stuffeddrawer

[stuffeddrawer]

Ghost who breaks things off with his sorceress FWB when she starts to catch feelings. She's vindicative but sworn to do no harm, and in a rage she curses him into a stuffed toy of himself.

True love, as always, will break the curse, and she's satisfied that Ghost will be miserable for a very, very long time.

Enter you.

The skeleton plush you find at the second hand shop is cute. A little dusty, like it had sat for a while, but soft and stuffed full still, and nothing you can't clean up.

It's an impulse buy.

Ghost wants to stew in his anger, but how can he, when a pretty soft thing like you sleeps with him every night?

When you slip between the sheets in your pink pajamas and crush his polyester face to your bare breasts on a bad day?

He thinks there are worse punishments to bear. He just wishes he could fuck you happy, take the nipple shoving into his face between his teeth until you writhe and beg him to touch you, troubles forgotten.

Watching you cry is the worst, when he can't move, and he can see that you're lonely and need someone to lean on.

He wants to wrap his arms around you and shelter you from the storm.

He stops thinking quite so much about how good sex with you would be, and starts thinking about how he'd like to take care of you.

He'll never be loved like this, not the way the sorceress meant when she'd cast the curse, and it's not fair, but he slowly falls for you anyway, spends his days while you're away fantasizing about how he could make you happy, the life you two could have.

Jokes on him, though, and his ex. There's no purer love than that between a girl and her comfort plush.

Your end of the bargain was sealed months ago.

When he finally crosses that last hurdle one night, he's sitting propped between your legs listening to you sniffle over a romcom. He admits at last to himself he's fallen for you, and the curse snaps.

And suddenly there's a full grown man in your lap.

This is going to take some explaining.

We're dreaming big - prologue here

[stuffeddrawer]

Johnny in a crop top and teeny tiny shorts 🤭

[stuffeddrawer]

Imagine Ghost accidentally conditioning the 141...

Ghost is busy. Always. Too much paperwork, too many reports, too many logistics to handle before training. It’s 1400 before he realizes he’s skipped lunch. Again.

Not a big deal. Not the first time. Won’t be the last.

But he is hungry.

His eyes land on the bright pink bag of Valentine’s Day mini Snickers that’s been sitting, untouched, on his desk for a week. They were part of a bulk shipment to the base; some gift or something.

Not exactly lunch. But it’ll do.

He grabs the bag and heads for the training field. He’s two minutes late, not that it matters much because Soap and Gaz already have the unit ready.

"Where’s Price?" he asks, tearing open the bag as he walks up.

"Got pulled away. You’ve got this one, Sir," Gaz replies, raising a brow as Ghost lifts his mask just enough to pop a Snickers into his mouth.

Ghost doesn’t react, just grunts.

Today’s drill is a simple infiltration exercise. Hell, it's something Ghost or Price hardly have to be here for. Their presence would be more of a formality. Gaz leads the attackers. Soap leads the defenders. The teams get ten minutes to plan, to prep.

And then Ghost sounds the time up, and the groups move.

Ghost watches, leaning against a crate, chewing another Snickers, barely paying attention to one of the new guys—until the kid steps right into a trap. Ghost sees it before he does.

Blue powder erupts into his face.

Soap’s defenders descend, but the kid doesn’t go down easily. Blind, but still fighting back, holding his own until his team pulls him out.

Soap's team wins. Barely.

When it’s over, the teams regroup. Ghost is still eating Snickers.

He turns to the recruit, still dusted blue.

"What 'appened?"

"Didn’t see the wire." The kid shifts uncomfortably.

Ghost turns to the unit. "Who set it?"

One of the defenders raises a hand. Ghost considers him for a moment before reaching into the bag.

He tosses a mini-Snickers at the soldier.

The guy catches it. Looks at it. Looks at Ghost. Eats it.

Ghost turns back to the newbie. "Held your own. Tha' matters. Surprises happen. Don’t let ‘em get you again."

And that’s it. Training’s dismissed. Ghost pockets the rest of the Snickers and moves on.

...

The next day, Price is still gone. Ghost doesn’t skip lunch this time, but he still brings the Snickers bag.

They run the same drill.

Same recruit. Same route. But this time, he checks everything. Quick. Efficient. Finds the wire. Disarms it.

No blue powder today.

Gaz’s team wins.

Ghost eyes the recruit and flicks a Snickers at him. The kid catches it mid-air.

...

By the end of the week, Price is still gone. Ghost keeps the pink bag of Snickers on him during training. Like it's just another part of his kit.

One or two mini snickers get handed out every session. And nobody really notices at first. But the team starts moving differently.

They work harder. Smarter. More ruthless. More efficient. No one wants to be the guy who doesn’t get a Snickers.

Even the veterans sharpen their tactics. Gaz and Soap notice. But no one says a damn thing. If Ghost is going to give them snickers, then shut the gel up and let him give them snickers.

...

They're sent on a mission. High stakes.

They don't lose a single man. Not a single injury.

At the end of it, back on their transport home, Ghost pulls the pink danm bag from some unassuming pocket and hands out the snickers.

The men take them without question. They earned it.

But Ghost is running low. The bag nearly empty.

...

At the next training, Ghost doesn't hand out a single snickers. Not on purpose, but the bag is empty, so there's nothing left to do.

But the others notice. Gaz squints. Soap looks like a confused dog. Head tilt and all. The newbies glance at each other, shifting.

...

Two days later, Ghost swings his door open at 0600 sharp—and pauses.

Sitting just outside his door, neat as you please, is a bag of mini Snickers. Not the Valentine’s ones anymore. Just regular.

Ghost blinks. Hums. Pleasantly surprised, he picks up the bag, inspecting it briefly before stuffing it into his tac vest like it’s just another piece of gear.

He doesn’t think much of it. It’s a good snack.

