mousey-reblogs-everything

[mousey-reblogs-everything]

Damn, real ppl see the shit I post, that's hella cool, I was born after the Internet and I still find it awesome?? One post and magically I've interacted with tiny mentally ill people in my phone.

[mousey-reblogs-everything]

My writing:

(fics in red are darker, heed the tags please)

COD:

The 141

Captain John Price

Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick

John ‘Soap��� Mactavish

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley

Никто

Kate Laswell

Nikolai

(banner by @cafekitsune)

[mousey-reblogs-everything]

The post you've all been waiting for. Let me tell you a story... ATTN for the following fandoms:

Angels of Death

Assassination Classroom

Attack on Titan

Avatar: The Last Airbender

Chronicles of Narnia

DCU & DCAU

Death Note

Demon Slayer

Disney

Dragon Ball Z

Fantastic Beasts

Harry Potter

How to Train Your Dragon

Hunger Games

Inuyasha

Jujutsu Kaisen

Jurassic Park and Jurassic World

Lord of the Rings

Marvel

Maze Runner

My Hero Academia

Naruto

Ouran High School Host Club

Pride, Prejudice, and Zombies

Rise of the Guardians

Supernatural

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

The Legend of Korra

The Walking Dead

Tokyo Ghoul

Twilight

Yuri On Ice!

Note: Personal details published in this post about this repeated plagiarist are what she herself has posted publicly, now or in the past. I am not releasing any information beyond what she has put out there herself. We don't believe in doxxing here on Tumblr at the FPWG.

Let me introduce you to Faith (age 24/25, Virgo, usually uses purple in her blog themes, calls herself a 'simp', multi-fandom blogs, Missouri USA, also has called herself "Chaos" and now "Ann"), the entire reason this blog exists. (Congrats on inspiring this blog, hun! Have the day you deserve!)

Past and current (known) usernames on Tumblr: @/where-imagination-runs-free & @/fandom-reblogs-and-things (CURRENT. BLOCK AND BOYCOTT THESE ACCOUNTS!) @/fandomimaginewasteland (deleted in Jan 2025) @/fandomwasteland13 (previous, changed to fandom-reblogs-and-things) @/mysticalfanheart @/toocherryblossomcreator @/just-a-fanvergent-fangirl (currently deactivated) @/freedreameryouth @/fandoms-forever-united (changed to @/deliciouscreationphilosopher) @/fandomsgalore and @/fandomsgalore-backup @/justagirlwhowrites @/she-who-writes-for-multifandoms @/fandoms-galore @/waywardchaos3 (deleted?) Known accounts on other platforms: Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@just-here-to-read-and-write/ (changed to https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCuFHpAXpC7BYPL6lmDnc07Q) AND https://www.youtube.com/@faithann8572 Quotev: https://www.quotev.com/justagirlwhowrites Wattpad: https://www.wattpad.com/user/TMNTLOVER123345

Faith's self-proclaimed "top characters" she likes to "write":

Karma Akabane

Levi Ackerman

Genya Shinazugawa

Giyuu Tomioka

Vegeta

Draco Malfoy

Sesshomaru

Megumi Fushiguro

Satoru Gojo

Loki

Izuku Midoriya

Katsuki Bakugo

Keigo Takami/Hawks

Shoto Todoroki

Tomura Shigaraki

Gaara

Sasuke Uchiha

Daryl Dixon

Ayato Kirishima

Niskiki Nishioo

On March 11th, 2024, @daryl-dixon-daydreams discovered that the account @/just-a-fanvergent-fangirl (owned by Faith, age 24, Missouri, USA) had plagiarized a drabble of hers and claimed it as her own. On further investigation, @daryl-dixon-daydreams found a second plagiarized drabble on the same account.

The above screenshot is part of the first plagiarized fic, and includes her blog look and description.

