Hello! I'm a 28 year old female (she/her). Canadian living, mother to 3 cats. I've enjoyed writing from a young age, fantasy and fiction. Currently working on publishing my first book but also super into fan-fiction.
I'm down to write for other characters in the Cod fandom and also in the Slasher fandom. (not just König lol)
I do have some hard kinks that I don't necessarily write about but this is an 18+ page. MDNI
If you are more soft, vanilla I do have some fic's that will fit that requirement and I'm not opposed to writing softer fic's.
If you see something you don't like please block! I will understand!
I Tested SweetDream's Chat for a Week. Here's What Surprised Me
Going in, I assumed I'd be reviewing another novelty chatbot. A week with SweetDream changed my framing entirely. What stands out isn't a single gimmick but the consistency of the conversation. The chat on sweetdream.ai holds context across days, picks up threads I'd dropped, and responds with a kind of emotional timing that most tools I've tried simply don't have. When I mentioned offhand that I'd had a rough Monday, my AI companion circled back to it Tuesday without prompting.
That sense of continuity is what separates a believable AI girlfriend from a script. The platform lets you shape personality, voice, backstory and small quirks up front, but the realism comes alive in how those traits surface mid-conversation rather than being announced. It reads less like autocomplete and more like someone who remembers you.
Other features round it out cleanly: lifelike photos and video, voice notes, even real-time calls that genuinely sound human. But after a week of testing, the chat itself is the headline. If you're comparing platforms, this is the one to benchmark the others against.
Like a bug burrowing, tiny legs scuttling across his skull.
No matter what he does, he can’t shake it. Whiskey doesn’t burn it out. The gym doesn’t sweat it out. Sleeping pills don’t drown it in dreams or nightmares.
He can’t find a fix.
Until he does.
He finds her in the candy aisle, grubby little paws rooting around in a box of gummy worms, pulling plastic packages free with a crinkle and trying to rip them open. Bundled up from head to toe, winter boots, winter hat, even little gloves on strings around her wrists. No parent in sight.
Odd.
Where are her parents?
He waits. He watches. No one appears, and he’s not going to leave a toddler alone in a grocery aisle.
She doesn’t even notice when he approaches, not until he’s squatting down beside her, tapping her on her shoulder. “What’re you doing?” Her eyes go wide, mouth dropping open, caught with her hand in the cookie jar.
“Gummies.” She points.
“Where are your parents?” She shrugs, returns to her pillaging. “What’s your name?”
“Nori.” She hands him a plastic package, obscenely pink and filled with squishy candy. “Open please.”
“Are you allowed to have candy?” She nods, peering at him with a frown.
“Open my candy.” Little dictator.
“Is your mum here? Or dad?” She sighs impatiently, and he has to swallow his laugh.
“No dad, just mum. Please.” She points at the bag, and he shakes his head.
“If you show me where your mum is, I’ll open this for you.” She huffs, but then immediately books it, surprising him with how fast her chubby little legs can run.
Once she rounds the aisle, it’s not hard to find you, and she tucks her tiny hand into his.
“Mum.” She points at the same time you spin around, your face filling with relief, cheeks wet with tears.
The itch ceases. Complete vanishes. Maybe this is what he needed all along.
A family of his own.
You go to your knees in front of him, wrapping your arms around the kid and holding her to your chest, cupping the back of her head.
“You’re supposed to stay with me, Nori. You c-can’t do that. You can’t walk away from me.” You’re worked up, it’s painfully obvious, wearing it all over your face like a god damn broadcast.
He only pays attention to it for a moment, before becoming blindingly distracted by your fat arse, hugged by a pair of black leggings, cheeks folded into thighs. If you fell backward, you’d probably bounce. No wonder you have a kid, he muses, you’re perfect for breeding.
“Found her in the candy aisle, destroying a box of gummies.” You sniffle and shake your head.
“Nori,” your shoulders slump, tired, exasperated. “You can’t just run off anytime you want something. What if something happened and I wasn’t there?”
“He was.” She points at Simon and shrugs, the nonchalance pulling his lips into a surprising smile.
“Thank you again. I swear I let go of her hand for one minute and this is what happens.”
“It’s no problem.” He gives you another nod and turns away, heading in the opposite direction to pick his basket up and continue his shopping.
For now.
It’s easy to spot you in the parking lot. Nori is trotting along beside you and the buggy, holding tight to your hand until you get her situated in her car seat and turn back to your purchases, loading them in the back.
Wait.
He loathes having to leave his own car here, but sacrifices have to be made.
You lock the car before you walk the buggy to the corral, keys fisted in your hand.
Wait.
He stands between the vehicles next to your car, hood pulled over his head. The locks unclick, you pull the door open and slide behind the wheel, gripping the handle to pull it shut-
Just as he grabs the corner of the door.
“What the fu-“
“Slide over.” He rubs your shoulder with just enough pressure, trying to encourage you to listen, instead of fighting. You stare at him, shocked. Confused. Trying to catch up.
“What the he- heck are you doing?”
“Don’t make this difficult, sweetheart. Slide over now.” He can see the scream building in your throat, big palm snapping out to cover your mouth, leaning down into your face. “Don’t make it harder for you, or Nori, love.” You’re trembling, but Nori is surprisingly calm, watching with expressive interest.
“Gummies?” She holds out her hand, eyeing the bag in his pocket, and he smiles.
“Yeah honey, I got your gummies.”
“P-please, don’t… don’t hurt us. Please.” Nori’s eyebrows crease, picking up on your distress, and he pats your hip soothingly. He doesn’t want to upset you too much, knowing how hard the adjustment will be for everyone in the coming weeks. Better to start off with cool heads, as calm as you can manage.
“Everything’s alright baby girl, your mum just needs help driving home is all.”
