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sad-ghost-of-garbage · 1 day ago

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I know next to nothing about the Omega/Shifting verse…but is this a thing?

You’re born into a well known, well bred, wolf-shifter family in America. Its lineage can be traced to the most powerful and well-known people in society, from politicians to actors, investment bankers, and lawyers.

Wanting to forge ties with other countries, they join into an agreement with a pack, the legendary 141, in England. Full of strong Alphas, easily bred Omegas, and highly skilled Betas. They need a bigger gene pool, and so does your family.

When they arrive, your family ready to present their Omegas at a fancy dinner, you are shunted away. Every family has a weak spot, a sickly branch that needs to be pruned, and that link is you.

You’ve never shifted. Never presented a scent when you came of age despite being classified as an Omega. Drew zero attention at any mingling between families, even weak alphas that had next to zero prospects, glazed right over you. It was wrong, unnatural. Broken.

Your family starts to keep you behind doors, shying you away from the press as much as possible. It’s known you exist, seen as a child and teenager in the tabloids thanks to your famous parents. But at eighteen, with no change, they started showing you off less and less. They didn’t want the world to know their failure, but they also couldn’t just rid of you. They need everyone to forget about you first.

And they do.

Six years later, no one recognizes or cares about you. Old news, and with how fast fame moves, it’s easy for you to disappear. Your family is planning on shipping you off soon. Off to live your weird existence alone because if you didn’t fit in the pack, you couldn’t be in the pack.

So what a surprise when you’re locked tight in your room for the evening, someone comes sniffing around. No guest should be in the private quarters of the mansion, it was off limits. Yet you can smell them prowling down the hall before you hear them.

Alphas. Four of them. And you have nowhere to hide.

They caught a whiff of your scent that seemed to never exist for anyone else they second they arrived, and they want it. Want it more than your perfect specimens of siblings that were being tastefully auctioned. More than your mother, who was even willing to breed again, renowned for her strong offspring, should it help your family.

When they return to the reception with you jostled between them, bewildered and frightened, it changes everything. You were supposed to be forgotten, useless. A never blossomed dried up Omega that disgraced the family name. Your father tries to shuffle you away, tries to distract them with other offerings. But these Alphas hear none of it, almost blind with agitation from all the attempts of persuasion.

Your family seizes the new opportunity, a chance to get rid of you and also get the breeding stock they want. Without so much as a second glance, they sign off to send you away with just a few things to your name, glad to wipe away the mold on the family tree, finally. They think these Alphas just want a plaything, something to keep locked up as a pet to use and abuse whenever they want until you expire.

But what your family doesn’t realize is that you aren’t broken. You’re an Omega that was never presented to a strong enough Alpha to draw the change out of you and strengthen them. A trait that had been weeded out so long ago, that fact has turned into myth.

For you see, generations ago, shifters were dying faster than they were breeding due to Omegas not going through their change and Alphas not reaching their true potential. So in an effort to support the population, easily changed Omegas were overbred, weeding out the ‘picky’ ones. This would allow Alphas whose lineage would have died off ages ago to breed, to strengthen, and continue to grow the population. Even if it meant the offspring were weaker and weaker with each generation. True matches, the fabled ‘mates’, always produced the best children and became the strongest shifters.

When these men learned of you, they had to see if the myth that their pack had passed down from generation to generation was real. They had been on the hunt for a strong Omega for years, one that could handle them, grow them. None of the other Omegas they tried took. Their wombs strangely barren or pregnancies that don’t make it full term.

So when they crossed the threshold of your family's estate and your body called to them like a siren song, they knew. They knew they had found their fated mate, the Omega that would bring back the true strength of their pack.

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sad-ghost-of-garbage · 2 days ago

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Okay babes, I’ve been in your comments now I’m jumping in your brain to plant 1 worm: John Price x stubborn!reader? Or literally whatever you want we both know I’m a simp for your writings

Hi babyyyy! I love seeing you in my comments and in my inbox hehe. Unfortunately, I don’t know much about Price :( only Cod character I’m really into is Simon. So I’m gonna write this with him 💛

smut ahead

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

“You should rest,” Simon says, his hand gently rubbing at your back when he sees you stretch your arms above your head and wince.

You shake your head. “I’m fine, I’m almost done,” you argue, returning to your task.

You’ve been sitting at this desk, working too hard, pushing yourself too far, and Simon knows you’re nowhere near done. You spent all day working, and could spend the rest of the night here if he let you.

“Love, c’mon. This will all still be here in the morning,” he assures, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “You can pick it back up then.”

You shake your head again. “Work doesn’t rest.”

“But you need to,” he points out, huffing.

He waits a minute, hoping you’ll reply or stand up. But you just sit there, working still, completely negligent to yourself.

“Love,” he says again, firmly this time. “Let’s go rest. You’ve done enough.”

You just shake your head at him like he doesn’t understand, and he groans.

“You’re done working,” he says—not asks, not begs—says. He’s informing you of the fact. And then he pulls your chair back, making you gasp, before he’s picking you up and hoisting you over his shoulder.

“Simon!” you squeak, squirming some. “What are you doing?”

“I’m taking care of you,” he replies like it’s obvious. “Something you seem incapable of doing.”

“I am not incapable, I’m just busy,” you argue.

“I don’t care. You need rest, you need sleep.”

“I can’t sleep. My brain is racing and I’m not tired at all.”

You can hear the grin in his voice. “We’ll see ‘bout that.”

God, it’s been so long since you’ve let up and unwinded. It’s been just as long since you’ve given Simon any time at all to fuck you. Which is probably why it feels like he’s trying to make up for all the lost time now.

His thrusts are hard and deep, his hips slamming into yours each time, knocking the breath from your lungs.

You hold onto his biceps, nails biting into his skin as you mewl and whine, only sounds you can make any more. You can’t talk and can’t think, he’s made damn sure of that.

The bed creaks under Simon’s rough movements, the headboard is slamming against the wall loudly. But all Simon can focus on is you. You and the way your eyes roll back in ecstasy. You and the way your body arches under his. You and the way the tension leaves you with every orgasm he gives you.