@daryl-dixon-daydreams documented this plagiarism by screenshotting and highlighting all the plagiarized writing (hint: basically all of it) and responded in a reblog directly to Faith, the plagiarizer.

The above is @daryl-dixon-daydreams's response and the screenshots below include the highlighted stolen text. (original drabbler here)

original post source here: https://daryl-dixon-daydreams.tumblr.com/post/744711685638619136/hi-oh-hi-did-you-think-i-wouldnt-find-out-about @daryl-dixon-daydreams then did some further searching on Faith's blog and her plagiarism and discovered that Faith had done this before to MULTIPLE other accounts. @meggsngrits had already exposed Faith's previous plagiarism here, complete with screenshots and receipts: https://www.tumblr.com/meggsngrits/744358130218090496?source=share

@daryl-dixon-daydreams messaged Faith's account and told her to remove ALL her plagiarized content and that she would start checking her posts with plagiarism detecting software.

After initially denying it and talking about how mad SHE was on both Tumblr and Youtube, Faith did eventually realize she was caught because everyone had so much evidence... Fairly shortly after being outed as a plagiarist, Faith deactivated her account. But it wasn't long before she popped up under different usernames (AGAIN) and began doing the same thing AGAIN. In fact, once the original creator saw Faith perusing her blog again under a different username in September, it took less than 24 hours for Faith to plagiarize the SAME FIC from @daryl-dixon-daydreams AGAIN!

@daryl-dixon-daydreams also realized that this time Faith had pre-emptively restricted her blog from reblogging or replying to any of Faith's posts, likely because she was trying to fly under the radar without getting caught, and so it would be more difficult to respond in a way that would make EVERYONE on Faith's page aware of what she really was; someone who steals content from hard-working creators who spend a lot of time building skills and practicing their craft.

Instead, @daryl-dixon-daydreams was forced to send an anonymous ask to Faith's inbox challenging her about her plagiarism again and again screenshot everything to document it.

Instead of AGAIN realizing she was caught, Faith doubled down and claimed she hadn't done anything wrong because she typed something about being "inspired" by the original drabble. But we all know inspiration and plagiarism are two completely different things... Faith blocked the original creator despite all the evidence.

It was also noticed by multiple creators that one account @/waywardchaos3 seemed to be one of her biggest supporters (discussed at the time in dms by multiple creators, we have receipts) and PLOT TWIST that username would later be one that Faith BEGAN POSTING CONTENT UNDER, SUGGESTING THAT SHE WAS RESPONDING TO, DEFENDING, AND LIKING HER OWN CONTENT AND SHITTY CONDUCT. Commenting on your own shit to act like people support the crap you are pulling is next level... This is one of those responses below.

The next day, after this repeated outing and realizing she was fucked because of all the evidence, Faith posted another bullshit "apology" and claimed she was going on a "writing hiatus." She also changed her username again, but she continued to watch what was being said about her and responded in reblogs in weak attempts to defend her conduct.

Below is @daryl-dixon-daydreams response to her "apology." If you look back to the post by @meggsngrits, you'll see that she has blanket shit she says in all of her so-called "apologies." It's basically a joke at this point... Why would anyone believe OR trust you?

Faith continued to respond in reblogs.

I think you mean *owning up, hun...

But this was not the end of the saga... vigilant content creators continued to keep watch for her and found several new accounts. They began notifying content creator accounts they were seeing Faith interacting with, and that's how Faith ended up causing another creator to delete ALL of her writing from Tumblr and leave the platform for writing, because Faith had plagiarized her content.

Faith denied, then caved and posted a bullshit "apology", then deleted as is her usual pattern when she is confronted. Faith responded to the writer (below) that she caused to leave and denied shit we have proof of... (We suspect she sends herself anonymous asks and requests but this is ONLY a suspicion...) She definitely was responding to herself though... with this account (waywardchaos3), which she immediately started using after we blasted her for the last one and she had to delete again. We showed proof of that above. Some angry people also started threatening to dox Faith, but this account is not associated with those actions.