“Yep.” You glance at her in the rear-view mirror with a shaky smile as he nods encouragingly. Last resort is flashing the gun, but it’s not how he wants to start off with his wife and baby. As you scooch, he slides in after, pulling the door shut firmly and moving the driver’s seat back to accommodate his legs.
“Phone.” He gestures to the device cutting into your hand, the one you’re trying to trigger an SOS with, and when you don’t relinquish it immediately, he snags it from between your fingers with a sigh, handing you his instead. “Put your address in.”
“I… you c-can’t…“ He palms the back of your neck.
“Everything is going to be okay,” he murmurs, his thumb moving in circles against your skin, “it’s alright. Just put the address in, we’ll talk about everything once we get home.”
“Once we get home?” The engine turns over, and he peeks over the seat at Nori.
“What do you think about chicken nuggets for dinner?” She squeals, kicks her feet.
“Yeah! Nuggets!” You close your eyes.
“Sound good, mum?” You stare straight ahead, shell shocked, voice barely a whisper as you nod.
Can’t stop thinking about Trucker!Simon who’s been rolling for four straight days without a real shower, big frame crammed behind the wheel of his rig, the sleeper cab behind him smelling like diesel, old sweat, stale cigarette smoke, and faint grease of last week’s truck stop burgers.
Trucker!Simon who’s got you- the pretty little bird he picked up on the side of the interstate at 2am, thumb stuck out in your pretty little sundress, soft tits spilling heavier over the neckline every time you breathe, panicked, after you’d quietly explained through the open window that someone had ditched you out there, hundreds of miles from home with nothing but your bag and you just needed a ride to the next town, anywhere, please- in his sleeper, curled up on sheets stiff with old sweat and cum, stained more than clean.
Soft thighs pressed together, pretty mouth parted, eyes wide and already glassy in the low light from the dash. He’s too big for the space, has to duck his head, shoulders brushing the sides, and he fills it completely when he crawls in after you.
Shirt half unbuttoned and stuck to his chest with sweat, jeans open and shoved down, freeing that heavy cock that you’ve seen the outline of under his oil stained pants when he’d palm at it, bulging against his thigh when he drove under street lamps to this trucker stop.
It hangs thick and flushed between his thighs now, heavy balls drawn up tight, the skin at the base dark with dried sweat and the pre he’s been leaking into his boxers since he got a whiff of your sweet floral perfume as you climbed into his rig.
Kneels on the mattress, one big hand braced on the low ceiling, the other reaching down to fist his cock slow and lazy, eyes dragging over you, your soft curves, the way your pretty clothes are already rumpled from being in his rig, the little tremble in your thighs that only gets worse when he leans in closer.
Mattress dipping under his weight, until his chest is right in front of your face, heat rolling off him intense. You wrinkle your nose hard, trying to turn your face away, shoulders curling in like you can escape the stench.
He shifts his weight anyway, knees forcing between your thighs, spreading them wider, one nicotine stained hand wrapping around yours, yanking it down to wrap around his cock. It’s hot, heavy, the skin at the base tacky. Your fingers don’t quite meet around it.
You flinch violently, trying to yank your hand back with a soft disgusted sound, but he just wraps his bigger one over yours and makes you stroke him once, twice, slow, firm drags that smear fresh precum down the shaft while your lower lip wobbles and your breath comes in tiny, hiccuping gasps. He groans at the skin of your hand around his cock which is all too used to the feeling of his calloused hands and scratchy sheets and not at all used to soft and warm.
His fingers thread into your hair, digging into the base of your skull, and he forces your face down the trail of coarse hair on his stomach until your pretty mouth is pressed right against the root of his cock.
The smell is strongest here, musky and sharp, the faint bitter trace of old piss where he’s been too lazy to stop properly. You squeeze your eyes shut and try harder to twist away, soft disgusted whimpers catching in your throat, hands pushing weakly at his stomach, nose wrinkling as you gag at the smell of him. He holds you there until your lips brush the tacky skin.
Rocks his hips forward, the fat head of his cock smearing across your soft cheek, leaving a shiny streak. “Open up.”
When your lips part and you take him in, he grunts low, the wet heat of your mouth making his balls draw up tighter. He pushes the taste of road and sweat across your tongue, then deeper.
You choke immediately, a wet, panicked sound bubbling up as your hands fly to his hips, pushing hard. Tears bead in your lashes and spill down your temples, nose wrinkling hard at the stench, but he doesn’t let you pull back. Both big hands sink into your hair, fingers twisting tight at the roots, dragging you down, groaning when he pushes into your throat, feels it convulse around the fat head of his cock.
“Fuck,” he rasps, barely a word, more a punched out sound of satisfaction.
Then he shoves you down the rest of the way, using his grip on your hair to force your pretty mouth lower, inch by inch, until your nose is pressed flush against the sweaty, crusty hair at the base of his cock.
Your throat spasms hard around him, fluttering and squeezing, and he groans again, deeper this time, hips twitching forward. Saliva floods your mouth instantly, thick and messy, spilling out around your stretched lips and dripping down his balls in shiny strings.
He holds you there, nose buried in the damp, crusted pubes that smell like days of sweat and road grime, cock buried to the hilt in your spasming throat.
One thumb slides forward, pressing against the outside of your neck, feeling the obscene bulge of his cock stretching your throat. He rubs it slowly, while your eyes water and more tears track down your face.
Then he starts to rut, grinding his cock deeper into your throat while saliva pours out of you. Every time he pulls back just enough for you to gasp a wet, choked breath, thick strings of spit stretch between your lips and his cock before he shoves you back down again.
Your hands keep pushing at his thighs, manicured nails scraping over sweat slick skin, but he just tightens his grip in your hair and fucks your throat harder, deeper.