At training, he does as he always does. Watches. Observes. Evaluates.

And then, without thinking, he tosses a Snickers at a recruit who clears a building faster than expected.

He snaps to attention as he catches it, eyes shining. Ghost does not question it.

The pattern continues.

And when he starts running low, Ghost finds a fresh bag of Snickers waiting for him.

Somebody—somewhere—has decided that the Snickers will not run out.

...

At training, at drills, in the field, there is a silent expectation. A new, unspoken rule. Do something exceptional? Get a Snickers.

The machine of the 141—the deadliest operators in the world—now snaps to attention at the crinkle of plastic.

They move with a ruthless kind of precision, bodies coiled, eyes sharp—waiting, anticipating.

Even Gaz and Soap are part of it now—though everyone refuses to acknowledge it outright.

But the moment Ghost hands one of his men a Snickers, he takes it.

Silently. Gratefully. Like a goddamn reward.

Ghost does not acknowledge this. Not out loud. But he keeps handing them out.

And they keep earning them.

They'd quite literally kill for a Snickers. (imagine what they'd do for an expensive piece of chocolate)

...

And then Price comes back three weeks later. He walks into the training area and pauses.

Something is off.

The unit is too sharp. Too focused. The newbies stand stock still in their group, as if waiting for something.

Gaz and Soap exchange a look. Soap refuses to meet Price’s eyes.

But he doesn't acknowledge it, until he begins unwrapping a plastic sleeve holding a new pen. The plastic is thick and loud. And half of their fucking head snaps his way. The hungry eyes of three dozen of soldiers latching on him.

Ghost, standing at the edge of the group, tears open a fresh bag of Snickers.

And now the entire fucking unit reacts. Subtle shifts in stance. Focused attention. Expectant silence.

Price squints. Frowns.

Ghost flicks a Snickers at a recruit. He earned it today.

The recruit catches it like it’s a holy offering and eats it immediately.

Price’s frown deepens. Slowly, carefully, he turns to Ghost. “The fuck did I miss?”

[stuffeddrawer]

anyway trans women are women and trans men are men and both of these groups will always be welcome here

[stuffeddrawer]

[stuffeddrawer]

Back again (outside of anon lmao) to lay out the brain worm that's been chewing on my grey matter for a few days now: designationless!reader whose secondary gender presents super late in life.

It's not super unheard of for kids to present a little late. Babies don't always have their scents until after a few weeks or months, and it's a rarer chance for kids over two or three to not develop a scent or display certain qualities that are noticeably of a certain designation. But typically, if someone doesn't have a designation before they're five, they don't have one at all.

Which is why there's absolutely no protocol for it when reader wakes up one day and everything just hurts. Her body is sticky with sweat and hot to the point where it feels like the only thing able to quell the heat would be to claw her own skin open.

Everything is so overwhelming, but she hadn't realised that scents were everywhere. On her, on the blankets, in the air. Everything has a scent - she has a scent, since when did she have a scent? Overwhelming her poor nose to the point where the only way to stop the frying in her brain is to crawl into a cold shower and let it wash everything away.

Yesss but also we should really consider the aftermath 😩 spending your whole life getting used to one thing, and it gets ripped apart just like that? Devestating.

You’ve never felt more like a stranger to yourself than you do now.

The world is different. Everything is different. The air feels different- thick, heavier, like the scent of something that doesn’t belong is clinging to your skin, following you everywhere you go. It’s like you’re drowning in it, suffocating you from the inside out.

You can’t stop smelling it. Their scents. It’s there, all of them, wrapped up in the air around you, pressing in on your every move. It’s too much. Too strong. Too intimate. You don’t know how to process it- any of it, when previously there’d been nothing but candles to give you a sliver of an idea about what they smell like.

Your body aches under the weight of it all, and it’s not just from your own overwhelming heat anymore. It’s everything. Their presence, their voices, the way they’re always so near, always so protective, so unwavering. You can’t get away from them. You can’t escape the constant pull, the way your body reacts, how your mind feels like it’s turning to mush.

You don’t understand what’s happening to you. You feel... wrong. Unnatural. More than you’ve ever been.

The others are trying their best, truly. They’re there. But you can’t stop the wave of shame that crashes over you when you think of what you’ve become.

The shame of your late presentation. The shame of not being the kind of omega they expected- normal, clean and in control. Everything you are currently not.

But you’re not like that. You never have been. And now... you’re broken. As if being designationless already wasn’t so strange- you had to present so late you had no doubt you were really, truly, unnatural.

It’s too much.

They’re gentle with you, patient, but you can see it in their eyes- they’re worried. They don’t say anything, but you feel it. You feel how different you are from them now, how out of place you are with their instincts swirling around you. Their scent fills your lungs in a way that makes your heart ache, because you don’t know how to feel about it. It’s comforting but it’s too much.

You don’t know how to feel about them.

When you catch yourself shying away from their touch, feeling overwhelmed by the constant onslaught of their scent, the weight of their attention, your chest tightens with guilt. You can’t look them in the eye. It feels like an invasion.

Your body craves something you can’t give, but you don’t know how to push it away.

Your mind, too, races with irrational thoughts. Maybe you’re too much now. Too unnatural. You resent it. You don’t want it. You never wanted it. You can’t believe there’d been days you’d craved this- this mess you’ve become.

You can’t stop smelling yourself either- the newness of it, the strangeness, the instincts that have begun to claw at the back of your mind. You catch yourself trying to make a nest. You hate the way your skin burns with need whenever any of them are near, the way you feel pulled toward them without any control over it.

You want to run.

But where would you go? Where can you even go?

Johnny’s the first to try and properly talk to you, catching you in your room after you’d shoved yourself there. While command decided on what to do with you, you were exempt from missions and drills.

“Hey,” he says gently, his voice quiet, a little uncertain. “Y’alright, hen?”

