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Hermes is the super secure, super secret project that your company has been working for the CIA. Due to delays you have been sent to the UK to help with the implementation on site for the 141. Throughout the process you befriend (and more) the men you have been tasked to work with. But not everyone is excited for you to be there...and not everything is as it seems.

Radio Killed the Video Star (poly!141) - AO3

Prequel (completed)

Part one

Part Two

RKtVS (WIP)

Chapter 1: First day in the UK blues - You

Chapter 2: “You never show me how to make bombs!” - Gaz

Chapter 3: "do you know what a satellite is?" - You

Chapter 4: "Mars, Bringer of War" - Price

Chapter 5: "I’m not scared of the man who asks for the crusts to be cut off his grilled cheese.” - Soap

Chapter 6: "You know we aren’t actually agents, right?" - You

Chapter 7: “You saying we have big egos?” - Price

Chapter 8: "Damn, Mars, you do belong in horny jail" - You

Chapter 9: “This is for sure a mistake.”

Chapter 10: What kind of name is Mars?

Chapter 11: "Looking good, soldier"

Chapter 12: "Ah might ‘ave been a dick tae ‘im."

Chapter 13: “You used to be fun, what happened?”

coming soon

Series Warnings: mdni, adult scenarios, drinking, smoking, eventual smut, minor/major character death, canon typical violence

fic list - AO3 - Ko-Fi - Bsky

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Happy Juneteenth,

Be sure to read something written by a black author. Be it a poem, short story, start a book, share some art by a black artist, or even watch a video about black history. Below I have a few things that I personally enjoy.

YouTube

Not your Mama's history - she does historical reenactments of a black woman who is enslaved. Provides contextual education that is very accurate.

IntelexualMedia - A black woman creator who does deep dives and wonderful videos on life in different decades. My favorite series is Lex does the 90's.

Shanspeare - She does great videos on a variety of subjects and topics! I turn her on when I need to watch something before bed.

Redacted History - hosted by Dr. Andre White Jr. He can also be found on tiktok for his short form content under the name Dr. Andre 3001. Such a great guy with wonderful well researched information.

Books and poems

The Bluest Eye - by the late great Toni Morrison herself. (My favorite book)

Parable of the Sower- Octavia Butler (second favorite book)

Their eyes were watching God- Zora N. Hurtson

Push - by Sapphire (inspired the movie Precious. A hard read.)

Blood at the Root- by LaDarrion Williams

Akata Witch- Nnedi Okorafor (if you somehow enjoyed Harry Potter, you should read this. Is very good)

Mother to Son- by the great Langston Hughes

And still I rise- collectionof poems by the late great Maya Angelou

Good morning - by Camari C. Hawkins (I have this saved to my phone and use it when I need a quick moment to ground myself)

Movies and TV series

The color purple (gosh, my mom and I can quote this movie)

Roots (we (my fam and i) used to do a yearly watch in February and have discussions to see how our views changed)

Happily Ever After: Fairy Tales for Every Child (I grew up watching this! Not exclusively black series but it definitely has multiple well thought out stories that feature a multitude of cultures)

White Chicks

Us

Get out

Sinners

Living Single (the show that FRIENDS was stolen from)

Blade

Men in Black (my brother swears this is a black family classic and he is not wrong)

Straw (fairly new and by Tyler Perry (I kno I kno 😅😩) but it's a great movie about mental health and my girl Taraji did her big one)

Family Matters

Good Times

Craig of the Creek

Static Shock

The proud family (both the original and the remake)

That's so Raven

Good Burger

The Boondocks

The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air (dark skin aunt Viv was the best. Argue with your mom not me on this)

Podcast (I kno)

Grits & Eggs podcast hosted by Deanté Kyle

Black girls heal hosted by Shena LaShey

Code Switch found on NPR

These are just the ones I enjoy! I encourage you to add on if you would like!

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FEAR OF GOD | MASTERLIST

GAZ x READER

There's someone outside the spacecraft. You don't remember them being part of the crew.

Or: the scifi horror au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, AFAB reader - Freeform, Space Horror, Psychological Horror, TBA

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14

Extras

Series moodboard Ambient playlist (+ Extra)

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Summary: Once upon a time, there were four gods. Together, they took turns helping the mortals. But what spirit connects them all, centering their efforts? Of what clear mission banner do they unite under? To whom is the focal point of life’s great mysteries? In other words, smut about diety! 141.