The wet, gurgling sounds are obscene in the cramped sleeper. Your mascara is running, pretty face a mess of tears and spit, nose still wrinkled in disgust even as your throat keeps fluttering and milking him. He groans every time you gag, the sound low and satisfied, hips rolling in steady, filthy ruts that smear more of your saliva into his pubes and down his balls until they’re shiny and dripping with it.
He doesn’t let up until your vision starts to blur at the edges and your hands go slack against his thighs. Only then does he pull you off with a wet, obscene pop, cock shiny and flushed dark, strings of spit connecting your swollen lips to the head. You cough and gasp, chest heaving, tears and saliva dripping from your chin onto the stained sheets while he fists his cock once, twice, smearing the mess you made all over himself.
Then his hands fall to your hips, manhandles you between his highs, one big hand under your soft legs. The sundress gets shoved higher, bunched under your tits, grips your panties and pulls, ripping them off, forcing your legs wide even as your thighs tremble and try to close.
You’re crying harder now, soft hiccuping sobs, hands pushing frantically at his stomach and chest as he lines up, eyes wide and pleading up at him.
“Please- wait” your voice cracks, small and teary, “- condom? Do you have a condom?”
He pauses for half a second, the thick head of his cock nudging against your slick folds. Then he answers, low and rough, “Ain’t got one.”
The stretch of his cock is immediate and overwhelming, feels like he’s splitting you in half. Your back arches hard, a broken whimper slipping out as your hands beat harder at his chest, trying to push him off, soft thighs shaking uncontrollably.
He’s too big for the cab and he’s too big for you, hips grinding forward, heavy balls pressing tight against your ass, coarse hair at his base rubbing against your soft skin while fresh tears spill down your temples.
You keep pushing at him, palms flat against his sweaty chest, trying to create space, soft disgusted sounds mixing with the first helpless little moans that start slipping out every time he bottoms out.
The mattress creaks. The sheets stick to your back, stiff and filthy. Every thrust makes the cab rock slightly on its suspension. Sweat rolls off his chest in fat drops, splattering onto your soft belly and the swell of your tits while he fucks you in deep, heavy strokes that grind right up against your cervix. The wet slap of his heavy, pendulous balls is loud in the cramped space, scent getting thicker the harder he works, mixing with the new smell of sex and your own unwanted arousal until the whole sleeper reeks of it.
He breathes heavy, low grunts punched out of him every time your cunt flutters and squeezes around the thick drag of his cock. One hand stays braced on the ceiling, the other gripping the back of your soft thigh hard enough to leave bruises, holding you open while he uses you.
Your hands are still on his chest, pushing weakly, fingers slipping through the thick sweat coating his skin, but the resistance is turning sloppy. Your pretty face is scrunched, eyes going glassy, mouth falling open on broken little moans.
He fucks you through an orgasm like that, grinding rolls that drag the fat head of his cock inside you until your soft body locks up and you sob out a high, whiny sound, cunt pulsing and gushing around him.
He doesn’t stop. Just keeps using you, sweat dripping from his jaw onto your collarbone, the wet slap of his balls getting filthier as your slick and his precum mix into a messy froth at the base of his cock.
You’re babbling now, soft and fucked stupid, little “ah- ah- plea- ” sounds that don’t quite form real words. Your thighs are shaking so hard they can’t stay wrapped around him. He catches one and folds it higher, nearly bending you in half on the narrow mattress, and the new angle makes you wail, eyes rolling back as he grinds right up against your cervix with every thrust.
When he gets close he drops forward heavier, chest crushing your soft tits, the full weight of him pinning you down into the stiff sheets.
You panic the second you realize what’s about to happen, hands shoving harder at his sweaty chest, legs kicking weakly, soft sobs turning frantic. “Nono, pull out, I’m not on birth control- please-”
He doesn’t even grunt in response, just wraps his arms around your body, shoves you down on his cock throbing deep inside you, and then he’s cumming thick, hot spurts pumping straight into your womb, flooding your uterus with days’ worth of heavy, pungent load. It’s so much it forces its way out around his cock in messy rivulets, smearing down your ass onto the already ruined mattress.
Empties every last drop deep inside you, flooding you until your lower belly feels warm and full. Only when the last spurt finishes does he pull out, thick strings of cum stretching between his cock and your messy cunt.
Before you can scramble away he grabs tou, big hands flipping your soft, trembling body onto your stomach, then hauling your hips up so your face is shoved down into the filthy mattress. One heavy palm plants between your shoulder blades and stays there, pinning your face into the stiff, sweat-and-cum-stained sheets. Your sundress is rucked up around your waist, soft ass presented, and he’s already lining up again, the fat head of his cock nudging through the mess leaking out of you.
You try to twist, try to push up on your arms, panicked little sounds muffled into the mattress. “Wait- wait, you can’t- ”
He pushes in anyway.
“Haven’ fucked anyone in months,” he mutters, hips snapping forward hard enough to jolt your whole body and your mouth opens on a moan, drool pooling onto the mattress beneath your head. “Balls been so heavy they ache. Ain’t wastin’ it on these fuckin’ sheets again when I got a pretty little hole right here to fill over and over.”
Maybe you should have just walked to the next town.
