→﹕you can call me glitch! i'm 25 & use she/he/it pronouns. i'm currently hyper-fixated on call of duty (especially tf141 & phillip graves)!
→﹕i'm getting back into fanfiction writing so expect to see fics, thirst rambles, concepts and drabbles.
→﹕outside of writing i enjoy gaming, cosplaying & editing (even though i never post it lmao)
→﹕my ask box will be open for potential requests, thoughts, whatever, and moots are always welcome to message me! i'm always happy to yap!!!
→﹕anything non-writing related will be tagged as 'glitch rambles', any fics i rb will be 'glitch recs', and any fanart, memes, etc will be 'glitch rb' !
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☆﹒about my writing !!!
→﹕i do have an ao3 that i post on as well!
→﹕i do post (some) darker-ish content or content that might be uncomfortable & triggering to others sometimes !! all posts will be labelled as "cw: subject" so please heed the warnings !!
→﹕this is probably gonna be mostly NSFW content (hence all the mdni warnings)
→﹕please don't EVER feed any of my writing to ai, chatbots, etc.
→﹕my masterlist can be found by clicking the link or searching "glitch masterlist"
→﹕any of my writing will be tagged as "glitch creates", but outside of my masterlist, you can navigate my blog by searching that or: character name smut, character name x reader, or just cod x reader!
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inexperienced!simon riley who's never tried dirty talk before. most of his brief hook ups have been conducted in an almost awkward silence interspersed with grunts and heavy breathing.
but he's trying.
he's got your knees to your shoulders, slowly pushing in his cock inch by inch; watching the way your cunt stretches around him, leaves his length coated in your slick.
"christ, love, yer so wet… like a… like a fuckin' slip an' slide."
you laugh so hard your cunt clenches around him and his hips jerk, burying himself inside you with one final thrust as he cums, cheeks flushed pink with embarrassment.
thinking about ghost who's so starved for affection that he can't help but gravitate towards you– the assistant who's always so kind to him.
18+ mdni !!! (smut, slight angst & fluff)
cw: soft dom!fem!reader, sub!ghost, touch-starved!ghost, petplay, dog & wolf imagery, a bit of a character study kind of ?, i think that's it, word count: 1.3k
Ghost doesn’t understand you. Unlike the last three assistants Price had hired, you don’t cower away from him or avoid his unblinking stares. You give him soft smiles and gentle touches– the kind that should be reserved for pets, not rabid animals like himself.
It’s painfully obvious to everyone but you exactly what his intentions are– he knows they’ve tried to tell you. He’s heard the hushed warnings from others on base about the elusive Ghost. They painted a picture of something wild– a creature made up of snarls and bloody teeth.
When you look at him, you don’t see any sharp fangs or hear any growling. You see ears pinned flat against his head, a tail tucked between his legs. Every time you give him a warm greeting or brush your fingers against his, you’re approaching him hand flat out– feeding a hungry wolf, thinking it’s a poor stray.
He tries not to be greedy. He’s terrified that if he takes too much– accidentally scrapes the skin of your palm with his sharp canines– you’ll realize what he is.
He knows he should say no to you right now, run away with his head hung low.
“Lieutenant?” you repeat yourself, brows furrowed as you stare up at him.
His head snaps towards you, face beginning to flush when he realizes just how close you are to him. “Whot?”
“Do you want a hug? I don’t know, you just look like you could use one,” you say softly, hands resting by your side.
He slowly blinks. “Why’re you so sweet t’ me?”
You smile at him, and he resists the ugly urge to roll over, let you see and touch the soft side of his scarred underbelly. “Everyone deserves kindness, Ghost, even you– especially you, actually,” you say as if it’s just another fact of life– like you aren’t shattering his entire world with every syllable.
Say no, don’t be greedy– he’s screaming at himself– but it’s hard to resist your scraps of kindness when he’s so hungry.
The second he nods at you, you wrap your arms tight around him, hand gently rubbing along his spine. His arms are stiff by his side, as if he’s afraid his touch will leave scratches along your body– it breaks your heart.