Was that the end? NOPE.

She's back and reblogging (tagging some things as "inspiration") fandom content on this account u/fandomimaginewasteland (hello MySpace theme lookin' blog circa 2006...)

and "writing" on this one u/fandom-reblogs-and-things.

Many of her posts lately are not actual writing (gifs + an imagine scenario), but could be scenarios she stole from other creators. She recently has started doing some "writing" but so far we have been unable to identify any specific plagiarism at this time of posting. However, her past conduct reveals that it is only a matter of time.

She is now claiming that her name is "Ann", which we believe is actually her middle name. Faith usually talks about being a "simp" (ew... *gag*) for fictional characters SOMEWHERE on her blog, and this is no exception. Her blogs also tend to have similar "looks". Yeah, think bad Myspace theme circa early 2000s...

Faith's behavior and actions within the fandom space can and DO cause REAL HARM. If even one creator leaves or stops writing because of what she's done, then she deserves to be banned from the space, and clearly she has done that and WILL NOT STOP.

The solution at this point is for EVERYONE in EVERY fandom space to keep watch for themselves and for their favorite creators, so that she is ostracized in this online space. That's what she has proven she deserves through her repeated lies and shitty actions.

Let us leave you with a final tidbit, this excerpt from Faith's latest blog rules where she specifically asks people not to plagiarize... Oh, the irony.

Fuck around and find out what happens, Faith. We are always watching, and we will always find you. You deserve to be ostracized in fandom spaces. Have the day you deserve.

PLEASE REBLOG AND SHARE THIS WIDELY SO WE CAN STOP FAITH'S BAD BEHAVIOR.

[mousey-reblogs-everything]

DAY 15

GIVE IT UP FOR DAY 15

[mousey-reblogs-everything]

Daughters with Soft Underbellies [Chapter 1]

[Outlaw/Cowboy!John Price x Preachers Daughter!fem!Reader] Masterlist | AO3 | early access | navigation

there's someone new in town

cw: western time setting, archaic punishments/abuse, religious trauma, religious imagery, bad father/daughter relationship, minor wound mention, archaic standards of women, reader is Christian, probably inaccurate Christianity, more tags on ao3

wc: 2.7k

He has you kneeling on rice again. 

Unforgiving grains burrow deep into your skin as their wickedly sharp ends pierce straight through your knees. Eyes trained on the scuffed wooden floor below you, you do not look at your father. Leather boots skirt your vision as he paces beside you, slow and with consideration. You swallow and the aftertaste of that morning’s communion dances on your tongue. Sweet wine pairs oddly with your father’s brutality, but it is the only flavor you’ve ever known. 

Bloodied fingers coil around the back of the pew in front of you as he raps your knuckles with a wooden stick no larger than the circumference of his thumb. Searing pain cuts through you with the consideration of an untrained blade, but you are good at willing your tears away. He reminds you that this is your fault, and that this is a terrible waste. A waste of time, a waste of food—everything that concerns you is pure prodigality. Gluttony in its most concentrated form. You can consume nothing—not resource nor time—without it being a sin. 

Crack!

“Again,” he demands. 

Biting back the acrimony boiling in the depths of your throat, you shift. Rice scatters, bouncing along the floor as it spreads, and you grimace. There is only the slightest amount of comfort to be found in your movement, but it is met by swift punishment. You are not supposed to find solace while in the midst of one of your father’s demanding lessons. 

Crack!

“Then, they spit on Him. They took the stick from His hands-” 

Crack!

“Wrong. Again,” he demands. 

Your mind reels as it attempts to recall the sermon your father gave that morning. His words spoken with utmost faith, the ones you are always made to recall as a lesson at the end of each morning, and yet you can’t. It’s patchy. Like the frayed ends of poorly woven textiles. No matter how often you blink, it won’t fix itself. You can only stumble and pray you pull on the right string to unravel it all. 

