sirgiggles

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I love all versions of Phillip's graves. Cowboy Phillip, mean Phillip, sweetheart loverboy Phillip, tease Phillip, sub Phillip, trans Phillip, retired Phillip, dom Phillip, he was in that tank Phillip, cop Phillip, young Phillip, old Phillip, guilty Phillip, manipulative traitor phillip, gender swap Phillip, marines Phillip, angry Phillip, vampire Phillip, omega Phillip, alpha Phillip, dad Phillip, football Phillip, king Phillip, housewife Phillip, creep Phillip, teacher Phillip...

Every and all versions of that fucking man.

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Trying my hand at graphic design part 2 lmao

I like the idea but I kinda just haphazardly mashed it together lmao y'all forgive me for real

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More Graves x dog hybrid!reader thoughts

This definitely activated some new part of my brain

Cw: Gender Neutral reader, hybrid unspecified aside from dog, inequal/ toxic relationships

Graves who at first doesn't even consider a hybrid. His men work just fine and are loyal, why spend so much time recruiting one more soldier?

He only gets you because a favor is due, and some investor has shady contacts. The man swears up and down that you are more than just a regular soldier when he hands you over; the perfect, obedient death machine.

At first, Graves isn't convinced at all, just thinks it's bit silly when the courier gets you from a large crate in the trunk, instead of the backseat. The muzzle and leash seem over the top and as soon as he's handed your papers, Graves takes them off.

He eyes you with amusement, clearly lost and not sure where to put your hands. He takes notes of your shaggy hair and worn clothes and guides you through base to pick up new fatigues. Only when you try to put them on, but fail miserably, because without a small hole for your tail, they sit way too low, does he Strat to realize maybe he underestimated the difference between human and hybrid needs.

So, Graves makes sure you have some shirts at least. A waterproof jacket, a fleece and something comfortable for off the field. You barely manage not to hit him with your steadily wagging tail, accidentally nuzzling his shoulder in excitement, apologizing profusely just after thanking him.

After that, he lets you get settled. You share a room with two other young Privates, two humans. They approach Graves quickly, because no matter how nice they try to be, you seem afraid, sleep curled in a corner and tear out your own hair from nervousness.

You get your own room after that and, after tenderly talking to you for an hour at least, you allow an older, quieter Shadow from medical to fix your shaggy hair cut. You never even realized how bothersome your hair was before that.

But still, the issues don't fix themselves. During training it's all well. You follow orders to a T, never talk back, always treat other's respectfully. But on the field, when no one personally guides you, you get lost, mess up, stop functioning. The longer it goes on, the worse your stress gets. After a few months and the third chewed up pair of expensive combat boots and utility belts, Graves pulls you aside.

He reads up on hybrids almost daily, asks dog handlers for advice, after those of hybrid handlers didn't work out at all for you. His presence is steady, but not possessive. Stern, but not unkind.

Quickly you feel yourself lean into his guidance, until you ask him if he wants your collar back. You feel obliged to obey him, he's your master now, you hesitantly explain to him one night. And surprisingly, from how much he disliked your animalistic treatment when he got you, he agrees.

It's not one of those scratchy ones from the pet store, but all soft padding and strong fabric. A little like your vest and utility belt. Made for the field, yet still super comfortable. You love it, trying to never take it off. It smells like his hands, because whenever you do well he rubs your neck, tracing the edge of the collar lovingly. There's a small space for velcro patches and you proudly carry the company insignia and the callsign he chose for you. Graves has to wrestle you every now and then so he you take it off for washing.

The two of you only get closer after that. It's almost impossible for you to function on your own, having never learned etiquette and how to handle your own thoughts, how to relive stress or any other strong feelings. So he handles it for you, lets you work it out of yourself or lovingly pets you until you finally let your tense muscles relax.

You can't sleep without his warmth and scent, migrating to the floor next to his bed, or cot, most nights. It gets to a point where he just calls you in when he gets settled or thinks you need a rest, so you won't bother him later on and stick to a healthier schedule. It's only natural you take place by his legs, tangled in a fleece blanket and stolen towels to smell like your handler and team. They even get you a stuffed animal that you love dearly, so you won't feel alone.

