Eepie and passed out a few times writing this lmao but have a little oneshot
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Reader who's the only human in the 141
The others on base give you pitying or even envious looks- it cant be easy being the only lowly human on a task force full of Werewolves; it must be unnerving and stressful to constantly be surrounded by beasts that could snap your spine with one swipe- or, alternatively, your hips must ache to hell, being with all those beefy and horny beasts
In your opinion? You're on a team of oversized mutts
They use your dirty laundry as chew toys (you've lost so many socks and underwear to Soap's teeth), get fur all over the couch and rugs (a lint roller is a must-have at all times), make everything smell like wet dog (you've learned to make yourself scarce when they get out of a shower because they will flop all over you), they'll get into fights and scuffles over who gets to have a certain snack (there is more than enough for all of them), and they'll wail and howl like they're being murdered when they have to go to medical for anything ("God*dammit* John it's a flu shot, not lava torture!")
You spend more time shouting "No! Drop it!" and "Down, boy! I said down!" and "I swear to god if you ruined my brand new gym shorts" than you do filling out paperwork to replace whatever furniture they broke
Buuuut... its not all bad, you suppose
You'd been gone on a mission for a while, teamed up with some other squad of experts for a week or so. When you got back, you were practically dead on your feet, exhausted and aching all over, out of it enough that as you quickly debriefed before trudging off to change and get some sleep, you hadn't noticed Price's nose twitching or the way he eyed you as you left. So focused on just falling into your own bed, you forgot to lock your bedroom door
Which lead to you waking to the door opened and four bulky, furry bodies crammed on your bed with you
There was a snout shoved up against the side of your face, a chin on your head, a face nuzzled into your stomach, and a wet nose pressed against your neck, your body pinned and immobile by the weight of four clingy werewolves piled on top of you
"...really, guys?" You mutter, holding back a smile as the thump thump thump of four tails wagging against the sheets answered you.
"were gone fer too long..." Ghost grumbled, shifting to lay completely over your legs
"smell all wrong," Soap huffed, tucking closer to your collar bone
"shhhhh g' th' fuck t' sleep, y' muppets" Price shushed, his massive paw coming down to clumsily pet at your face to make you quiet
You snorted as he immediately fell back asleep, but as Gaz nuzzled closer to you and hooked his arm over your ribs, in the privacy of your own mind you could admit that maybe things aren't all bad
You’d have thought the body would reassert itself before the mind — sensation before thought, the physical before the cognitive, the same way you’d gone under with warmth registering before anything else. But the sedative releases in its own order and the order it chooses is this: memory first, arriving in layers, quiet and unhurried, like water finding its level.
Old memory comes before recent.
The base. The desk that had always been slightly too large for you, the cold laminate of it, the smell of coffee and ink and polished floors. The way the morning light came through the reception windows at a particular angle in winter and made the whole corridor look warmer than it was.
Simon coming through at eleven on a Tuesday with some transparent administrative reason that had never once been the real reason, staying for eight minutes, leaving without saying anything that mattered and somehow having said everything.
Kyle leaving a sandwich on the corner of your desk on the days he’d noticed you hadn’t gone to the canteen, no note, no comment, acting subsequently as though he had no idea what you were talking about.
John in a doorway. John always in a doorway, present without imposing, filling space without demanding it.
Johnny teaching you a card game during a slow afternoon that had turned into three hours and neither of you had noticed.
The warmth of it. The specific, dangerous warmth of four people paying you a particular kind of attention, the kind that your wolf had been cataloguing and storing from the first week while you’d been busy telling yourself there was nothing to catalogue.
Then more recent memory arrives, still quiet, still unhurried.
The truck. The counting. The two hundred and fortieth step. Your knees hitting the ground and your fingers in the soil and the sound you’d made that had no category you could put it in. John on the floor asking. Simon’s hand in yours in the med bay, the piece of gravel, the carefulness of it. Dr. Caldwell’s voice. The IV line going cold up your arm.
Then the nest.
Then the warmth of it closing around you.
Then John’s voice, so close it could have been inside you.
We’ve got you.
And then — last, arriving with the particular quality of things your brain has been keeping to the end because it knows you’ll need a moment with them — the thing you said.
My alphas.
It lands in the soft warm haze of not-quite-conscious with nowhere to go, no sharp version of you available to receive it and process it and dismantle it into something manageable.