He knew you needed this, needed to relax, to let loose, to let him take care of you. You’re just so stubborn sometimes.

He leans down, kissing your neck. “See, baby? Don’t this feel good? Hm? Don’t you wish you would’ve gotten away from that desk before?”

You nod frantically, whimpering, your hips bucking to try and meet his each time he pushes forward, but you’re weak and uncoordinated, so you don’t achieve much.

One of Simon’s hands grabs onto your hip. “No, love. You just lie there, lemme do it for you,” he grunts, sliding his hand from your hip to your thigh and wrapping it around his waist. He thrusts deeper, hitting all the right spots in you, and you start to shake.

He’s made you come enough times that you’re all pliant and willing under his hands, and he wishes he could give you more. But he’s at his own edge, fighting it back so he can give you one last orgasm.

“Alright, love, last one, yeah?” he murmurs into your ear, his heavy breaths and groans making you wetter. “Last one before I fill you up, hm?”

You whine, eyes shut tight, and nod softly.

He reaches down, toying with your clit. It’s all sensitive and swollen from his fingers rubbing it before, so the second his digits come into contact with it again, you squeak and jerk away from his touch before pushing against it.

Simon chuckles lowly. “Take it easy, love. ‘s okay. You need me to go slower?”

You nod at him, breathing heavy, and he obliges.

His thrusts go from hard and deep to slow. Languid thrusts that pull his cock almost all the way out of you before filling back into you, inch by inch. You can feel every ridge on him, every vein, every time it twitches in you.

Simon kisses up your shoulder to your neck, then to your jaw. “I love you. You know that, yeah?” he whispers, his fingers matching that slow, almost lazy rhythm.

You whimper, nails dragging up his arms and to his shoulders, where you scratch at him some more.

He groans, cock twitching, hips jerking. In response, you tighten around him and refuse to relent your grip on him. It makes it difficult for him to thrust much, so he focuses on circling your clit the right way, just how you like it, while he presses kisses across your face.

It doesn’t take long for you to come again. Your orgasm is stronger than the last ones, making you quiver and squeal and arch under him.

Something about seeing you get off pushes him over the edge, and his own release hits him hard. He spills into you, his cock twitching as he finally empties all the cum he’s had in him. It’s so much from all the weeks you’ve been busy, all the nights he’s refrained from jerking off because he prefers being with you. And now, he’s spurting it all into your cunt.

Through the haze of his release, Simon works you through your climax and then helps you down, all the while whispering into your ear.

“So pretty, love. Fuck, you’re so beautiful, so perfect. And such a good girl. You did so well for me, honey.” His voice is thick with desire and exhaustion, his eyelids heavy.

He carefully pulls out of you, already missing the sensation of your cunt around him, and curls up with you on the bed.

He kisses your temple as you gladly snuggle into his embrace.

“I love you so, so much, girl. So much. But you gotta learn to let me take care ‘f you more often. You need to rest more, need to relax more. Promise me you won’t be so stubborn about it ‘nymore,” he begs.

And you nod, but Simon knows it’s not gonna take long for him to have to drag you away again. He loves how passionate and determined you are, but it frustrates him. At least, he thinks, he’s there to make sure you’re always taken care of.

---

Taglist

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*if you wanna be added to my Ghost taglist, lmk 💛

---

Simon Riley masterlist

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sad-ghost-of-garbage · 2 days ago

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Fuck or Die

Summary: (female virgin!Reader) The team is trapped and being hunted by a creature that wants to devour a "pure maiden". And your whole unit finds out you're a virgin! There is a quick solution to that, however...

Notes: slight supernatural/monster AU.

Trapped.

Trapped in some long forgotten forsaken bunker with a monster slamming against the doors, eager to devour the rest of the team.

Whatever they were researching down here, whatever the trapped down here, back in the 30's, was awake. And hungry.

"You'd think half a dozen men would satiate it."

Six men, part of the forward research team, civilian scientists you hadn't even met, were dead by the the time the extraction team, headed by your captain, arrived. But the survivors said when soldiers arrived, it got bigger, more aggressive, hungrier.

You don't dare take your rifle off the fortified door, even as Captain Price demanded answers, details, from the research team.

"It was one of you!" One of the researchers shouted at Price.

"One of you brought what it really wants!"

"Yea? And what's that?"

"Oh I'll give it something it wants." Soap muttered beside you, almost making you laugh. Knowing him he was talking about explosives.

"Notes we found on the beast," the researcher leaned his tablet over so Price could read it as well. "Say that it fed on Pure Souls."

"Pure Souls?" Ghost's skeptical scoff echoed enough to reach you and the other two Sergeants.

"You really think there's a "Pure Soul" on a special forces unit?"

One of the other researchers chimed in. "Pure Soul" was just the most common translation. There are other translations: Clean, uncorrupted. There was even a theory it could be sexual purity."

Price blinked, brow raised, "you mean…"

"Alright," Ghost snorted and looked to the rest of the team. "Which one of you fuckin' losers is still a virgin?"

There was a lot of glancing around, a lot of denying, lot of partners being mentioned. Meanwhile your face was on fire. Damn, you knew you should have just bit the bullet and shagged that one guy in training who was too into you.

"Does it matter?" You piped up, avoiding a direct answer. "What are we gonna do, feed one of our own to that thing?"

Soap and Gaz glanced at each other, sharing a look that you pointedly refused to acknowledge.

"No. We aren't." Price sighed just as they looked at you.

"Is it you, lass?" Soap tried to whisper, but even the thing banging against the door seemed to want to embarrass you and kept quiet while all eyes were on you.

You cleared your throat and tried to ignore Soap, but too many eyes on you made you lose your composure. "I! So, I've been very focused on my career, sue me!" Your words were all but confirmation on who that monster wanted and why.

You kept your eyes glued to the captain, begging him to save you.

He did.

"Well," he looked back to researchers. "We know it what it wants. So do you have any suggestions that doesn't put my people in danger?"

"One of the logs we uncovered said once it ate, it went back to where ever it came from. So, we give it what it wants-"

"Out of the question."

"Or kill her."

Bang!

Everyone jumped, rifles flying back up to the now dented in door.

