Bite the Hand That Beat You

call me radon (Ray-DAwn) // 25 // they/them/theirs // MDNI // fictional burly man enjoyer

[rad0nwrites]

|| Navigation Station ||

about || blog boundaries || hard lines and will do’s || tags/masterlist ||

AS OF 4/29/25, NAVIGATION IS UNDER CONSTRUCTION AS PIECES GET ADDED. about: radon (Ray-DAwn) (like the gas) || 24 || they/them || COD/whatever else has me in its grip at the time || amateur writer || story-teller || OC creator ||

this is a side blog dedicated to all of my thoughts and writings about the COD men, my COD OC and any other fandom that I'm currently partaking in. Follows, likes, and asks won’t be from here. the parasites pilot me and I'm just here for the ride, and I hope you are too.

blog boundaries

You are in charge of your own media consumption. i will do my absolute best to tag accordingly, but if you do not like something or something makes you uncomfortable, you are not obligated to stay. Swipe away, block, mute, etc. no hard feelings if you have to block.

I absolutely do not consent for the utilization of my works in AI training. If I find that my or any other fanfic writer's works have been used to train AI, you will be put on a public blacklist as warning for others before you are blocked. Seriously. To be human is to create, and what you are doing is not creating. And you need to get a grip. I work a full time job and i have a life happening outside of this blog, so my posting will be infrequent. I try to keep to a consistent schedule, but I know myself lol. I mainly write when I'm inspired to. please feel free to ask questions about my OCs or on anything really! I love to talk about them. i don't take requests, but if something is left for me and it inspires me, I'll run with it! [this blog is mainly a dump journal to yell into the void to] be cool and respectful when sending asks. the world is shitty enough as it is. hate won't be tolerated and you will be dragged before you're blocked.

hard lines & will do's: in terms of what i will not write about (aka 'hard line'): - rape/non-con - incest/stepcest - scat/vomit/watersports - cheating (more of a weird gray area than a hard line) - pregnancy (personal ick of mine. i can read it but i can't write it) - anything regarding pedophelia or underage

if i don't feel comfortable writing it, i won't write about it. don't take it personally! i'm just not the writer for you.

in terms of what i will write about: - suggestive/smut (more leaning towards suggestive until I get better at it lmao) - fluff - angst/dark content - fandom ships - x reader - x OC

my writing is geared for 18+. minors do not interact! ageless, blank, underage accounts will blocked.

Tags:

#shut up radon — random non-fandom talk.

#radon fic recs — fanfic recommendations

#radon talks Roan - any post regarding my COD oc Roan Pierce

Masterlist:

Coming Soon ✨

[passerine2019]

they added gideon to hades guys believe me

under for sprite itself

[skreebat]

(Starlight) Kremy Lecroux is NOT parent material, but he's definitely the well dressed aloof uncle with mysterious business dealings that doesn't understand half the words you're saying and topics you bring up, but will give you cash most times you ask, especially if it's for a funny reason

[rad0nwrites]

In celebration of Noah Kahan releasing his new album tomorrow (4/24), I am wishing all fanfic writers a bountiful harvest of fanfic inspiration.

[itsfckingbats]

‘Are you okay?’ No, that fictional man isn’t in my bed right now

[rad0nwrites]

Remember that one post where I said, "After a month of getting my ass kicked at work-" lmao it got woRSE.

It's been a ROUGH couple of months, fellas. Writer's block is an absolute kick in the dick, and no matter what I write for any fandom, the words are just not coming.

I've been relistening to the Adventure Zone recently though and boy howdy do I have concepts in my bRAIN. There's not a lot of works for TAZ so I fear I must bring some food to the table.

We'll see where the vibes go.

[tojisun]

fuck it. zombie ghost who literally turned into the undead because his final thought before passing on was how he truly despises the fact that his death would mean that he’d leave you as a widow. so he claws his way out of the pit and trudges back home, all mangled and twisted and wrong. he’s alive in ways that matter so you welcome him back with a gasp and a trembling kiss. he’s always cold now. decaying no matter how much you try to slow it down, but he’s back. god, he’s back.