Ghost has been nothing but kind to you since you arrived on base– treating you just like everyone else. You’d heard about the Lieutenant before you’d ever even met him– it’s not fair the things people say about him.
The man in your arms right now isn’t the same creature they described to you.
“You can touch me,” you mumble against his chest as he slowly coils his arms around you. He presses his head right where your neck and shoulder meet, the fabric of his balaclava tickling your skin.
You stay like that for a moment, his office quiet aside from the sound of the two of you breathing. It isn’t until you hear a choked gasp fall from his lips that you finally notice something hard and damp pressing against your crotch.
You look down and see his cock straining against his jeans, a small wet patch formed right where the tip sits. Tears gather in his eyes, and you can feel his tongue graze against your skin as he frantically mumbles out soft apologies. You try to step back, force him to look at you, but his grip on you is tight.
“Can’t help it, lovie, just could feel your hips on mine, and your tits up against me. No one’s… ‘aven’t been touched in a long time. Felt so good, ‘m sorry.”
His hands on your waist start to feel more like paws, as if there's claws underneath the surface just itching to dig into the soft meat of your hips. You know you shouldn’t reward this behavior, but you’ve always had a soft spot for the strays.
“Hey, it’s okay, I’m not mad,” you coo at him, hand reaching up to brush your thumb along the base of his neck. He pulls away with a whine, looking at you wide-eyed. “Want me to help you?” you whisper, hand rubbing soothing circles into his bicep.
He nods.
You slide your hand down his chest, and he can already taste metal on his tongue– feel his fangs scraping against your skin. He doesn’t want to bite you, so he gnaws on his cheek instead.
“Sit,” you say, head nodding towards the lone armchair in his office. He follows the unintentional command like it’s all he knows to do– maybe it is.
For a second, he thinks you’re about to kneel in front of him, only for relief to flood his chest when you place yourself in his lap instead. It would have felt wrong– he should be the one at your feet begging for scraps– never the other way around.
You unzip his jeans and pull out his hard cock surprised to find it already covered in white– the wet patch wasn’t just pre-cum like you thought. He whimpers as you wrap your hand around his shaft.
“I know, it’s a lot, isn’t it? It’s okay, I’m gonna make it feel better.” You coo, your loose fist slowly pumping up and down.
He throws his head back, baring his neck to you. When he closes his eyes, he pictures a collar with your name on it– his hips buck up on their own.
Your hand is slick, loud, and wet noises fill the room each time you rub up and down his cock. “Knew from the moment I saw you that they were all wrong, you’re not some vicious beast, just a lost little pup. Just need someone to take care of you, don’t you, baby?”
“Please, ‘s too much.” A choked cry leaves his lips, his cock twitching in your hand, the tip red and begging for relief. Your hand speeds up, and your lips crash into his, your mouth swallowing his soft whines.
“It’s okay, you’ve earned it, pup.” Your words push him over the edge, and he buries his head in your neck as he cums again, sticky, white, dripping all over your hand and his jeans.
You stand up to grab something to wipe the two of you down, only for him to sob and grab your shirt– invisible claws digging into the fabric. “Don’t go, please don’t go. Know ‘m not good, but I can try.”
Your chest aches, and you’re instantly cooing at him. “No, Ghost–”
He shakes his head. “Simon, need t’ be your Simon, not Ghost.”
You nod, starting over. “Simon, you were good, my good boy, but I gotta get something to clean us up with. Promise I’m not going anywhere, okay, pup?”
“Okay,” he whispers, eyes following you as you step into his bathroom, staring intensely as the door shuts behind you.
True to your word, you come back with clean hands and a warm, wet paper towel. You gently wipe him clean before pulling away, giving him a moment to zip up his jeans.
He pulls you into his lap, head resting on your chest. “Meant it, I need to be yours now. Please keep me,” he begs, gripping your shoulders tight.
Your hand rests on his cheek, and he nuzzles into your touch. “Of course I’m gonna keep you now, Si. Wanted you for so long.”