You stepped back, rifle still pointed at the ground, ready to defend yourself. Not from the monster outside, but the ones inside.

It was Ghost who broke the tense silence.

"Or one of us fucks her."

You turned to him, everyone did, mouth open, eyes wide, heart racing. "Wh-What?"

"Think about it. That thing," he pointed at the door just as another loud bang reverberated through the bunker. "Wants a virgin. You fuck, you're not a virgin anymore, then it goes back to sleep."

You stared at him flabbergasted, most of them did, except the researcher.

"Well, it's theoretically sound…"

Price, ever level headed Price, shoved a finger into the researcher's chest. "Find another fucking way."

Then he turned to you and slowly walked over to you. "Sergeant, you don't have to do this."

BANG!

You flinched at the sound of the blast door slowly giving way to the monster outside.

You glanced past your captain and sighed. Ghost was right. If you being a virgin was what was keeping that thing focused on the team, then the quickest solution was to lose your virginity.

"They should still work on a plan B, but…"

"But?"

You bit your lip as you looked back up at Price. "At least I won't die a virgin."

"Are you sure?"

"Well, as long as someone is willing."

"I'm sure that won't be a problem." Ghost suddenly spoke up, though thankfully he kept his voice low.

You had to stop yourself from flinching, you hadn't even noticed him walk up to you and the Captain.

"Got a preference?" He asked, blunt and to the point.

(winner gets the final part)

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sad-ghost-of-garbage · 4 days ago

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"Career changing"

Career changing | Part 2 of ??

Part 1 here | Series masterlist

Summary: It should have been simple; bring the omega to her new pack, fill out your mission report and get back on your merry way. But now you’re a member of the 141, have a few hard pills to swallow, a bunch of explaining to do and a lot more to care about…

Warning: None

Note: English is not my first language and I’m writing this in-between taking care of a young child, so I’m sorry if there is mistakes or it isn’t that good.

You could only assumed the large alpha wearing the bucket hat was Price.

"Captain Price, I'm Ser-"

"Alpha! It's so nice to finally meat you."

You mumble the rest of the 'Sergeant' to yourself, frozen there mid salute. Not because Ophelia had interrupted you, that didn't faze you coming from her, not after having been stuck with her two week, but because she sounded so sweet and soft all of a sudden. And, seriously, who referred to people by their designation unsarcastically??

"I suppose you must be Ophelia." Price said, giving her a warm smile and a small nod, his eyes having lost nothing of that feral desire, before turning his attention back towards you. "At ease Sergeant. You two had no major problem getting here, I hope?"

That quickly snapped you out of whatever brain freeze Ophelia sudden niceness had put you in, dropping the salute and standing in a more relaxed position. "No confrontations or inconvenient, sir. I'll make sure to have a complete report on your desk by tomorrow morning before I depart back for the base I'm stationed at."

That's when someone else stepped up. A beta, judging by the scent, with the prettiest of golden skin. Probably Gaz, you figure. You couldn't help but think that the man should have been a model, not a soldier. "Eager to leave already?"

The way you said it, you knew it was meant as a joke, but there was something in his expression that you couldn't place. Disappointment, maybe? Odd, you think. It didn't help either that your instincts seemed to have caught onto something you hadn't, making you feel uneasy.

"I..." You didn't know how to answer that. And thankfully, you didn't have to, because someone else was already speaking.

"Ain't ye scent I'm catching on ye both, ain't it, lassie?"

You turn to see another beta, one with a mohawk that probably wasn't within regulation and a devilish smile, moving closer to Ophelia. You had to assume it was Soap. He was leaning in rather closely to her, clearly trying to catch more of the scent clinging to her skin.

"No, but please, don't be mad at the Sergeant. She was only doing what she thought was best to protect me." Ophelia said with all her newfound sweetness.

Two faced bitch, you couldn't help but think. But it's not like you were about to say that out loud. No when Ophelia was suddenly vouching for you when faced with the possibility you could have pissed the alphas and betas off by having scented their new omega.

"I apologize, sir. I promise I didn't mean anything by it, I was just trying to make sure no one notice her scent and the fact that she's an unclaimed omega." You try justifying, watching as the beta as he keep taking in big breaths around Ophelia. You can only imagine it was to try and catch a glimpse of her natural scent.

"Not mad. That was clever, actually. Giving her scent blockers while you were trying to lay low amongst civilians would have just made it too obvious that you were hiding something." A deep, forth voice said. That had to be Lieutenant Riley, because, honestly, what alpha could go around with a skull baclava and not be the one they call Ghost?

You didn't know if the shiver running down your spine was caused by the fact that the man had managed to creep up on you or because a deep, instinctual part of you was happy to be praise by the giant alpha. You just really hope none of them had noticed.

"Thank you, Lieutenant." You answered, unable to fully suppress the proud smile that was creeping on your lips.

You could see Ophelia glaring at you from where she had moved behind them, probably pissed she had lost their interest in favor of you. You were standing there awkwardly, not really because of her, but because the four of them seemed to be staring at out with a predatory glim in their eyes, as if waiting for something. The only thing you could think of doing to get out of that embarrassing situation was excuse yourself quickly, mentioning that you should probably go start on that mission report if you wanted it to be finished for tomorrow morning.

You ended up being stuck sleeping in the large dormitory stilled barrack normally reserved for the recruits. Not like you could complain, this wasn't your home base and you couldn't expect the base administrator to have something better set up for you on such a short notice. It just meant your effort to fill out your report had been interrupted ever so often by Privates trying their worst pick up line on you and that you hadn't really caught up on the sleep you were missing. Maybe you should have sleep in the car after all...

By the time morning came you were exhausted but with had full report in hand. In all of your tiredness, you had almost collided with someone at the door. Thankfully you stilted just in time and took a step back as your eyes widened at the sight of Gaz.

"Good morning." He said, offering you a smile so charming you thought even alphas could be sway by it. How could one beta seemingly have that mush natural charisma? It seemed kind of unfair for the rest of you.

"Em... Hi?" You answered, unsure if you were more amused or confused to found him there this morning.

"Cap wanted to see you."