Winter Frost (John X Reader)

When the god of the Winter had needed a messenger, he had chosen you. Yet your elders wanted you dead. But the god of the Winter, John Price, had other plans for his devotee.

Spring Comforts (Gaz X Reader)

The winter ice has melted, and the spring blossoms have bloomed. But as the elders continue their tyranny over your village, your gods seemingly disappeared. Or had they?

Summer Scoarch (Soap X Reader)

You had only wanted to petition the god of summer for rain to ease the drought. Locked away for your crimes, the god of summer, Johnny comes to your aid to set all things right.

Johnny HCs

Autumn (Ghost X Reader)

Altar HCs

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Knocked Up | Masterlist

— pairing: simon ‘ghost’ riley x fem!reader 

— warnings/info: 18+ only | Accidental Pregnancy AU; (unprotected) sex/smut; hurt/comfort; angst; humor; jealousy; teammates to lovers; cussing; pregnancy; (most probably) military and medical inaccuracies; friendship; fluff

Pining for your friend leads to a boozy night and a terribly life-changing consequence.

♡ Part 1 ― Tactical Distraction

♡ Part 2 ― Positive

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Okay so I had a thought JSJSJSJJS. What if Simon Riley was in the great British bake-off. But! With his wife

cw: afab reader x ghost, fluff, domestic chaos, competitive simon

HEADCANON: You and Simon sign-up for a couple’s baking contest. Simon… takes it way too far

PAIRING: Ghost x reader

Simon Riley didn't belong in places like this.

Room smelling like butter, sugar, honey, and too much of that bloody syrupy optimism that he's got a headache at 9 in the morning.

Pastel aprons hanging on the wall. Floral curtains fluttering over wide sunlit windows like they were bellowed in by the spring wind. Mocking and swaying in some idyllic little breeze that screamed "domestic bliss" like a fucking threat.

Bloody hell. Has this what has come to his life?

The Ghost. Big bad massive hulking operative who once battered into a man in half, executed high-risk operations without so much as breaking a sweat, and cleaning house at record speed -- now clad in a frilly pastel apron with a fucking bunny clip on the side.

The print matching yours -- his sweet little wife who he'd break necks for -- as you two stood in the fucking spot center of a couple's baking class. Trying not to itch his skin inside out as more of that shitty frilly lace tickled the outskirts of his neck and clavicle. Both of you armed -- given -- whisks, rolling pins, pastry brushes, and -- "what the fock is tha'" "Simon stop touching it" -- trying to keep his spine from turning into a rod of steel and glaring at anything that moved.

Bloody fuckin' hell.

Simon Riley didn’t belong in places like this. This wasn’t his world. This wasn’t his fight.

But fuck, here he was yeah? Dressed in all tactical black like usual, only now fashioned with that bloody lacy apron you baited him to wear. Trying not to look absolutely impatient and restless amidst the other cheerful little couples in their own ruffled and flounced smocks. Knuckles turning ghost-white as he tried not to clutch the rolling pin like a rifle.

Christ, he was too tall for the damn room too. The tallest bloke in fact. Countertops only hitting his mid-thigh. Ceiling fans spun too closely overhead like they were judging him. And to top it all of, someone had embroidered Live, Laugh, Loaf and hung it above a shelf of jam jars like that meant anything.

Simon stared at it for a long second.

Deadpan. Blinking. Unamused. Silently wishing for death.

Then you tugged his hand.

Making him turn his gaze to you. His sweet sugary little bird. Looking right at home adoringly with her hair twisted up with a little flower clip. Soft, innocent, and warm smile full of excitement and enthusiasm.

"Thank you for joining for me", you voiced out. A hand slipping into his arm. Tender. Reverent and gentle.

Simon didn’t reply, but his posture unwound a bit. Clearing his throat and giving you an acknowledging nod only as a response. Not saying another word as he bent down so you can press a kiss to the side of his mask with a giggly smile.

Then came Debbie.

An overly chipper instructor who waltzed up with her arms open wide and big mellowy grin plastered across her face. You said she looked so sweet. Like your little old gran marshed up in a storybook cottage. Simon said she looked like a cult leader of pastel-loving pastry idiots. You hit him with a whisk for that one even if he barely even bristled, only giving you a slight quirk of a smile underneath his mask.