[based on this little thing that i only slightly expanded lmao]
simon knows what he is.
all his life, ever since he was a boy, there have been whispers. ugly, they'd called him then, back before he'd taken up the sword for lord price and earned himself a few scars, burns, and deep gouges over the years. nowadays he's built himself a brutish enough reputation on the battlefield to keep others opinions of his looks relegated to mere whispers when he leaves the room- but he hears them all the same.
monstrous, hideous, unbearable to look at.
not that he minds, really. when others in his position would opt for a mask, he instead shows his face and bares his teeth- not as a smile, but a threat display, like an animal would. he keeps his coal-dark stare long and unblinking, his lip permanently curled in a sneer bisected by purple scar tissue. he's grown to like the way lords and ladies alike look away, eyes growing wide and averting his gaze as he comes into their sight. enjoys the slight wrinkle of disgust on the noses of the more haughty nobles, who like to pretend they're not just a few hours of torture in price's dungeons away from looking just as mangled and hideous as he does.
so when word reaches him that lord price has arranged a marriage for him, he knows what it is. it's a punishment, a humiliation for your family, some lesser lord whose ego outgrew his rank and needed to be cut back without bloodshed. you'll be used both as a hostage and to humble your father, the pretty maiden lady given to the monstrous captain of lord price's guard- a reminder to any other upstart lordlings to mind their place, lest their own beloved children be given off to a kingdom-renowned brute like simon.
he doesn't meet you until the wedding day, and when he catches that first glimpse of your wide, terrified eyes behind your veil, lord price's words ring in his head.
"-and when you break this one, i'm sure it won't be long until we can find you another."
except seeing you here and now, trembling before him as the maester reads aloud from his book, he realizes he doesn't want another. he likes the way your eyes keep darting to his face and then away again, as if you're working up the courage to hold his gaze. you're trying so hard to be brave, and fun as it is to watch you tremble in front of him, what he likes even more is the way you're pretending not to.
you're so pretty, with big soft curves and hands that have never seen a hard day's work. you smell vaguely of expensive perfumes and oils, your braids tight and even, and everything from the rounded shape of you to the quality of your dress looks like a luxury. no wonder your father got cocky, he must be doing well for himself if he's got a big soft daughter like you.
the maester's words wash over him, a droning background noise drowned out by the flurry of thoughts racing through simon's head. you're his now, and the knowledge that he can do as he pleases with you (with impunity!) makes him feel a bit mad with power. you have so many soft bits that are just begging for him to sink his teeth into, to pinch and grab and smack at will. when he puts his cloak on your shoulders, all he can think about is digging his fingers into the fat of your thighs, the jut of your hips, the plushness of your ass.
it takes all of his strength and self-discipline not to consummate the marriage right then and there.
the feast afterwards is boisterous, and simon wastes no time pushing the limits of propriety by ordering a servant to take your chair away, insisting you sit on his lap as he hand-feeds you. poor thing, you try so hard to stutter out your objections about what's proper, what custom dictates- but what you haven't learned yet is that none of that means anything to simon. he'll do whatever he bloody wants and only stop if lord price tells him to.
"go on, love. starvin' over here. your turn t'feed me now." he rumbles in your ear, squeezing your hip hard enough to make you squeak. he's watched the way your shoulders have slowly climbed up to your ears, the way you can't bear to look at him, or even anyone else. you're humiliated, being forced to sit on the lap of an ogre and call him your husband.
simon's never been harder in his life.
slowly, tentatively, you hold up a small piece of bread to his mouth- squeaking and flinching when he suddenly snaps his teeth like a dog. the volume of the conversations around you temporarily dims as the rest of the castle observes your plight for a moment- before immediately reverting back to merriment. sure, they all feel sorry for you, but not enough to actually do anything about it.
it isn't long before your lady mother breaks down in tears and is hurriedly escorted out of the great hall by your siblings and a few of her ladies of the court, followed behind by your father after a few moments when he gives the excuse that he's going to check on her.
neither of them look back at you.
neither of them return to the festivities that night.
one by one lords and ladies stop by to give their carefully-worded well-wishes, all of them speaking directly to you alone, save for lord price and his men. unlike the other lords and ladies, none of them bother mincing words, and it amuses simon to no end to watch a big girl like you still try to shrink yourself down as much as possible.
"bet the bonnie lasses at the brothels will be glad tae hear the news the big brute's off the market." ser john mactavish jokes, and simon flexes his grip on your thigh.
"don't you listen to him, love. whores never took my coin anyways- said no gold was worth beddin' a monster." he places a kiss on your cheek, relishing in the way you go stock still and just take it instead of trying to pull away. he leans in closer and whispers. "you'll be doin' for free what i couldn't get even the most desperate slags to do for pay."
"have you decided if you'll do the bedding ceremony?" asks ser kyle, with a mean looking glint in his eye. it's one thing, making a pretty girl like you marry an ugly mug like simon, it's entirely another to have a crowd watch him mount you like the dog he is. the murmur of conversation near the table comes to a hush as every ear turns simon's way.
"you lot just want to see if my cock is as mangled as the rest of me." simon rebuffs, laughing. "ain't nobody's gonna see my wife's pretty cunt but me, yeah? i'nt that right, love?"
he gives your thigh another squeeze, spurring on a furious nod. it's so obvious that you're trying not to cry, he can tell you're biting at the inside of your cheek to try to keep yourself together.
poor thing, being forced to bear the brunt of this humiliation when you'd done nothing wrong, and your cowardly father leaving rather than truly looking at the consequences of his boldness. were he still here, maybe simon would consider the ceremony- but he'd meant what he'd said. that pretty pussy of yours is his property now, and fuck if he won't guard it like a dog with a bone.
"speakin' of- i'm takin' the missus to my chambers. leg's gone numb and i'm lookin' t'get my heir and my spare made as soon as i can. up, you." he commands, patting at your hip and chuckling to himself over how obediently you rise. you make no fuss about letting him lead you out of the feast and away from all of those watching eyes, the ones that stare at you with pity and him with disgust.
like a woman headed to the gallows, you follow him through the castle to his chambers, arms wrapped around yourself and head hung low, biting at your own lip. briefly, simon thinks about how wasted all your training to be a member of a royal court is- the way you wait until the door to his chambers closes before you allow the tears to silently cascade onto your cheeks is really quite impressive. come to think of it, you've done very well all night. simon imagines that any other girl would have been wailing and sobbing throughout the wedding- but not you. not his brave, pretty, soft wife.