“Then, they spit on Him. They took the stick from Him, and beat Him with it,” you attempt. 

Once more, you are punished. It’s difficult to hold back the tears now as the skin on your knuckles parts like dried clay in a forgotten riverbed. They’re wide, deep crevices. Broken skin is good. It serves a purpose. It allows you to soak up your father’s lessons directly from the source. 

“Do you not listen at all? Does your mind wander during my sermons? What better things do you have to think about than His word? Again,” he demands. 

“Then, they spit on Him. They took the stick from Him, and beat Him on the head with it.” 

There is a gentle lull that succeeds your recitation. Anxious pacing ceases as your father stares down at your kneeling form, gaze burning into the back of your head. When he hums, content with your answer, you feel every muscle in your body melt. Proud, you look up at him, ready to revel in accolades, but his lips are pressed firmly together. It is the only way he is able to restrain the acidulous words he would otherwise spew at you. 

“Good,” he mutters, though it is flat. There is no pride to be found anywhere within him.

He strikes the stick against your knuckles five more times on each hand. With each impact, he reminds you this is for your own good. This is what a loving father does—a man of God—he teaches his daughter right from wrong. 

As usual, you are made to clean up the mess that remains after your lesson. Rice is swept up by broom and stowed away into the pockets of your apron like treasured pebbles found on a walk, and what little blood that remains on the pew is wiped clean. Your hands ache. They pulse and throb, and the apex of your knuckles sting as if you’ve rubbed salt in the broken skin. You might as well have done as much with the brine that seeps into the wounds each time you rub at your eyes. 

When all is clean, and your transgressions are swept aside, momentarily forgotten, you pray. Your father always says forgiveness is God’s duty. God is the quintessence of love and mercy while your father has proved many times he is not. A devout worshiper and priest, his love and respect is saved for his savior—never his daughter. So you kneel in the pews and bow your head before the cross strung up on the wall above you, and you beg. You apologize for the simple sin of your existence. You pray that God might bless you with the tools to be a better daughter. 

Amen.

You rise. The church is stilly, and you are alone. You are left to ruminate about your failures in this divine building until it is spotless. There is always more cleaning to be done. Breadcrumbs left from communion, wine that stains the wooden floors nearly as bad as your own blood does, muck from work boots; you are on your hands and knees more often than your own two feet. Perpetually in prayer. Reciting scriptures. Cleaning this house of God until not a speck of sin remains. 

When you are finished with your duties at the church, your father sends you into town to fetch wine. It’s foolish of you to believe he would allow you to sit at the dining table with him and partake in lunch. To enjoy a mouthwatering meal of boiled potatoes and ham. He always sends you out when you look like this—disheveled from cleaning and still trying to stunt the bleeding of your hands. It’s the acme of his lesson: ignominy. Shame digs in deeper, settles in nicer, when there’s an audience to witness it. 

Mr. Beckett’s chickens are roaming the town again. You notice a few stragglers as you come to the end of the path that slowly morphs into the main road. Colorful hens cluck and bob their heads as you weave between them. They feast on small beetles with iridescent exoskeletons that flutter and click between sparse strands of grass, but when they take note of you, they stare expectantly. You try not to wince as your knuckles scrape against the fabric of your apron, hands diving into your pockets to retrieve uncooked rice. They flock as you toss the grains on the ground for them to peck and gorge themselves, putting your punishment to good use. 

Sheep bleat at you just as you turn the corner into town. The flock has grown steady this spring with several new additions of playful lambs that trot after their mothers. They curiously line the fence as you pass by, and cry pitifully as your figure grows smaller in the distance. Townsfolk flutter in and out of steady wood buildings with their pockets full of money, both earned and spent. Your own fingers brush against the cash your father gave you for your task—you keep in mind his words of warning: 

I’ll be counting that change when you return, girl. 