Debbie clapped her hands together in that way that made Simon’s teeth grit, her eyes shining with excitement as she stepped into the center of the room, her apron so pristine and perfect it made Simon want to turn around and leave right then and there.

But you were there. Bloody toying and teasing little bird. He'd have to tan your perky little arse red later for even thinking of a stunt like this, he thinks.

But the moment you tugged on his arm again. Pinky puffy and plump lips bitten in joy as you try to stifle a shrilly and excited giggle. He was stuck.

Simon Riley didn’t belong in places like this.

But when he looked at you again. Such a stark contrast to everything and everyone in his place. Sunshine. Soft. Pure. Homey and Warm. Yeah. Fuck that

Simon Riley didn't belong in places like this

-- but for you...

He'd stay.

Even if it meant wanting to put his entire nuts int the mixer than be this fucking ridiculous class ever again.

"Alright, everyone! Let’s get started!" Debbie's voice rang out, cheery as hell, somehow managing to make everything feel like it was going to be the best day of everyone’s life. "We’re going to start with something fun today! Fruit tarts!"

Simon wasn’t sure whether to laugh or sigh. Fucking fruit tarts. Of course. One of the most delicate, dainty, and tottery things on earth. And here he was. A grumpy hulking mass of muscle and scars. Bloody towering force of nature in a frilly pastel apron, about to try and bake something that didn’t involve a weapon or breaking bones. A pastel hellscape that's what it was. Fuck. fuck. fuck.

He glanced down at you, who was looking up at him with that sweet smile of yours, as if you were perfectly content to spend the next couple of hours teaching him to bake and make sweet treats. Looking absolutely right at home. Fever dream and a vision at that.

"We’ll make them simple, fresh, and delicious. You’re going to love it!", Debbie chirps. Clapping her wry hands with her bright smile unwavering.

Love it? Fuck you Debbie. No. This was murderous.

But Simon wasn’t about to ruin it for you -- not when you were looking so genuinely happy. If this is what you wanted, then fine. He’d survive this. Hell, maybe he’d even make it look like he was enjoying himself.

With a deep breath, he reluctantly grabbed the rolling pin, his knuckles turning white around the handle as if it were the trigger of a weapon.

He wanted to swallow it whole then vomit it right now at one chirpy bloke named Craig who tried to make friends with him at the beginning.

He glanced down at the bloody dough again. Nodding along at all your plans and ideas about colors, designs, and the like. Letting you -- his beautiful sweet and lovely little bird mouth along, always enamored with your tiny little chirring and warbles even if it was incoherent or nonsensical at times.

Smiling proud and knowingly a bit as he lets you pretend to take the lead even if his eyes were already scanning through the pink manual that jotted the instructions of making said sweet. Humming along to every word you said as he memorize the terms, jargon, and content with uncanny precision and dexterity.

As Debbie went on about the tarts and their required ingredients, Simon’s gaze drifted around the room again. One hand now whisking the batter with... eerily steady and practiced precision. Observing some of the men as well who looked genuinely excited, even chatting about what flavor fruit they’d use, while their wives or girlfriends laughed along.

Simon tried not to scoff. This wasn’t his world. This wasn’t his fight. The most dangerous thing in the room right now was the over-sweet scent of sugar in the air, and that was barely even a threat.

Simon's gaze narrowed as he scanned the bloody kitchen. Tactical. Observant. Steady. Scoping.

Jaw suddenly clenching as an unfamiliar sense of… competitiveness stirred in his gut. This was a fucking baking class, but as far as Simon was concerned, it was starting to feel like a bloody warzone. Especially since he heard you voice out how much you’d love to get your hands on a brand-new oven.

That damn bloody fucking oven.

Gossamery smooth surface, coupled with steel knobs and all that shite modeled in front of all of you as the supposed "grand-prize" for the winner of this little bake-off.

You were so excited about it. Your eyes had lit up like a kid in a candy store when Debbie mentioned and flaunted it. The promise of a fresh, shiny oven to use in your kitchen -- your space, your domain. It wasn’t just an oven -- it was a symbol of something better, something more.

You’d been talking about it all week, gushing over the idea of baking even more, expanding what you could do with your sweet treats.