"Oh, shit. Was Captain Price waiting for my mission report? I was just about to go give it to him."

"Wait... You actually completed two weeks worth of paperwork in one evening? We thought you were joking yesterday."

"Yes... one evening..." Not like he needed to know you actually stayed up most of the night for it...

"Well... I'm pretty sure that was not what this was about, but I can't see why Price would be mad to have your report already."

"I'll show you to his office." He said, nodding his head for you to follow, that charming smile still on his lips.

You couldn't denied that the silence that followed was... awkward, to say the least. You had expected to fill out your mission report, give it and get back on your merry way. But getting summoned by the Captain of one of the most reputed Task Force in the country was not part of that plan. You were starting to wonder if Ophelia had decided to get you in trouble one last time and that you were about to receive an earful...

As Gaz led you through the administrative building on base, you could faintly hear bits and pieces of a muffled conversation happening further down the corridor.

"Johnny, I told you no already. Its not going to happen. Not now."

"Come on Cap! Ye caught the lassie's scent too! Even bloody Simon reacted. She-"

You didn't have time to hear more because Gaz was suddenly speed walking towards one of the door, almost frantic looking as he open it and called out; "We're here!"

Was that blush you had caught on his cheeks?... Never mind, you were probably just imagining it.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" You ask, stepping in the office.

"Yes. Please, take a seat, Sergeant." Price said with a sigh, running a hand over his face.

Soap was looking at you with wide eyes, his scent oozing embarrassment, and, as you move to sit, you had to consciously stop yourself from jumping once you realized it was Ghost standing in the corner and not, in fact, a coat hanger.

Price cleared his voice before starting. "I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of requesting a copy of your files yesterday. Quite the impressive track record you have so far."

"Thank you, sir." You answered, straightening up. Your beta did that thing again, where she was way too happy to be praised by a big alpha. You can't remember the last time she did that before yesterday...

"Not the most accurate shot I've seen in my career, but well above average. What's most surprising is your apparent ability to consistently take down alphas twice your size in close quarter combat."

"Thank you, Captain. I work hard on my strengths and even harder on my weaknesses."

"There's really no need to be so formal." Price chuckled, and you couldn't help but relax a bit.

"Coupled that with the fact that you just completed an escort mission that the higher-ups would normally assign at least three soldiers to complete, all on your own, and with seemingly no problem? It makes you sound too good to still me in your current squad."

Three soldiers? God, you were going to have a long chat with your commanding officer once you were back to your own base...

"Given all that, I would like to know if you would consider joining the 141."

"What?" You couldn't help but let out, baffled.

"We could use someone like you. There would be a trial period at the beginning, obviously, but we would like to consider a permanent transfer if everything goes great and you accept it."

"Captain, it's... it's an honor, really, but aren't you worried it isn't the right time? Whit Ophelia coming into the picture, I mean."

"Thrust me, Sergeant, I won't let the changes happening to my pack affect my squad."

"Oh." Oh...

You took a deep breath, thinking it over.

"You don't need to give an answer right away."

"In all honesty, Captain, I don't think this is an opportunity I can pass up. I don't have to think about it when I already know I would hate myself for not even trying. I'll make sure you don't regret putting your fate in me." You answered, a small smile creeping its way onto your lips.

Your commending officer, well, ex CO at this point, had sounded all but too smug when saying that he had told you this would be a career changing mission. You had let him have it, he wasn't wrong after all, but you couldn't but notice the slight edge in his voice. You knew him well enough to figure understand that, although he was happy for you, he wasn't actually so please to have one of his soldier stolen from right under his nose. You had called your squad to tell them the good news and ask if someone could pack up your things and send them over. They had gladly agreed, congratulated you and told you you would still have a place with them if it didn't work out.

You were now in a barrack that had clearly not seen any living inhabitant in a long time. You might have been joining the squad, but they still needed their space as a pack, even more so with their new omega, so you understood why you were here. You wouldn't complain, it was better then being stuck with the recruits again, but it clearly needed a good clean.

What you didn't understand was why Soap was bringing so many box in.

"What's all this?"

"Ophelia's things." He hummed out, as if it was supposed to be obvious.

"What?!"

"Ophelia's things" He repeated. "The boxes arrived a couple of days ago. Price just didn't want to leave them unattended while waithing for her."

"I... had kind of figured that part out... I guess my question was more like; why are you bringing them here? Does she really have so much stuff that it doesn't fit in your pack's barrack?"

"No, she just going to be set up here."

He couldn't help but shift uncomfortably once he turned around to see your still very clearly confused face.

"I mean... its just... Price thought, you know, that maybe we shouldn't push her too mush? Give her her own space while she acclimates to the pack?"

The explanation made sense, but the way his scent was slowly souring, even if almost imperceptibly, told you there was either more to it or it wasn't completely true.

You didn't push. Their pack dynamic was none of your concern and making one of your new teammate uncomfortable on your first day probably wasn't the best move. So you just nodded, watching the relief flood his face, and just went back to your cleaning.

Stepping back in your new room, you found a big woolen blanked that hadn't been there before. Taking it in your hands and bringing it to your nose, you were meet with a mixed of scents you could figure out belong to the members of the 141. You took a minute to let your beta guiltily revel in it before reminding yourself it more then likely wasn't meant for you. It made more sense to you that it would have been for Ophelia. And since Soap had been bringing her things in the common area of the barrack this hole time, it was plausible he had mistaken the room you had chosen for hers.

It's at that exact moment Ophelia decided to make her presence in the barrack known, snatching the blanket from you.

"Don't fuck this up for me." She hissed at you.

Maybe you shouldn't have complained about the recruits barrack...

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sad-ghost-of-garbage · 6 days ago

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Little ramble thing because i seemed to upset twt with my takes on this 🙃

I'm so sick and tired of seeing the same 3 people being given every role (acting wise) under the fucking sun even when they don't have the range for it.

I'm not talking about anyone specific so dont jump me but it's getting boring.

Like seeing the same white woman or white man being casted in like every other movie and essentially being everywhere all the time is starting to annoy me. Like maybe I'm weird but I like some roles these actors are doing but when I'm seeing an actor i associate with a certain role being shoved into every movie everywhere it takes me out of the emersion of the current movie i'm watching.