You don’t answer. You can’t look at him. You don’t know how to tell him that you’re not, that you feel like you’re suffocating. That you want to bury your face in his neck and breathe until all other sensations are washed away.

“You don’t have to hide from us.” He continues, his hand reaching for your arm, but you jerk back with a sharp intake of breath, and you can hear the sharp edge of concern in his voice when he speaks again. “You’re still you. You’re not some... freak, love. We’re here.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, your breath coming too fast. Please don’t touch me.

But it’s too late.

The flood of scents, the pressure in your chest, it all rises again. The overwhelming wave of emotions, the shift of something inside you that you’ve never felt before, it’s too much to bear.

You don’t know what’s happening to you.

You don’t want them to see you like this. Even if they’d seen you the cursed day you designation presented itself.

John and Simon appear in the hallway, eyes trained on you as if they already know. Simon steps forward first, and you already know what expression he has underneath his mask. He doesn’t say anything, just watches you with a quiet understanding.

You want to yell at them, tell them to go away, but you don’t have the strength.

It’s too much.

“Love,” John says, firm but gentle, reaching for you in that way he always does. “Talk to us. Let us help.”

Kyle joins as well- you can feel his warmth as he sits down beside Johnny, not yet touching you, but the smell of concern almost chokes you.

You want to. You really do. But the words are caught in your throat, lodged there with the lump of shame, of self-loathing.

“I- I’m sorry,” you whisper, the words barely leaving your lips. “I don’t... I don’t know what to do. I’m not... I’m not like this. I wasn’t supposed to... to...”

“Hey,” Kyle says softly, his hands gentle as he slides his fingers under your chin to tilt your face up. His eyes are full of something that makes you ache. “You didn’t do anything wrong. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

Your chest tightens, and the tears you’ve been trying to hold back finally spill over, leaving a trail of shame behind them.

“I’m a mess,” you sob, your voice breaking. “I’m not supposed to be like this. I’m too late, too... too wrong.”

Simon’s hand wraps around yours, his warmth steadying you, calming the storm inside your chest just a little. They are slowly sureounding you- a living nest cocoon of warmth you are undeserving of. “You’re not wrong, lovie,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to be anything but you.”

Your eyes meet his, searching for some kind of truth. His grip tightens on yours, and the grounding presence of the others behind him steadies you just a little.

“You’re ours,” John continues in a murmur in his stead, his thumb brushing your cheek, wiping away a tear. “And that’s enough. Presenting like this doesn’t suddenly make you any less than who you were, love.”

You can’t answer, can’t process all the words they’re giving you. But their hands are on you, and their presence fills you up in a way that begins to soften the sharp edge of the shame gnawing at you.

Maybe you’re still too much for yourself. But you just… have to trust them.

Omegaverse masterlist

[stuffeddrawer]

At one point in time, John Price has uttered the words "Christ, that scared the tits off me."

And Simon Riley has immediately grabbed his tit and shook his head, uttering a very serious: "No, it didn't. Still there, still perky."

That day, they learned that John can swing significantly faster than Simon can duck.

[stuffeddrawer]

i just wanna finish this second part of that feral sex pollen alpha reader thing is that to much to ask for, brain

[stuffeddrawer]

So, someone may have already thought about this, but after reading the comments from other folks in the neglected!aus of the Dukedom, I'm looking for a sliver of hope for poor Duchess.

What if there is a newly-hired maid who actually gives a shit about Duchess's well-being, but also not one to take bs? When she notices the duchess being treated unfair, she's quick to ask the rest of the staff. They're no help, and John just turns a blind eye to it. "If you're so worried, then why don't you take care of her yourself?" says half-heartedly.

Challenge accepted (with the utmost diligence).

Because regardless of how things are, she's not gonna let The Lady of The House wither and waste away. Anything Duchess needs, Sweet Maid will be the one to take care of it, not accepting any help or pity from anyone. Plus, less problems means less rumors.

The manor was cold.

Not in the way that stone and drafty halls made a place cold, but in the way that loneliness settled into the bones of a home, making it hollow. You felt it in every ignored whisper of your name, in the meals left at your door but never shared, in the glances that once lingered but now flickered away, as if your presence was something to be endured rather than cherished.

You had learned to sit in that silence, to let the days pass with only the ticking of the grand clock to keep you company. No one seemed to mind that the Duchess of the house was wilting. Not the servants who barely acknowledged you, not the man who had vowed to be your partner in all things.

So it was a surprise when a sharp knock interrupted the monotony of your existence.

You barely had the energy to respond. “Enter.”

The door swung open, and in stepped a young woman dressed in the crisp uniform of the household staff. But unlike the others, she did not hesitate in the doorway, did not cast you a wary glance before hurrying off to complete some other, more important task- because you were at the bottom of the list of importance to them.

No- this one marched inside with purpose, hands on her hips, bright eyes scanning the room like a general surveying a battlefield.

“Oh, absolutely not!”

You blinked, fully looking at her. “I beg your pardon?”

The maid- Shirin, you would later learn- looked positively appalled, her gaze darting between the untouched vanity, the dust gathering in the corners, the discarded meal trays with barely a dent in them.

“This is unacceptable!” she declared.

You almost laughed. You had never heard one of the staff speak so freely before, but you didn’t mind. At least she was speaking to you.

Instead, you tilted your head, studying her. “And you are?”

Shirin straightened, her expression softening when her eyes met yours. “Shirin, Your Grace. I’ve just been hired, and let me tell you, I do not approve of how they’ve been treating you.”

Your lips parted, but before you could respond, she was already moving- striding toward the heavy curtains and yanking them open, letting sunlight pour into the dim room.

“Goodness, no wonder you look so sick! They’ve been keeping you in the dark like some tragic ghost.”

