18+ hey yall, this is my fandom side blog, mostly cod and predator content rn. I’m new to writing fic but you can read what I got under the #my writing tag. No terfs, I check blogs and shoot on sight
Hello everyone! I figured I should finally put something up here and introduce myself :)
You can call me Irny/Ernie (pronounced the same teehee it's just a play on my username), any pronouns are fine, I'm damn near 30 so this blog is absolutely 18+ only.
Mostly focused on Call of Duty, GOT/AKOTSK, Predator, Weird hot men in general.
I'm trying to get back into writing. I'm currently mostly focused on He Who Haunts Ghosts, but I have about 9 other fic ideas floating around in my head at any given time and I love to talk about them.
Check out my writing, including drabbles, here: #my writing
ghost x f! reader
tags/cw: smut (eventually). fixed simon pov. forced proximity bordering on captivity. somno. voyeurism. all that said this is probably the most wholesome thing i've ever written lol
your car breaks down in a snowstorm. a crude stranger takes you in from the cold.
i’m not gonna pretend i was ever invested in the plot of these games all i can say is lumberjack beard price clubbing someone to death has re-awoken something deep within me
Do you have any headcanons for Gaz? Like every day things he does out of habit? Or maybe things he does to tf141 that annoy the hell out of them?
I do 100%
Small things:
Gaz flosses. I mean every night. That's why he's got such a perfect smile(at least that's what he tells Soap when the lad asks how he manages to remember)
Chocolate sweets guy. Specifically I think he likes those shortbread cookies with dark chocolate on them. He strikes me as someone who doesn't go for sweets so he'd like the bitterness of dark chocolate.
Played cricket in high school. Nearly takes Ghost's head off with a pitch when asked to prove it. Claims it gives him an edge with sniping, as of yet this hasn't been proven or disproven.
Medium things:
The man cannot cook. I know this is not a popular headcanon but I really think he was spoiled by his mum and never has had to cook a meal in his life. He gets takeaway if he isn't on base and excuses it as "treating himself" but really he just can't cook.
Ice over heat for pain. He'd rather find an ice pack for his back than grab a hot water bottle. That said:
Hates the cold. Did not enjoy the snow missions and was complaining to anyone that would listen about freezing his arse off.
Big things:
Gaz has a bad back, bad enough that he has constant little readjusting twitches that he tries to hide. It's usually just a sort of sore stiffness but sometimes it gets as bad as sharp shooting pain.
Gaz skips out on his physical therapy unless his back is bad. Very much a "grin and bare it" person, he doesn't want anyone thinking he's weak or can't handle his own body.
Frequently loses the key to his room so he's started keeping a spare on top of the door frame. The problem being that he forgets that's there and inevitably Price has to let him into his bunk. (Soap has been stealing his keys. Started as a prank but now he just wants to see how long it'll take Gaz to notice.)
warnings: noncon, anal, ignored safeword, mentions of noncon breeding.
thank you to @the-californicationist and @bythegraceofathena for beta reading ♥
Consent is tricky—not always as clear cut as one might think.
Trust is trickier still, delicate like a ringlet curl and melts away as easy as candyfloss on your tongue.
You trusted Nikolai, he was a gentleman.
His hand on your back never strayed too low, there was never a question when it came to who would pay for dates, and he was tactful but open when it came to his line of work.
You thought the openness was maturity, now you see it was a warning.
You're naked as the day you were born and entirely on display, your vulnerability offered up on a platter.
Perhaps it was a bad idea, offering it up so soon, but you felt safe.
Nikolai had been guiding you, as a wise older figure, as an experienced man, deeper into this lifestyle of thrills and taboo.
So here you were, bound at his mercy for the first time, safeword rattling around your brain, waiting in case you needed to pull the trigger.
“Not too tight?” His voice purrs as he secures the final rope in place with soft but insistent tug.
You shake your head, before correcting yourself with words. “Nope.”
