rei025

[rei025]

Why dont you ever write handlers into ur hybrid posts??

Bc the concept that a hybrid would *need* a handler to control them based on the fact alone that they're a hybrid feels lowkey bioessentialist to me.

Sure, hybrids may have some unique instincts or needs, but they are still fully sapient people capable of making decisions. To reduce a character down to an human overwhelmed by animal instincts in everyday circumstances would be a disservice to the character 🤷‍♂️

Same reason I dont have omegas that go into heat and fall over for any alpha, even those they hate. Omegas in heat is like...the more fune version of ovulation. Thats it. They are the same person in heat as they are outside of it.

[rei025]

Resident pretty boy™️ kyle who gets all dolled up in mascara and lip gloss, puts on the lacy lingerie set that price loves.

All so he can go sit in his captains lap after price has had a long week. Price loves to grope at kyle as he trudges through paperwork. He gets his sergeant all riled up with each squeeze of his thighs or a thumb pressing against his v-line. After months of practice kyle is good at holding still, at being a pretty thing for price to enjoy. Doesnt complain even as hes kept hard and wanting for hours while price works.

Because at the end of the day price will lay his pretty little sergeant across his desk and properly enjoy him.

[rei025]

Fallen Angel Masterlist

This is won't be a storyline fic, I just need to get some of these random ideas out of my head.

Things of note: reader is asexual but *not* sex averse, will come up. Ghoap will be a side thing but they are all end up loving reader in different ways.

If you have any ideas or scenes you would love to see in this world please feel free to drop them in the comments or hit me up in an ask. I fucking love this work I have created and if it never ends like a sitcom aiming for syndication.

Companion Series: Hell's Spawn

Ceiling, Floor, Door

Meeting Soap

Sore Loser

Gotta Go

Batter Up

Hugs That Heal

Charmed

Grocery Delivery

Iced Coffee & Scary Movies

Something Stupid

Coffee Orders

Sweet Girl

New Glasses

Stutter

When Did It Change?

Really? You'll Wear It?

Nosey Nancy's

Ten Minutes Please

Job Offer

Frozen Toes

Three Small Squeezes

Scorched Earth

Finding Normal

Bed Snatchers

Sober Up

John, You're Buying A House

Sit Down

Ovulation is a Bitch™ - SFW (Tumblr exclusive)

Charcuterie

Cat Distribution System

Birthday Present *Has slight sexual content

Lover and Love

Witching Hour Wishes

If AO3 is more your jam, chapters will only posted in order as they are completed over there though so Tumblr will have the most and most up to date parts.

Masterlist

Shout out to @saradika-graphics for the so cute dividers.

[rei025]

Art fight attack number one for @soupdweller ! Sleep paralysis demon Moon<3 I think he's pretty confused as to why you're under the bed. He is here, what else could you be hiding from?

[rei025]

And some ghoap christmas leave in a snowy forest hut for shainira! Thank you..🎄🌨️

[rei025]

Do better idk

[rei025]

Fallen Angel Masterlist

This is won't be a storyline fic, I just need to get some of these random ideas out of my head.

Things of note: reader is asexual but *not* sex averse, will come up. Ghoap will be a side thing but they are all end up loving reader in different ways.

If you have any ideas or scenes you would love to see in this world please feel free to drop them in the comments or hit me up in an ask. I fucking love this work I have created and if it never ends like a sitcom aiming for syndication.

Companion Series: Hell's Spawn

Ceiling, Floor, Door

Meeting Soap

Sore Loser

Gotta Go

Batter Up

Hugs That Heal

Charmed

Grocery Delivery

Iced Coffee & Scary Movies

Something Stupid

Coffee Orders

Sweet Girl

New Glasses

Stutter

When Did It Change?

Really? You'll Wear It?

