garden in town.” One of them said, adjusting the strap of his gear bag.

“Are those-” Another squinted at your newest arrangement. “Does she change them?”

“She does,” a woman in the group confirmed; you had seen her before, you were sure. “Saw her planting new ones last week. Honestly, it’s nice.”

You smiled to yourself, pretending not to notice as they carried on their way.

But it didn’t stop there.

Another soldier stopped during his run, hands on his hips as he took in your porch. “Hell of a setup.” He commented, glancing at you.

“Thank you!” You beamed, wiping your dirt-streaked hands on your shorts. “Wouldn’t want the town looking too drab, now would we?”

His lips twitched. “Well, you’re succeeding.”

More and more soldiers began to take notice. Some just passed by with lingering glances, others stopped to admire the work. A few even asked for gardening advice- one particularly flustered private admitted he wanted to impress his girlfriend with a flower arrangement but had no idea where to start. You happily helped him pick out a selection, even wrote him a little care guide.

It wasn’t just the passing soldiers, either.

Older women in town would stop by just to chat about your arrangements, some even bringing over cuttings from their own gardens. Parents would pause during walks, their children pointing excitedly at the bright flowers and fairy lights you had strung along the porch. The local baker started leaving small bags of cookies at your door with notes like, Your flowers made my morning brighter!

And then there was Task Force 141, as they’d eventually introduce themselves to you.

The first time you caught Captain John Price standing on your sidewalk, arms crossed as he stared at your house, you thought you were in trouble. He had the kind of presence that demanded respect- commanding, observant, the weight of experience in every movement.

“You lost?” you teased anyways, adjusting a pot of marigolds, and hoping he wouldn’t consider you disrespectful.

Price huffed a quiet laugh, eyes flicking between the vines, the flowers, the fairy lights. “No. Just… wasn’t expecting this.” He gestured vaguely at the floral explosion around you.

“Well,” you grinned. “I refuse to live somewhere that looks like a training camp. You are the soldiers, not me.”

That had been the start of it.

Soap was the next to visit. He showed up a few days later, leaning against your railing as he inspected a cluster of bright yellow sunflowers. “Got any of those that’ll survive my terrible luck?”

You hummed, then handed him a small, sturdy succulent. “Try not to kill it.”

Then came Gaz, who always claimed he was “just passing through” but somehow always found himself near your house. He asked questions- what flowers worked best for balconies? His mum has a love for tending to flowers as well. Did you have any recommendations for someone who had never taken care of a plant in his life?

Regardledd, you happily enjoyed chatting with him, and he left with a small potted fern, promising to send updates.

And then there was Ghost.

Ghost never exactly visited, but you saw him. Once, when you were rearranging your display and muttering about getting new soil, you spotted him standing across the street, arms folded as he observed your work. He didn’t say anything- just gave a barely perceptible nod before disappearing back into the shadows.

But the next morning, a heavy bag of high-quality soil rested against your porch steps. No note. No explanation.

But from what the others had told you of him… you knew who it was from.

The townsfolk had opinions about that, too.

“That group’s been sniffing around your place an awful lot,” Mrs. Holloway, the town baker, noted one morning as she handed you a fresh loaf of bread. “You got yourself a security detail, dear?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I think they just like the flowers.”

The butcher, a gruff man who had lived in the town longer than anyone, grunted in agreement. “Good. Those boys need something nice to look at.”

Even the local barista took notice. “Gaz came in the other day asking if we had any floral-themed drinks,” she giggled, leaning in close to you. “I swear, he’s trying to impress you.”

Ultimately, the town adored what you were doing. Where once there had been dull uniformity, now there was life. People started adding their own touches- small flower pots, window boxes, even a few hanging baskets inspired by yours. The air felt lighter, more welcoming.

And the 141?

They had seen the worst the world had to offer. They had fought in places where beauty was a distant memory, where survival took precedence over everything else.

Yet, somehow, you- sunshine incarnate, with dirt-streaked hands and a smile that could brighten even the darkest day- had managed to burrow into their hardened hearts.

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Raspberry girl thoroughly fucked to the brink of stupidity, laying on the couch watching Simon make her dinner while smiling to herself about how she breaks her back at work and bakes all day, but at home she never lifts a finger.

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Little continuation to this because I can’t help it

Seal Soap that gets along with seal Reader better than anyone else: better than Price, better than Kyle, better than Ghost.

Drives the latter one a little mad that his boy is so fucking whipped.

That his boy can’t help but stick with you and smooch you like there is no tomorrow. Like that’s a perfectly regular thing to do.

And while Kyle (who came back flustered and smitten) tried to explain the delicacies of seal to seal communications, Simon doesn’t fucking buy it. There is no such thing as wordless communication, there are scents of course, there are signals and sounds. But completely silent talk initiated by kisses? No, that’s bullshit if you ask him.

Unfortunately, no one fucking does.

Johnny walks you to breakfast and lunch and dinner. Johnny jogs to yours side as soon as you enter the gym, Johnny rolls over so you can have a spot next to him when he’s sunbathing (and bastard never rolls over, he’s greedy fuck who doesn’t like sharing his warm sunny place).