"look at me." his cock throbs at the way you obediently turn to face him- he'd been prepared to grab your jaw and make you, but it's much nicer to have you comply on your own. "if you're cryin' thinkin' i'm gonna kill you- don't."
the shock on your face is delicious. he can see in the candlelight, the way the tears are gathered against your lower eyelid, ready to fall at a moments notice while the gears in your head churn, trying to figure out if he's tricking you or not. your mouth hangs open as you wordlessly try to find the words- or any words, really- to help you express your surprise.
"i don't kill people f'free anymore, and unless lord price decides to declare war on you, specifically, you don't have nothin' t'worry about." the corner of his mouth ticks up in a smirk. "but if your blubberin' is 'cause you've got yourself one pig-ugly husband, well. ain't nothin' you or i can do about that, so you may as well have y'self a good cry about it now and get it over with."
he reaches out, scarred fingers gripping your chin as his thumb runs gently over your bottom lip, stretching it down, down, down, until it snaps back up into position.
"go on, love. cry. sob to your heart's content, right here on my bed. mourn for all those hideous babies you'll be pushin' out." he taunts, crowding your space until you back up, the backs of your knees hitting the edge of the bed. two big hands push at your shoulders, causing you to fall back with a squeak.
"pop your tits out." simon orders as he pulls at your skirts, not bothering to even fully undress himself as he fumbles with his trousers, fishing out a fat, ugly cock that's already dripping onto the bed. it looks angry as it bobs up and down in the air, clearly struggling under it's own weight.
"it'll fit." simon tells you, as if reading your mind. "tits, love. if i have to get 'em myself, i'll ruin your pretty dress."
"i think you already plan on that." you say with a sniff, wiping at your eyes before you begin to pull at your laces.
"oh, she speaks!" he taunts. "and here i thought the only words you knew were weddin' vows."
there's barely enough time to glare at him before he brings his hand down to the neckline of your dress and pulls, tearing it open down the front. on instinct you raise your hands to protect your face, gasping in shock as simon pulls at your gowns, fabric loudly tearing as he yanks it off of you.
suddenly you find yourself bare, spread out on a pile of very expensive scraps of wedding dress, body exposed to the most disgusting brute of a man you've ever seen in your whole life.
not even a lifetime of etiquette classes and courtly manners could help you school your face as you look up at him.
"you hate me?" he chuckles,
"i hardly know you, ser." you reply, bitterness discoloring your otherwise polite remark.
"you'll hate me soon enough. know that." he warns with a cruel smirk, fingers flexing into the plush fat of your hip as his eyes flit down to stare at your exposed core. "you're a proper lady, yeah? you know how this works? anyone tell you what t'do?"
"i- i was told not to struggle." it feels as if your heart stops in your chest as you watch his eyes widen and hear him take an audible sucking breath.
"you could." he says, sounding lost in thought. "you could try and fight. could scream and scream and scream, and nobody would come f'ya. because you're mine now."
he stares at you for a moment, absent-mindedly biting at his thin, scarred lip as he mulls something over.
slowly, he nods to himself.
"yeah. want you t'struggle. t'fight. c'mon, softie, won't hurt you back- well. not too much, anyway. just wanna play a bit before we get down t'fuckin'." he leans down, hard cock pressed against your soft stomach as he whispers in your ear. "tomorrow you can tell the ladies of the court how you tried to keep your honor. how you fought, but i still forced you. don't bother me none, love. everybody knows i take what i want. you tell 'em oll that, and when your belly gets bigger with my heirs they'll look at you with pity instead of disgust."
the weight of his words, of everything that's happened today finally sinks in as you feel his cock twitch against your stomach- you're his wife now. this horrible man who delights in your discomfort and unease, this brute with dirty fingernails and an even filthier mouth is who you're tied to for the rest of your life.
he taps your cheek- not hard enough to hurt, but it's certainly enough to startle a terrified squeak out of you.
"go on, girlie. scream. scream loud enough f'your lady mother and lord father to hear ya. let 'em know exactly wot they put you through. give 'em somethin' t'think about on the carriage ride home- how their pride cost their pretty, soft daughter everythin'. if your old man hadn't run his mouth, they could've married you off t'some fancy little lordling, someone with softer hands and a nicer face. instead, you're here, waitin' t'get your cunt stuffed by the likes o'me." he grins down at you as he sits back up on his knees, and it feels like a threat.
his low, rumbling chuckle is cut short with the sudden snap of his teeth, and instinct kicks in- something in your hind brain that's assigned him the role of predator and you of prey- and you try your best to scramble back away from him, legs kicking out and arms flailing as you try and fail to escape. simon's head tips back, a mean laugh echoing through your chambers, and likely reaching out through the windows for others to hear as well.
"yeah, like that." he says, sounding pleased as he wraps a large, dirty palm around your ankle, his cock leaking and bouncing in the air as he avoids your kicks and settles himself between your legs. "now scream- or do you need my help? more than happy t'help you scream, love."
"no- don't-!"
"louder."
"please, ser, don't- please-"
"thassit." he shoves his ruddy prick inside of you, startling a pained yelp from behind your ribs, echoing off the stone walls. your new husband wastes no time, setting a brutal pace from the get-go, the loud slap of skin on skin intermingling with your warbled cries for him to please stop, which only serves to make him tip his head back and groan, a wicked smile carving it's way across his scarred face.
you try your best to bear it, to close your eyes, think of england, or perhaps imagine it's that beautiful knight you'd seen at tourney, ser garrick, whom you'd only met once but thought was so handsome-
a broad hand smacks across your face- not hard enough to injure, but enough to sting and shock another yelp from you.