Nosey Nancy's

Ten Minutes Please

Job Offer

Frozen Toes

Three Small Squeezes

Scorched Earth

Finding Normal

Bed Snatchers

Sober Up

John, You're Buying A House

Sit Down

Ovulation is a Bitch™ - SFW (Tumblr exclusive)

Charcuterie

Cat Distribution System

Birthday Present *Has slight sexual content

Lover and Love

Witching Hour Wishes

If AO3 is more your jam, chapters will only posted in order as they are completed over there though so Tumblr will have the most and most up to date parts.

Masterlist

Shout out to @saradika-graphics for the so cute dividers.

[rei025]

I am a simple bug boy. (For the love of God Where are all the Roach x reader fics or Roach fics in general? He just gets lumped in with the rest of tf141 😭 i love them but I just wanna see my mans)

[rei025]

The Promised Ending

Honest Work Keeps A Man’s Back Bowed | Part 1 | AO3

A/N: Story is fully written and will update on Fridays.

This narrator would like to note that they are going to judge so many decisions this man makes. He is smarmy, and deserves everything coming to him. That’s all.

Jeremiah found him first.

Sitting on the bales, elbows on his knees Phil stared at his shoes. He never liked tennis shoes—missed his broken-in cowboy boots. As he sat he contemplated. You wanted him gone, wanted nothing to do with him. The ranch you managed? It was his. He could call up the lawyers right now and relieve you of your duties but everything under your touch thrived. Clearly though, from the conversation last night, staying would likely not be an option.

That loss, again not being wanted, never being good enough, hooked around his sternum and stretched him from the rafters.

“Phillip Graves,” he whispered in awe. “And here I thought God had hidden himself up in heaven and no longer answered prayers.”

Looking up from his thoughts as they played over his feet, Phil took in all the changes. The man had aged since Phil had last seen him. Instead of a thick dark beard and a wink hidden behind the smoke of a cigarette before stood him a man who looked as if all his age found him at once. Jeremiah’s hair more white on top and more gray in the beard complimented the wrinkles and the yellowing on his teeth from the decades of smoke that stained them.

Jeremiah had been a ranch hand when Phil had left for the military. God, could it really be nearly two decades now? The distance of their ages didn’t feel so large now.

“God must hate me if the way He answers prayers is what dragged me back here,” Phil sighed and stood. “How are you still here, Jeremiah? Weren’t you planning on heading west a couple years after I left?”

The loud laugh the man let out hit Phil like a wave, painful in its pressure.

“I tried, but your granddad had other plans. Had a heart attack on branding day, couldn’t leave after that. He promoted me to foreman though and I’ve been running the place ever since.” Jeremiah shoved his hands into his front pockets, looking Phil over like he would a pregnant heifer. “You look wore out, kiddo.”

The tears that flooded Phil’s eyes were as unexpected as a green sky in January.

As arms circled him, pulling him into the scents that had been one of the only sprinklings of safety he found as a child, Phil started to sob. Those years that didn’t seem too far apart a moment ago now fit between them with the right amount of space for Jeremiah to play father.

“Pop-Pop had been right, there will always be a bigger man to break you if you don’t humble up.”

“What happened boyo?” Jeremiah ran a soothing hand over his back.

“Too much. Too goddamn much.”

When the only remnants of Phil’s shameful lack of control were the shuddering breaths he took from time to time, Jeremiah walked him to the storage closet and managed to unearth a couple of pairs of jeans, some shirts with only minor holes, and thank the uncaring stars, a pair of his old boots. They were the only things that still fit from childhood.

Stepping out Phillip had never felt more at home in his skin. Even a high holster couldn’t make him feel so whole.

“What’s the plan?” Jeremiah called from further in the barn. He had started his chores of feeding the horses and the animals that didn’t rotate through the fields like the cattle did.

“Well, the boss,” referring, of course, to you, “Doesn’t want me to stay.”

Phil pet the noses that poked over the stalls to greet him.

Jeremiah paused and sent a look that spoke a million and one things that didn’t need explanation or reply.

Sighing, deep and soul weary, Phil continued.

“She doesn’t know Dead Road Ranch is mine. It and all its belongings are held in a blind trust. When Granddad went down the trust fell to me. I was neck deep in some business I didn’t want to drag home and suggested the lawyers reach out to a couple people with an offer. She bit.”