[rad0nwrites]

🎶”Crawlin’ back to you…”🎶

[armacheart]

Winter wonderland

[rad0nwrites]

I feel a blurb about this brewing in my brain

[cobaltbeam]

Post Mission haircut

[laceanddenim]

(inspired by this post)

You never thought John Price looked particularly lonely, not at first. He wore his years of service like a shield, his expression a map of battles survived and endured. In the field, he was larger than life—commanding, precise, always carrying that gravel-voiced certainty that made men trust him with their lives.

But outside of it? You learned quickly that there wasn’t much left for him.

You remember the first time you went to his flat. A misplaced package had ended up on base, and you, ever eager to be helpful, offered to drop it off. He let you in, polite as always, offering tea in his rough, almost absentminded way. And that’s when you saw it—how bare everything was.

No warmth. No family photos. No mismatched mugs in the cupboard from years of collecting memories with someone else. Just the bare minimum a man might need to exist between deployments: a couch that looked too stiff to be comfortable, a bed stripped of anything resembling softness, cupboards with more canned goods than fresh food. It felt less like a home and more like a recovery ward—functional, quiet, a place to rest until the next wound, the next mission.

He didn’t even notice what it revealed. He didn’t notice that his hands shook faintly when he stirred sugar into his own mug, or that the tea bags in his cupboard were all expired. For him, this was just life.

You left that night with an ache lodged deep in your chest.

After that, you started to notice more. How his weight seemed to fluctuate between missions—dropping after long stretches alone, climbing back when he forced himself into the habit of eating with the team. How his eyes lingered one evening in town, when a woman pressed herself into her husband’s arms at the station, laughing and kissing his cheek like he’d come home from a lifetime away. John looked at them as though they were a language he could never hope to understand.

And you realized: outside of war, John Price wasn’t needed. Not loved. Not wanted. Just waiting to be called again, to be useful in the only way he knew how.

Something in you couldn’t stand for that.

So you started small. Asking about his day even when he only shrugged. Hugging him each time you crossed paths, no matter how stiff he went in your arms at first. You brought him meals you cooked yourself—nothing fancy, just hearty food that tasted of home, the kind that filled more than the stomach. You baked sweets too, because you knew he’d never make them for himself, and you watched the way his brow softened, almost boyish, when he bit into a still-warm biscuit.

You added little touches without asking. A blanket left on the back of his chair, “just in case.” A tin of good tea slipped into his hands with a quiet, “this one’s fresher.” A stubborn insistence that he eat dinner at your place sometimes, where the table was warm and conversation soft, even if he barely said a word.

At first, he resisted. Not in words—John wasn’t cruel—but in the way he held himself apart, as though he didn’t know how to receive it, as though letting himself lean into your kindness might crack something unfixable inside him. But you kept showing up, bright-eyed, carrying a tenderness he hadn’t known in decades.

And slowly, he softened.

It showed in the way he began to linger when you hugged him, his arms finally wrapping around you in return. It showed in the way he started saving the containers you’d sent food in, washed and neatly stacked to give back, because he didn’t want you to think he didn’t care. It showed in the way his eyes followed you across a room, not commanding now, not watchful—just quietly, achingly longing.

The first time you found him at your door, late and weary, it startled you. He looked heavier than usual, weighed down by something he couldn’t name. “Didn’t feel like being alone tonight,” he said simply, and you let him in. You poured him tea, gave him the warmest blanket, and sat beside him on the couch until his breathing slowed and the tension bled out of his shoulders. He didn’t thank you in words. He just leaned, carefully, until his head rested against your shoulder, as though you were a safe harbor he had stumbled into by accident.

It became a rhythm. You, always caring. Him, learning—slowly, painfully—that he could be cared for. That maybe he could be needed outside of war.

And one night, long after you’d set a plate of food in front of him and teased him gently into eating every bite, he looked at you differently. Not as a medic. Not as his subordinate. Not as a passing comfort in a life otherwise filled with absence. He looked at you like a man starved of warmth, realizing too late he’d been desperate for it all along.

“I don’t know what I did,” he said quietly, voice thick. “to deserve this.”