The saloon isn’t busy this early in the afternoon, yet Mr. Beckett is perched at his bar wiping down glistening glasses. Empty tables adorn scratched wooden floors, and the tops are sparkling clean. The summer sun seeps through cracked windows, though the building still seems darker than it should be. A group of four men lurk in the far corner of the bar, each talking lowly and looking at you with shifting eyes, yet you avert your gaze as you approach the bar. 

“Afternoon, Mr. Beckett,” you greet. You muster your best smile as you wipe a hand beneath your eyes, worried tear stains are still visible on your cheeks. “Your chickens are out again.” 

Chuckling, Mr. Beckett pushes the empty glasses to the side to give you his full attention. Wrinkles settle in his face as crows feet wink by his eyes, and they only deepen as he smiles at you. There’s a cheeky twinkle that lurks in his grey eyes, and a rosy color that fills his cheeks.

“I’m sure that broke your heart having to see those critters running amuck along the trail,” he teases. “What can I do for you, kid?” 

“My father sent me to get some wine for next week’s service,” you say. 

“Ah, I should’ve known. Three?” he asks. 

“Yes, please.” 

Mr. Beckett holds up a finger as if to tell you to stay put before he wanders off to fetch your order. Sighing, you look down at your knuckles while you wait. They’ve stopped bleeding, but the blood crusts on your skin like boulders on a mountain. Your father didn’t even give you time to clean the scabs from your hands before sending you off to do his bidding. It’s almost as much of an eyesore as it is a literal sore. 

But—as it is with all wounds—your blood seems to have attracted the dogs. 

Their gazes burn your flesh, and you are suddenly well aware of the men at your back. You had done your best to ignore them upon your arrival, but curiosity gnaws at you with dull, aching teeth. Casting a cautious glance over your shoulder, you soak up swift looks at each of the men. You catch sight of a masked man too large for his own good, a handsome fellow with deep brown skin and kind eyes, a stranger with an even stranger haircut, and a man with a low sitting hat. The brim nearly covers his eyes, but you’re still able to catch the blaze of his cobalt gaze as he stares at you. 

You shiver. 

“Alright, here we are,” Mr. Beckett hums as he returns behind the bar. Glad to have someone else to focus on, you find a smile on your face as he begins to unload the bottles in his arms onto the counter. “Three bottles of red wine. Should be plenty for everyone, I hope.” 

“I appreciate it, Mr. Beckett,” you chuckle. When digging into your apron pocket, you can’t help but wince as your knuckles once again scrape against the unyielding fabric. You play it off with a cough as you present the cash to him. “This ought to be enough.” 

At the same time as he grabs the cash with one hand, Mr. Beckett grabs your wrist with the other. Gently, he turns your palm over until your knuckles are on display beneath the oil lamp that sits just above your head. Pressing your lips together, you keep your eyes on the bartop, too ashamed to witness the results of your own stupidity. 

“Why don’t you grab a seat, kid,” he insists. 

There’s no use in arguing; you’re well aware that he won’t give you your change until you let him clean you up. Sighing, you hop onto the stool and lay your palms flat on the counter while Mr. Beckett retrieves his strongest moonshine. He pours a bit of it onto a rag before pressing it into your cracked skin where it soaks deep like thirsty soil. Your squeak echoes in the near empty room, and you feel your face heat as you attempt to keep your head down. 

“Why’d he do it this time?” he asks. 

“It was my fault,” you insist. 

“You and I both know it wasn’t,” Mr. Beckett retorts. 

You swallow as he wipes the rag along your skin before moving to the next knuckle. “I couldn’t quote his sermon today. I should’ve paid better attention.” 

“Perhaps your father should have more grace. He ought to marry you off already. I reckon you’d find more peace with a husband than you would with him.” 

Things grow quiet between you and Mr. Becket just as the muttering grows louder behind you. Those men—those strangers—make the hair on the back of your neck stand on end. Still, you are grateful for their presence, as they give you something else to talk about than your unfortunate life as an eternal servant to your father. 