“And are you following her orders to get off your own property?”

Fighting the urge to sink to his heels, curl his head into his knees, and disappear, Phil shook his head.

“Don’t have nowhere else to go. Even home don’t want me.”

He could admit to even himself, that something inside of him had broken. Not worth a lick of love or kindness, not once in his whole damn life. That’s why Jeremiah’s hand on his shoulder, and his gruff ‘I’ll handle this’ in an ear as he passed didn’t hold much weight. Phil should have known better—Jeremiah could speak sense into a rock given both time and gumption. Turning that talent to you would take less than a day before he had his way.

Jeremiah found you as the sun rose collecting eggs from the chickens. You had set up an arrangement with a shop in the city over an hour away, they would stop by every three days for anything fresh the ranch would part with, eggs, greens, etc. They also bought several heads of cattle though the steers wouldn’t be heading to the butch for several more months. It was a good arrangement. One of many changes you were deeply proud of.

“Morning kiddo.”

His drawl brought a smile to your lips. You hadn’t been a kid for nearly two decades, something about the word on his lips though rang as an endearment and not a reprimand.

“Morning, Jeremiah. Bit early for our daily meeting, did something come up on your morning walk?”

You shove a hand under the fluffy heated but of Bertha the Bitch. She’s broody again. You wanted nothing less than chicks right now. She pecked at your hand, squawking and railing against you as if you were God, come to murder her children. One of the ‘eggs’ you pull out is actually a rock.

“Something real interstin’ came up. Found a prodigal son in the barn,” he paused, as if waiting for you to react. You don’t. “Looks like he slept on the hay.”

The glance you cut to Jeremiah tells you to toe the line carefully with your next words.

“That does sound interesting,” you focus on rearranging the eggs in your basket, eager to avoid the judgmental eyes on you. “Thought the wolf would have slipped away with the sunrise.”

“Mmm, and here I thought you treated all creatures with respect. You donate to the wolf rescue programs any month your horse sanctuary has any spare cash,” Jeremiah lifts Bertha from her box, showing the horde of eggs she had siphoned from the others. “Give him a job, and a cot for the barn. We both know he can do the work.”

Screaming like a cougar wouldn’t end this conversation, only highlight the hypocrisy in your attempts to save everything but him.

“I’ll think about it,” you finally grind out between your teeth. Keeping your face down doesn’t keep Jeremiah from reading the intention in your shoulders. Sometimes, familiarity hurts.

“Honest offer, kid. Or I will do it for you.” The finality in his voice bit like a snake. It shifted when he spoke to Bertha, offering her the kindness you wish he had handed you, “Let’s get you set up in broody jail Bertha, you would make a terrible mother.”

Jeremiah stepped from the coop, leaving you to stew in the earthy scent of chicken shit.

It wasn’t hard to fill up your day with ways to avoid one Phillip Graves. He spent summers here as a child and had learned how to move through the dust and the weeds. The wind and the dandelions were your birthright though. Checking on your horse sanctuary and running into town for supplies were all valid reasons to be nowhere near the barn until dusk.

Stepping through the doors, like ascending the platform to the noose, came with slow breaths and firming resolves. Deep breathing wouldn’t save you. Unfortunately.

Sounds drew you in, Phil had pulled the storage closet apart all the items strewn in more or less neat piles around him. To his right was a pile of clearly broken things that must have been hiding in the corners and the crevices. He turned, eyes down, and lifted a box from the floor. Settling it neatly in the closet, he repeated the process.

You could tell he saw your boots, he paused when they appeared in his view. Phillip didn’t lift his eyes though, neither snarling at you or trying to charm you with a smile. No. He kept his eyes down, slowly shifting back into gear like a work truck that had idled for too long before moving.

“Kept yourself busy today?” You lay the question before him, a buffet bereft of care.

“Always something to be done on a ranch,” he replies quietly. Small and avoidant, not his style at all.