You winced at the sudden brightness, but you found yourself watching, entranced, as Shirin moved with swift efficiency. She gathered the abandoned trays and muttered under her breath about the nerve of leaving food for a Duchess like she’s a stray cat, shaking her head in obvious disapproval.

You frowned. “Why does it matter to you?”

Shirin turned, her brows furrowing in genuine confusion. “Because you’re you!” she said, as if that should be obvious.

You didn’t know how to respond to that.

With a huff, Shirin clapped her hands together. “Alright! First things first, we’re getting you properly bathed, dressed, and fed. No more arguments.”

You raised a brow. “I haven’t argued.”

“Oh, you will,” she said knowingly, already heading toward the bathing chamber. “But I’m terribly stubborn, and I always win, my lady.”

For the first time in ages, you felt something unfamiliar flutter in your chest. Something warm. And you weren’t quite sure what to do with it.

Within minutes, Shirin had the bath drawn- hot water steaming as she added fragrant oils with a hum. She returned to your bedside, hands on her hips.

“Well?”

You hesitated. You didn’t even know why- and yet tou hesitated.

She softened, stepping closer. “Your Grace,” she said gently. “You deserve to be taken care of.”

Something in you cracked, and without a word, you let her help you to the bath.

She was kind but firm, helping you undress without making you feel small, washing your hair with a gentleness that made your throat tighten. When you were clean and wrapped in the softest robe, she helped you to a chair before the vanity, brushing creams onto your face with careful strokes.

“See?” she murmured. “Not so bad, my lady.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. “No,” you admitted. “Not bad at all.”

Shirin, and you found yourself helpless against the warmth of it. She squealed when she noticed your own smile.

By the time you were settled in fresh clothes, Shirin had already changed the linens, aired out the room, and brought in a meal that smelled heavenly. The warmth of the plate alone almost made you tear up.

She cut the food into small bites- not in a condescending way, but in a way that said she simply wanted to make things easier for you.

You took a tentative bite, and Shirin lit up.

“Oh, thank the stars, you’re eating!” she cheered.

You gave her a look, but there was no real heat behind it.

“I always win, my lady. I told you so!” She reminded you with a wink.

And for once, you didn’t mind losing.

Meanwhile, the rest of the staff had noticed Shirin’s warpath.

She was sweet with you- warm, chatty, the very definition of a doting maid. But with them?

“Oh, no no no,” she had scolded Johnny that morning. “You expect the Duchess to eat this?” She had snatched the meal away with a huff, muttering about standards before personally overseeing a proper one.

And when she had cornered John, her expression turning so positively icy, she hadn’t even pretended to be intimidated.

“If you’re so worried, then why don’t you take care of her yourself?” he had muttered, dismissive, too focused on his work to care about a singular maid taking pity on you.

Shirin had only grinned. Fine. She will take the very best care of you!

[stuffeddrawer]

cw: sex pollen, insanity?, lots of swearing if you're not into that. omegaverse reader is a sub alpha, tf141 are dom omegas bc i say so word count: 1497

(divider by @cafekitsune)

You fucked up.

It’s not even a big screw up, not yet. It’s not even world ending, but the tiniest inconveniences drove you up the damn wall and your mind was already distracted with a thousand other things. You find it hard to believe that people’s minds are usually quiet, are supposed to be quiet – yours has always been loud.

This isn’t what’s fucked up.

You’re in the middle of a deployment, started feeling off a few days ago but you brushed it off. Fool. Your brain chastises you. Should listen to your gut more often. Now look at you. Huffing and puffing and—

You noticed this off feeling a day before you went off on your mission – even that was supposed to be simple. Truly – get in, get out. Done. Supposedly.

But even that was still messed up.

You thought you tracked your cycle correctly, thought you had everything prepared, thought this mission wouldn’t overlap with your cycle, thought thought thought—

You picked at your gear, growing increasingly frustrated with every buckle, every strap. Every single piece of gear on your person, right down to your extra pair of gloves, was beginning to irritate you. You fucked up.

Your groan was loud enough to be heard when you couldn’t put your silencer on fast enough. You were already frustrated with your upcoming rut, skin flushed and warm, vision already tunnelled and now the sudden influx of hostiles did nothing to soothe that roar in your chest, the ringing in your ears. It did nothing to calm that angry alpha in your brain.

You were so frustrated with everything and everyone that you didn’t immediately smell something sweet in the air, something sweet enough to make you dizzy, discombobulated, your mind honing in on one thing and one thing only. That sweet, sweet omega smell. It took a moment, but your mind swam, vision blurred, growls and huffs leaving your mouth, desperate for someone to sink your teeth into, for someone to use you, for you to use someone. You didn’t care.

You fucked up.

You shouldn’t have gone on this mission, not when you knew you could go into a rut at any given time. You knew, you knew, and you still went. You knew this wasn’t going to end well, knew that something was going to happen. Fool. Knotted with anxiety and stress and you still should have trusted your gut. You wanted to wonder what the hell was wrong with you, that you could have sworn you had an extra day or two to really make sure you had everything you needed, but with that roar in your ears, the desperation seeping into your bones, you just don’t fucking care.

You pad over to where you thought the door was, rolling your eyes when you find it’s been locked. Shit. Your stomach growls, you think you growl, your blood rushing in your ears too loudly for you to understand just what the hell is happening. That smell is so sweet, like some pretty omega you just want to sink-

You huff, trying to take deep breaths once you realise what happened, just what exactly they’ve gassed you with, the room they’ve locked you in. Your cycle was forced to start, your gut was telling you this was going to happen. Your mind is racing and you just can’t keep up. You growl, yell, scream, throw yourself against the door, desperate to get it open, but it won’t budge. Like your stubbornness and inability to listen to what your body’s telling you, the door doesn’t open, doesn’t so much as whine when you press your weight against it.

