Femme lesbian, she/her, cis maybe, idk I really just am some guy.
I love everything gothic, my autism is hard for Köln cathedral and vampires
Scandinavian, English is my second language
I can write longform but most of this will just be random thoughts about my various fictional muses.
COD fics: I mainly write for the 141 and König, but other characters related to the 141 or KorTac may be included, just not as a main character or anything.
Other fandoms/characters I write for: Resident Evil: 8/village (Alcina Dimitrescu) + Castlevania (Alucard/Adrien Tepes) + ATLA (Fire Lord Zuko)
lots of my fics will be OC content, but it is specifically written so it can be read as x reader.
I also draw, but I will only post the occasional doodle here
Drabble cuz I have an idea but it’s too late to write smth good n long rn
(Medieval fantasy esque, fem!princess!reader, emperor!ghost, kidnapping, suggestive)
Emperor!Simon didn’t really even want a wife, but his kingdom had been getting antsy, now that slivers of grey poked through his otherwise golden hairline, and he still hadn’t managed to foster an heir.
It’s wasn’t like he hadn’t had many admirers in his time, and he could’ve surely begun vetting out potential betrothals the old fashioned way, but he didn’t have the time anymore, what with being a war lord to neatly top off his blue-blood. He was not precisley searching for a wife when he invaded your kingdom, but you were quite exquisite…
At first, he thought you didn’t cry because you weren’t a delicate flower, but the way you fussed and complained left him conflicted.
You enjoyed soft things, a sweeter diet and velveteen dresses, the way your petals unfurled softened, yet seemed to carry underlying spikes alluded him, all until the truth spilled like the mead from the goblet you had thrown at him on day one, after he dared to suggest your new (temporary) bed wouldn’t be four-poster.
He hadn’t noticed your wandering eyes until his own mind began to walk off the beaten path, eyes slipping to you when he should be focused on upkeep and training, sitting there clenching your plump thighs as he handled a blade or slammed a man to the ground…
It seemed you were simply so very aroused that you had no time to wallow in your sorrows.
Perhaps it was wrong of him to consider himself the wolf and you the rabbit, were you really being chased by his shadow, or was he simply being herded?
(Reader is described as small/a runt in comparison to other lycans, but no specific height is stated, might turn this into a fic idk)
The snow fall was heavier this time of year, and Heisenberg’s little mutts had to pack on more weight to sustain their human weaknesses.
But hunting bigger prey, such as a village steed more-than fit to be a war horse in stead, and sharing it amongst the pack was simply not feasible for runts like you, docile pups who didn’t gnash their teeth unless the tummy aches got to be all too much.
That was why you had resorted to desperate measures, dressing in the finest things you could snatch of a clothesline before the man of the house came out cocking his rifle.
One of the fuzzy boots had a hole in it, but they were otherwise cute and stout, nightgown not quite fit for the elements but virginal in its whiteness and alluring with its lace, it would surely earn you a favour if you just endured the slow-settling chill.
The grand foyer of the castle was a luxurious picture, paintings, antique vases, plants and flowers you couldn’t begin to speculate who attended to and glinting, crystalline chandeliers.
They reflected in the yellow glint of your somewhat hollow eyes, and left you distracted.
So much so that you hadn’t noticed the rumbling of heavy footfalls until the Lady of the castle herself was stood behind you, clearing her throat in a way that seemed to make even the fly on the wall flinch.
You swallowed, throat almost squeezing.
“What is it you think you’re doing here, little lamb?” She lilted in that cruel sultry tone, had your tail not been little more than a stump, it’d be tucked between clammy, plush thighs.
You thought, swallowed once more and…
And let your canids slip a centimetre too far as you attempted one of those nervous, ditzy lip bites that should’ve been a salve to the threatening air she exuded, but the second blood was spilled it all went to shit.
Within seconds you were plucked from the ground, her hot tongue kitten-licking the marred skin before she puckered her lips and sucked, open mouthed and panting without shame, savouring the unique taste of something not quite as human as it once was, but still full of coppery tang.
You were delicious, small and pliable…
And most of all, sweet, like grapes not yet fermented nor juiced and sat in a barrel.
Too eepy to write anything of substance rn but I don’t wanna forgot so…
König transferring from KorTac to the TF141—for reasons I’ve yet to bullshit my way into—except the 141 are all wolf hybrids and he’s just a measly dog hybrid, so they pick on him :( but they’re nice to fem!reader even tho she’s a dog as well, so he begins being mean to her in a childish mode of retaliation, drama ensues, no one knows how to communicate like adults, fun stuff all around.