Like please, i get it [insert actor] is popular but for the love of all things that are up above (if there is any) There's a massive pool of actors who aren't getring recognition because the executives only want a face to pull in money rather than make an experience where it's diffferent.

AND LIKE THE RANGE OF PEOPLE !!!! GIVE ME MORE THAN 3 WHITE GUYS AND 3 WOMEN WHO HAVE BEEN FAMOUS FOR 20+ YEARS GIVE ME SMALLER ACTORS, ONES WHO FIT THE ROLES BUT MIGHT NOT BE ALL THAT POPULAR BECAUSE IF THEY DO A GOOD JOB THEY CAN BECOME FAMOUS !!

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sad-ghost-of-garbage · 6 days ago

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sad-ghost-of-garbage · 8 days ago

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A 60s heist AU. Think the original Pink Panther movies. Charade. How to Steal a Million. The 141 as a group of famous jewel thieves, both feared and adored in hushed whispers.

Soap— the safe cracker. Or, in the worst case scenario, a demolitions experts. But they prefer not to let it get that far.

Ghost— the muscle, the security expert. Can take out a handful of guards silently and alone. Knows every security measure in the book, from tripwire to pressure plates to phosphorescent ink spray.

Gaz— The Face. Can charm his way into any occasion, sources the group disguises to fit them in anywhere, coordinates their cover stories in an intricate web.

Nikolai— the getaway. If it’s got an engine, he can drive it, be it plane, boat, or automobile. He’s also their munitions expert, should push come to shove. He’s up to date on the latest fashions in arms and side pieces— he can take one look at someone and tell you what they’ll be packing.

Price— the captain. Plans their ins, outs, and timed triggers down to a T, with an entire alphabet of contingency plans for every situation.

They’re hired by an anonymous source to steal the crown jewel of your father’s collection— a large diamond of international fame with just a touch of pale pink coloring. Well protected, secured— it’s not the kind of mark where they can just break in. No, this requires subtlety.

Your father hosts a gala every year, usually shows off a new piece of arm candy, with only those from the highest rungs of the social ladder in attendance. A gross show of decadence that just makes the boys feel that much better about how they’re going to humiliate him.

But how to get into a party like that? Cozy up to the carefree, socialite daughter, of course.

Soap meets you at a museum— begs to draw your likeness as a part of his studies. Gets to know you, takes your picture in graphite, and makes you feel fluttery.

When it starts to rain on your walk home, Nikolai is there before you can even think of hailing a cab, with his golden chain glittering in his color and aviators glinting in the streetlights. Takes the scenic route back on a cool night, uses his cigarette to light yours when you ask, almost like a kiss.

You dance the night away with Kyle at your favorite nightclub, feeling weightless in his arms as he dips and swings you— makes you both the center attraction of the floor to raucous applause.

Price finds you in a busy cafe, the only free seat being the one across from you at the tiny table by the street. He treats you to another coffee for letting him keep you company, as much as you try to refuse him and insist he think nothing of it. He cups your chin as he feeds you a flakey pastry he assures you is nothing short of divine.

Simon quite easily catches your little dog when she pulls her leash free from your grip in the park, returning the silly white beast into your waiting arms— the only thing he wants in return is to keep walking with you. Just in case Priscilla should escape again, of course.

Little dates every day in the month leading up to the gala, their invites assured and their hearts suddenly a little clouded with doubt— reluctant to steal away into the night with your family’s jewel and never see you again.

But you don’t get far in this business by turning your back on a contract, by giving into every pretty girl that turns your head.

And it should figure that you look stunning. They have their own fitted suits, silken ties, Italian leather shoes— but you glimmer. More examples of your family’s ornate collection drip from you in the form of earrings, necklaces, rings, hair pins. Your laughter rings as you delicately sip from flutes of champagne, eager to weave through the crowd and find them, one by one.

When your father makes the party stop, all to announce his engagement to his newest paramour, the lights cut out. The diamond shucked from the safe, a replica in its place that won’t be identified until it’s too late. They leave one by one— kissing you gently and promising to see you again soon before slinking off.

Little did they know, it would be sooner than they’d realized, as you showed up to the rendezvous a month later, a few countries away, a sly smile inching across your face at their shock.

You had come across your father’s intentions months ago. To change his will, the diamond going to his new wife upon his death instead of you. The treasure of generations, ripped from you to be given to some fly-by-night. Thus, the hired help.

And the 141? They could care less about the diamond, now that they’ve got the real jewel of your family back in their arms.

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sad-ghost-of-garbage · 8 days ago

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How I feel reading smut while being scared of intimacy in real life

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sad-ghost-of-garbage · 8 days ago

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the baby is a mess.

a glorious, strawberry-stained, unapologetically chaotic mess.

chubby fists full of crushed fruit, cheeks stained red like a tiny dionysus on a sugar high. the kid is perched in the front of a shopping trolley, squealing with unfiltered joy as she squishes another berry against her lips and then—perhaps in a fit of generosity—smears it into her father's shirt. you coo.

coo, like something soft and maternal has cracked open inside you, and simon watches it happen in real time—watches you light up like you’ve just witnessed the first sunrise in human history. “oh my god,” you whisper, slowing your pace beside him. “look at her. look at her face.”

simon is already looking.

he can’t not look.

that baby is a walking portrait of everything he doesn’t have and everything he’s been trying not to want.

the pink sneakers with velcro straps. the milk-drunk eyes. the chubby elbow rolls. the cartoon rabbit on her bib, now stained a bloody red from berry carnage. she's a masterpiece of mess and joy, and simon’s knees suddenly feel like they've gone soft.

he’s staring. hard.

“si,” you tease, nudging him. “don’t gawk.”