You think you cry out when you move, the ache in your bones growing, the heat pooling between your legs almost burning now as your knees crash against the concrete beneath you. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. Or does it feel so fucking good when you start to palm yourself? You don’t know. Your mind is so twisted and hazy, solely focused on one thing, and to have that thing denied to you? You think you’re going insane. Your grip on reality feels like it’s starting to slip.

You can’t even hear your radio sparking to life, can’t hear Price demanding a check in, can’t hear him repeating what he said, this time more urgently, a hint of fear perhaps? You really can’t tell if it’s just the blood in your ears rushing south, your entire body aching and on fire, or if he’s actually talking. You feel like you’re going insane. Going feral.

Your body writhes on the floor, equal parts bliss and agony, stars bursting in your eyes but you can’t tell if it’s from the pain or the pleasure. Or both. Sometimes it’s both. This time it just fucking hurts. Or does it? You don’t know. You don’t care. You fucked up.

You didn’t want to fuck the seam in your pants or your hand, you just wanted to get this mission done and spend your cycle surrounded by your packmates, surrounded by the people you trusted the most, people you knew would take care of you. God, it fucking hurts.

You want Kyle against your back, holding your arms behind you, whispering sweet nothings and cooing into your ear. Johnny to tease your nipples, bite and mark up your throat. You want John and Simon to make your legs shake, want them to use you as their own toy, want to be left mindless and fucked stupid, satisfied with your pretty omegas at your side, purring and content. You want Johnny and Kyle to clean you up, lick you clean, you want all these things, but you’re left on the floor in the middle of fuck-ass nowhere, desperate and borderline feral.

You shift your hips back and forth as you practically grind on your hand, on your knees now, groaning into your arm with your eyes screwed tight. You wanted someone to take you for all you had, make your legs shake and throat raw from how you practically cry out their name, treat you right like they’ve always treated you, how you’ve always treated them.

You fucked up and were now writhing on the floor, entire body shaking from the pain in your system, a small puddle of drool forming on the floor from how you’re sat – knelt? Bowed? You peek your eyes open, try to take a look around the room, try to find another way to escape, to free yourself, to eat and be eaten. Your vision is too hazy, too fuzzy for you to make anything out. You can’t focus on anything other than the ache between your legs.

The whine that fills the room – you think fills the room – is nothing short of desperate, angry and loud. Your chest hurts from how heavy you’re breathing, you can’t think past the ache in your bones, you think you cry out again, your finger pressing a button – buttons? You don’t know – your mind’s slipping away from you faster than you can catch it, like trying to hold fog. You don’t even feel scared anymore, just so fucking horny, desperate, pleading for someone to use you and for you to take your time with them, please, please, please.

God, you’re so hungry, your entire body shaking, growls and huffs leaving your lips as it feels like the walls are closing in – it hurts, it hurts so fucking good. You hump your hand faster, angry, but it’s still not enough. You want to feel your packmates’ hands on you, want to feel every inch of them, want them on you, in you, you don’t care – you want them in the worst way, but you fucked up and you’re stuck here, growling at nothing. You draw your hand back, hand slick with your arousal, room heavy with the scent of an alpha starting their cycle, forced to start it. You try to move, throw yourself against the wall to break yourself out of this trance, out of your own mind, but it only makes your brain break faster, sanity slipping like sand through dry fingers.

That stupid omega sweet scent drove you insane, you want more, crave more, are aching for more. Your mind felt like goo, like every sense of You was long gone. You think you hear the door open. Too late.

You’re too fucked up to recognise him, too feral to notice the boonie hat, the three other men standing behind him – you snarl at whoever walked in. Your body’s tense, more tightly wound than anyone’s ever seen. Your gaze is hungry and angry, and fucking famished. You’re starving, you’re angry, you’re so desperate for an omega to fuck, you’re—

You leap, your teeth barred and mind blank, snapped like a dry twig in the middle of a sweltering summer.

The task force’s now-feral alpha is knocked out before their teeth can do any lasting damage to their captain.

[stuffeddrawer]

cw: sex pollen, insanity?, lots of swearing if you're not into that. omegaverse reader is a sub alpha, tf141 are dom omegas bc i say so word count: 1497 MDNI

(divider by @cafekitsune)

You fucked up.

It’s not even a big screw up, not yet. It’s not even world ending, but the tiniest inconveniences drove you up the damn wall and your mind was already distracted with a thousand other things. You find it hard to believe that people’s minds are usually quiet, are supposed to be quiet – yours has always been loud.

This isn’t what’s fucked up.

You’re in the middle of a deployment, started feeling off a few days ago but you brushed it off. Fool. Your brain chastises you. Should listen to your gut more often. Now look at you. Huffing and puffing and—

You noticed this off feeling a day before you went off on your mission – even that was supposed to be simple. Truly – get in, get out. Done. Supposedly.

But even that was still messed up.

You thought you tracked your cycle correctly, thought you had everything prepared, thought this mission wouldn’t overlap with your cycle, thought thought thought—

You picked at your gear, growing increasingly frustrated with every buckle, every strap. Every single piece of gear on your person, right down to your extra pair of gloves, was beginning to irritate you. You fucked up.

Your groan was loud enough to be heard when you couldn’t put your silencer on fast enough. You were already frustrated with your upcoming rut, skin flushed and warm, vision already tunnelled and now the sudden influx of hostiles did nothing to soothe that roar in your chest, the ringing in your ears. It did nothing to calm that angry alpha in your brain.

You were so frustrated with everything and everyone that you didn’t immediately smell something sweet in the air, something sweet enough to make you dizzy, discombobulated, your mind honing in on one thing and one thing only. That sweet, sweet omega smell. It took a moment, but your mind swam, vision blurred, growls and huffs leaving your mouth, desperate for someone to sink your teeth into, for someone to use you, for you to use someone. You didn’t care.

You fucked up.