Johnny twitches his upper lip to show off sharp teeth when someone else gets too close to you, guarding new seal on his team like a bloody treasure.

And you don’t seem to mind all the attention.

No, you hum pleased when Soap shares his fish with you, you give him back scratches and quietly groom him in the rec room, you share parcels from home with him.

Simon doesn’t like that you get so quickly acquainted with his boy. Simon doesn’t like that you seem not interested much in whether or not he likes things.

Simon is used to be the biggest meanest dog in the compound, but when he presses you don’t back down and don’t cower. Seems like he isn’t the biggest one anymore.

You smile at him, sharp points of your teeth peeking from under your upper lip but your eyes are cool and it takes him every ounce of willpower not to growl in your face.

Slippery fucking seal, he hates that he doesn’t have grounds for being a bigger dick to you than he already is.

He hates that both Kyle and Johnny seem to disapprove that.

But you aren’t going anywhere.

You chuckle when Gaz shows off his sharpshooting skills, you patiently watch their eagle’s training routine and offer to spot him. You pretend not to notice the way sergeant Garrick stares unblinking at the sliver of skin that shows when you stretch your hands above your head and your T-shirt rides up a little.

You kiss Soap whenever and wherever you feel like, not paying any mind whether or not someone might see it.

You press a short smooch to Soap’s lips during the drills and missions — getting returned one as quickly as yours was given, because Johnny is whipped and “it helps to calm the nerves”. Because apparently you can’t just communicate with words like the rest of them and need to have this secret third thing.

You catch Johnny’s lips routinely, biting his lower lip, rubbing against his stubble like it really can give you some information that you can’t get otherwise. You kiss him after swimming, getting salt off his lips, getting his spirits so high a little more and sergeant is gonna become a bloody kite.

You cup Johnny’s face and press your lips to his — slow and gentle, tongue already sliding between his lips, Soap’s hands holding onto your hips — fingers sinking into the fatty tissue of your ass. It’s not rushed in the slightest, your cool lips meeting his, Soap thumbing the dimples on your lower back so you arch into him. So he has a “just” reason to get handfuls of your ass.

Simon accidentally walks in onto one of these sessions and like a bloody creeper stays in the shadowed corner because the two of you seem a bit preoccupied with whatever “conversation” you have been having.

But to give you two your due — the make out session is indeed silent. There are no whispers, no exchanged sweet nothings, no secret confessions. Nothing.

Like you two can actually talk like that.

Like it is an actual thing.

Simon doesn’t want to admit that it unnerves him ever more. A fling, a moment of passion added to urge to mess with the team he could understand. This? Whatever this is, he can’t. He doesn’t know how.

There is a quiet soft intimacy in the way you hold each other, in the way your kiss seems never ending, in the way you two break it only to rub cheeks or noses. It’s intimacy Ghost hasn’t seen before and he doesn’t know what to make of it.

Not like he can ask, right?

Simon leaves as quietly as he came, trying to mull it over, trying to come up with something — anything — that would fill in the gaps he can feel under his ribs.

He is all heavy bulk and heavy boots and heavy glares, but it doesn’t seem to phase you when you finally corner him in the gym.

Eyes so calm it drives him up the wall, eyes so gentle he feels like wrestling you to the floor so you finally get the point and stay the fuck away from him.

But you just angle his face to you and tap the hem of his mask silently. Eyes calm and chest pressing into his, pressing him into the wall so he can’t run and hide. Slippery fucking seal, he should teach you some fucking manners so you don’t get too cocky around your superiors.

And maybe if you said a single thing he’d push you away. Maybe if you asked him for something, he’d bristle and growl and sneer. But you don’t so Simon is not sure what to make of it.

He just pulls balaclava just above his lips, scar crossing them, part of his upper lip gnarly ugly thing that healed a little too high and left him with perpetual snarl. It’s not pretty.

He isn’t pretty.

Not like Johnny with his shiny eyes and wide smiles, not like Kyle with his full lips and proud slope of the nose.

He knows he isn’t pretty but the wolf in him still gets ready to snap jaws on your neck the moment you mention it. Simon knows he is nothing special, he’d rather a pretty seal didn’t comment on his appearances.

You don’t know his story and he prefers it stays that way.

The feel of cool fingers on his jaw snaps Ghost out of it, your eyes still calm and endless, your breathing ghosting over his lips — you are close enough to drink into his every breath. Close enough to taste desperation rolling off him in waves.

Close enough for him to get handfuls of your ass and pull you flush against him.

Got you, slippery seal. He caught you. He won.

But you don’t seem to mind it, your nose just pressing to his cheek — slowly, like you aren’t sure how much you can do before Simon loses his mind and either mounts or mauls you right on the floor of this gym.

Simon isn’t sure himself what he’d like to do more.

Your breathing on his cheek is feather-soft when you gently rub on his stubble. The same way you did with Johnny just a few days prior. The seal greeting you two do tirelessly.

Ghost hums quietly and tilts his head to the side, so you can reach better, his hands no longer gripping but slowly groping your bum now. Like he is finally letting himself savor it without the fear of your slipping right through his fingers.