“'m not gawkin',” he lies, mouth dry. “just… watchin’. 'lil gremlin’s got a good arm.”

as if to prove point, the baby flings half a strawberry across the market lane with frightening accuracy. it lands near the produce stall. she shrieks with delight.

you laugh. and something in simon cracks.

he can see it, clear as anything: your laugh at the kitchen table, a baby in your lap, sticky fingers tugging at your shirt, the sound of little feet slapping down the hall in the morning.

simon's not just looking at a baby.

he’s looking at a blueprint for the life he’s never let himself build.

and suddenly, he wants it so badly he could scream. “bloody hell,” he mutters, turning away like the sight physically pains him. “she’s killin’ me.”

you tilt your head. “what’s that, soldier?”

he looks at you with the wide, haunted eyes of a man on the edge. “i want one.”

you blink. “a strawberry?”

“no,” he rasps. “a baby.”

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sad-ghost-of-garbage · 9 days ago

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me staring at the search bar trying to decide which fictional man I’ll read about tonight:

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sad-ghost-of-garbage · 10 days ago

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you're just a broke university student that's barely making ends meet in a little one bedroom you've somehow managed to get through a friend that lives in the same building. and by little, it's little.

poor excuse of a kitchenette. small bathroom with a smaller shower and constant issues. a bedroom that's mostly bed.

however, rent starts to go up, as well as living expenses which is fucked since you're barely home during the day. either working or at uni attending lectures or simply studying. things were just getting crazy.

at wits end another student suggests sharing your place with a night shift worker who just needs your place to sleep and eat during the day.

they pay you. get a nights sleep. food in the belly. and that's that.

with no other solution, you agree and accept the first person.

you don't meet them. but you make sure to keep your space tucked neat and your more... important things hidden. with what little space you have, yeah you try to give the person space for their things too. even if they are only there for the night.

it's weird. you're out the door by 7am to catch the bus. when you get home by 4, sometimes later, the person isn't there.

the first night you expected - well all the bad shit you could possibly think of... but it's as you left it. except your bed is made. there's a lingering smell of cigarettes and a note on the counter with... a new bottle of your body wash and a jar of instant coffee.

drank the last of your coffee and used your shit in the shower. sorry. - s.r

the persons hand writing is rough but readable. and you don't know what to do with that information. feel like your privacy has been breached? unsafe? maybe?

but you're too tired to give a fuck and your head hits your pillow - you're out like a light.

as days go by you end up only getting communication from the guy from notes. it's strange but not unwelcomed.

especially when you come to your shower no longer leaking, the weird stain on the ground gone, the hole in your wall fixed, and your window actually keeps out the cold when before it couldn't. he pay his portion of the rent on time so you really can't complain.

there was even a humidifier in your room as well as a heater attached with a note:

i'll cover the electricity cost. - s.r

sure enough, time for payment and the person did just that. sending money but ending up sending too much. you send it back, plus half and a reference saying: too much. i'll pay half.

you think that's that, but then when you get home, there's a note, a new jar of coffee and underneath it - cash, the exact amount you paid back.

keep it. and i'm paying for it. - s.r

you refuse to take it. but then the next pay day comes and he not only covered the electricity of this time, but for last time too.

when you return home there's more cash with a scribbled note.

keep the money. get whatever u want with the extra cash. exam season right? there's pre-made meals in the fridge. eat em. i got too many snacks and energy drinks. have that too. - s.r

and you weren't going too. you really weren't. but then classes got too busy, late night study sessions consumed your time. it was convenient and right there. so you took them to uni with you.

like clockwork there'd always be more in the fridge. snack refilled, especially the ones you seemed to favour - also your favourite ones he some how knew.

while there wasn't notes all the time. you looked forward to them.

but then one evening you come home and your landlord stops you in your tracks. there's a slight grimace on your face but you feign a smile. yet it falters at his words.

"look, met your boyfriend the other day-" a look of discomfort crosses his face a shiver of fear you think but then he keeps yappin. "-just tell him to keep the smokin to a minimum. yeah?" the words leave his mouth and for a second you swear it looked like he regretted saying it out loud. "and- and look at the new lease agreement!" he shouts over his shoulder as he hurried to leave.

what the fuck.

for once - you're the one leaving a note.

boyfriend!? - y/n

and the fucker has the audacity to leave you a note the next day with

yes girlfriend? dinner tomorrow night and we'll go over the new lease x - s.r

what. the. fuck.

a/n: read an article bout uni students doing this and thus this came vomiting out. kinda obsessed ngl. hope ya'll well.

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sad-ghost-of-garbage · 10 days ago

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❦ werewolf!simon riley when you move into his woods ❧

warnings: werewolf!simon, dark themes, territorial behavior, obsession, voyeurism, suggestive content, implied masturbation, sexy dreams, written in headcanons bc i’m lazy and high ♡

✧ when you first heard about your aunt’s passing, nothing struck you as too strange. she’d been a recluse for years, the kind of woman your family only talked about in whispers—lives alone in the woods, never visits for holidays, writes letters instead of calling. but when you got the call that she left her entire house to you? a house you didn’t even know existed? you almost laughed. you thought it was a scam. who leaves property to a niece they haven’t seen in over a decade?

✧ but something about it tugged at you. maybe it was the idea of an escape—your lease was about to end anyway. or maybe it was just the way the lawyer’s voice sounded when he warned you, “this place isn’t for everyone.” you told your friends it was just a road trip. a weird little adventure. but in your gut, you knew better. something about this felt like walking toward the edge of something.

✧ so you drove across the country. packed your shit, loaded your playlist, and watched your whole life shrink behind you in the rearview. the house was tucked away in a town no one had heard of—like actually not on the gps, the kind of place where cell signal dies and the locals look at you too long when you walk into a diner. you got there just after dusk. and even though it was dead quiet, you felt watched. not in a scary way. in a…heavy way. like something ancient had just noticed you.

✧ the house was creaky and weird and way too cold for mid-spring. half the windows were boarded. the lights flickered when you flipped the breaker. you figured you’d stay a few days—just long enough to take some pictures, maybe list it online. you weren’t gonna live here, god, no. you had a whole life back home.

✧ but on your second night, you found a claw mark on the inside of your bedroom window. not a scratch. not a branch. a mark. long, deep, intentional. the kind that says “i could’ve come in if i wanted to.”

✧ the dreams started after that. hot, fevered, wet. a shadow in the woods, glowing eyes in the trees. strong hands on your hips, a voice growling your name like a sin. you’d wake up shaking. drenched. sometimes, you swear you heard breathing right outside your bedroom door.