Your cheek is pushed into the mattress as your arms are pulled beneath you and bound together, your arse wiggles high in the air, the only part of your body with any real freedom.
Nikolai taps you, encourages you to struggle against your binds and smirks a wicked grin when you struggle just to do that. “Perfect.”
There's a moment of silence then, stillness as the anticipation builds like a quiet storm.
The burn of his stare is heavy, inspecting you, and the weight of it makes your body react without even a single touch.
Finally, a curled knuckle nudges up your folds, teases your pretty little nub, and a delighted chuckle leaves the Russian as you jolt under his gentle caress.
And then the softness fades, replaced by hungry hands that curl next to the sensitive folds of your cunt, they pull until your lips are parted and your apex is completely exposed. “Such pretty holes, milaya.” He coos, wasting no time as he moves for further exploration.
His hands paw upwards, grabbing at your cheeks and pulling much the same, revealing to his greedy eyes the hole you'd already denied him.
Knowing he's there, hovering above you with his eyes glued to the one thing he can't have, you shiver like a leaf, tremble like prey.
“Fuck.” You mewl, the sensation of his hands already so good, melting you down into a puddle.
“So sensitive.” The grin on his lips is audible in his pleased words, a grin that only grows as he dares to move upwards, rubbing his slicked finger across your puckered hole. “Here too? Feels good?”
“It feels…” You buck as his touch intensifies, the pad of his finger toying with your entrance.
Despite everything, your hesitancy, your refusal—it feels fucking good.
“Mmm, Nik!” You squeal, as just moments after you feel it: the wet hot press of his tongue, laving your precious entrance with reckless abandon. “I—”
“Shhh.” He mumbles between your cheeks, stubble catching sensitive flesh as he tries to quiet your pointless commentary.
His tongue returns with vicious fervour, tasting all you have to offer and more as slick noise fills the air, mingling with the man's moans to form a taunting melody.
“Just a taste, maybe a finger.” His voice is soft, a trick to try and soothe you, his pleasant grumble an attempt at distraction.
“N—” You try to reaffirm your boundary, to keep him away from what you refused to give him, but such an action is pointless.
A hand eclipses your head, shoves your face further into the too-expensive mattress until the sound is muffled.
It works just as well to muffle the scream that follows, as Nikolai plunges a finger in, deep and probing, curling against you in ways you never wished to feel, and yet your body reacts like it's been waiting for it all along.
You shiver and shake and moan and shout—the pleasure, the pain, the intrusion, and the intimacy all overwhelming your fragile little brain.
It's not long before the lust takes him, the hunger and the fire and the impatience. He laid his trap, and waited so long for all the pieces to fall into place, placated you with numbing sweetness all for the jagged teeth to sink into you before you have time to realise.
The jaw has closed, there's no escape.
He shuffles behind you, and you freeze in fear, knowing what comes next.
First his belt, then the rustle of his jeans, and before long you feel it, that thick, heavy, gorgeous cock rubbing against your slickened hole.
With his hands focused on shifting you into place, you can crane up your head, cry out one more time. “Nikolai, red, please!”
He grows tired of your pleading, your denial of what is best for both of you, and shoves the boxers he just stripped himself of straight into your protesting mouth—then he taps you on the cheek, twice for good measure.
“Dumb little thing, nyet?” He scoffs as he returns to his rightful place at your rear. A quick rummage around his beside table produces the lube he's prepared just for a night like this.
He flicks the cap, squeezes a plentiful amount on you, on him.
After all, he's a gentleman; he doesn't want it to hurt… too much.
“Just like the other girls. Won't do anal, will do bondage. Can't say no, now, hmm?”
He ruts against your hole with the head of his cock, gentle pushes that tease and taunt.
And then he breaches. You hiss, he groans, slowly sinking in until each fat inch is swallowed by your greedy, untouched hole.
He can hear the choked-back sobs, feel the way your body trembles and your entrance chokes him.