There is a beat after which you finally press your lips to his, catching them like he’s an old friend you are happy to see — your tongue asking for permission like Simon isn’t pushing his in your mouth the moment you kissed him.

Simon is all hunger and sharp teeth and heavy glares, but you kiss him and he melts. You open the soft wet heat of your mouth and be pushes his tongue inside, finally tasting for himself salt on your tongue and points of your canines and the gurgly needy sounds your throat makes when he devours your mouth.

When his fingers get to underside of your ass and inner side of your thighs.

Slippery seal, don’t you know that he is the biggest meanest dog in this compound?

But your palms slide under waist of his pants, your nails digging into his lower back so he can’t help but arch into you.

Well, not anymore, he is not.

Ghost grins in your mouth and licks the grin off the tips of your teeth, hoping to poke himself too hard and finally bleed in the chatty mouth of yours.

Seal to wolf communication, eh? That’s something he can understand.

That’s something he’d like to become proficient in.

The next time you press a kiss to Johnny’s lips is during brief and no one spares you a second glance.

By this point, it’s a routine and you two never lose too much time doing this so if seals need to communicate, the rest are going to leave you to it.

Only this time you don’t limit yourself with just Johnny, reaching out to Simon right after — pulling him in by the scruff of his neck and giving him a short smooch as well. Like it’s a completely normal thing too.

Price pauses mid sentence, giving you a long unreadable stare before finally arching his brow, thick cigar between his lips heating up when he pulls air in.

Komodo dragons thrive on hierarchy and you are starting to push it. Thin ice there.

“Seal to wolf communication, sir.”, your grin is wide enough to show off tips of your canines, eyes crinkling when Kyle looks at Ghost with the look of utter betrayal on his face.

Yeah, you will need to come up with something to sweeten it for pretty eagle sergeant as well.

“Didn’t know it was a thing. Can he talk with seals too?”, Price looks utterly unimpressed, eyes heavy with something you can’t quite make out.

“No, sir.”, the answer is as honest as they get, your grin only widening when Ghost slowly licks his lips, lieutenant’s eyes heavy in a way that unrolls a sweet aching in your belly.

Big mean bastard he is. Big bad wolf.

“But he can feel the vibes. Right, L.T.?”, you turn to him and Simon tilts his head to the side, his tail wagging behind him, his tail smacking your thigh every time it moves.

Price looks at Ghost with the look of exasperated parent but lieutenant seems to be finally content with the way things are.

Lieutenant finally doesn’t mind the seal to seal communication.

Not when he has his own now.

Big bad wolf just wanted to be included, didn’t he?

“Yeah. I sure can.”, he finally huffs out and leans on you, corner of his lips twitching when you have to steady yourself not to tip over. Big mean bastard.

Simon tilts his head to the side, like never before reminding you of his animal side — deep seated eyes of his glimmering from underneath the dark hover of his brows.

“Though I feel like the first check was too hasty”, he muses words slowly, syllables rolling on his tongue, accent thickening. There is laughter simmering on the bottom of his irises, the heated sort of fun.

“Mind givin’ it another go, luv?”

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boys from the bay(verse)

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Mafiaboss!Simon, who is a complete asshole to any and every damn one.

Mafiaboss!Simon when he gets absolutely starstruck for once in his life when he realizes the person he had a meeting for deals with was a woman and not a man.

Mafiaboss!Simon getting flustered under his balaclava and his men KNOW it, but you don't.

Mafiaboss!Simon just agreeing to whatever you say unless it's specifics cause he just can't find it in himself to say no.

Mafiaboss!Simon hating himself for thinking of taking you home and doing everything. Sex, cooking, movies. It don't matter. If it's you, he wants it.

Mafiaboss!Simon being crazy respectful, "Ma'am", "Miss", "Mrs. Y/N".

Mafiaboss!Simon going home afterwards to fuck his fist while whimpering your name like a bitch.

Mafiaboss!Simon not having the guts to ask you out till weeks later

Mafiaboss!Simon being absolutely rocked when you both agree to go to his home for the night, and you weren't afraid to fuck him silly.

Mafiaboss!Simon babbling in his thick accent about how good you feel, how pretty you are, and how much of a good mama you'd be to his kids. He didn't mean to say it. But hey? A kink you can use to your advantage for sure.

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Something something becoming an accidental prostitute for Simon lol.

Hear me out though, you’re at a bar. You’re making out, you’ve had a little too much to drink. Not enough to be completely gone like you’re sure Simon is but enough to be making out with a stranger.

Then you’re back in his truck, he’s practically begging for you to let him fuck you and you say no. You ‘don’t do that type of shit, one night stands and all that’ you say. Simon’s next thing is to beg for a blowjob, you again say no. ‘Part of the boyfriend package’ blah blah blah.

Then Simon delivers his final offer. He is so desperate he offers to pay for a handjob, he cringes after the words come out of his mouth thinking you’d be offended. But to his surprise you say yes. You need the money, and want him to feel good so why the heck not.

And it’s the best damn handjob he’s had in his life.

He drives you home and soon enough after a few days he’s at your door offering more money for another handjob. You feel a little dirty but when his calloused hand slides up your thigh and his hot breath is fluttering on your neck, the feeling fizzles away into something else.