You shouldn’t have gone on this mission, not when you knew you could go into a rut at any given time. You knew, you knew, and you still went. You knew this wasn’t going to end well, knew that something was going to happen. Fool. Knotted with anxiety and stress and you still should have trusted your gut. You wanted to wonder what the hell was wrong with you, that you could have sworn you had an extra day or two to really make sure you had everything you needed, but with that roar in your ears, the desperation seeping into your bones, you just don’t fucking care.

You pad over to where you thought the door was, rolling your eyes when you find it’s been locked. Shit. Your stomach growls, you think you growl, your blood rushing in your ears too loudly for you to understand just what the hell is happening. That smell is so sweet, like some pretty omega you just want to sink-

You huff, trying to take deep breaths once you realise what happened, just what exactly they’ve gassed you with, the room they’ve locked you in. Your cycle was forced to start, your gut was telling you this was going to happen. Your mind is racing and you just can’t keep up. You growl, yell, scream, throw yourself against the door, desperate to get it open, but it won’t budge. Like your stubbornness and inability to listen to what your body’s telling you, the door doesn’t open, doesn’t so much as whine when you press your weight against it.

You think you cry out when you move, the ache in your bones growing, the heat pooling between your legs almost burning now as your knees crash against the concrete beneath you. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts. Or does it feel so fucking good when you start to palm yourself? You don’t know. Your mind is so twisted and hazy, solely focused on one thing, and to have that thing denied to you? You think you’re going insane. Your grip on reality feels like it’s starting to slip.

You can’t even hear your radio sparking to life, can’t hear Price demanding a check in, can’t hear him repeating what he said, this time more urgently, a hint of fear perhaps? You really can’t tell if it’s just the blood in your ears rushing south, your entire body aching and on fire, or if he’s actually talking. You feel like you’re going insane. Going feral.

Your body writhes on the floor, equal parts bliss and agony, stars bursting in your eyes but you can’t tell if it’s from the pain or the pleasure. Or both. Sometimes it’s both. This time it just fucking hurts. Or does it? You don’t know. You don’t care. You fucked up.

You didn’t want to fuck the seam in your pants or your hand, you just wanted to get this mission done and spend your cycle surrounded by your packmates, surrounded by the people you trusted the most, people you knew would take care of you. God, it fucking hurts.

You want Kyle against your back, holding your arms behind you, whispering sweet nothings and cooing into your ear. Johnny to tease your nipples, bite and mark up your throat. You want John and Simon to make your legs shake, want them to use you as their own toy, want to be left mindless and fucked stupid, satisfied with your pretty omegas at your side, purring and content. You want Johnny and Kyle to clean you up, lick you clean, you want all these things, but you’re left on the floor in the middle of fuck-ass nowhere, desperate and borderline feral.

You shift your hips back and forth as you practically grind on your hand, on your knees now, groaning into your arm with your eyes screwed tight. You wanted someone to take you for all you had, make your legs shake and throat raw from how you practically cry out their name, treat you right like they’ve always treated you, how you’ve always treated them.

You fucked up and were now writhing on the floor, entire body shaking from the pain in your system, a small puddle of drool forming on the floor from how you’re sat – knelt? Bowed? You peek your eyes open, try to take a look around the room, try to find another way to escape, to free yourself, to eat and be eaten. Your vision is too hazy, too fuzzy for you to make anything out. You can’t focus on anything other than the ache between your legs.

The whine that fills the room – you think fills the room – is nothing short of desperate, angry and loud. Your chest hurts from how heavy you’re breathing, you can’t think past the ache in your bones, you think you cry out again, your finger pressing a button – buttons? You don’t know – your mind’s slipping away from you faster than you can catch it, like trying to hold fog. You don’t even feel scared anymore, just so fucking horny, desperate, pleading for someone to use you and for you to take your time with them, please, please, please.

God, you’re so hungry, your entire body shaking, growls and huffs leaving your lips as it feels like the walls are closing in – it hurts, it hurts so fucking good. You hump your hand faster, angry, but it’s still not enough. You want to feel your packmates’ hands on you, want to feel every inch of them, want them on you, in you, you don’t care – you want them in the worst way, but you fucked up and you’re stuck here, growling at nothing. You draw your hand back, hand slick with your arousal, room heavy with the scent of an alpha starting their cycle, forced to start it. You try to move, throw yourself against the wall to break yourself out of this trance, out of your own mind, but it only makes your brain break faster, sanity slipping like sand through dry fingers.

That stupid omega sweet scent drove you insane, you want more, crave more, are aching for more. Your mind felt like goo, like every sense of You was long gone. You think you hear the door open. Too late.

You’re too fucked up to recognise him, too feral to notice the boonie hat, the three other men standing behind him – you snarl at whoever walked in. Your body’s tense, more tightly wound than anyone’s ever seen. Your gaze is hungry and angry, and fucking famished. You’re starving, you’re angry, you’re so desperate for an omega to fuck, you’re—

You leap, your teeth barred and mind blank, snapped like a dry twig in the middle of a sweltering summer.

The task force’s now-feral alpha is knocked out before their teeth can do any lasting damage to their captain.

[stuffeddrawer]

This is a reminder that this is an adult only space, which means that minors need to leave. Block me and leave me alone. My space is not for you to interact with. This is not subject to change. Ageless blogs/blogs with no age indicator/blank blogs (nothing, no reblogs, no header image, no icon, no bio, literally nothing) will also be blocked as I immediately assume you are a bot.

I have been on this site for ten years, and I am very liberal with the block button. Leave me alone if you're a minor/ageless blog/blank blog. This space is not for you.