✧ and you never see him—not at first. but you start hearing footsteps on the porch. a low growl under your window. and you swear the clothes you hang outside to dry smell like firewood and pine when you bring them back in.

✧ it’s on the fifth night that you leave the porch light on. you don’t mean to. you’re half-asleep, half-terrified. maybe it’s stupid. maybe it’s brave. maybe it’s not even really your idea.

✧ you start locking the doors, but only halfway. leaving the latch off the back one. telling yourself it’s by accident. there’s something in the woods with its eyes on you every night and it gets harder to pretend you don’t feel it—whatever it is. he doesn’t come inside. not yet. but you know he’s closer. you smell him sometimes. smoke and sweat and something you can’t name.

✧ the dreams get worse. or better. depending how you look at it. his hands are rough. his mouth never soft. he bites like he can’t help it, like he wants to bury himself under your skin. you wake up aching. your sheets twisted, your thighs wet, your fingers between your legs before your eyes even open. you don’t remember his face. just heat. just hunger. just need.

✧ and you still haven’t seen him. not really. but you start catching things. a shape in the treeline. a sound too heavy to be wind. once, you look out the bathroom window and swear you see eyes—low, bright, golden. watching. not blinking. your heart races. but you don’t scream.

✧ on the seventh night, you leave the window open. not all the way. just a crack. just enough for the cold to sneak in and for something—someone—to catch your scent. you spray your favorite perfume on your neck. you wear the little shorts that ride up when you sleep. you lay on your stomach and close your eyes and pretend not to hear the heavy breathing just outside the screen.

✧ you don’t fully know it yet, but he’s been circling this house since the moment you crossed the property line.

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sad-ghost-of-garbage · 10 days ago

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Turning Page

Professor Simon Riley x student!reader series

turning page masterlist | next chapter | navigation

beta read by @margowritesthings <3

Anxiety creeps its way into your skin. It seeps into your bones, causing a tremble to run down your spine. It sits heavily in your chest, constricting your lungs. You focus on it, breathing in and out rhythmically to calm your nerves. Counting helps. Just count.

One, two, three, four. Exhale…

Dr. Riley’s lecture room sits at the end of the hallway across from you. The hallway stretches on, and as you approach the room, you feel like you’re approaching some sort of boss-fight in a videogame. The dark oak doors loom, standing tall, intimidating. Usually the sight of these doors brings you comfort. They are the threshold that leads you to a place of peace, of calm. A doorway to serenity, a place where you flourish.

Literature has always been an escape for you, a place to lose yourself. When you read, the world falls away. All of the darkness, the loneliness, the anxiety, it all disappears when you open a book. You lose yourself in another world, one where you can be anything. University has become a place for you to delve into this escape, to lose yourself in literature every day.

You love it. You’ve always been a good student. A great student, with a 3.9 GPA, and zero unexcused absences. You can’t jeopardize everything now, not after coming this far.

After gathering your strength and traversing the hallway, you push the door to Dr. Riley’s class open, making your way to your seat in the last row.You prefer to tuck yourself in the back, to hide. There are too many prying eyes directed towards the front of the room. You try to evade them by situating yourself as far away as possible.

Dr. Riley, your literature professor, isn’t here yet, and only a few stragglers wander in. The other students talk to each other, making small conversation. They find it so easy, so effortless to converse. Sometimes about nothing at all. You don’t understand it, you never did. Talking, human interaction, has never been your strong suit. Books are concrete. People are unpredictable.

“You ready for the exam?” A boy in the front asks. He’s a football player, you’ve seen him around, heard him talking in the halls.

“Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess? I didn’t really study. Honestly, I’m just gonna wing it.” The girl next to him answers, a smile resting on her lips. Humor. She laughs, shrugging her shoulders.

You shake your head, bewildered. How can they not care? How do they not study? You chew the inside of your cheek, leg shaking under your desk. You’ve been studying for this exam, spending hours reviewing the text, making up exam questions to test yourself, taking notes. It’s not enough. You know you’re underprepared and it’s eating you alive.

Performing well has always been a top priority for you. Whether it be work or school, you strive for perfection. If you’re not performing perfectly, your worth will go down. Being a good student, being a good worker- these are your only redeeming factors. Who will keep you around if you do poorly? Who will want you, then?

Overthinking, anxiety, and insecurity warp your thinking. They wrap around your brain like heavy, black vines, pulling you into a bubbling pit of thick tar that's nearly impossible to escape from. You’re snowballing again.

Deep breaths…

It’s been difficult these past weeks. Your anxiety has been getting worse and worse, spiraling out of control again. Your landlord unexpectedly raised your rent last month, and you’ve been picking up extra shifts at the restaurant to make ends meet. It’s added a heap of extra stress onto your shoulders and left you with less time to study.

You had thought about talking to Dr. Riley, explaining the situation before taking the exam, but you didn’t want to make excuses. You should have worked harder. Found the time. If you wanted to, you would have.

Your brain nags at you for your shortcomings, degrades your work. You never give yourself a break, never expect less than perfection. It’s something that you’re working on with your therapist.

Eventually, you manage to calm your thoughts. Your #2 pencil is rolling between your fingers when you hear the old wooden door creak open. Dr. Riley enters the room swiftly, walking towards the front of the classroom. He’s… intimidating. He’s intriguing.

Setting aside his intimidatingly large stature, his eyes were the first thing you had noticed about him when you had first met him. Swirling brown eyes, honey and coffee, far too kind for a man as frightening as he is. You’ve also noticed that he is always well dressed, well put together, and organized. Prepared.

Today, his white button down is tucked into black dress pants. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and for the first time, you notice the sleeve tattoo on his arm. A skull, a rifle, barbed wire, and more patterns that you can’t discern on account of the distance, adorn his arm. Your eyebrows pinch together with curiosity, with wonder. Lastly, you note the pair of reading glasses that rest on the bridge of his nose, slipping down occasionally.