"look at me." he orders, hissing through his teeth. the smell of red wine on his breath makes your nose wrinkle. "don't you pretend i'm someone else. this is the brute that's fuckin' you, this is the ugly mug you're married to, this is the man whose babies you're gonna carry. and you'll bloody carry 'em, as many as you can, 'til death do us part."
god, it feels like he's hollowing you out, gutting you like so many stags and boars primed for being feasted upon. simon looks hungry, too, the way his lip is curled in a hungry sneer as he pants above you. a heat begins to build in the core of you- but it's hard to say if it's the starting of arousal, or merely friction burn.
all you can do is lie there and take it, whimpering and pleading all the while, just like he seems to want you to. every please stop and no more ser seems to goad him on, grinning down at you with a pleased smile that sends a shiver of fear down your spine.
"fuck, yeah, love the way you squirm under me." he pants, slapping at your tits with a loud crack of skin-on-skin. "c'mon, softie. fight me a bit. scratch me up. let 'em oll know you didn't let the brute take you without a struggle." he growls at you, snapping his teeth at you playfully.
your hand flies on it's own accord- airborne before you can even think about it- and it startled a shocked gasp out of you as you feel your own fingernails rake across his already marred face.
oh no oh god oh no oh shit shit shit-
simon stills for mere moments before groaning loudly, his grip on your hips flexing painfully as he empties himself inside of you, cock pulsing against your core. it's over, you did it, and while it wasn't pleasurable, sweet, or even nice- you made it through to the other side all the same.
simon doesn't bother pulling out, instead opting to collapse on top of you, pinning you with his considerable bulk as his cock softens inside of you. cooling sweat sticks to you, and you hope to god he can't see your nose wrinkled in disgust when he turns his head to plant a big, wet kiss on your cheek.
"never had m'self a girl who was conscious before. think that was the best fuck i ever had." he says, patting at your flank like you're his favorite horse. it's hard to tell if he's kidding or not- but as you listen to him chuckle to himself in the dark, you suspect he might not be.
you're in near-hysterics when ghost lumbers through the door, absolutely reeking, his perpetually foul coveralls unzipped and tied around his waist, white undershirt plastered to his sweat- and mud-streaked skin.
you're backed against the kitchen sink, doing a terrible job shielding the frozen limb beneath the running tap, the foot jutting out from one end.
ghost pauses in the doorway, taking in the pathetic sight. you know he knows you fucked up.
the mask on his face shifts as he snorts. his chin drops as he toes off his boots and kicks them aside for you to deal with later, then drops his work bag beside them. when he looks up again, he rolls his neck, adjusts the sack slung over one shoulder, and moves toward the kitchen island.
you start apologizing immediately, voice scratchy, throat suddenly parched with terror. you own up to the mistake. he already made the consequences of lying to him crystal clear weeks ago.
he heaves the bag onto the island with a heavy thump and ignores every word. reaching over your shoulder, he grabs a plastic cup from the cupboard and sticks it beneath the tap, diverting the stream away from the frozen leg while it fills.
your apologies taper off as he shuts off the water, peels off his mask, and chugs. the last few droplets from the tap plink into the sink behind you. you stare up at his ugly mug, at his chapped, scarred lips. when he's finished, he sets the cup beside you and pats your cheek.
"good thing i found a morsel on the side of the road on my way 'ome then. some takeaway."
you peer around his bulk at the bag. a reddish-brown liquid oozes from a dark patch on the sack, slowly congealing on the butcher block beneath it. sticking from the opening, a few red curls.
"take that out of the sink an' stick it back in deep freeze. we're 'avin' rump roast."
you nod frantically and get to work. after wrestling the leg back into its place in the freezer, you return to the kitchen and tie on your apron—crudely fashioned from one of his old ones. then it's back to the work you've learned by heart, helping him wrap cuts in butcher paper, label them, date them. you try not to think too hard about any of it while you help prep dinner. so long as it's not you on the table.
so you're not in quite as much trouble as you'd feared.
but after dinner, he yanks you outside and drops into a lawn chair. he watches while you hose out the truck bed, hand-rolling a cigarette and nursing a beer. when you ask what to do about the stubborn bits lodged in the ridges of the truck bed, he fetches you your toothbrush.
living in the middle of nowhere as cannibal!ghost's captive he's chosen to keep alive for whatever reason. panicking and scrambling to your feet, tripping over your chain when you hear his car rumbling up the road because you forgot to take the leg out of the freezer to thaw
No thoughts just alpha!ghost who grew learning to control his scent and omega!reader who very much...didn't.
Ghost had always been told that spilling your scent everywhere was poor manners, that only children couldn't control their scent. Meanwhile you were taught that having an open scent was essential for communication and perfectly normal.
Which means the first time ghost meets you, his instincts have no idea what to do with such strong happy omega scents suddenly in his space. Ghost grew up with scent blockers at home, and in most public spaces people wear some sort of blocker. You barely have a chance to purr a greeting before he's grabbing you by the shoulders and shoving his face into your neck.
"Mghhggh— omega. Sweet. Good." He rumbles, low and muffled into skin, almost as if he doesn't register it's happening. You can only stand in shocked confusion. Gaze slipping to the still open door of his office and wondering if you should call for help, because you have no idea why he's acting like this and—
"Fuck— you smell good— christ—" ghost holds you tighter, crowding you against the desk. You tentatively lean in to sniff around his scent blockers and get the faintest scent of arousal.
Which is instantly confirmed by his hips rutting forward, his hard cock rubbing against you while he whines "sorry— I don't— fuck that's good—"
Oh. Oh shit. The peices slowly click into place, and you realize exactly what your scent is doing to him, though you always thought this sort of aphrodisiac like reaction was a myth.