You only smiled, reaching across the table to take his calloused hand in yours. “Oh John…You don’t have to earn it, John. You just… deserve it. Always have.”

And for the first time in a very long time, John Price believed it.

a/n: special thank you to @dead-flight for really visualising the scene and being a big inspiration for this ramble 🫶

[tiss-mushroom]

I made a sketch. Maybe I'll finish it 👁👁

[frenziedandroidgrimoire-deactiv]

Aether

@AetherDraw

[thelionsship]

A: HOW DARE YOU DETAIN MY MEN?!! 🤬🤬🤬

[rad0nwrites]

god I made the mistake of listening to Alex Warren while doing inventory counts and now I can’t stop thinking about Ghoap and Eternity by Alex Warren 😭

No one look at me I am unwell and thinking many thoughts.

[rad0nwrites]

After getting my ass kicked for the last MONTH at work, I emerge from the ashes like a reborn creature.

Anyways, yall ever think about how each of the 141 would pine after a crush?

I do.

I, personally, headcanon that Price pines after a partner with a great poker face. During the working day, you wouldn’t be able to clock the fact that he’s planning the wedding and the house layout in his head.

But, over time, the professional facade wears down like ocean waves on stone. It goes from regular professionalism (if they’re both in the military) to letting rules slip juuuuuust a little bit. What’s Kate going to do? Fire him?

If they’re a civilian, good luck ever doing anything on your own, because he’ll find every possible way to help them in your day to day life. Need groceries carried up the stairs? He’s up 6 steps with bags in both hands before they can even protest. Leaky sink? He’s already pulling out tools. Need a walk home from your work place at night? He’s already grabbing his coat to go get them.

He gives such nurturer and caregiver energy that it’s the only way he knows how to show a potential partner that he’s a capable man.

It’s a 50/50 toss-up whether he’ll shoot his shot or bury it in a box and stow it away. If the rest of 141 finds out the captain’s got a crush? The earth might as well just swallow him whole because 3 grown men are suddenly the Pink Ladies from Grease begging him to tell them more.

Soap, however, is the complete opposite. Being the expressive bloke that he is, he cannot keep a poker face to save his life (in most situations). So when he sees his crush enter a room, everyone in a ten foot radius can tell what he’s thinking.

I like to think Soap also drops everything that he’s doing to go and help/assist his crush. He’s just not as graceful about it. It’s resulted in many engineers and loading bay crew barring him from assisting with plane load up due to the amount of times he’s dropped crates because his yearning got the better of him.

He also c r a n k s the charm to maximum power just to get a rise out of them. Unlike Price, Soap’s yearning over time goes from Obvious to Disgustingly Obvious. It even has the likes of Nikolai and Kate practically begging Soap to shoot his shot. Depending if you’re a civilian or not, it’s a 75/25 chance of Soap following through with his yearning or stowing it in a mental box. 141 and Co. know more about Soap’s crush before even meeting.

(All of these men, to me, have the insecurity that they’re war torn, damaged goods, and they don’t feel like they deserve good things. I’ll die on this hill.)

Gaz? He’ll deny it, but he imprinted on Price and absorbed that old man’s mannerisms. Gaz is the next in line for being the most normal about his yearning. He can be a mean motherfucker on the field, but with someone he cares about? Boy👏🏻friend👏🏻Material👏🏻

But by looking at him, one would think he’s just being a good friend, a good teammate, etc. Someone with a sharp eye (Ghost) would have to notice how he’s maintaining eye contact with them for more than normal, or he’s going to them for advice on different subject matters.

Out of the four men, I like to think Gaz and Ghost are the ones that will maintain the same facade over time with their yearning. Every particle in their body is just vibrating at a frequency that only dogs can hear in their want to kiss and love on their potential partner, but they have a tight grip on their leash.

I think the facade cracks for Gaz after something near-fatal happens to him that gives him a wake up call. I like to think it’s an 80/20 in whether he’d shoot his shot or stow the feelings away.

Ghost… “Mate, stop starin’. Prolonged, unblinkin’ eye contact from the corner of the mess hall does the OPPOSITE of what y’want it to.”