Language has come back but the defences haven’t, not yet, and so you do the only thing available to you in this specific in-between state — you take the memory, you note it, and you put it somewhere you are absolutely not going to look at right now. A shelf. A high shelf. You’ll deal with it later when you have the rest of yourself back and can approach it with the proper equipment.
You file it away and stay very still and take stock of what else is true.
What’s true is that you are warm.
Genuinely, completely warm in a way that your body hasn’t been since before the cottage, since before six months of stone walls and banked fires and cold air that never quite left the room no matter how well you managed the hearth.
The nest is soft around you and the blankets are heavy and the scent of pack is so thoroughly woven into everything that it’s less a thing you’re noticing and more a thing you’re simply inside of.
Your wolf is quiet.
Not suppressed. Not hidden. Quiet in the specific way of something that has been given what it needed and has finally stopped asking. A looseness in your muscles that you haven’t felt in months, a heaviness in your limbs that is not exhaustion but its opposite — the heaviness of genuine rest, of a body that has been permitted to stop.
Then you register the arm.
It’s around you. Large and warm and present, a solid weight across your ribs, a chest at your back rising and falling in the slow rhythm of someone asleep. You know the scent of them before you know anything else, before memory catches up with sensation, before you’ve fully decided to be conscious.
Simon.
The memory arrives gently, without drama. Your hands in the haze, finding him, pulling. The way you’d arranged it, managed it, manoeuvred without language or decision, pure wolf and pure want and nothing else. His arm where it is now because you put it there.
You don’t move.
You stay exactly where you are, his nose at your throat, his arm around you, and you examine the question of whether you’re staying because of the omegaspace drop or because of a choice you’ve made.
Then you examine the question of whether there’s a difference right now, and then you decide that neither question is one you have the capacity to answer at this particular moment and you let them go.
The headache arrives.
It doesn’t introduce itself. It doesn’t build gradually from something manageable into something worse. It simply appears, fully formed, behind your eyes and across your temples and at the base of your skull. The specific vicious quality of a body that has been running on cortisol and adrenaline and sheer stubborn will for six months and has finally, at the first available opportunity, decided to present its full outstanding invoice. The kind of headache that makes light feel like a personal attack. The kind that lives in three places simultaneously and connects them with a low continuous throb that matches your pulse.
Then the congestion.
Your nose is now entirely blocked. Your throat is sore. Your chest feels heavy in a way that has nothing to do with emotion and everything to do with inflammation, the specific dense heaviness of lungs beginning to fill with something they shouldn’t.
You take stock of all of this with the methodical attention you apply to everything and arrive at a conclusion that is inconvenient and unsurprising in equal measure.
Your body, which has been going and going and going — through the cottage and the cold and the rationed supplies and the sleepless nights and the constant calculation of threat and distance and escape — has stopped.
And in the stopping, like a runner who crosses the finish line and collapses, it has gotten sick.
Of course it has, you think, with a tired lack of surprise. Of course.
Simon wakes slowly.
You feel it before you see it — the change in his breathing, the subtle shift from the deep rhythm of sleep to something lighter, more aware. Then the slight movement of his chest against your back. Then his arm, which tightens. Fractionally. Automatically. The reflex of a body that knows what it’s holding before the mind has caught up with the knowing.
He goes still when the mind catches up.
Not pulling away. Not making it strange or sudden or anything that would require either of you to acknowledge it directly. Just — still, in the way that Simon goes still around things that matter to him, the specific controlled quality of a man who is very aware of what he’s holding and is not going to move wrong.
You don’t say anything.
He doesn’t either.
The silence settles between you and it isn’t uncomfortable, which is its own kind of information. It’s the silence of two people in a situation that neither of them is going to be the first to name, both of them aware of this and proceeding accordingly.
Your wolf is making a low continuous sound of contentment somewhere in your chest that you are absolutely certain he can feel given that his chest is directly against your back, and you cannot seem to stop it, and you’re choosing not to examine that too closely right now on the grounds that you have limited processing capacity and the headache is already using most of it.
You’re cold.
That registers properly now — not the ambient cold of the nest, which is warm, but the cold coming from inside you. The cold that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with the fever working its way up through your system, the paradox of running hot while feeling frozen, your skin too sensitive and your bones aching and the shaking starting at the edges of you in small fine tremors that you’re working to control and not entirely succeeding.