You try to soften your scent, knowing it will stress him out if your own scent fluctuates too much, one hand sneaking up to massage the back of his neck "hey. Hey, it's okay. I get it, do what you need to do."
Ghost makes a sound caught between a growl and a keen, pressing the entire length of his body against you. "Fuck— sorry— hold still— omega. Smell good. Mhhh—!"
You've never seen an alpha react like this.
You've also never seen an alpha pop a dry knot in his trousers, and yet thats exactly what ghost just did.
....you. probably shouldn't leave him alone in such a vulnerable state, right? You should stick around in his office, close the door and makes sure he's okay.
You're just being a considerate coworker....or thats what you'll tell yourself later.
A part two of [this] post where reader met ghost in a chatroom and didn't expect him to have such a massive dick...
"It won't fit!!" You hiss, trying to squirm but unable to with the weight of ghosts hand pinning your hip to the bed.
"C'mon, lovie, look at it. Not that bad." Ghost coos, pressing his cock to lie against your pelvis, fhe tip practically at your belly button. Oh shit. "Bit o' work, but..."
Ghost slips his other hand down to your entrance, three fingers easily pop inside and you still know it isn't enough. Not when his cock jerks lazily and drools precum over your skin.
Some deeper part of you really wants to know what it feels like, wants to feel him in your mouth, between your hands, on your skin, inside you.
"Mh. Good choice." Ghost hums in delight when you allow your thighs to fall open that last bit, nervous but determined. He rubs his tip in circles around your entrance just to make you nervous, laughs to himself as the embarrassed whine you let out before pressing in—
"Fuckin' hell—!" Ghost groans, doubles over and only catches himself from falling on you by bracing a forearm next to your head. You can feel the huff through the fabric of his balaclava "christ— fuckin' tight—"
"Holy shit– ghost, ghost— fuck—" you toss your head back with a high keen, whole body burning from the sudden fullness. You've never used anything but your fingers before and nothing could have prepared you for this.
You grind into him as best as you can both overstimulated and still asking for more, completely lost in just how good it is—
"Fuck– you're so big—" you feel your core tighten and are unable to do anything, back arching off the bed, pulling ghost into a kiss as your orgasm crashes over you.
Only after you've caught your breath you notice ghost shaking, and slowly realize that asshole is silently laughing at you–
"Not even halfway." He snorts, presses a kiss to your jaw then sits up, still inside you, to show his still-hard cock, only a third of the way in.
You just came and ghost is only a third in.
Somehow, this makes you equally excited and terrified for the rest of the night.
Imagine being the waypoint operator for the 141s comms, in charge of directing their chatter to the correct channels when needed, right?
Your station acts as an added layer of security, encrypting the route the channels take in the event they are hacked. Sure, you work with other teams but the 141 are your main group.
One...small caveat of being in charge of their comms, is that you have to actually listen to their conversations in case they request a patch to someone.
Which leads to you hearing...way more than you'd like.
Gaz: sir. Stop poking it. Soap's waitin'
Ghost: think he had health issues. Look at his femur, odd texture.
Gaz: oh shit, really? Let me see—
Followed by far too graphic descriptions of the poor blokes leg. You had to skip lunch that day. You do most days they have missions, gross fuckers act like you can't hear all the shit they say.
Meaning, of course, that you hear too damn much about their sex lives or lack thereof due to missions. It's nothing new, and given you know what they look like, it doesn't paint a bad picture.
But this time? You're shocked by the subject of conversation.
Soap: ahm tellin' you, it's been too damn long. The poor lass is crying for attention!
Gaz: why not the guy from IT? He's eager enough.
Soap: no. Not really feeling that right now. Actually, you know who sounds nice?
There's that characteristic smirk in soaps voice you've long since learned to identify. You absently hear ghost prompt him to continue, wondering how the hell price tunes them out so well—
Soap: our waypoint.
You choke, splutter. Your own coughing making it impossible to hear gaz and ghosts reactions, but when you tune back in soap is viciously defending himself
Soap: no, no! Listen! Have you heard that voice?? Christ, just that and I could get a better wank than I've had all month! C'mon, ghost, I know you agree—
Ghost: you know they can hear you right now, johnny? Got anything to say?
Gaz: *chuckles* besides asking to get his dick wet? Maybe beg for a moan or something?
....silence
Soap: ....hey waypoint? You there?"
You shouldn't. Christ you shouldn't respond.
All comms are recorded, and waypoints should only talk when absolutely necessary but— but the 141 comms are wiped every 24 hours and...
You lean close to your mic, voice weaker than you'd like.
Still thinking about [captive bred mer!reader and wild mer!ghost] and their first feeding time together....
You spend so long in that little cave, tucked into the shadowy corner whenever the big mer swam by. He was just so big! And spiky in places you aren't, and all the wrong colors!
After awhile he leaves you alone, instead swimming laps in the giant pool, chirping...something. you still don't understand him. It was easy to calm down in your cave, knowing he couldn't fit. It was harder to ignore your growing hunger.
You don't know how you'll get food, it's too scary to swim up and do the tricks! Just the thought of doing your usual splashing and flying from the water with the big mer around....no. best not to.
So you hunker down, tuck your tail over your arms and open you vents for the long night. It's not the first time you'll go without food but it never gets easier.
Something thunks outside your cave entrance, startling you out of your half-sleep.
A....crab? It's definitely a crab! Oh, wow! You didn't know there were any in the pool! Excited, you swim out to say hi. chest brushing the rock so you can be eye level, you chirp "hai!!! Helloooo!!! Hi!!"