“Mr. Beckett, can I ask about the gentlemen behind me?” you whisper.

He politely drops one hand in order to move to the next, but his eyes stray to strangers at your back. “Travelers. Blew into town a day or two ago. They’ve been doing odd jobs to scrounge up some money, but they’re nothing but trouble, if you ask me.” 

“What makes you say that?” you ask, voice cracking as he starts cleaning your other hand. 

Sighing, Mr. Beckett keeps his tongue between his teeth for a moment as he weighs his options. Eyes turning back to your hands, he pauses as he inspects the blood crusting on the rag. 

“That fellow in the mask… I’ve heard of him. Ghost stories ‘bout him anyway. They all have strange accents. From across the pond, or so they say. They’ve all got this uncanny look in their eyes and… well, if I didn’t know any better, I’d say they’re the 141 Gang. At least, that fellow in the back looks like the man wanted from Blackpeak.” 

This name—141—drops from Mr. Beckett’s lips like it’s supposed to mean something to you, and yet it doesn’t ring a bell. Eyes narrowing, you tilt your head at him. 

“I’m not familiar,” you admit. 

“Dangerous people. Robbers. Murderers. They might greet you with a smile, but just look at how sharp their teeth are, kid. Nothing but wild animals ready to rip out throats for a bounty or good pay. Surprised they’re not wanted by half of The West by this point. They make people disappear, then vanish just as quickly. I’m just hopin’ if I keep my head down long enough, they’ll skip town before they cause any trouble.” 

Neither of you speak as the rest of your knuckles are cleared of debris and coagulated scabs. You are often plagued with the human affliction of having your heart stuck in your throat, but now you know your feelings aren’t unfounded. That tingle in your skin, the heat boiling at the nape of your neck—you wonder if these men even bother to wash the blood from their clothes before pretending to be human. Do they shed their wolf-teeth before attempting to blend into the flock? 

Once Mr. Beckett is content with the dismal state of your hands, he finally gives you your change. You quickly stow it away in your apron pocket before you turn to the several bottles of wine waiting for you on the bartop. You gather them in your arms before you slide off of the stool, eager to get home and well away from this 141 Gang. Yet just as your feet hit the ground, the fabric of your skirt catches on the wood stool, and suddenly your seat comes toppling to the floor with a deafening thud. 

Shame boils deep in your chest where it superheats your blood until your entire body is sweltering. You look up from the mess you’ve made with parted lips, yet no words come out. Your chest heaves as you stare up at Mr. Beckett with wide eyes, yet he only looks at you with benignancy. 

“I-I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean- It just caught-” you stutter. 

“It’s alright, kid,” he interjects. 

Silence envelops you so suddenly that you’re painfully aware of how many sets of eyes are on you. Dark gazes glint in the numbra that lurks in the corner of the saloon. The men look over their shoulders and from beneath the brims of their hats to soak up the view of you—a trembling, pathetic thing that’s about to drop the wine from her hands. 

“I’ll clean it up, don’t you worry about it,” Mr. Beckett assures as he rounds the corner of the bartop, waving you off. “Now, you best be on your way. Shouldn’t keep your daddy waiting.” 

Turning around feels like opening a healing wound—it burns and leaves you trembling as you mutter a farewell and stumble out the door. You keep the wine in your arms clutched to your chest with wounded hands as you rush back home. Sheep bleat and chickens cluck, yet their whining cannot drown out the sound of your heart. That booming thunder as blood gushes through your veins; it still boils. Vermillion waves of unrelenting shame and fear. 

Even on the edge of town you can still feel it—the gaze of those wolves. You pray to God that they leave your sleepy livestock town alone. 

Then again, God has never been merciful in answering your prayers.