Simon feels the shaking. You know he does because his arm tightens slightly again, the same automatic reflex, and you hear the change in his breathing that means he’s more awake now, more present, taking stock of you the same way you’ve been taking stock of yourself.
He still doesn’t say anything.
You find, with mild distant surprise, that you don’t want him to.
John was awake when you turned your head.
He was sitting close to the nest — not in it, just beside it, his back against the wall and his forearms on his knees — and he’d clearly been awake for some time, the particular stillness of a man who has been waiting without making a production of the waiting. He looked at you when you looked at him and you watched him read you, the way he always reads everything, completely and without imposing his interpretation on what he found.
He saw the residual softness at your edges, the way you hadn’t moved from Simon, the fact that you were looking at him with eyes that were yours but not quite the sharp version of yours, not the version that had negotiated from a tree and counted steps in a treeline and told him clearly and without apology what you would and would not allow.
He didn’t comment on any of it.
“How do you feel?” he asked.
You opened your mouth. Your voice came out wrecked — congested and rough and barely recognisable, like something that had been left out in the rain for a week.
“Fine,” you said.
The word was so obviously untrue that John’s expression did something brief and complicated that in other circumstances you might have found satisfying.
“Right,” he said, which was the most diplomatic possible response to that particular statement.
Kyle appeared from somewhere behind you — you heard the cot before you saw him, the specific sound of someone getting up from a camp bed that had been assembled with typical Kyle Garrick practicality, because of course Kyle had arranged a proper place to sleep rather than taking the floor, because Kyle approached even emergency overnight vigils as logistical problems to be solved correctly. He came into your line of sight and took one look at you and went immediately into the mode that was Kyle’s particular expression of care — not softness, not words, just the rapid efficient assembly of a plan.
“Temperature,” he said. To John, to the room, to the general situation. “We need her temperature.”
“I’m fine,” you said again, with slightly more conviction and no more credibility.
Kyle looked at you with the expression of a man who has run logistics for some of the most complex operations in modern military history and is not going to be derailed by one congested omega telling him she’s fine.
“Of course you are,” he said. “Temperature.”
Dr. Caldwell arrived within ten minutes, which told you Kyle had messaged her before he’d even spoken to you. She came in with her kit and her professional composure and checked you over with the efficient thoroughness of her previous examination, and when she read the thermometer she showed it to Kyle without showing it to you first, which told you what you needed to know about the number on it.
“It’s elevated,” she said to you, which was the clinical version of it’s high and we’re concerned.
“The flu,” you said. It wasn’t a question.
“Most likely. Your immune system has been operating at significant deficit for an extended period. The combination of the heat, the sedation, the physical stress of the last week — your body has been waiting for an opportunity.” She paused. “This is the opportunity.”
You looked at the ceiling. “Brilliant.”
“It’s actually a good sign,” she said, in the tone of someone who understood this was not going to be a comforting framing. “It means your system is functioning. It’s responding. When the body is truly depleted it often can’t mount an immune response at all.”
“So I should be grateful I feel terrible.”
“Something like that.” She made notes. Then she paused, with the particular quality of a pause that means a person is deciding whether to ask something. “Is there anything else I should know? Anything you’ve been managing that you haven’t mentioned?”
The omegaspace was still at the edges of things, still rounding off the sharp corners, and you were still in the in-between, and perhaps that was why — perhaps that was the only explanation — you said it without the usual filtering process. Without calculating what it meant to tell her. Without deciding in advance whether it was information you wanted them to have.
“I haven’t had my period either,” you said. “Since before I ran.”
The room went quiet.
Not loudly. Not dramatically. The specific quiet of people receiving information and choosing not to make it into something you’d have to respond to, and you were grateful for that choice even as you felt the weight of it — the awareness of what six months alone had done to your body, the full picture of it assembling itself in the room from all its different pieces. The weight. The missed heats. The scar. The arm. The temperature. And now this.
Dr. Caldwell nodded, making notes. “Stress-induced amenorrhea,” she said. “Your body prioritised survival and redirected everything else. It will resolve.” A pause. “When your system feels genuinely safe for a sustained period.”
You looked at the ceiling again.
Genuinely safe.