[stuffeddrawer]

cw: alcohol, throwing up bc of alcohol word count: 1068

⁽ᵖᵒˢᵗ ᵈᶦᵛᶦᵈᵉʳ ⁻ ᵃˢᵐᵒᵈᵉᵘˢ⁻ᵖˢᵈ⁾

You’re used to being on the outside, looking through glass containing delicate and well curated friendships. You’ve tried, God knows you’ve tried, to get out there, to try and befriend others, have what they have, but you’re always the ‘oh, yeah’ the afterthought, if not outright forgotten.

You live alone, with a dog that seems more interested in the food you eat rather than you yourself.  You don’t have any friends, save for the one that you met online years ago, but they live in another country altogether. You know they have their own group of friends, and you’re okay with that – you’re elated for them. You know it’s hard for them to make friends, but they still seem to have an easier time than you do. It’s almost as though you’ve forgotten how to even talk to people outside of work.

In short, you’re a loner.

A loner who somehow ended up at your boss’ house for a party. You’re still trying to figure that one out. They’ve invited your coworkers, obviously, and friends of their own that they’ve curated throughout the years. You’re all close in age, there’s no awkwardness felt watching one another drink and get drunk. There’s no wincing or judgement when one has a shot, and the other sips on wine.

You’re a loner who’s plastered themself into the corner, slightly overwhelmed by both the music and the people, trying to figure out how to even talk to them. Again, that creeping feeling roars in your chest – You’ve gone and forgotten how to talk to people, haven’t you? Your brain tells you. You wince without making too much of a face, more of a shudder, as if fighting off a sudden chill when the entire house feels like it jumped up by ten degrees.

You’re a loner who’s somehow caught the attention of not one, not two, not even three, but four pairs of eyes, and you haven’t noticed how they’re all looking at you. Albeit in turns, but to them, you’re stunning, like a breath of fresh air even when it feels like you yourself are suffocating under all this noise, stuck between a wall and your coworker’s drunk boyfriend who seems to be flirting with the monstera plant next to you. You try not to laugh. You fail to suppress a giggle, which only seems to make the four pairs of eyes light up at the sight of that smile, even though it’s small, on your lips.

You’ve never been a social person – maybe that’s why you have no friends, save for the one in your pocket, living a thousand miles away. You’ve never been a social person, yet somehow you’ve managed to end up with someone’s arm around your broad shoulders, keeping you close and grounded. He smells like citrus, smells bright – explosive. His cheerful and charming smile distracting you from the insane noise that seems to have only gotten louder the more and more people drank. Your coworker’s boyfriend isn’t slick with how he throws up in the soil. Poor plant.

You’re not a social person, yet somehow you’ve managed to wrangle possibly the most prettiest man you’ve ever laid eyes on, in a damn ball cap no less, and he’s serving you your next drink – just a simple beer, but it’s enough for you right now. You’re too hot and flushed to be enjoying anything else, really you should be drinking water, but the way this man dotes on you, those big brown eyes of his staring at you as if you’re the only one who’s ever mattered, is making you a little dizzy. Not the alcohol, certainly not that. You’ve not nearly had enough. You’ve never had someone look at you the way he is.

You’re the least social person out there, but there’s something about the way that this man with mutton chops has his hand on the small of your back, guiding you out of a crowded area of the house to someplace more open. There’s something different about that kind, quokka-like smile of his. Where one might see it as condescending, you only see it as a silent question, asking if you’re alright, waiting, patiently, almost. If you weren’t so on guard, if you weren’t so tense and uncomfortable with the amount of people here, with how rowdy these people were, people you work with, you’d be swept off your feet. Which is exactly what this man is, these men are trying to do.

You’re not a social person at all, but somehow, sitting outside with this masked stranger, this burly stoic man, is calming and slowly the conversation begins to flow easily, starting with what you do, what your average day to day is, and somehow you end up giggling at a few of his dry jokes that no one really seems to laugh at. You’re not a social person, no, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have a wickedly dry sense of humour – you get his. The air might be chilly but surprisingly, you’re comfortable, warm. Seen.

You’re definitely not the most social person in the universe, yet somehow, you’re walking out of that party with four new numbers, four new names, four new friends. You’re a loner who’s walking out of that work-house-weird stupid coworker’s-boyfriend-flirted-with-and-threw-up-in-the-monstera-plant party with a big fat smile on your face, more energised walking out of it than you went in. Your cheeks hurt from smiling and laughing at Johnny’s dumb jokes. You’re a little tipsy from the drinks Kyle made you, but also ensured you had plenty of water and something in your stomach. You still feel John’s hand on your lower back, and you can still feel Simon’s comforting presence next to you, offering silent comfort.

You’re not the most social person out there. You’re a loner. You stay alone, live alone, cook for one, and have a small amount of dishes to clean, just for yourself. Food goes bad before you get a chance to finish it, always making more for lunches, forgetting you’re pretty much a loner.

You’re not so much that same loner anymore when you’re waking up on a lazy Sunday morning with all four of those men in your new Alaskan king-sized bed, each of them pressing lazy morning kisses to each other's heads, groggy “g’mornings”, gruff huffs at being woken up. You’re happy you’re not so much of a loner anymore.

[stuffeddrawer]

cw: alcohol, throwing up bc of alcohol word count: 1068 MDNI

⁽ᵖᵒˢᵗ ᵈᶦᵛᶦᵈᵉʳ ⁻ ᵃˢᵐᵒᵈᵉᵘˢ⁻ᵖˢᵈ⁾

You’re used to being on the outside, looking through glass containing delicate and well curated friendships. You’ve tried, God knows you’ve tried, to get out there, to try and befriend others, have what they have, but you’re always the ‘oh, yeah’ the afterthought, if not outright forgotten.

You live alone, with a dog that seems more interested in the food you eat rather than you yourself.  You don’t have any friends, save for the one that you met online years ago, but they live in another country altogether. You know they have their own group of friends, and you’re okay with that – you’re elated for them. You know it’s hard for them to make friends, but they still seem to have an easier time than you do. It’s almost as though you’ve forgotten how to even talk to people outside of work.