And for the first time in a long time, he lets himself be pet– lets your hand gently touch all the soft spots he swore he’d never show. As you mutter sweet nothings to him, a warm feeling he can’t place settles in his stomach.
He wonders if this is what it feels like to feel full– to be loved.
For a brief moment, he thinks that maybe being domesticated wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world– not if it’s you that owns him.
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finishing fixing up my masterlist & separating it by characters and word count so i'm gonna apologize in advance for the incoming spam about to happen (maybe seven posts ? max)
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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finishing fixing up my masterlist & separating it by characters and word count so i'm gonna apologize in advance for the incoming spam about to happen (maybe seven posts ? max)
Very few times in his life has gaz been given a direct order from his spouse, and every single time he treats it with the urgency of a mission.
He has never once failed any of your requests....until today, it seems.
"Gaz, baby, you better come home smelling like that tomorrow." You had whispered in his ear last night after hours of sex. Not that you two never fucked, but he swears you were trying to kill him that night, face tucked into the crook of his neck.
Gaz doesn't want to admit defeat, but he's crawled through the entire base. Sniffing everything like a fucking dog trying to identify what smell had rubbed off on him. He didn't leave base, followed his normal schedule yesterday, so eventually he should find it.
He's in the middle of helplessly sniffing soap bottles in the hopes he accidentally grabbed someone else's when ghost walks in, post–...whatever he does to workout. He raises a brow at gaz sniffing the soap bottle, but says nothing.
Gaz knows ghost wont say shit about it, given everything he's walked in on ghost doing and—
Wait.
....gaz takes a much to obvious sniff in ghosts general direction.
....that's the smell. Gaz remembers the sparring he did yesterday, how ghost seemed very keen on grapples that time. The smell that had you jumping gazs bones last night was the smell of his lieutenant covered in dirt and sweat.
Gaz contemplates for a moment, looks ghost up and down. He's far from a turn-off, thats for sure. Easily both of your types.
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my mind keeps drifting off to manipulative!graves again... specifically though, thinking about combining that with preacher!graves who just wants to help guide you... hmmm...
"Oh," you mouth to yourself. His hands curl around your leg, cupping your knee, and it feels so wonderfully soothing that you close your eyes and rest your head back against the tree.
"Bit shy, eh?"
You cannot open your eyes to that. You school your expression to remain neutral in case he's looking at you.
This is a stream that is meant to flow in one direction. It was just two quasi-strangers sticking together through a bit of an odd situation. Parting ways at some mutually agreed upon juncture, and then laughing about it next Tuesday together. Hey, that was pretty weird when…
But Kyle's diverting its course with his words, sending it off in some unknown direction, the water having to forge its own path now. And you don't understand why. Or better: you don't want to look at the why. It doesn't feel like he's just a nice English guy being friendly and making conversation with a woman from his class.
It feels like a man approaching a woman, running his fingers through the water to test the temperature, the intensity.
"Sometimes, I can be." Lukewarm.
A pressure point on the side of your knee, peach-soft but handled so tenderly in his hands. "You never make eye contact with me. In the pool."
The bottom is dropping out and away from you faster than you can comprehend. "Huh?" is all you can think to say.
He laughs so softly. "You always look so serious, following the instructions. You only ever look at my legs or arms. Never noticed?"
Of course you had. It was by design, you moron, you want to laugh hysterically. Every time his gaze found yours, you'd yank your eyes right down to his bare feet or just beyond him, to the wall.
His hand cups a little higher.
"It's very cute."
You jump under the shift of his touch. Your leg flattens slowly to the ground. Pressing against his own, beautifully-carved-from-fucking-stone thigh stretching out the fabric of his shorts. Bare leg against his curled leg hairs, coarse and perfect.
"You sure he's still an ex?" The question underneath: are you single?
"Uh-huh," you breathe, the muscles of your leg trembling.
"Mm." Which means nothing. Nothing that you can dig hooks into and rip apart and study. His sun-warmed hand drags further up, just to the soft hem of your dress. "Just checking." Easy words, easy hands, leaving you a partially-panting mess.