You thought about what that meant, what your body had apparently already decided about it without consulting you, whether the wolf who was currently pressed warm and content against Simon’s chest had already cast a vote that your conscious mind was going to have to reckon with eventually.
You thought about the high shelf where you’d put my alphas.
You thought about how crowded that shelf was getting.
“I’ll run additional bloods,” Dr. Caldwell said, and moved on with the brisk efficiency of someone who understood when a subject needed to be left where it had landed.
Johnny made you porridge.
You heard him in the small kitchen adjacent to the med bay — the sounds of it, the particular domestic sequence of water boiling and a spoon against a pan — and something in your chest did the thing it kept doing in the omegaspace, the thing where the carefully maintained distance between you and what you felt about these four people became briefly and inconveniently transparent.
He brought it in with the care of someone carrying something that mattered. Sat at the edge of the nest at a distance that respected your space while still being present, which was so precisely Johnny that it hurt slightly. Held it out to you with an expression that was attempting casual and achieving something much more honest.
“Thought you might be hungry,” he said.
Your wolf made a sound. You decided that counted as a response and took the bowl.
You were still in the in-between. The omegaspace still soft at your edges, the sharp version of you still not fully back online, and in that state your defences against Johnny MacTavish’s particular brand of uncomplicated care were essentially non-functional. You took the porridge because your body wanted something warm and because his face was doing something you couldn’t look at directly and because the part of you that refuses things on principle was currently offline for maintenance.
The first mouthful was warm and plain and your stomach received it cautiously.
The second mouthful the same.
The third mouthful your stomach made its position on the matter absolutely clear.
You made it to the edge of the nest. That was the best that could be said for it, and it wasn’t much, and the humiliation of it sat on top of everything else with the specific weight of something that is both inevitable and deeply unwelcome. Your body, hollowed out and running a temperature and fundamentally depleted in ways that a nest and four alphas couldn’t fully reverse overnight, had simply had enough.
Johnny was there.
He didn’t say anything meaningful. He didn’t comment or react or do anything except be immediately and quietly present, his hand at your back, and his voice low and continuous saying it’s alright, I’ve got you, it’s alright in the loop that belonged to him specifically — Johnny who showed up with food and warmth and the specific repetitive reassurance of someone who understood that sometimes people didn’t need to be told anything except that they weren’t alone.
You were too sick to tell him to stop.
You were, in the privacy of your own depleted feverish state, grateful that you were too sick to tell him to stop.
Afterward you felt hollowed out in a way that was different from the hollow of the last six months, not the hollow of too little but the hollow of a body that has expelled what it couldn’t hold and is now shaking and wrung out and cold in a way that has become urgent.
Your hands were trembling.
Your whole body was trembling, continuous and impossible to stop. The cold was the paradoxical cold of a fever climbing, your skin burning to the touch while every part of you felt like it had been packed in ice.
Simon was there before you’d registered him moving.
You didn’t question it, you simply turned toward the warmth of him with the directness of something that has stopped pretending it doesn’t know what it needs.
His arm came back around you. His chest was warm against your back and his chin came to rest somewhere near your temple and the shaking in your body didn’t stop but it became something you were less alone in, which wasn’t the same as stopping but was its own kind of relief.
“Cold,” you said. Your voice was barely there.
“I know sweet’art I’ve got you,” he said. Low. Close. His hand came up and pressed flat against your forehead for a moment — checking, cataloguing — and you felt him register the temperature under his palm, felt the way his jaw tightened slightly against the top of your head.
You close your eyes and let him be warm against you and tried to stop shaking and mostly failed.
Dr. Caldwell came back for the follow-up and took your temperature again and this time she showed it to you. It was higher. She adjusted her notes and said words like fluids and rest and we monitor it closely with the calm precision of someone who was not alarmed but was paying close attention, and you listened to all of it from inside the warm miserable fog of the fever and said fine at the appropriate intervals.
You tried, at some point during this — while Dr. Caldwell was finishing her notes and Kyle was doing something logistical near the door and Johnny had retreated to a respectful distance — to find the version of yourself that maintained terms and kept careful measured distance and did not allow herself to be held by Simon Riley in a nest while her wolf made undignified sounds of contentment.
She wasn’t there.
You tried to sit up straighter. Your head swam badly enough that you had to put it back down.