And Simon? Simon Riley? The bloody Ghost who’d killed a dozen men and didn’t blink an eye? He wasn’t going to let some bloody oven slip through your fingers. Fuck that. Not in a million fucking years birdie.

He hadn’t realized how competitive he could get over something so stupid. But now, it was like a switch flipped inside him. He wasn’t just baking tarts anymore. He was hunting. And he’d be damned if some pampered little couple with no idea how to wield a whisk would get their hands on that oven.

He glanced around, his eyes narrowing on the other contestants. They were chatting. Giggling. They had no idea what they were in for. They didn’t need that oven the way you did.

They were too soft. Too happy.

The moment Debbie mentioned the prize, Simon knew this was his mission. He had to win. And to win, he was going to show these fucking amateurs exactly how it was done.

He wasn’t going to lose -- especially not to some chirpy bloke who had the nerve to ask him about his “signature move” in the kitchen.

"Clean cut. Precise. Less blood. No noise"

"Oh uh... okay"

Simon Riley didn't belong in places like this.

But you did.

His lovely light of his life perfect girl, and he'd make sure you'd always have the world you wanted. Even if it meant carving out Sharon's eyeballs before she could fucking separate her egg whites before he did.

He continued on. Movements deliberate and measured. Dough rolling under his hands smooth and precise. Tarty mixture weaving together silkeny and perfect beneath his fingers. Each motion purposeful and calculated, his gaze unwavering. Grunting lowly as usual to signal his agreement as he promised to let you do the decorating when he finished.

Wanting his beautiful sweet bird to add her own prettiness and delicate touch to bring it all to life afterwards.

Debbie clapped her hands after a short while. Grinning widely as she frilled about. Pulling Simon back to the present. “Right then, couples! Last few minutes”

Simon’s eyes narrowed at that. Glancing around again to scope out the competition. The other couples were… well, they weren’t bad, but they weren’t him. They were far too distracted, too sloppy, some of them not even following the instructions correctly.

Ha. Fucking idiots

“Focus,” he muttered to himself, the words a low growl. He shot a quick glance at you, his lips twitching into a smirk beneath his mask. “We’re not just baking a tart. We’re making history.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Bit dramatic, Simon.”

But you smiled. And that was enough.

Near the end, his hands -- trained for delicate precision in the field -- were handling the tart shells in perfect ease and skill. Fruit slices uniformed and precisely cut. Letting you help him start piping bits of decor and shapes sharply and clean. The bloody thing now looking like something out of a pastry chef’s textbook.

"Hey uh... Simon", someone interrupted him. A grimy shiny lad. Mark his name probably was. Simon forgot. He didn't care either way. But Mark was standing too close. Smiling too wryly and enthusiastic. Nervous and jittery little pup he was. Making Simon's skin crawl with annoyance. "You mind if we borrow some of your --"

“Sugar?” Simon’s voice cut through the air. Interrupting, cold and steady as he turned to face Mark. Mark's hands pausing to reach your container. Simon not moving, nor flinching. Stance solid and a looming wall of force.

Mark blinked. “Uh, yeah… just a little, if you don’t mind -- ”

Simon’s hand gripped the sugar jar tightly. “I mind.”

There was a beat of silence, and then Mark quickly stepped back, eyes wide, clearly reconsidering his approach. Nodding twice before scurrying off.

Simon's eyes followed him until he was all the way back to his station, like a predator watching a prey skitter back into its burrow. Earthy irises going over the smaller lad's stiffening posture twice then turning back to the tart like nothing happened. Calm. Precise. And still in fucking control.

You blinked, looking between him and Mark with mild amusement. “Jesus, Si,” you murmured, not even trying to hide the smile pulling at your lips. “You gonna pull rank over some granulated sugar now?”

“’S not about the sugar,” he muttered, voice low and gravelly as he pressed a final slice of kiwi onto the edge of the tart like it was a tactical maneuver. “It’s about principle. That little prick thought he could cut corners. Not on my watch.”

You bit back a laugh, watching the way his broad shoulders were squared and his entire stance screamed soldier. Guardian. Protector. The most intimidating presence in a goddamn kitchen full of lemon zest and baking powder.

And God, did you love him for it.

“Alright, darling” you whispered, stepping closer and nudging your shoulder against his. “Let’s win this stupid oven.”

That made him glance at you.