“I know, first time. But this is your fuck hole.” He coos his explanation to you with sickening condescension, like you just needed a big, smart man to finally show you the way.
Mercifully, a hand sinks lower, curls round to toy at the spot where his balls meet your other opening. “This? This is baby box. Only fucked when breeding. An honour, not fit for just any girl.”
You shouldn't shiver; you certainly shouldn't gush the way your cunt does at that moment.
He takes a moment to push in that final inch, sheathing himself fully in your virgin arse, his new home.
“But you're taking me so well. Asshole made for me.”
Despite the attempt at preparation, it burns, and yet one of Nik's hands pets your head like it's all an act of love.
“Maybe for round two, then I fuck you full of child, hmm?”
simon riley who won't wear a wedding ring because he's seen way too many degloving incidents in the field.
simon riley who was going to get your name tattooed over his heart until you pouted and called it basic.
simon riley who instead gets a pin up style tattoo (that just happens to bear a striking resemblance to you) on his forearm. now when anyone asks what his spouse looks like he just rolls his sleeve up and points at the inked image of you; half naked and sat astride a missile.
And you really thought Simon would be a little mean during sex. He had to be a sadist after everything he’s been through.
So, when he’s between your parted thighs, you’re shocked when he speaks to you so softly. Quietly begging in your ear, cock pressed to the hilt, for you to be good for him.
And everytime you let out a whine, fingers tightening at his shoulders because he’s massive and you feel like you’re splitting in two with every thrust; he shushes you. ‘You can take it. Yes—yes you can.’
And when you clench tighter around him because the cadence of his voice licks warmth in your core, he smiles. ‘There you go, baby. Just like that.’
At random moments throughout your week, an unregistered phone number will text you a photo of roadkill.
You know it's ghost sending them, his shadow looming over the thing twisted on the side of the road. Sometimes you get a single "rabbit." Or "duck." When he thinks you won't be able to identify the animal. You asked him about them exactly once, stood under the awning of some shitty bar and on your second smoke.
"Reminds me o' you." He huffed, eyes searing into the side of your skull when you refused to look at him.
To this day, you have no idea what he meant. If you're meant to be the carcass or the one making them. A threat, or some fucked up attempt at courting. Maybe both. Maybe he just wants to be friends.
The most recent one caught the wrapper of his sandwich in the frame, eating while he observed.
People narrow their eyes the first time ghost talks about his "sweet girl"
Ghost is...well. a loner. He's socially awkward at best and aggressive at worst. Ghost kills people without flinching, looms in every corner He's in. No way he has a 'sweet girl' at home.
And yet, that's exactly what he tells the team our night at the bar. Mouth half-stuffed with greasy chips, he grunts "my sweet girl could do this better. Lovely cook."
After he broke the news about her, it was all he'd talk about.
Ghost, the guy who turns people into a fine red mists then laughs about it is the same guy that smiles "my sweet girl wants to see the movies tonight, you know how it is, cap." Or proudly shows off the lunch he's brought from home with a "i made it myself. My sweet lovie is teaching me 'ow to cook."
Always on and on about his sweet girl, about his lovie, the best thing in his life. Like a lovesick puppy.
"Oh!! Hi, simon! Glad to see you back in one piece!" You smile at your neighbor when he enters the elevator. Almost instinctively you hand over your heaviest grocery bags.
Simon, your neighbor, smiles around the scars and presses the button for you. You've been living next to him for a few months now, and embarrassingly you keep finding excuses to spend time with him. Though, you doubt he would ever reciprocate your little crush.
Following up on the “but you literally do not have to be a good writer to write and post fan fiction” I feel like it’s important to add that I’d rather read something subpar than read some ai slop. I want to read something you wrote because you love it, because you enjoyed writing it, because it made you kick your feet. I don’t want to read some bullshit written by a learning model that you fed a prompt to. AI has no place in writing. Zero. None. And if you use it you’re a talentless scrub.
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