You tried to create some physical distance between yourself and Simon. Your wolf made a sound that was genuinely embarrassing and your body started shaking harder and you stopped trying.
You looked at John, who was watching you try with the expression of a man who was trying with everything in him not to take you into his arms.
You closed your eyes. Your head was a sustained architectural disaster. The fever was making the edges of things slightly unreal — not dramatically, not in any way that was frightening, just enough to soften the boundary between what you were thinking and what you were feeling, enough to make the careful separation of those two things more difficult than usual.
Your wolf was still making that sound.
Simon’s arm was still around you.
You had not told him to move it.
You were aware of this. You were aware of it with the part of you that was still you, still the person who had spent six months building careful independence in a cold cottage in the Scottish highlands, and you noted it the way you noted everything — methodically, without flinching — and then you put it on the shelf next to my alphas and closed your eyes.
The shelf was getting crowded.
You were going to have to deal with what was on it eventually.
Later, you thought. When your head didn’t feel like it was being slowly disassembled from the inside. When the fever broke and the omegaspace lifted completely and the sharp version of you was back at full volume. When you could look at all of it properly and decide what it meant and what, if anything, you were going to do about it.
For now you were ill and cold and your wolf was warm and quiet and Simon Riley was behind you and John Price was watching you from three feet away with that complete attention of his. And Kyle was being practical near the door and Johnny was sitting at the edge of things being exactly as much as you needed him to be and no more.
For now that was what was true.
The fever climbed through the afternoon. Dr. Caldwell monitored it with the regularity of someone taking it seriously and the calm of someone who had decided it was manageable. Fluids, she said. Small amounts.
You accepted the water Kyle gave you.
The shaking came and went. The cold came and went. The headache was a constant, faithful companion that showed no signs of leaving anytime soon.
Simon didn’t move.
At some point in the late afternoon, in the half-awake state that the fever kept pulling you into and out of, you became aware of his thumb moving. Small slow passes against your arm, just below your shoulder, barely movement at all. The kind of thing that might be unconscious. The kind of thing that might not be.
You didn’t say anything about it.
Your wolf pressed closer and made her sound and you let her, because you were too tired and too sick and too thoroughly in the in-between to do anything else, and because the honest part of you — the part that lived below the terms and the architecture and the six months of careful independence — was warm.
Just that.
Just warm.
The light through the window changed from afternoon to early evening and the monitors beeped their steady rhythm and the base hummed around you.
You drifted, feverish and congested and as far from the sharp version of yourself as you’d been since the treeline, in and out of something that wasn’t quite sleep and wasn’t quite waking.
John’s voice, at some point. Quiet. To the others.
“Let her rest.”
Your wolf made her sound.
The shelf in the back of your mind was very full.
You’d deal with it all later.
For now you let the fever have you, and the warmth have you, and the soft edges of the in-between have you, and somewhere underneath the misery of it — underneath the headache and the cold and the shaking and the humiliation of the porridge and the memory of what you’d said and what you’d let them do —
all of the love on my previous guard dog werewolf!141 x witch!fem!reader drabble has been so heartwarming 🥰 ty all so much. genuinely, i needed a boost in confidence in my writing. and 100 followers?! crazy.
so obviously, here’s more!
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cw: (reader eats meat)
one morning, you woke up to the sound of birds chirping about and sunlight filtering in through the curtains—nothing out of the ordinary. you keened as you sit up, stretching your arms over your head to shake off the night’s aches. sliding off the comforter and into your house slippers, your teeth clicked together to beckon your sweet black cat and familiar, harlow, to your side. when she didn’t come immediately, you shouted, “harlow?”
again, no reply. how odd. the cat was normally in your bed upon waking, and if she wasn’t, she would be scampering gleefully into your room for pets (and food). your brow furrowed, glancing around to find her. you crouched down and found her golden eyes blinking back at you from the shadows. clearly, she was on edge.
“hey, baby, what’s wrong?” you cooed, reaching out to her. she backed farther into her corner.
a loud bang! caused you both to jump. the noise sounded like pots and pans clambering together. adrenaline pumped through your veins and rang in your ears as you got up and slowly crept toward the door. you carefully opened it wider and listened for more.
“-didn’t know it was there!”