In short, you’re a loner.

A loner who somehow ended up at your boss’ house for a party. You’re still trying to figure that one out. They’ve invited your coworkers, obviously, and friends of their own that they’ve curated throughout the years. You’re all close in age, there’s no awkwardness felt watching one another drink and get drunk. There’s no wincing or judgement when one has a shot, and the other sips on wine.

You’re a loner who’s plastered themself into the corner, slightly overwhelmed by both the music and the people, trying to figure out how to even talk to them. Again, that creeping feeling roars in your chest – You’ve gone and forgotten how to talk to people, haven’t you? Your brain tells you. You wince without making too much of a face, more of a shudder, as if fighting off a sudden chill when the entire house feels like it jumped up by ten degrees.

You’re a loner who’s somehow caught the attention of not one, not two, not even three, but four pairs of eyes, and you haven’t noticed how they’re all looking at you. Albeit in turns, but to them, you’re stunning, like a breath of fresh air even when it feels like you yourself are suffocating under all this noise, stuck between a wall and your coworker’s drunk boyfriend who seems to be flirting with the monstera plant next to you. You try not to laugh. You fail to suppress a giggle, which only seems to make the four pairs of eyes light up at the sight of that smile, even though it’s small, on your lips.

You’ve never been a social person – maybe that’s why you have no friends, save for the one in your pocket, living a thousand miles away. You’ve never been a social person, yet somehow you’ve managed to end up with someone’s arm around your broad shoulders, keeping you close and grounded. He smells like citrus, smells bright – explosive. His cheerful and charming smile distracting you from the insane noise that seems to have only gotten louder the more and more people drank. Your coworker’s boyfriend isn’t slick with how he throws up in the soil. Poor plant.

You’re not a social person, yet somehow you’ve managed to wrangle possibly the most prettiest man you’ve ever laid eyes on, in a damn ball cap no less, and he’s serving you your next drink – just a simple beer, but it’s enough for you right now. You’re too hot and flushed to be enjoying anything else, really you should be drinking water, but the way this man dotes on you, those big brown eyes of his staring at you as if you’re the only one who’s ever mattered, is making you a little dizzy. Not the alcohol, certainly not that. You’ve not nearly had enough. You’ve never had someone look at you the way he is.

You’re the least social person out there, but there’s something about the way that this man with mutton chops has his hand on the small of your back, guiding you out of a crowded area of the house to someplace more open. There’s something different about that kind, quokka-like smile of his. Where one might see it as condescending, you only see it as a silent question, asking if you’re alright, waiting, patiently, almost. If you weren’t so on guard, if you weren’t so tense and uncomfortable with the amount of people here, with how rowdy these people were, people you work with, you’d be swept off your feet. Which is exactly what this man is, these men are trying to do.

You’re not a social person at all, but somehow, sitting outside with this masked stranger, this burly stoic man, is calming and slowly the conversation begins to flow easily, starting with what you do, what your average day to day is, and somehow you end up giggling at a few of his dry jokes that no one really seems to laugh at. You’re not a social person, no, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have a wickedly dry sense of humour – you get his. The air might be chilly but surprisingly, you’re comfortable, warm. Seen.

You’re definitely not the most social person in the universe, yet somehow, you’re walking out of that party with four new numbers, four new names, four new friends. You’re a loner who’s walking out of that work-house-weird stupid coworker’s-boyfriend-flirted-with-and-threw-up-in-the-monstera-plant party with a big fat smile on your face, more energised walking out of it than you went in. Your cheeks hurt from smiling and laughing at Johnny’s dumb jokes. You’re a little tipsy from the drinks Kyle made you, but also ensured you had plenty of water and something in your stomach. You still feel John’s hand on your lower back, and you can still feel Simon’s presence next to you, offering silent comfort.

You’re not the most social person out there. You’re a loner. You stay alone, live alone, cook for one, and have a small amount of dishes to clean, just for yourself. Food goes bad before you get a chance to finish it, always making more for lunches, forgetting you’re pretty much a loner.

You’re not so much that same loner anymore when you’re waking up on a lazy Sunday morning with all four of those men in your new Alaskan king-sized bed, each of them pressing lazy morning kisses to each other's heads, groggy “g’mornings”, gruff huffs at being woken up. You’re happy you’re not so much of a loner anymore.

[stuffeddrawer]

Got bored so here's the Simon Riley

I love my army wife

[stuffeddrawer]

You think any one of the 141 would be able to fuck this migraine away?

I think they would

[stuffeddrawer]

Okay but Gaz is definitely taking ALL the credit for when the inevitable relationship between Ghost and Reader happens. Like yeah, Gaz ain’t gonna admit that he did it to prank but he will definitely be smug when Ghost starts talking about his missus

i disagree, actually. i think gaz is a smart man, so he'll never confess to what he's done anywhere near ghost. it's not like he thinks his lieutenant will kill him or anything- but if anyone knows how to make gaz's life a living hell, it's definitely ghost. that man not only has the authority to make him run laps until he drops, but he's got access to his schedule, his quarters, his gear- lord knows what punishment that man might see fit to dole out.

one day he'll meet ghosts bird, hear about how she fell in love with a man with the pinkest bathroom she's ever seen, and try to cover up his giddiness at being indirectly involved by pretending he's shocked and delighted at finding out his lieutenant has a pink hello kitty bathroom.

he doesn't know that ghost already knows, didn't see the cctv that caught him in the act of breaking in with a few large bags and paint cans. that's why it'll be all the spookier at the end of the night when ghost catches him alone, grabs him by the collar and leans low into his ear to thank him for the bathroom makeover that caught him a pretty bird, and warn him that any future secret home renovations had better happen at soap's place because ghost's changed out his traps since the last time gaz snuck in, and these new ones are nasty.