Seeing him come undone with just your touch drives you wild, it becomes increasingly difficult not to do more for him. So when Simon comes over again, this time you kneel in front of him watching as his dark eyes widen when your knees hit the ground.

And just like your handjobs, it’s the best damn blowjob he’s ever had in his life. All sloppy and filthy, not like he imagined but so much better.

You don’t ask for anything but after Simon has kissed you goodbye -(after he’s done begging to let him make you cum)- you turn to find a stack of cash on the coffee table, almost double the amount he’d given for the handjob.

It’s not long after that, that you give in and let him spend hours between your thighs. He even pays you for that, mumbles into your cunt that it’s just as good as your lips around his cock as he ruts his hips into the mattress. You don’t see it until later, long after he’s left, but there is a triple stack of cash on your nightstand.

A day later you receive a text from him saying he’ll be gone for a couple of weeks on work but he can’t wait to see you when he’s back. You feel a strange fluttering sensation in your tummy that makes you feel sick. You thought Simon was the type to hide his feelings and be more stoic and blunt so seeing that message from the hulking giant has your stomach in knots.

It stays that way, you can’t rid the feeling so much so that when he finally shows up at your door you tell him whatever it is between you had to end. It was certainly not the welcome Simon was expecting after dealing with a gruelling mission with nothing but men for weeks on end. He feels something snap in his mind and suddenly he’s throwing you on the bed, gripping your jaw, brown eyes glaring into yours as he speaks, “I’m not goin nowhere sweet’art.”

You ‘fight’ with him blah blah blah but let’s get real you let him finger fuck your pussy until you go cross eyed. You let him fuck you into the mattress until you can barely remember your own name. You let him kiss your neck until the sun starts to rise. And you let him pull your body into his as you both drift off to sleep together.

In the morning you hear the envelope, heavy with weight to it, placed down on your nightstand. Then Simon kisses your forehead and whispers he’ll be back later to take care of you.

Then, the money stops appearing but he’s still fucking you. Soon the rent is paid in cash by an anonymous ‘good samaritan’. And before you know it, you’re waking up with a glittering diamond on your wedding finger and a swollen belly that moves when Simon says I love you.

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after school pick up

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𝐀𝐱 𝐆𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟖 - 𝐅𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐩𝐬

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick/Fem Reader Zombie apocalypse AU (all parts here)

Watching the biters shuffle out of view, you can’t help but picture that uncomfortable image: the lifeless bodies of your friends, strewn around the soggy camp as a gruesome feast for the undead.

That’s what you’d surely find right now, if you could somehow teleport yourself to the middle of the brand new red zone. They were just left there to be torn apart. A decoy in death, distracting the biters for miles so their murderer could get away. Barbaric.

“I gotta piss.”

You gape at Gaz when he starts to shuffle out of the overhang, not a full minute after the last biter disappeared through the trees. 

“There’s biters!”

“Eh. They’re not as bad as people make out.” He leaps effortlessly down from the ledge, onto the damp leaves below. 

He may think they’re slow and stupid, but you’ve personally witnessed just how fast they can move when they’ve picked up a trail of blood. Perturbed, you’ve just sucked in a breath to argue, when you witness him shoot a quick glance at you over his shoulder, with a tiny smile tugging at his mouth.

Prick. Baiting you as usual. 

“Enjoy your fucking piss,” you call after him, and mentally add, hope you get your dick bitten off. 

He doesn’t even attempt to get out of eyesight, just puts his back to you and unzips in front of the nearest tree. Of course he makes you listen to the disgusting spatter of urine on the forest floor. Of course he’s that kind of person.  

Averting your eyes, you attempt to gather yourself together and take stock of your various aches and itches. Specifically, you need to check how your new boots held up to the journey overnight. They were remarkably comfortable, so if you’re lucky, you made a smart swap the other day. 

Gratified to find them perfectly intact, your eyes wander further up your body, and your shriek of horror bursts out so abruptly, it makes birds take flight from the trees.

“Fuck, what is it?” Gaz demands, whipping around and yanking at his zipper.

“What is this?” you half scream, half choke at him, clawing your coat off.

The concern on his face quickly drops away to boredom, once he realizes the source of your distress. “A fucking winter coat, that you won’t survive without.”

Throwing the horrible thing onto the ledge past your feet, you jam your hand into the dark crevice of rock and close your fist around a decently sized stone. “That. Is. Nick’s.”

“Got no use for it now. It’s not got any blood on it, if that’s what you’re–”

The impact of a well-placed rock thudding against his shoulder cuts him off real fast, as he’s knocked back a startled step. 

Blazing, furious eyes lock on yours, but you simply don’t have it in yourself to give a fuck. Quickly you grab a bunch of smaller rocks as backup, and sit there breathing fast, silently daring him to come after you. It’ll only take a second for your hand to whip around again and pellet him with pain. 

“That is not,” you growl through your teeth, “what I’m fucking worried about.”

He knows you have the high ground. He hasn’t moved a step towards you since you threw the rock, hasn’t looked anywhere but your face. You’re in the superior position, but you have a limited supply of rocks. Meanwhile his weapons are all up here with you, but you doubt you could get your hands on any of them before he found a way to settle the score. 