“True,” you fold your arms and watch him as he moves. Phil goes slow. Each shift is deliberate as if he is timing the motion to avoid triggering an injury, or a hit.

Nearly half the closet is put back when you speak again.

“Jeremiah says I’m to give you a job. Do you want one?”

“If that’s what you’d like,” he looks up at you now. His eyes have no spark, dull and worn instead of vibrant and snapping. You hate yourself for missing the flint in his gaze.

“Turns about about you, what I want never matters.” Heaving a deep sigh you fold your arms tight to your ribs, “I will get a blanket for you from the house and pull cot out. You can use the office but don’t mess with anything in there.”

Phil watched you for three blinks before turning back to his self-appointed task. It wasn’t a dismissal so much as a return from pausing. The lack of a fight makes bile churn in your stomach. What happened to him?

Strangling that thought, you start toward the house. Grabbing the softest quilt that wouldn’t be too heavy on your way down from the attic is not a choice you want to examine. The man who had met you with nothing but sharp teeth and even sharper words wouldn’t likely appreciate softness from you now. Didn’t mean you wouldn’t feel bad for not offering it. Goddamn feelings. Why couldn’t anything ever make sense around the bastard?

Striding back into the barn you find the closet closed and Phil, head hanging and hands on his hips, staring at his boots.

“I’ll leave these here for you,” you settle both offerings on the floor near your feet. The distance between you speaks to the ache of trying to step closer.

“Thank you,” he looks from his boots to yours.

The lingering hitch in your chest has you offering kindness, if only to see if he would lift his gaze and you could dispel the darkness you saw there.

“Breakfast will be ready by seven am. Swing by the house and grab a plate.” Shoving your hands in your back pockets to keep from fidgeting with the hem of your flannel, you wait.

“If that’s what you’d like,” the tears in his eyes sweep you away like flood waters rising.

Nodding once, you turn on your heel. Keeping your gaze forward you curse yourself for the offer. You didn’t want to spend more time with him, why had you offered to feed him?

The ten-year-old version of you chimed up from somewhere in the recesses of your mind, “Because Phil’s Pop-Pop asked us to be soft to his boy. Said he didn’t get kindness at home and someone had to teach him.”

Pop-Pop Graves would be displeased at how little kindness you had to offer his boy now.

Part 3

Masterlist | Taglist

@randomhuman112 @myeyesonlyfouryou @Gazsluckyhat @maraschino-bullet @diagustedwombat @MindsofJade

[rei025]

CoD Prompt 1

━━━━━━ ❖ ☁︎ ❖ ━━━━━━

When your grandmother passes, she unexpectedly leaves you her dusty old townhouse in the heart of the city. She also leaves behind something even more unexpected, but so, so sentimental to you: her rooftop pigeon coop, still full of birds she cared for, and one special guy she trained as a carrier pigeon.

Bored, lonely, and feeling a little hopelessly romantic, you start strapping little notes to Herold, your trained pigeon. Nothing important. A line from a poem. A doodle. A joke. A wish. Bored drabbles. You send them into the sky with no real expectation of a reply, but hopeful still. Something about it makes you feel less alone.

And then one day, Herold comes back with a reply.

It’s short—a joke. Witty. Written in unfamiliar, neat handwriting. You have no idea who sent it, but it makes your heart happy nonetheless.

So you write back.

What you don’t know is that Herold made his way to the military base on the edge of the city, and the man writing you back is a soldier, sharp-tongued, scarred, and utterly enchanted by the stranger sending him messages on scraps of fancy stationary tied to a bird’s leg.

John “ Soap” MacTavish doesn’t know who you are, but he loves how you think. Loves how similar you are to him. Loves your sense of humor and sharpness. He learns your handwriting like scripture. Waits by the window every damn day like a lovesick idiot.

Your letters become a lifeline, keeping him on the right side of sanity. On late nights when the nightmares won’t let him sleep, he reads and rereads your words to fend off the darkness creeping into his own mind.

He finds himself enamored with you, with finding out every detail of your life. His journal becomes littered with doodles of what he imagines you look like, along with the pigeon that likes to keep him company at his windowsill.