[mousey-reblogs-everything]

Holy shit, one more "x reader" with a name or a detailed physical description I'm gonna rip my hair out, I am NOT a blue eyed short skinny pale blonde American named Ashley, Sarah, or Rebecca. Asking for all readers Please PLEASE PLEASE tag it properly, it shouldn't have a x reader tag if it isn't x reader

[mousey-reblogs-everything]

okay, thought: reader getting another tattoo right next to one price did (maybe a patchwork sleeve or something) and the other artist covered up the little JP he puts next to his pieces (on readers request) 👀

anon i need you to know that i went 'oh ho HO' loudly followed by a full-on cackle and my s/o just yelled 'did the penguins goalie score another goal?' so this is the level of excited your ask got me

as soon as he sees you again after your new tattoo, he notices the cover up of his initials immediately. stares at it without a word for a good, long time. you stumble over your words, explaining that you're trying to fill up as much as you can to get the look you want, that the piece wouldn't fit otherwise, that it's not personal, john, please don't be mad. he gives you one of those tight smiles that you know isn't really a smile so much as it is a threat, and you quiet down immediately.

'who did this one, then?' he asks as he taps your second skin, and you blurt out the artist's name before you can think better of it. he just hums thoughtfully and moves the conversation along, talking about the absolute massacre liverpool football club went through last week as you try to process whether or not he's actually angry. by the time you two part ways you're fairly convinced he was just shocked, that he's over it, and it's no big deal. cut to the next day when you get a text from a friend, going 'omg you'll never guess who made the papers'.

it's price's mugshot. he'd gone to your other artist's shop and clocked him in the jaw mid-tattoo, leaving some poor lady with an errant line going up her arm as the artist fell backwards from the force of price's fist. he never brings it up with you, and you never bring it up with him, and from then on you're determined to be very, very specific with other artists about not touching or covering up any of john price's work (jokes on you, word's gotten out that you're price's girl and there isn't a tattoo artist in the entire area that'll touch you without a written permission slip from the man himself)

[mousey-reblogs-everything]

The reason I almost cry happy tears every weekend, I literally love this fic so far.

Cherry Red, Crimson Blood Masterlist

Summary: Task Force 141 operates successfully without an omega, at least that’s what Price has been saying since its formation. Two alphas and two betas balance the pack just fine, and they have the numbers to prove it.

It works for a while, until the Omega Initiative is born and the 141 find themselves having to adjust to the sudden addition of an omega to their pack. Fresh out of an institute, you’re hardly fit for their secretive, dangerous world, or so Price thinks. 

As each member of the team gets closer to you, things begin to come to light, not only about you but about the decision to force you into their lives.

Maybe, just maybe, Price was wrong and the 141 does need an omega after all. 

Pairings: Poly 141 x reader, Price x Gaz, Ghost x Soap

Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega dynamics, NSFW content, explicit smut, fingering, oral (m and f receiving), knotting, biting, claiming, mating cycles, Alternate Universe, a/b/o typical classism and sexism, age differences, military inaccuracies, canon typical violence, blood, weapons, language, no use of Y/N, brief torture, hurt/comfort, let's be real this is so unrealistic but it's a/b/o you're not here for accuracy.

Chapters containing smut are marked with a *

Updates are posted on the weekends, either Saturday or Sunday PST

This fic can also be found on my Ao3 -> HERE

YOU DO NOT HAVE MY PERMISSION TO USE MY FICS FOR AI UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES

NAVIGATION PAGE Lore and world building masterlist CRCB Barracks Sims 4 Build Masterlist Support me on Patreon for more bonus content

Divider by: samspenandsword

Part 1 - The Omega

Chapter 1 - The Introduction Chapter 2 - Adjustments Chapter 3 - Speak Their Language Chapter 4 - You Can Be Useful Chapter 5 - What I Want *

Part 2 - The Bond

Chapter 6 - One Step Closer * Chapter 7 - Sweet Strawberry Chapter 8 - The Thing About Ghost Chapter 9 - Save Me Chapter 10 - Treat Me Gently*