“Last will and testament,” he finally says, jerking his chin towards the crumpled brown coat. “Gave it to you. Told me so.”

The rocks in your hand shift around, as you grind them together in fury. “Did he, Gaz? Really? That’s what you’re going with?”

“Said it was the least he could do for being such a disgusting sicko, wanking over you every chance he got.”

“Unlike you,” you sneer, your voice dripping with hatred. 

“Fucking hell. You finished tossing your toys out the pram? We’ve got to get going.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere with you.”

He belatedly does up the button on his pants. “You really think you’re in a position to be going off on your own?”

“I’ll take my chances with the biters.”

“You won’t last the week,” he assures you evenly, hands on his hips.

The week. This is your last day not bleeding, and then you’ll be cramping and vulnerable, and you need someone to watch your back. Someone to find water, set up shelter, tend to your wounds. It’s slow, cruel suicide to have your period alone in the woods. You just can’t burn the bridge just yet. 

“I don’t want to wear that coat,” you finally admit, relinquishing your handful of pebbles back into the dirt. 

Your eyes drop to his face again, soft this time. Communicating how scared you feel, how innocent and helpless you are. It’s just one thing, your precious little blinky eyes tell him. Come on, Gaz, can’t you give in on this one thing? 

His face turns cold at your attempted manipulation, shifting his shoulder as if it hurts. “Go piss, woman.”

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It’s like that for the rest of the morning. You don’t talk, and he doesn’t talk. You just ignore your half damp clothes, and trod on for hours. 

The food is nice. Without Doran’s usual rations, and with a burning hatred of Gaz, you quite happily munch away at a decent chunk of what you brought. That’s what puts you in good spirits. That, and stopping to brush your teeth. Clean teeth and a full belly is really all it takes sometimes. 

Until you start to actually pay attention.

“Why are we going north?” you demand suddenly, feet stumbling to a halt. 

“Because that’s the fastest way to get somewhere cold,” Gaz replies over his shoulder, not bothering to stop and explain. 

“Are you… kidding?”

You stare slack-jawed at Gaz’s retreating back, mentally scrambling to comprehend how many hours you just lost, going for so long in the opposite direction of where you’re supposed to be headed. 

It’ll take two days to make up for it. Two days on your period, when extra walking might be the difference between life and death, especially if it means skirting around the bloody camp. 

And Gaz won’t stop walking. 

“Why the fuck would you want to go north for the winter?” you ask, having to run to catch up to him. 

“Biters are made of flesh. What do you think happens to them when it drops below freezing?”

You scowl at the ground as you walk, considering. “They… freeze?”

“Safest place to be is up north. We’re just lucky the weather’s changing.”

Lucky, yeah, right. Switching the threat of biters for the inevitability of losing all your fingers to frostbite sounds fucking genius. 

You’re going to have to get away from him, or change his mind. There are no sanctuary cities in the north, so he’s leading you away to certain death, on some insane theory about frozen corpses. And every step you take in the wrong direction is a step away from the safety Doran was always so sure about. 

Gaz stops suddenly, forcing you to come to a halt as well so you won’t smack into his pack. 

“What?” you whisper, peering around his body. 

“Marsh lands.”

Gaz tests the ground in front of him, his boot sinking a few centimeters into the damp grass. 

Great. Wet feet.

“Walk in my footprints,” he mutters, beginning to trudge through the squelching mass of underbrush. 

You wrinkle your nose in distaste. “What? Why?”

But he’s already begun the trek, not sparing you a backwards glance as he makes his way through the swampy land. 

“I don’t think we should get our feet wet,” you call over at him irritatedly.

“You won’t.”

Somehow, he’s right. Most of the time he weaves around and manages to find the high ground as you go, and the only things you have to worry about are his stupidly long strides, and the occasionally strong suck of mud on your boots. 

It’s exhausting.

In no time, your thighs are burning with the strain. The only options you have are to press on, or to beg him for a break, and both of them seem so impossible that you just get more and more upset at the situation. 

Long step after long step, you dutifully plop your feet down in his stupid footprints, and the uneven land continues to run your energy to the ground. 

Shluck, shluck, shluck.

“Gaz,” you huff finally, stopping to rest your hands on your hips. “Stop taking such big steps.”

He doesn’t stop. The prick keeps going at the same relentless pace, bow notched in his hand and scanning the trees for movement. 

So fuck him.

You start walking at your own pace, well outside of his impossible footsteps. 

And like a total piece of shit, he hears your change in stride and turns to glare at you. 

You give him the same look right back, imagining plunging that arrow straight into his chest with your bare hands. 

“I need you to stay in my footsteps.”

“Why?” 

He glances pointedly down at your independent footprints. “Because you walk like a woman.”

“I don’t think anybody will care if they think a biter is following you.” The idea of Gaz being pursued by the undead is so comforting, you can’t help but smile coldly to yourself. 

“I said you walk like a woman, not a biter.”

“And I, actually, don’t give a fuck.”