So many things about him pique your interest. You’ve always been an analyzer, taking note of things, picking up on details. He is no exception. Pink, healed scars dot his visible skin. Some are deep and angry. Others are subtle and light. One stretches across his cheek, long and sharp across the bone, down towards his lips. You wonder how he got them, and what Dr. Riley concerns himself with when he’s not teaching.

You also can’t help but wonder if the rumors are true. The upperclassmen before you used to whisper about him in the hallways. Gossip and whispers carried his name through the corridors, snaking through the halls like a dark, creeping vapor. Like a game of telephone, you’re sure that some of them were made up, just rumors and tales spun by bored students. But, apparently when he first started, he used to wear a mask, a balaclava to his lectures. A pit settles in your stomach as you watch him, eyes following the massive man. He strikes fear in the hearts of students. Although kind enough in class, he demands respect. There is a cold edge to him, one that comes out rarely when students are disrespectful towards each other or towards him. You would never want to be on his bad side. Other than these instances, he has proven to be kind. He’s the quiet type, but very passionate about what he teaches, very intelligent in his field. It doesn’t make you any less afraid of him.

“Alright,” Dr Riley’s briefcase hits the front desk with a loud thump. “You know the drill. I want complete answers and well-developed thoughts. Essay format. You have one hour.” His deep, gravelly voice easily reaches the back of the room, vibrating off of the thin walls. He could project it in a room five times this size, you’re sure.

You swallow thickly as he sends the exam blue books down the aisles. Eventually one makes its way back to you. You take it, writing out your full name and the course number. At the front of the classroom, Dr. Riley writes the exam question on the board.

Chalk dust falls like a slow pattern of snow, dusting his hands as he writes across the dark board. He wipes his hands together to rid them of the dust, abandoning the piece of chalk at the board with a small clack.

“Good luck.” Dr. Riley says, voice even. When he sits down at his desk, you can finally see the question. An ache settles in your stomach, twisting cruelly.

Pain blossoms in your bottom lip as you sink your sharp teeth into it. Worry overtakes you as your mind tries to come up with an answer to the question. You know this, somewhat, but your answer won’t be well-rounded. You click your pen nervously, leg still shaking under the table.

Just do your best. That’s all you can do.

It’s not good enough. It’s never good enough.

Your brain argues with itself. Two wolves circling each other, snapping, snarling. One tells you you’re not good enough. It’s dark, vicious, and frightening. It is unrelenting and cruel. The other, kind, forgiving, and gentle, reassures you, defends you. You’re doing just fine.

You’re suddenly pulled from your thoughts, breath halting quickly in your throat at the abrupt noise. Your eyes are drawn to the front of the class, to the noise of a throat clearing. Dr. Riley. His dark eyes are staring into yours, sending a warning. The heavy eye contact causes a deep blush to form over your cheeks as you realize the reason for this distraction. You’d been clicking your pen out of anxiety, creating a consistent noise and potentially distracting the rest of the class.

“Sorry…” You barely whisper it, and then your pen is on the paper, scribbling out an incomplete, underdeveloped answer.

You practically groan when you slip your work shoes off at the end of the night. You leave them in the entrance of your apartment, not bothering to stash them on the designated shoe rack. It’s late. You’re exhausted. After class, you had gone straight to work. Sarah had called off, and management asked for you to cover her shift. You wanted so badly to decline, but you could really use the money. Thankfully, the customers had tipped decently enough, leaving you with a small stack of money to take home for the night.

Bone tired, you strip off your raincoat and hang it on the coatrack by the door. Most nights end like this nowadays, with you completely drained, hungry, aching, and still needing to study.

Your phone buzzes twice in your jeans pocket. It’s a text from your best friend, Mia. She’s stuck by you through thick and thin, a friend you’ve had since high-school. One of the only people you’ve managed a long lasting connection with, bless her. Your stomach aches at the sight of her message.

So, how did the exam go? xx

You toss your phone onto the counter, ignoring it for now.

Your apartment smells like warm vanilla, and a soft glow emits from the lamp and fairy lights you have draped all over. It’s all too inviting, warm. You want nothing more than to curl up in your plush bed, surrounding yourself with a heap of blankets and plushes, but you can’t just yet.

A sigh leaves your lips, which form into a smile as Cosette makes her way to the doorway. She purrs and hums contentedly, rubbing herself against your legs, trotting in circles around them. A sweet little meow leaves her as you scratch the top of her head. You pet her sweetly, fingers sinking into her pale white fur. Pretty green eyes watch yours. She always knows when you’ve had a bad day.

“I don’t even want to talk about it, Cosette.” You whisper, scruffing her fur one more time before stepping into the kitchen.

You open the refrigerator, staring into the fluorescent light for a few seconds before shutting the door. Slim pickings.

You settle on a pack of ramen. It cooks on the stove, bubbling loudly and boiling away while you check your school account online, searching for the next book you’ll have to read for class. Tired eyes run over the blue light of your computer, looking for the next title.

In your search for the upcoming schedule, you almost miss the notification that pops up at the bottom of your screen. Almost. It’s an email. Eyebrows scrunch together in confusion, eyes running down to the digital clock at the bottom of your screen.

23:47

Curiously, you click open the tab and your school email pops up. When you notice the sender of the email, your blood runs cold. Bile rises in your throat as you open the email from Dr. Riley.

I’d like to meet you tomorrow during my office hours. We need to discuss your exam.

Dr. Simon Riley

You frown. The email is to the point, stripped of structure and formality.

He must be upset. Surely you failed. You did poorly, and he wants you to come to his office so that he can talk to you about your performance. Tears prick the corners of your eyes. There goes your GPA, your scholarship, right out the window. Literature, your studies are the only thing you have to cling to. The only thing keeping you from falling apart completely. If you can’t even succeed in this area, the area that you love… What can you do?

You know that the wolf is tearing you down again, shredding your self-image. You repress the thoughts, filing them away in a cabinet and closing the drawer. With an exaggerated sigh, you check his office hours and then write your response.

Dr. Riley,

Yes, I can meet you tomorrow. I’ll see you at your office at 17:15.

Sincerely,

You type your name, tap send with a satisfying click, and slam the computer shut.

You’ll deal with him tomorrow.

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