And somewhere between one letter and the next, Soap realizes he’s falling in love with someone he’s never met. Someone whose name he doesn’t even know. Someone who doesn’t know his.

But every time that little bird returns with your words, Soap thinks maybe, just maybe, this could be something real.

[rei025]

Gaz who, like many others, loves to give soap shit for dating ghost. Constantly reminding the scot that he has no claim over relationship advice when he fell for the walking version of red flags, trauma, and weird kinks

Gaz who, much to his horror, realizes hes falling for you. You, the person who is probably the only one on ghosts level. Violent as hell, socially awkward and aggressive. Hes literally seen you bond with ghost over torture techniques for fucks sake!

Yet gaz cant stop thinking about you. The way you snort at his sarcastic remarks, the way you pin him to the mats or writhe against his hold in training. The fact you gifted gaz your "favourite damn dagger" after he saved your ass on an op.

You give gaz a wave when you pass by him on the field, spattered in blood. Soap can see the lovestruck look on kyles face clear as day. "Oh sure," soap raised a brow, voice flat "when i do it, its weird. But when you do it??"

[rei025]

modern warfare 4

[rei025]

Maybe tumblr will accept this version…?

[rei025]

Keep it tactical, Lieutenant!

[rei025]

Omg could Lunar teach me how to dance? Or am I gonna have to just continue dancing alone on my two left feet😂

no one said lunar was a good teacher *blows you up with my mind affectionately*

ps. frankenstein reader has no canonical body type. ill draw them differently each time.

[rei025]

my period has me feeling down and i'm struggling to write, so i'm posting drafts that didn't originally make the cut

warnings: implied/referenced rape (not on screen), captivity, and forced pregnancy (not by any of the 141). poly 141/reader, gaz pov, 141!reader

They get you back on a Tuesday.

Months of searching. Months of killing and interrogating and never stopping to so much as take a breath.

It all amounts to this moment, right here, right now. It stretches into infinity. The dampness of the cell is suffocating, the frigid chill makes them shiver. The stink of blood and piss and unwashed human permeates the air, but none of them so much as gag.

Because there you are.

Curled up on the hard cement floor in a corner of the dark cell, huddled beneath a threadbare blanket, only your dirty, gaunt face peeks out. You stare up at them with wide, unblinking eyes, expression blank, no recognition present for one, two, three breaths.

“Lass?” Soap whispers, voice softer than Gaz has ever heard it. You twitch, and something like grief sparks in your dead, empty eyes as they focus on the team, one by one. You let out a croak like you’re trying to speak but can’t, and Gaz sees Ghost flinch out of the corner of his eye.

“It’s us, kid,” Price says, in that gentle tone he only ever uses with you. He takes a slow, measured step forward, and Gaz watches as you track the movement with your cloudy gaze, the lines of your body tensing beneath the blanket. “You’re safe now.”

That gets a reaction. You shake your head rapidly, curling up tighter, one bony hand reaching up to yank at your matted hair.

“No no no, not real, not safe, never safe,” you mumble, your voice pitching up into a whine at the end. “You’re not real, you’re not real, you’re not—”

Gaz closes the distance between the two of you before he can think better of it, laying a warm hand on your trembling shoulder. You flinch violently, covering your face with your hands, before going perfectly still, like prey trying to escape a predator’s notice. Price barks out a reprimand, but Gaz ignores him, keeping his hand exactly where it is, his touch heavy and grounding and free of pain.

“We’re real, luv,” he murmurs, softly rubbing his thumb against the back of your hand. You let out a single cry, but you don’t try to retreat again. Gently, oh so gently, he takes hold of your wrists, slowly pulling them away to reveal your tear-streaked face. “We’re here. It’s over.”

“Kyle,” you whimper, and his heart breaks at the utter devastation in your voice. “I—”

You don’t get anything else out before you dissolve into sobs, and Gaz bundles you up in his arms, petting your hair and rocking you back and forth as he shushes you softly. He can feel the stares of his teammates on the two of you, desperate to be where he is, to hold you close after so long spent fearing the worst. Fearing that they would never find you. Fearing that if they did, it would already be too late.