Your breath catches as you watch his eyes narrow and a muscle in his jaw tick up and down. It’s not fear that’s rushing through you, it’s relief. It’s so nice to be able to cuss someone out for once. Someone who deserves it, more than anyone else you’ve ever met out here. You can say what you want, because it really doesn’t matter if he likes you or not — you’re fucked regardless. 

Gaz silently secures the bow over his shoulder, and takes a step towards you. It’s an effort to hold your ground without flinching.

“Are you hoping to be carried?” he asks sarcastically, but with a real threat of something worse, laced into the words.

You open your mouth to retort back something just as ridiculous, but then you think better of it, in a flash of divine inspiration. 

“Yes. Carry me, I’m tired.”

The bluff is set up so perfectly, because you both know there’s no way he can walk with you in his arms for more than a minute. He was banking on your aversion to touching him, and your pride, but he doesn’t know you, and he guessed wrong.

Gaz stares at you, and you look steadily back at him, raising your eyebrow in challenge.

He doesn’t say anything. Just steps up to your body, leans down, and scoops your thigh up onto his shoulder.

“What are you doing?” you shriek, finding yourself suddenly half upside down, with his arm wedged between your legs, and one of your sleeves secured tightly in his hand. 

He shuffles your weight across his shoulders with a grunt. “Fireman’s carry. It’s the most efficient way to carry a fallen comrade. Or in this case, an insubordinate one.”

“I’m not being insubordinate, because you are not in charge of me.”

The earth rises and falls uncomfortably with every step he takes, jarring your bones and churning your stomach. 

“I admit,” he drawls, “not having you scheming of ways to kill me behind my back is a nice change, even if you are heavier than you look.”

Prick, prick, prick. 

There has to be something you can do. Some way to get back at him. In your anger, you scan the side of his pack for a weapon. There are only empty loops and a few carabiners visible, and the swaying handle of the ax that’s secured on the far side.

The ax. 

You’ve only got one hand free, but he can’t see what you’re doing with the other one. Every step he takes shifts your body slightly, and you swing your arm around to reach for the handle.

Sway. Sway. Sway.

Each time, it’s a hair away from your fingertips. Even when you start to strain, and risk Gaz guessing your plans, you can’t get a hold of it. You merely get the tease of the textured rubber handle brushing your fingers before it’s gone again. 

Step. Step. Step.

It’s infuriating to be so close to a weapon, and so helpless to reach it. Your attempts grow fewer and farther between, and you’re forced to content yourself with simply planning the murder in your own mind. You run it through so many times, you can practically hear the crunch of bones, the gush of blood while Gaz’s vile life drains away to nothing. 

Sway. Reach. Step. Step. 

Surely he’ll be losing his breath soon. He’s got to be hiding the exertion of carrying you out of pure spite, moderating his huffs of air to conceal what a toll it’s taking on him. You’re reduced to watching his ass shift and move with every step he takes, and only because it’s right below your face. 

He doesn’t even stink, this close to his armpit. Prick. 

Step. Step. 

Freeze.

Your name gets muttered suddenly, urgently.

“What?” you whisper back.

“Get me the ax,” he breathes, so quietly.

“Why?”

“Get me the fucking ax.”

“I can’t reach it.”

“Try.”

You glare helplessly at his ass. “What do you think I’ve been doing for the last hour?”

“…Fuck.”

Next Part

Dividers by the-aesthetics-shop

[aphelionwrotes11]

line-up [alpha!141 x omega!reader]

summary: pack 141 shows their interest in you.

pairing: alpha!141 x omega!reader

warnings: +18 (mdni), omegaverse, a/b/o, mild sexual themes, heavy misogyny, low self-esteem, forced exchange of personal items (underwear).

part 1: the gift exchange

you’ve heard that they’re picky.

somehow that doesn’t surprise you. there’s not many people who are allowed in their pack. even less people step on their territory and not without good reason.

it makes sense why they’d choose this specific prison establishment.

it’s a whole process. every omega’s package was sent to a pack for The Selection. from there, they would choose which omegas should be placed in a room to come and meet them for the first time. after that, only one (or a few) get to go home with them.

you sent in your package weeks ago. you were required to send a few things in that box. someone cut a few pieces of your hair to place in ziplock bags. scent packets too (these were very important); you had to rub square pieces of wet cotton on your scent glands and put those in ziplock bags too. a few items of clothing, both washed and unwashed, each also placed in it’s own ziplock bag so the smells don’t mix. usually, it’s a shirt, a hoodie, something with your sweat. and finally, one vial of your blood for genetic testing and to see if there’s any conditions they need to be aware of.

it’s all very clinical. hardly any feeling put into it. you just go through the motions of following instructions given to you like the good little omega you are.

however, this pack, 141, a week after you sent in your package, put in a request for one pair of your underwear.

then. you were... surprised, to say the least. when you sent your initial package in, you thought that would’ve been the end of it. packs and lone alphas usually overlooked you and didn’t pay you no mind. you assumed it would be the same again this time.

“no.” said Laswell.

you halted in your tracks when you attempted to get a pair of panties from your hamper. Kate Laswell is a cold individual. she stands tall with a stern face and speaks with a temperament that douses you in ice cold water.

her tone, though not unkind, makes you think she doesn't like you very much. more like she’s running an errand that’s wasting her time. she’s not too low on patience, but it’s not enough for her to be overly nice to you.