Quickly, no one is bothered by you bouncing after Graves with attentive ears and a wagging tail, or you sitting by his feet during briefings and meals. Most of the Shadows have won your trust by now, majorly because if Graves trusts them, so why shouldn't you? Nobody dares to voice that your entire behavior isn't normal or healthy, instead opting to appreciate your boundless loyalty and dedicated nature.

Even the border collie hybrid of 141, Soap, can't make up your mind, instead raising your defenses and separating the Shadows and 141, as well as Vaqueros, further. It's clear that you only listen to them, and they rely on your instincts to make decisions.

You've never been happier and they have never been more efficient. Graves sees it as a total win. He feels more relaxed and happy, so do his soldiers and on top of that, he gained a powerful asset. With the work he put in before, there truly is no downside to having you.

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hashtag thinking about adler

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Pit stop

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Graves x dog hybrid! Reader

Cw: Gender Neutral reader, hybrid unspecified aside from dog, light talk of injuries and fights, toxic relationships

When he first gets you into the Company, he isn’t quite sure what to do. He‘d worked with dogs during his time in the USMC, but dog hybrids?

He‘ll treat you like a soldier, he decides. Gives orders, corrects mistakes and praises jobs well done. It takes him a little to notice that doesn’t really work.

Your dog part handles his treatment a lot differently. Without precise instructions you are, despite all training, lost in the field. Even the smallest of praises sends your tail wagging wildly and messes your concentration up, and even a displeased frown results in pinned ears and a tugged in tail.

So Graves changes his approach, treats you more dog-like. He doesn’t understand that you weren’t brought up as an equal like most hybrids, but he‘s happy his methods work. You were lesser, always, that was something you followed, he realised quickly.

He makes you heel and sit. By his desk, in the cargo plane, during meal times. And it helps, oddly enough. Precise commands and a little work have you doing excellent field work, acting almost like his personal guard dog.

It escalates so much you follow him everywhere. Eating from his hand becomes the norm, sleeping at the bottom of his cot, like a real dog. You long for his hand between your ears, in your hair, rubbing over the collar that holds the Company logo.

You don’t realise the difference, and neither Graves nor the Shadows care much about it, between you and the average hybrid. You were a favour from one of his contacts, practically raised for the job instead of by a loving family. So you cling to scraps of affection, dig your teeth in and don‘t let go. Performing well will get you the love you yearn for.

Oh, but when Graves takes you to Las Almas to hunt down Hassan, does it become clear that you are more than a regular hybrid soldier with a fair contract and life. You stay by his side, like always, listen to his beck and call. But you can feel how the Vaqueros glance at you. Like a mutt, not an ally. Disgusted by how you act, too animalistic, too loyal. They don’t understand that it’s not just Graves treatment, it’s how you function.

While they keep a professional distance, the 141 dog hybrid, Soap, and his handler Ghost inquire. Soap greets you happily, sniffs you up and down and bounces off the walls like a puppy. You only inspect him with hesitation after Graves nods and places an encouraging hand on the back of you neck.

It doesn’t take the Scot long to realise there is something odd to you. When he tries to playfully wrestle and chase you around on a field after dinner on the first day, it ends with Graves sharply whistling you to his heel, scruffing you neck and pulling you off a shocked Soap with angry reprimands. You don’t realise that the bruises on Soap‘s face are bad, that you were supposed to blow of some steam, instead of establishing your strength and rank.

Graves shortens you leash after that, literally. Hooks it to your collar on base, muzzles you when Soap riles up your dog part too much with his careless energy and willingly instinctual behaviour. He knows that you are more instinct than control, unlike Soap, and that it will end with hurt and confusion for the other once more.

The 141 men quickly get a feel for who you are after the little incident between you and Soap; the attack dog that only seems to obey the shadows. They find your reliance on Graves odd, the way you always circle him like he‘s the center of your galaxy. Between him and his Sergeant, Ghost calls you unsafe, an unpredictable and emotionally reliant animal.

But they only truly understand the extend of your loyal and dependent temper when the Shadow Company Commander betrays them at the gate. The way his hybrid lunges at the smallest signal, taking down Alejandro and setting their eyes on Soap state a clear message. Don’t fuck with Graves, or you will regret it.

You‘re a blood hound, and when your beloved Commander, the only one to understand you, to show you what you see as true care, sets you loose to find them in the night of the city even Ghost isn’t sure they stand a chance at escaping.