I’ve seen a few headcanons from a few different creators where Ghost doesn’t know what to do with a soft life. He’s not this big dark dom, but a man who’s only ever known violence and anger. Being approached with love and reverence towards him gets him skittish. I LOVE that headcanon, personally. He’s afraid of commitment and it takes him A WHILE before he can get comfortable with a partner.

So his yearning comes through as anger. Not at the person he’s yearning for, but at himself. Because the feelings he has are much bigger than what he’s used to and he thinks that he doesn’t deserve the person he wants. So, he reserves himself to just watching them.

Simon likes to think he’s being sneaky in his attempts at yearning, but one can only be so sneaky at yearning when you’re a 6’2”+ unit of a soldier. Gaz and Soap keep their observations about their lieutenant to themselves, but John “Father Figure” Price would be the first to pull Simon into his office to figure out what exactly has him in such a mood.

I like to think that Simon yearns after people through actions. What looks like tightening up the straps on a tac vest to some is his own version of a promise ring.

Opposite of Gaz, I think Simon would be a 20/80 chance of him ever going after his feelings. If the feelings are mutual between him and whomever he’s pining after, the other person would have to make the first move. OR, the 141 find you and nearly beg you to talk to him.

I’m just thinkin’ about big men in love, yanno?

[gloomwitchwrites]

Surprise Sunday! (because I couldn't wait until WIP Wednesday)

Did I say I was conjuring up something new? Well, I am. Here's a little preview!

Disgraced former knight John Price finds himself with too much time on his hands—and he and his band of mercenaries have nothing left to lose. Gaz, the bastard son of Price’s former lord. Johnny MacTavish, a Scottish Catholic stuck in Protestant England running from his past. And Ghost, a ruthless pit fighter with more than a few scores to settle.

When a cloaked stranger appears with a seemingly easy enough job, they heartily accept. But everything is not as it seems. Tracking down a Viscount’s kidnapped bride is simple enough, but the Devils soon realize that the return comes with a deadly cost. Chivalry is dead. Hail to The Bloody Devils.

Tropes: forbidden love, knight!price, historical fantasy

thank you to @id-get-sleazy-for-ron-weasley for being that bitch and helping me get this thing off the ground (love you)

[rad0nwrites]

OH MY FUCKIN GOD WE ARE IN FOR A MEAL

[tobeholyistobeempty-deactivated]

“i’m goin’ home to fuck my wife.”

and those were the last words john uttered before slamming the palm of his hand down against his desk and leaving. spoken the way most things he says are - gruff and final, with no room for argument - stunning the room into silence until the door shut hard behind him.

everyone just looked at each other, dumbstruck.

“should we wait for him to come back?”

“what the hell does that mean—”

“is that code for something?”

“wait, he’s married?”

price didn’t hear a word of it - by that point he was already halfway down the hall, boots pounding concrete with purpose, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, everything else dissolving into white-hot static behind his eyes.

he can take a lot of bullshit. does it daily. but fuckin’ hell - they wouldn’t stop. wouldn’t stop talking, hovering, circling him like crows. clipping questions at him in endless fucking rotations.

what now, captain? what’s next? what do we do about makarov? do we move now or wait for shepherd’s greenlight? have you seen the updated file? should we pull soap and gaz back? do we burn the safe house? double-tap the asset? what’s the protocol—

jesus fuckin’ christ.

it’d been too long. john’s mentally checked out and he knows it. doesn’t care. he didn’t want to be in that room. didn’t want to sit at that table. didn’t want to give another goddamn order with five pairs of bloodshot eyes looking at him like he’s meant to have all the answers and none of the doubt.

he needs a break. not a debrief. not another satellite feed. not another fucking decision.

he needs to go home and fuck his wife.

needs to put his hands on something solid, something that he doesn’t have to second guess. something that’d let him burn off all the static and pressure and noise building between his temples without asking anything much in return. his sanctuary where he can fall apart and come back clearer. reset his head before it spun off his shoulders.

so he peeled out of the parking lot before he’d even properly put the car in drive, and sent you one text:

‘take off anything you value and put away everything breakable. i’ll be home in 15.’