Kate is no omega, that much you’re sure of but it’s hard to discern if she’s beta or alpha. she gives no sign that she might be beta as she gives off no scent that speaks to her designation. and while she seems non-aggressive to the naked eye, you can tell that she could easily put down an arrogant alpha if she needs to.

icy blue eyes drop to just below your stomach. “the one you’re wearing right now.”

what. the. fuck.

the mere notion of it is so crude. your cheeks burn hotly as you stare at her with wide eyes. she bears no emotion on her face. like what she’d just asked you was completely normal. like it was just standard procedure.

it wasn’t. this was new. unprecedented, even. for you, anyway.

“o—oh. um…” you nervously glance at the two guards behind her. “is— is that allowed?”

the one who came with her, Alex, a beta with nods. like Kate, pale, blond haired and blue eyed. except, unlike her, he has a friendly face.

“it is.” he softly confirms. “we’re sorry that it’s such a sudden request. the pack just wants to be sure.”

it’s not the suddenness of the request that’s so jarring. it’s how wildly inappropriate odd it is.

and they want to be sure? of what exactly?

you don’t know what your panties have that the rest of your package doesn’t. it’s all scent, all biology. clinical. right down to the bone. you can’t think of a single good reason why the package you had sent wasn’t enough for them.

you stood there, mouth agape as you try to think of something to say. to resist. to counter. but you know nothing you say has no weight. you don’t have a choice in this. it hardly matters how degrading the request is. you must follow through with it, even if you expect no follow up on how the alphas have responded.

either you give them what they want or suffer the consequences.

the other guard, the one hired by the establishment, growls when you take too long to decide. his brow twitches, face twisted into a scowl as he snaps his teeth at you. “come on, Ms. Laswell doesn’t have all day. do as you’re told, omega—”

you flinch at his raised voice. his burning scent invades your nose faster than you can try to prepare yourself for it.

Jason has always been like that. an alpha who cracks his whip at any disobedience. he especially seems to have it out for you. you have no idea why and you’ve done your best to stay out of his way.

Kate, however, doesn’t tolerate his anger. because she immediately shot back—

“quiet.” a veiled threat. she’s not even as loud as he was. she turns to face him, blocking you from his view. “do not talk to her like that.”

alpha, your mind screams.

her annoyance freezes the air over. it’s the only sort of emotion you’ve seen from her up until this point. and it’s the only thing that gives her away.

she’s an alpha.

it’s all she needs to make Jason’s spine straighten in a split second. every ounce of bravado vapourized into thin air faster than you can blink. he hangs his head in shame and looks away. “y—yes, ma’am. my apologies.”

you’re stand very still, watching the exchange in awe. you think this might be the first time anyone has ever truly put him in his place. nonetheless, you obeyed when she turns back to you, if only you don’t end up on the receiving end of her ire.

when Laswell looks at you once more, you’re quick to avoid her eyes as you reach under your skirt and took off your underwear, a simple piece of soft cotton, cheeks burning with heat because you’re all too aware of the wet spot on it. you wonder how many more omegas were also made to hand over their panties like that.

she holds out an open ziplock bag and lets you put them inside then seals it shut. Alex then steps forward. he holds out a box. it’s the standard semi-clear package. your eyes widen when you get a glimpse of what’s inside.

ziplock bags. you count four big bags. there’s more in there but you can’t see how many from where you’re standing.

“take these.” he gives you the box. your arms sag a bit at the unexpected weight of it. it’s heavier than you thought. “they wanted you to have them before The Selection.”

“thank you.” you squeak, unable to think of anything else to say.

Kate leaves without another word and Alex bids you goodbye with a warm smile before he follows.

Jason glares at you. all of that sheepishness is sadly short-lived and once they’re well out of earshot, he points a finger in your face. “don’t think you’re special just because you’re whoring yourself out.”

you flinch. he scoffs at the hurt look on your face.

must he remind you? that you shouldn’t get your hopes up? that you know this ritual won’t go anywhere? it’ll end the same as all the others that came before.

“and don’t get your hopes up. they’re not gonna pick you.” he hooks a thumb in his belt, leaning on the door frame.

realistically, you shouldn’t let his words get to you. he’s mean to everyone who isn’t his group of friends. he’s mean to every unmated omega he crosses paths with.

“you’re too…” he looks you up and down, eyes damn near glowing with disapproval at what he sees. “ordinary.”

the word strikes true. tears sting your eyes.