Not with words. But with that soft crease at the corner of his eyes. That slow, near-invisible shift of his posture, like your voice was a pressure release only you knew how to access. You were his handler, in a way. The only one who could give the Ghost a fucking apron, put him in a room full of pineapple glaze and sugar dust, and still make him deadly efficient.

After everything was done, he didn't say much. Placing the finished tarts carefully on the countertop. Standing stock-straight and easy. Hands quiet at his sides. The soft scent of burnt sugar still clinging to him as he watched Debbie flutter about to start judging. Eyes following the manically upbeat woman as she bounced around, humming to herself, cooing at each tart like it was a newborn child.

Simon stood behind you, arms crossed, letting you do all the talking as Debbie approached your station. Big hulking and weighty shadow. Ready to snap her neck if she does so much as blink at you wrong.

At the sight of both of your fruit tarts, her eyes lit up.

“Oh my, now this -- this is a masterpiece! The layering, the balance of fruit, the shell -- this is professional-grade work!”

You smiled sweetly. “All credit goes to Simon. He’s a natural.”

Simon didn’t speak. He just gave a single nod.

Debbie giggled like a teenage girl. “I can see that. Very focused, isn’t he?”

Focused? No. He was possessed. Possessed by the need to get you that oven, by the need to see you happy. That was all.

A few more judging rounds. A few tense minutes.

And then --

“Well!” Debbie announced, clapping her hands. “It was a tough call, but the winners of today’s baking challenge are… Simon and his lovely wife!”

You gasped. Covered your mouth. Turned to him, eyes wide and sparkling.

He didn’t say anything. Just stood there as you launched into his chest, arms wrapping around your waist instinctively without so much as a single grunt. Effortless and always knowing. Would rather swallow the entire baking brush than let you fall.

“You did it! We did it!” you laughed, muffled into his shirt. “Oh my God, we actually won!”

Simon Riley didn’t belong in places like this.

Too much light, too much peace.

But then you looked at him —

— soft around the eyes, joy bubbling, glowy, warm, quiet in your chest — and something in him loosened.

Like a knot untying after years pulled tight. Bloody Theia with powdered sugar on her cheeks and dried frosting on her fingers.

Yeah. Simon Riley didn't belong in places like this --

-- but he belonged with you and that’s all that mattered. Everyone else can choke on flour. :)))

masterlist

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let's shelter in mama

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anatidae

After five happy years together, Ghost and Soap finally convince you to have their child.

The prospect daunts you; you're content with things the way they are, and you don't want your life to change. But you love them enough to try.

ghoap x reader. audhd reader. reader has a nickname. established relationship. polyamory. baby fever. manipulative Soap. smut. threesomes. breeding kink. anal sex. top Soap. bottom Ghost. sex as manipulation. pregnancy. character study.

Conception

i. (early access) (up tomorrow) . ii. (first draft) . iii.

Gestation

i. . ii. . iii.

Delivery

i. . ii. . iii.

bonus

pinterest board

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need more fics of whatever gay shit is going on between graves and his shadows

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good things will happen 🧿

things that are meant to be will fall into place 🧿

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Hey kid, look at me.

I want you to T-pose. Turn your right thumb up and your left thumb doen and look at your right thumb. Move your arms up and down a bit until you feel a nerve running from your armpit to your palm. Now turn your right thumb down and your left thumb up, and look at your left thumb. Keep your chest facing forward and your shoulders back. Move your arms again until you feel that nerve again. Keep alternating between these two for a minute, or look at each thumb thirty times each.

Now sit down. Put your left hand firmly under your left buttock, palm down. Keep your shoulders back and put your right hand over the crown of your head, very gently pulling it to the right. Do this for thirty seconds, then do it again but with your right hand under your right buttock.

These are stretches for the nerves in your arms, and are very good for people who sit behind a computer a lot, or fibre artists, or you name it. Do them daily. They will hurt in the beginning, but keep doing them, even after the pain has gone, or it will return and you'll have to start all over.

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No no no.

Not Price with Ghost on a leash.

Not Soap with Ghost on a leash.

But Gaz with Ghost on a leash.

Think about it right? We have a man who can AND WILL choose war crimes to solve and issue. Now give him a man who follows orders for every crumb of love he can give? Baby they'd be unstoppable.