“fuckin’ git.”
people. people were whispering your cottage. many emotions swirled in your mind: fear, confusion, rage. you grasped your spellbook sat atop your bookshelf next to the door and walked to the top of the stairs. the scent of hearty meats filled your nose. with a sharp, anxious inhale, you shouted, “i’m giving you all ten seconds to leave this house before i turn you into toads.”
two men scrambled to the front entry to look up at you from your loft, and you recognized them. “sorry, miss! we didn’t mean to scare you!” the one with dark skin and a lovely smile announced, hands raised in defense.
“yes, we jus’ wanted to surprise you ‘n’ thank you.” the older one with mutton chops and soft eyes rumbled.
you blinked in disbelief. these were two of the four werewolves you had been helping with an ailment, and after a month of hard work, you’d finally arrived at some sort of answer. there’s no way to cure lycanthropy, but giving them something to ease that terrible pain was a privilege you didn’t want to take for granted. and apparently, judging by them trespassing on your cottage with dopey smiles on their faces and wagging wolf tails, they weren’t going to either.
“why on earth do you think breaking into my home while i’m sleeping is acceptable?!” you berate, resting your book by your side as you stomp down the steps.
“i-i know it’s unconventional, but we wanted to make you breakfast.” the first one, kyle as he’d introduced himself as, said sheepishly. his eyes held his voice’s remorse, but they still glimmered with cheekiness.
“please don’ be mad at my pack, miss. they feel indebted to you for all you’ve done for us. as do i,” added their leader, john.
you sighed. if you were a normal human, perhaps you would be more livid at the whole invading your home thing. but you were familiar with werewolf antics, and if they feel strongly about something, there’s not much that can be done to stop them. once you reached the bottom, you could see the other two, johnny and simon, giving your kitchen that mesmerizing smell. simon slaved over the fire, stirring what appeared to be a stew, while johnny was trying to hang some pots back on the wall. you eyed john pointedly.
“i’m sorry for startling you,” he apologized—for both johnny and their burglary.
“well, i suppose i should thank you all for wanting to repay me, but it’s really not necessary. you’ve already paid me in gold, and—is that venison?”
the smell permeated through your nose and straight to your soul, eyes alit with hope.
“yes, angel. we caught and prepared it for you last night.”
warmth fills your chest at the prospect of them doing all of this for you. it was so sweet and thoughtful, so…domestic. “i…this…” you were at a loss.
“‘s not too much, hun,” kyle finished your thoughts. he sauntered over to rest a hand on your shoulder. “you’ve done more for us than you can ever know.”
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i would’ve written more, but writer’s block was starting to hit and i got bad news this morning that i didn’t get into an organization i really wanted to 😔 it sucks that it’s basically a popularity contest.
Warning(s): some nsfw on Ghost's part, reader's gender is not specified, werewolf stuff, MDNI
Price is fairly discreet about it...He'll give you something of his to wear. A hoodie, one of his shirts, might even say yes if you ask to wear his hat. If he's had a shift recently, you'll be wearing his fur on your clothes. Do not try using a lint roller to get it off. He'll just go back into his wolf form and roll on your fresh laundry out of spite. You need to smell like him.
Gaz just tries staying by you as much as he can. You can't lose his scent if he's practically right on top of you at all times. So he'll always have an arm slung around your shoulders or around your waist, keeping you tucked at his side. During his shifts, he'll aggressively lap at your face, neck, and hair to groom you and to keep his scent there. Expect little love bites and nibbles here and there too.
As usual, Soap is not like the others. He'll shift just to rub his face against you, keeping his scent on your clothes, hair, skin. And did you plan to take a shower? Well your shampoo and soap and everything else is suddenly...Missing. Don't give him that look, bonnie. No showers this close to a full moon, you need to smell like him. Plus, he likes your natural scent. You'll survive one or two more nights.
Ghost will also tell you not to shower, but he's reasonable...Reasonable-ish. You'll be able to shower, but immediately after you get out, Ghost is dragging you to his room and pinning you under him. He's scenting you inside and out, sinking his teeth into your shoulder as he ruts into you. He needs everyone to know that you're his mate, his scent is all over you, and the rest of the pack needs to know.
Hiiii I was just reading the werewolves!141 x f!reader AND OMG IT ITS AMAZING. I was just wondering if you’ll ever write a second part? No pressure and I hope you have a GREAT DAY!!!
Of course!