Part 3 - The First Heat

Chapter 11 - It's Coming Chapter 12 - Fire In My Veins* Chapter 13 - Piece Me Back Together* Chapter 14 - The Aftermath*

Part 4 - The New Normal

Chapter 15: Bonnie* Chapter 16: Big Brown Eyes * Chapter 17: Alone Chapter 18: Don't Let Me Go Chapter 19: Daddy Issues Chapter 20: The New Normal * Chapter 21: Crime and Punishment * Chapter 22: I Won't Be Gentle

Part 5 - A Pack of Five

Coming Soon!!!

[mousey-reblogs-everything]

I adore this sm

John "Soap" "Quick Shot" Mactavish who can't help coming as soon as your pretty pussy sinks down the length of his cock. He groans low in his throat, his cock twitching as he floods you with his spend. Swears this has never happened before, that you just felt too good, he's sensitive from being away so long, blah blah blah... as if it isn't more rewarding to lift up and start bouncing on his sensitive cock so that he's grabbing your hips and swearing through his next orgasm.

[mousey-reblogs-everything]

this is so real (I need 3 books, a movie, and a TV series to be satisfied with this idea)

Soap only being Catholic when it benefits him... sure he'll fuck you as a one night stand but be prepared for him to drag you to the court house in the morning. You just know he begged you to let him hit it raw and now he's talking about:

"Its bad enough havin' sex outside wedlock, but now we might have a bairn in ya, gotta dae this right."

Like what the fuck are you talking about my man. (But I am signing those papers)

[mousey-reblogs-everything]

Another creator I genuinely enjoy!

𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐞'𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐩:

Keep reading

[mousey-reblogs-everything]

this isn't just a fic but an entire creator I personally enjoy seeing fics from <3

Masterlist

Rouge here!

I write for Task Force 141 and sometimes König.

Most of my work are drabbles and mini fics, but I plan on writing longer stories soon! :)

(Disclaimer: Not all my works nor everything on my blog is in this masterlist. Just my fics that I find most relevant.)

I do not write non-con, dub-con, pedophilia, or anything of that nature, so please do not request anything along those themes.

MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Halloween (Drabble)

Honey Eyes (Drabble)

A+ 100

How to Disappear (Drabble)

As You Are

Jungle Gym (Drabble)

Ready, Aim, Fire

Baby It's Cold Outside

You Can Touch (Drabble)

His Personal Cam Girl (Drabble)

Say It Again (Drabble)

Pretty Boy (Drabble)

Baby Boy (Drabble)

Baby Boy (Pt 2 Drabble)

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish

Thigh Highs (Drabble)

Hit Me Baby, One More Time (Drabble)

Polaroid (Drabble)

Tease (Drabble)

Shower Sex (Drabble)

Boytoy (Drabble)

Lipstick (Drabble)

Fuck it, Why Not?

Smirk of the Devil (Drabble)

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Best Friend (Drabble)

John Price

Million Dollar Man (Drabble)

Spoiled

Good Girl (Drabble)

Smile for Me (Drabble)

Task Force 141

Four Big Guys

One Whore One (Drabble)

One Whore One (Drabble 2)

Everybody Knows That I'm A Good Girl Officer

Alex Keller

Kitty (Drabble)

Mouthful (Drabble)

König

Missed One

[mousey-reblogs-everything]

ABOUT ME!!

NAMES: Mousey, Kay, Mouse

I really like reading and will mostly repost fanfics!!

I like motorcycles and Math

I openly and proudly support Palestine (no we can not have "difference of opinions" on a fucking genocide)

I'm queer

I write fanfics sometimes and was raised by a Wattpad writer (seriously, I love my mom)

->MAIN ACCOUNT HERE<-

I use :3, T-T, <33 unironically (and sarcastically)

I don't accept bigotry on my main and definitely won't accept bigotry on my repost account.