The tips of his fingers glide at the hem, dipping down to where the flesh of your thighs meet, back up over. Drawing lazy lines along the border of fabric, teasing underneath.
"Still won't look at me, hm?" His voice is like browned butter; sweet and toasted and hot.
Looking at him means being kissed. As sure as you are that the sun will set, glowing behind darkened towers, he is going to kiss you if you open your eyes.
"You make me nervous," you admit quietly.
There's a gentle rush of a chuckle at your shoulder. "Keep your eyes closed then." You feel him fiddling with something in the bag under your knee. Then, when you're expecting a brush of lips across yours, instead there's a press of fabric against your ear.
You open your eyes.
Kyle's got a pair of headphones tucked between you, connected to his iPod. He turns it, shades his hand over so you can see: Matt Good's debut album that you haven't heard yet. Neither of you speak. It's tinny, a little too far away to hear every word, but it's as effective as fresh air after swimming.
Under the tree, in the shade, listening to the music —
Baby, can you feel it?
Don't it make you wanna lay down and close your eyes?
— and the water lapping at the embankment and Kyle breathing steadily while his hand rests on your thigh once more, you fall asleep.
—
The sirens wake you. Your eyes open reluctantly; the sun has dripped down between buildings, washing Kyle's profile in golds and pinks. You wish you could take a picture of him, asleep like this beside you.
You nudge him gently.
"Hm?" A deep inhale, then a stretch and yawn. "Oh…" he looks around to notice the overhead boardwalk lights off, nearby buildings stark against the sunset. "Whoa, shit."
He looks back at you. "Y'okay? Sorry, I didn't think I'd fall asleep, too. I was gonna let you rest your leg a little while longer."
You test your knee, bending it a little under his loosened hold. "It feels a lot better. Wanna get moving? Maybe traffic's eased up."
Moving toward downtown slowly reveals this is not the case. It is surreal to see the brightly lit streets both hazy in late summer heat and completely dark at the same time. There are clusters of people listening to music on a boombox; others are helping to unsnarl the worst of traffic alongside cops. Some people are hauling out food from their fridge or barbecues to pass out.
The spirit of the street is so unlike anything you've ever seen before, it sends shudders through you to witness it. You and Kyle pass through, a smile on both your faces, taking it in. Someone hands you a bottle of beer; you share it with Kyle.
Where the crowd of a blocked-off street is thickest, Kyle turns his body and extends his hand down to yours. Tightly and carefully holds your hand in his, close to his side, as he threads you through the bustling pack. Tucks you against buildings to protect your knee from getting hit by a wayward stranger. Even when you break out of the fold, he won't release your hand.
You loosen your grip a little; signalling that he can let go, if he wants. He tightens his in return, then laces his fingers through yours. Your heart is racing, your blood pounding through your body, as you approach a pedestrian-only street that's lined with restaurant and pub patios.
You pull on his hand, and just stop to take the sights in. The cheeriness of the atmosphere is making you feel buoyant, even with your throbbing knee and sore feet. "Can we stop here? Just…rest for a bit?"
"'course, love."
The sun's fully set — a cheer went up in the crowd when you were all plunged into darkness. Some people living above the businesses are partying on their balconies, blasting music and waving flashlights around; glowing cones of light cutting across happy faces.
It takes a bit for Kyle to find a bench tucked out of the mess, close enough to just sit and watch the spontaneous festivities. He doesn't let you choose distance; he tucks you in beside him, his elbow dropped off the back of the bench, his hand coming up to stroke the fine hairs at the nape of your neck. It's a boyfriend move in a stranger's body.
Without saying a word, his fingers trace lightly up to the lobe of your far ear. You shiver hotly, staring ahead into the mass of people. Unfocused eyes, not seeing a fucking thing.
His fingertips splay, purposeful this time. A minute working and rotation of fine muscles, turning your head to his.
Tipping it up to lower his full lips down against yours, his beautiful brown eyes closing for once so you don't sink into them.