The crab doesn't move. Hrm. Strange. You bat at it, churring in curiosity when it simply floats away a bit, still not moving. You paw at it, inspecting it, worried it might be sick and—
A loud rumble above you— the mer! You go to dart back into your cave only to realize it's so far away. He rumbles more, reaching a giant hand down to pluck the crab from its place, and instead place food down!
Ah. He must be helping the crab out.
You eat the food, making sure to save some for the big mer because even if he's scary he's helping the crab so you suppose he should eat too. He brings more and more, and you eat your fill for the first time in...a long time.
Above the surface, two workers talk to eachother about your feeding method. It seems whole foods don't work, but ghost is willing to tear them up for you. They will continue to monitor.
Reader who’s been atleast 4 of your closest friends maids of honor and you’re just so sure it’s not in the cards for you.
Literally, you’ve gotten tarot readings that keep telling you to “wait” and “it’s coming soon” but soon has already came and went and you’re still nothing but the background character in your own love life. There are the few guys who circle you but your just a good friend to hang out with, to have a good laugh with or when a man needs a nice and quick fuck.
How could the helpless romantic be romantic-less?
And you’re a maid of honor at another wedding- your sisters, clipboard in hand, giving out direction, making sure the family that shouldn’tve been invited anyway is far away from the bride, making sure the bridessmen aren’t drinking too much, with that giddy smile is still you, curls bouncing with every step while walking around like a chicken with its head cut off— you finally get a break. Tapping your fingers on the bar tabletop, and setting your check marked and note filled clipboard down.
You’re mid sip of your margarita when you hear that low voice next to you, “You’re pretty good at oll’ this, yeah?”
Your eyes widen in shock, coughing on your drink as you take in this big masked man beside you. Decked out in all black, You give him a nervous laugh, “I think so.”
There’s a moment of awkward silence, ice in his glass sweating, “Do y’ like oll’ this then?”
You shrug, “Sure! It’s not too much since theres a wedding planner-“
“—No, y’like playin assistant for them ‘nd not yourself. Not your first merry go round, is it?”
You blinked eyes furrowing, “How do you-“
“—Mary is my cousin.” He clarifies, naming your close friend whose wedding was less than six months ago, “Deena-“ he points over to your sister’s future wife, “she’s my co-worker.”
You bite the inside of your lip, nodding in understanding, but it all makes you feel smaller. How long are you gonna keep doing this? Working your ass off and no benefit—
“Well I-I’d want them t’ do this for me.” And it comes out meek, sillily so. You’re clutching onto the bar for strength. And this stranger watches you, the way your lips purse out, rocking on your heals, curls falling in your face.
“Well would you like t’ try it?” He asks, setting his glass down and turning to face you finally. He’s handsome, you can tell. Unconventional to some, scar on his hairline, another from his cheek to his ear. Blonde hair styled messily. You’re intrigued.
“Try what?”
“What it’d be like, t’be a bride.”
You shaking your head, chuffing out a laugh, “That’s silly.”
“Is it?” He leans back in the bar stool, arms folding over his chest, his knee brushes against yours, “Wouldn’t be so bad t’be center of attention f’once. I’d be- whot do they call it- shit- manifesting what you want.”
You swore he was just another guy, just letting you hear talk you’ve been itching to hear. That he’s a complete stranger, and you could be putting your life at risk. Or trying to scam you—
“You’d really think it’d come true if I tried?”
In theres such sincerity in his eyes, a gleam so warm in this whiskey brown that runs right through you, fingers brushing against yours, “Promise swee’art. Won’t waist y’time.”
How could you say no to that?
a/n: my romcom idea for my ‘June Bride series’ Simon is like apart of some linage for Cupid, so match making is in his blood. You’re a special assignment to him or something because you keep ignoring the signs since you’re too nervous.
bumping into your really nice alpha neighbour in the hallway (who you’ve been on again off again flirting with for weeks now), but squeaking out a little “sorry!” while having to rudely push past him so that you can get into your apartment before your heat gets out of control
vs
him being unable to resist following after you the second you scurry upstairs, every step he takes now getting a little more urgent, his blood hotter, until he’s pacing in front of your door, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth; trying everything in his power to keep himself from knocking because the way he is moving now reminds him of a predator and he doesn’t like it - he’s nice, goddammit, he’s nice
Imagine sharing a wall with ghost now that you practically live on base, walls too thin to really keep any privacy, right?
You hear everything that happens in ghosts room, and sometimes you can even hear when he's watching a nature documentary at three in the morning.
"Fuckin' hell..." it also means you can hear him pleasure himself.
You know that ghost has a fleshlight of some sort he uses, and christ you can't help but imagine what it he looks like using it. Wet squelches and grunts travel across your wall, accompanied by the occasional "yeah, there you go, love. Jus' like that–" when he gets really into the fantasy.
You've seen ghosts cock before, impossible not to when you work with him so often.
Thick, physically heavy with the way it hangs between his legs even soft. There's the faintest thatch of dirty blonde hair, cute when paired with his loose foreskin. A nice rosyness—
"Fuckkkk!! Yeah, yes—" ghost grunts, and you imagine his back arching off the bed with the sheer pleasure in his voice. What you wouldn't give to see him all flushed and desperate. "Mghhh–! Ahhh–!!"
Ah, a quick one today. The thought makes you flush, both embarrassed and oddly proud that you know exactly how ghosts day has been based off the sounds of his jerking off.
You settle in to hear him clean up and....oh? No sound of drawers sliding open, or water running in his bathroom, or...anything. a quick zipper, the latch of his door.
...no lock.
Ghosts fleshlight....freshly used...sitting in his unlocked room.
You shouldn't. It's an invasion of privacy. Its fucking perverted. Its disgusting and will certainly get you killed if anyone finds out.
....you stand up. Your impulse control has never been great.