That first post was mainly just a general outline/prologue to the rest of the AU. Not sure yet if I'll just be writing little scenes and scenarios from the world or write a proper fic for it. Most likely it will end up being the former since I'm pretty bogged down with study and work sadly.
I'm more than happy to offer a little snippet of the current WIP I'm writing for the AU under the read more. Thank you for your lovely words!
(Unedited)
Everything is warm when you start to wake, and you find yourself surrounded by a blanket of softness. It’s comfortable and you’re reluctant to return to the waking world, but there’s something brushing against your nose and irritating you enough to make you scrunch it up in annoyance. Your sleep addled brain is confused as to what is disturbing you, only for something to begin thumping against your face.
When you reluctantly open your eyes to investigate what’s currently slapping your face, you’re met with an eyeful of brown fur. “Soap,” you mumble through the fluff, “Soap, you’re crushing me,” you grunt, unable to breathe properly with the weight of a fully grown wolf laying on your chest. “Get your ass out of my face, Soap,” you add when he only starts wagging his tail harder.
You’re able to successfully shove his butt away long enough to breathe without a bunch of fur choking you out. You subject the sergeant to a glare, only to be met with a broad grin as Soap excitedly pants at you. “Stop squishing me you jerk,” you grumble, trying to squirm out from underneath him.
When you glance to the side, you notice Gaz sitting patiently beside the couch you’re currently being crushed into. “Good morning, Gaz,” your coo, reaching out to pet the fur between the black wolf’s ears. His tail starts swishing and he tilts his head to the side slightly so he can bless you with a tiny lick to the palm of your hand.
Never one to be ignored for long, Soap sits himself up and lets out the most pathetic whine you’ve ever heard. His ears are drooped sadly, and he stares at you with big, wet eyes. Thankfully, he’s moved enough for you to be able to free yourself from under him, and you’re able to sit up, “Sorry Soap, bad boys don’t get pets,” you shake your head sadly, ignoring the way the wolf in question starts crying.
Gaz looks mighty pleased with himself, leaning into your gentle caressing. At least he's polite enough not to climb on top of you while you’re trying to take a nap on the couch in the rec room, unlike a certain someone.
Speaking of that someone, he’s quick to make his way over to you, shoving his large head under your arm and attempting to lick at your face. You squeal, swatting at his face and trying to lean as far away from him as possible. “Soap!” you shriek when his hot tongue swipes across the side of your face.
Gaz growls and starts nipping at Soap’s feet, unimpressed that the other wolf’s antics has stolen your attention from him. In return, Soap starts biting one of Gaz’s ears before leaping off the couch to tackle him. A playfight breaks out between the two wolves, with both sergeants wrestling with one another on the floor.
It’s not that deep, you’re not that dumb, you’re just drunk and wanting a good time with your girls. Your friends have been begging for you to come out and let go and this week has been so fucking hard you finally agree. Little black dress, and bright red heels with Prada perfume spritz on every part of you your friend said it ‘needed to go’.
This is what you needed. The music so loud you couldn’t think, just the right amount of alcohol to bring you that buzz without being totally black out drunk. Sweat clung to your skin as you danced your heart out in the shitty club, the air stank of Brittany spears perfume, spilt alcohol and coconut.
You looked sexy, felt sexy while you grinded on your friend to the beat and giggled about it afterwards while another friend came back from the bar with shots. You drank yours quickly, face scrunching up with the burn in the back of your throat.
“I’m going for a vape, you comin?” Your bestie whose name you’ve embarrassingly forgotten right this second offered and you just nodded. Saying yes was so easy after hearing no from work all week.
The fresh air was nice after the heat inside, but climbing the stairs to the third floor while drunk had you reconsidering. “Here.” A red apple ice something Mary was shoved into your hand for you to take a drag from. Though when she gets out another one from her bag you suppose the vape is yours now.
You feel yourself sway to the music that is still hearable from upstairs, the wind feels nice on your hot skin. “I need to pee, I’ll be back.” Your friend says loud enough that it’s not classed as a whisper and you just nod as she slides away, taking another drag while you stare at the city all lit up.
Maybe this right here is why they are always asking you to join them, the small moment of peace you’re feeling now. And after a lousy week it’s fucking serene to be stood on the top floor of a shitty club, a buzz pulsing through your veins and a nicotine rush making you a little light headed.
It’s perfect.