Gaz has the mind of a thorough planner, cool and collected, but will go berserk when need be. So I see Gaz using Ghost as a ace up his sleeve. Holding Ghost back for the right moment and definitely when the opposing team isn't expecting it.

In return? After the mission Simon will gladly beg for and accept whatever Gaz's perverted mind has after seeing his dog being taken off of his leash.

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john price never expected much from retirement. peace and quiet, maybe a drink at the bar in the evening, and the occasional fishing trip to keep his hands busy. but what he didn’t expect was you.

he first saw you at the local café, where you’d waltz in wearing little sundresses, always with a book in your hands, always smiling at the staff. a sweet little thing—too young for him, too pretty, too full of life. but you had a habit of looking at him, big eyes lingering a little too long, lips curling when you caught him staring back.

it didn’t take long after that.

one drink turned into two, turned into his hand resting on your thigh, turned into him murmuring in your ear, low and rough—“let’s get out of here, love.”

you barely made it through the door of his place before he had you against the wall. his hands were big, rough from years of work, gripping your hips like he was holding himself back from something deeper, something darker. but when you whined, arching up against him, his restraint snapped.

price fucked you like he had something to prove.

like he needed you to feel him, needed you ruined and wrecked and too dumb to think of anything but him. he had you on your hands and knees, dragging out those sweet, needy sounds from your throat until you weren’t sure if you were moaning and mewling.

“you take it so well,” he grunted, palming your ass, watching the way you trembled under him. “little thing like you, stretched around my cock—”

your nails scraped the sheets as you whined, pushing back into him. “p—price—”

his hand tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp. "john, love. s’john to you now.”

and fuck, you liked that. you liked the way it sounded, the way it felt, warm and thick on your tongue as you gasped it over and over, sobbing it into the pillow when he pressed down on your back and fucked you deep.

when it was over, you should’ve left. should’ve gathered yourself, slipped out before he could say anything, made this nothing more than a memory.

but when he moved to get up, you made a soft, breathy noise and curled around him, clinging like he might disappear if you let go

"where you goin’?" you mumbled, voice thick with sleep.

john exhaled through his nose, looking down at you. his hand hesitated before settling on your hip, big and warm.

"nowhere, love," he murmured, giving you just enough to keep you holding on.

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Gaz is the type of boyfriend that hates who and whatever you hate.

Pickles? “I hate’em too, love.” Salt and vinegar chips, “who even eats them?” He says as he chunks an opened bag that he was chewing on out the window.

That weird guy that looked at you weirdly, making snide remarks at you cause you told him to fuck off and leave you alone while you were on a date with your boyfriend? Gaz is already getting up and out of his seat with his hands balled. “No, no, this didn’t ruin date night,” he says oh so reassuringly as he wipes his bloodied knuckles, “let’s get some takeout and watch some movies at home, yeah?” Making sure to kiss you as many times when you feel bad. You could never ruin his night.

That one bitch from kinder named Bethany who stole your favorite crayon and suddenly Gaz also remembers a bitch named Bethany who stole his crayon too. He wasn’t even in your class but he vividly remembers her and he’s praying on her downfall right as you speak.

That time you were in gym and a ball hit against your head and he’s wishing he could stab the ball out of its air. Never mind how the one throwing the ball apologized profusely, Gaz is gonna come back later with scissors when no one’s around.

Your idiotic boss that keeps giving you the worst shifts changed his tune when Gaz payed a nice little visit to him out of the blue. “Oh? You’re finally getting your weekends off? that’s wonderful, love.” You had gushed so happily about your schedules finally being how you’ve been asking. He smiles gently as if he didn’t outright threaten your boss with a one way trip on the black train.

Literally he’s the biggest hater, you even look at a person wrong and Gaz is immediately giving the meanest stink eye known to man.

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

summary: pack 141 shows their interest in you.

pairing: alpha!141 x omega!reader

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

part 1: the gift exchange

you’ve heard that they’re picky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“no.” said Laswell.

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

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

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

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

what. the. fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

and they want to be sure? of what exactly?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

alpha, your mind screams.

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

she’s an alpha.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the word strikes true. tears sting your eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

they’re... this is…

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

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

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

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

it’s clear, cut and dry what this is.

it’s a courting gift.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it just can’t.

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

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

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

and yet, regardless of that fact...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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[main masterlist]

[part 2]