“they probably asked ten other omegas to give them their panties to sniff.” he backs away from your door and chuckles. “don’t be too disappointed when you’re not called to The Selection.”

he slams the door and locks it behind him. leaving you standing in a sea of sorrow. you take in the silence of your small enclosure and take a deep breath, your head tipping back to look at the ceiling as you try to will back the tears.

an arrogant ass he may be but at least he’s truthful. that’s your only consolation. your only reminder that not every omega gets to leave this place. not everyone gets a happy ending.

when you sit down on your small bed and place the box right next to you, you sigh before opening the clasps. immediately, a potent mix of scents permeates all around you.

your body reacts to it faster than your mind can process.

it’s a gut-punch. pure molten heat poured straight down your throat and flowed all the way further down to your cunt. you hadn’t expected the intensity of it, the sheer want to be filled to the brim.

the sudden pulse coming to life between your legs had you whimpering and panting as if you’d just ran a mile. clenching your thighs didn’t do much to help ease the ache. not with your panties clinging to the slick suddenly dripping from your pussy.

you had to put the box away and retreat into your bathroom to calm down. gripping the cold sink and breathing uncontaminated air more so to stop yourself from reaching under your skirt than anything else, but eventually, you had to return to your room.

the box was half opened when you returned. you pull up the lid and peered inside. like you thought, the four massive ziplock bags. each with a hoodie and a shirt inside. all of them were labeled with names.

Johnny was scribbled messily on the front of the one you picked first. his heady scent was faintly earthy with a touch of what you assume is motor oil and gasoline. not bad. he must like cars then. his hands must be rough from all the work he puts in them.

GHOST was written in big block letters and with a small skull face at the bottom right. his clothes were huge. he must be a really big guy. bigger than Johnny even. he smells like gunpowder and sweat, and strangely enough, that doesn’t make your nose wrinkle as it does with every other alpha you’ve come across.

then there’s John. neatly written, but you could tell he doesn’t really care too much about how his letters are formed on paper. you recognize the scent of cigars anywhere with how often the alphas in your facility take part in smoking them every week in their lounge room. your lips purse in contemplation but ultimately decide it’s not that bad. with time, if they decide to take you with them, you might get used to it.  

lastly, Kyle’s name was written in cursive and circled in one big heart. that alone makes forces a giddy smile on your face. you can already tell that he showers more often than the other three. there’s hints of shower gel and cologne alongside the smell of John’s colognes. you like him already.

you liked all of them. you don’t even know which one to start with.

that’s not all, though. there’s snacks too. chocolate bars, bags of chips and three bottles of different flavoured sweet tea. but every muscle in your body stopped when you saw something else. neatly packaged in between all those gifts was a bundle of beautiful red roses.

they’re... this is…

there’s a note between the petals, which you’re scared to even touch. your shaky hands pluck it out and open it to see what was written inside.

It’s a little early but Happy Valentine’s Day to our favourite omega. Looking forward to seeing you at The Selection <3

no. it can’t be. surely not. they’re not doing what you think they’re doing.

you look back to the roses. the gifts. the food. a box filled with clothes from four alphas who express an interest in taking you into their pack. this.

it’s clear, cut and dry what this is.

it’s a courting gift.

panic rises up your throat. it feels more like bile and you think it best to stay in the bathroom, preferably near the toilet in case your stomach decides it doesn’t want to hold its content anymore. you end up standing there, staring at the toilet bowl for approximately four and a half minutes and spend another two taking deep breaths while pacing around the bathroom because your omega is too charged to let you think clearly.

and your clear, rational thoughts tell you to be serious for a second.

usually, one or two omegas are chosen for one individual or one pack. pick too many and you run the risk of creating conflicts because you didn’t allow everybody to get used to each other first before letting the pack settle into a sense of normalcy.

since there are four alphas, it’s likely that each one might want to have their own.

which leads you to believe that there are three more omegas who probably got sent the same package and with the same note. there’s four alphas. surely, they’re not going to be satisfied with just one of you.

one omega won’t be enough to contend with four ruts on differing occasions or worse, four ruts at once if one decides to trigger the other. it’s just not possible if they truly are serious about you.

besides, there has to be some mistake. it can’t be you they want.

it just can’t.

courting gifts usually aren’t exchanged until after the selection process is complete and the pack is certain that they’re keeping you.

this is definitely not something that should be happening right now.

Jason might be right about one thing. they probably did ask a bunch of other omegas for the same thing too. alphas are perverts like that. you’re not special. they probably want to add to their collection of sorts.

and yet, regardless of that fact...

your eyes drift to the hoodie you left on the edge of your bed. its scent calls to you. fervent and sweet, you’re drawn to it. the cold air in your room makes it difficult not to crave any sort of warmth that’s been given so freely.

regardless, of all this logic telling you that you shouldn’t have high hopes for anything, for even daring to think that you’ll ever leave this place.

regardless, you bury your nose in the hoodie and sharply inhale Kyle’s lovely scent and roll around your bed, purring and sighing deeply. he smells like kindness. like the first ray of light after a brutal winter. he smells like everything you’ve ever dreamed of in an alpha who would be willing to take care of you.

whatever the case may be with these gifts, you hope they meant what they said in the note. you yearn to be their favourite, you want them to look forward to finding you.

(and you hope they aren’t disappointed once they do).

four alphas expressing an interest in you is far more than you could’ve hoped for. it will break you when the unfortunate outcome finally rears its head and you don’t get to follow them to their home.

you hope that you’ll still get to keep one of their hoodies once The Selection passes.

in my defense, i was ovulating when this n00dled in my head.

banners by@cafekitsune and @vase-of-lilies

offer a coin to the picklejar

[main masterlist]

[part 2]

[aphelionwrotes11]