Until it’s ruined.
“Hello beautiful.” You manage to hear the words through the slight ringing in your ears. Turning you find a man staring at you as though he wants to eat you. He’s not bad looking, but the sleazy hunger in his eyes immediately puts you off.
“You new around here? I’m guessing you’re not mated, you’ve no alpha scent on you.” He says and you think the alcohol has made you hallucinate. Before your brain is even conjuring up an answer you’re interrupted.
“Get the fuck away from my best friend.” You turn to find your bestie’s face twisted angrily.
“Farah! I missed you. Where have you been?” Walking forward you hug her, suddenly like two wires have sparked you remember her name once more.
“I went to pee like I said.” She laughed at your clear memory loss thanks to the constant stream of sex on the beach and whatever shots your other friends had kept buying.
“Oh yeah.”
“Let’s go back.” Farah says holding your hand as she eyes the man who doesn’t take his eyes off you for a second. She pulls you away with every intention of leaving. Texting the other girls that you were going home before she’s pressing the phone to her ear. You follow her mindlessly, her hand locked tight around yours while she waits for whoever it is to pick up.
She sighs with relief when they do, “Track my phone, there’s a rogue here and I’m with her.” You don’t understand what she’s talking about though you think the alcohol is fiddling with your brain and you’re sure she’d be making sense if you were sober.
There’s loud shouting on the other end of the phone, Farah hissing before she’s apologising for encouraging you out. “I figured it would be safe considering we’re on pack grounds.” More shouting follows before you’re bored.
“Farah come on I wanna go back in and dance!” You whine tugging on her hand. She smiles at you sympathetically before she’s dragging you down the last set of stairs and outside the building. A black suv pulls up right outside, it has a queasy feeling building in your stomach. Especially when two men get out and advance towards you.
“Don’t you look bonnie.” The one with a mohawk grins down at you. You don’t want to, in fact your brain is screaming at you not to but you preen under the words. A small mewl slipping from your throat when his finger tips glide under your chin tilting your head back just enough for him to look into your eyes.
You feel something snap into place as he inspects you, a string that was loose and dangling suddenly pulled tight. You’re so busy staring at this gorgeous man and his deep blue eyes you forget anyone else is there until Farah speaks.
“I’m so sorry I thought this would be safe. He shouldn’t even be on our territory. How did he get in?”
“We can worry about that in the morning. We need to get her back to the house before she goes into heat.” You look past mohawk’s shoulder to where the Mancunian accent is coming from to see a skull mask. Beautiful brown eyes surrounded by black. He’s built like a tank and sticks out like a sore thumb.
“Cmon lass, let’s get you home.”
“Johnny.” Skull man clicks his tongue at mohawk.
“Wha? It will be soon.” Johnny scoffs before smiling down at you. It’s then you notice you’re seeing double, your stomach gurgles and your mouth salivates.
“I think I’m gonna vomit.” You warn just before you bend over and throw up all over his shoes. The last thing you remember is some Scottish man swearing before the world fades to black.
Summary: Task Force 141 is an impeccable team made of up of five Alphas. A better captain there never was, a chemical mastermind, a lethal weapon, a master of disguise and a feral wolf. The team was strategically put together. The can take empires down over night and you’d never see them coming.
You’re sent on a mission, it’s nothing, a standard infiltrate and retrieve. But when the hazardous gas you’re retrieving explodes, you start to feel the effects. Your bonded pack deals with the aftermath, a stubborn omega who still has the pride of an Alpha, as well as the pressure of your impending heat sitting on their shoulders.
Still they all can’t help but ask; was this a freak accident or is there more at play?
Warnings: Alpha to Omega, depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts, blood, murder, drugs, alcohol mentioned, forced transformation, forced intimacy, military action, poorly written military missions, swearing, Kyle being mean, abo dynamics, psychology warfare, abo hierarchy, misogyny, therapy sessions, ruts, heats, smut, angst, fluff.
Pairings: Alpha John price x reader, Alpha Simon Riley x reader, Alpha Kyle Garrick x reader, Alpha Johnny MacTavish x reader, eventual poly 141.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
. . .
Vicissitude
noun: vicissitude; plural noun: vicissitudes
1. a change of circumstances or fortune, typically one that is unwelcome or unpleasant.
literary
2. alternation between opposite or contrasting things.