“We’ve got you,” he reassures you as you tuck your face into the crook of his neck. He can feel tears wetting his skin, dripping down into his collar. “We’ve got you now. It’s gonna be alright.”

Price allows you one minute. When he speaks, Gaz can hear the regret in his words that he can’t give you longer.

“We have to go,” he says, quiet, apologetic. “Can you stand?”

You sniffle, fingers tightening on the straps of Gaz’s vest before he feels you nod once and pull away. You scrub harshly at your face, clearly trying to pull up the front of an unaffected soldier, one he’s seen you wear a million times before. But you were never any good at it then, and you’re not good at it now, the ever present cracks in your mask more like canyons.

Nonetheless, you let him help you to your feet, silent despite the grimace of pain on your face. The blanket slides off your shoulders, fluttering to the ground. Your eyes widen as you grab for it, but injured as you are, you can barely bend over, and the fabric slips through your fingers.

The rasp of it hitting the concrete is the only sound in the cell as four pairs of eyes zero in on your protruding stomach, poorly hidden beneath the thin, stained rags of your clothes.

“Price,” Ghost says a moment later, voice deadly. The violence in the single syllable drips from Ghost’s mouth like venom, like the blood he is clearly itching to spill. That they’re all suddenly dying to bathe the damn earth in.

Because they knew. This whole time they were looking for you, they knew. They weren’t stupid, they weren’t green, they knew what you were sure to face while in captivity, as a woman. That you would be violated. That Makarov’s goons would use it as just another tool to break you, to try and get you to give them whatever information they could get. That the chances of it not happening were slim to none. The knowledge haunted them all, nearly broke them when they let themselves think about it.

But this?

None of them had expected this.

“I know,” Price finally answers, tearing his gaze away from your belly to look at his Lieutenant, grasping his shoulder. A reassurance as much as it is a warning. “I know, Simon. But our mission is to get her safe. Get her out of here.”

“Cap—” Soap protests, that familiar, fiery rage of his sparking to life.

“Her safety is our top priority, Sergeant!” Price snaps, his own, famously calm composure cracking. “Or do you disagree?”

“Stop,” you croak, grabbing Gaz’s arm and leaning heavily into his side, even as you glare weakly at your team, expression more pleading than angry. “I need— I n-need to leave. I can’t— I c-can’t—”

“Alright, luv, okay,” Gaz says, shoving his own fury deep down inside. He kisses the crown of your head, uncaring of the sweat and dirt, then looks down at you. “Are you sure you can walk?”

You nod again, determined—but the second you try to take a step, your legs give out from underneath you. The only thing that keeps you from ending back up on the ground is Gaz’s quick reflexes. One arm circles around your waist, the other your stomach. He nearly lets you go in shock when he feels a small kick, right in the crook of his elbow, but holds you tighter when you shudder.

“Gaz, you got her?” Price asks, and he nods, crouching down a bit so he can scoop you up, one arm under your back, the other under your knees. Not as efficient as a fireman's carry, but in your… condition, it’s the only way. You tuck your face into his neck again, and he sees one of your hands settle on your belly as he takes a step forward, the rest of the team surrounding the two of you as he carries you out of the cell.

The few hostiles they meet on the way to exfil are dispatched easily, but Gaz’s bloodlust isn’t sated. Neither is his team’s, he can tell, even though they’re the ones who actually get to kill the scum. Headshots and slit throats for a couple of grunts just aren’t good enough, after what’s been done to you. Makarov and his men need to hurt. They need to suffer.

And they will. Gaz can see it in the fire in Soap’s eyes, the tension in Ghost’s body, the trembling of Price’s mustache. The 141 will make them all wish they had never so much as laid a hand on you. They won't stop until they’ve slaughtered every single person who hurt you. Because their team is a family, and you?

You’re the very heart of it.

[rei025]

nom