(Don’t know what dog breed König would have to be to be larger than wolves uh… maybe a Caucasian Shepherd dog? They have the same sad, sad eyes as him, and I want reader to be a cocker spaniel, all cute and prissy, probably a civilian working on base, handling papers and such, angelic looking but definitely a total bitch… literally.)
People on TikTok will say the most lukewarm take imaginable and act like they’re Socrates, saw someone being like “hot take but omegaverse is kinda misogynistic”, like yes, my dear knob of a human being, it indeed kinda is, which I’m fairly certain to first person to write a fucking omegaverse fanfic actively acknowledged in their work, it just kinda seems like the only people who have a dedicated rant accounts are the ones that’ve got nothing to say…
I like it tho more fun than the ones where they just throw around buzz words for two straight minutes about a drama you’ve never heard of because someone said something that they purposely misinterpreted as controversial.
Too eepy to write anything of substance rn but I don’t wanna forgot so…
König transferring from KorTac to the TF141—for reasons I’ve yet to bullshit my way into—except the 141 are all wolf hybrids and he’s just a measly dog hybrid, so they pick on him :( but they’re nice to fem!reader even tho she’s a dog as well, so he begins being mean to her in a childish mode of retaliation, drama ensues, no one knows how to communicate like adults, fun stuff all around.
(Don’t know what dog breed König would have to be to be larger than wolves uh… maybe a Caucasian Shepherd dog? They have the same sad, sad eyes as him, and I want reader to be a cocker spaniel, all cute and prissy, probably a civilian working on base, handling papers and such, angelic looking but definitely a total bitch… literally.)
Butch!Ghost except nothing has changed he just has DD tiddies because I am but a humble lesbian attracted by boobs that are sizeable (small boobs are cool too but I just associate them (positively!) with little nerd losers because I have them, also he just seems like the type to have tiddy induced back problems)
I think Ghost would look cuter if he wore a garter belts instead of thigh holsters… he’s just not brave enough to make such a statement yet, what a shy fella, I need to draw this…
(Maybe with a tiny motif on them too like the garters on the bat mo heels in RH… ifykyk)
(A little angsty, alludes to his past traumas, reader is a werewolf as well, younger!reader, suggestive, implied A/B/O dynamics)
Ghost wouldn’t be a born lycanthrope, that would be a sparing fate; not having your first transformation when your bones are well and truly fixed in place, bending and snapping impossibly long and tall in a pelt of ash and tar.
His joints ached for months after, far after Roba had let him go, it was a good five years before he could talk about it steadily.
And then you come into the picture, mid-twenties, with a tail that wagged unusually, but looked just like his. Eyes glowing golden when the moonlight hit them just right.
A true werewolf.
It was uncomfortable at first, the way his instincts seemed to have him hooked to you, your scent, the way you tilted your neck imperceptibly when his tone got low and commanding. It perplexed him how you managed to make him feel wrong, yet oh-so right, throwing him for a loop every time you called out his name instead of his moniker.
He might not’ve been certain of how to feel about you, but his wolf sure was.
When you sparred on the mats, skin sweaty and blazing pleasantly, it was like he lost control, his humanity lying dormant, allowing the animal to take over, pawing at you and manoeuvring you into holds that weren’t even really practical, thighs around your head, your nose practically nudging the bulge swelling in his sweats.
Fem!southern!reader x farm-hand!Simon Riley (eventually, starts off with Phillip Graves)
CW: implied SA, animal cruelty (not towards kitty), domestic violence.
(WC: 1270)
Nothing was quite the same anymore, not since the morning in that bridal suite, where you woke up with unexplained aches and bruises that Phillip wouldn’t even inspect, steely eyes drifting to anything other than you.
He was lying, obviously, but you wouldn’t want to oppose him so early.
Just give it time, your friends told you, and so you did, but life on that oversized farm seemed to get worse and worse, sleeping in a lavish bed was as opulent as a prison bed when you didn’t trust the person laying next to you.
The late-summer breeze was coming in by the time you found a little piece of yourself again, it was difficult being so broken when you didn’t understand nor remember why you shattered in the first place.
That little piece was an injured kitten, no older than 7 months. Wide eyed with a white pelt so muddied you had believed her to be a calico at first.
You cleaned her up, treated her for ringworm, had one of his drivers take you to the vet, and soon enough she was microchipped, spayed and up to date with all the necessary shots for a kitty of her age range.
“Duchess” was her name, and you loved her.
She would purr endlessly whenever you answered her incessant meowing, tucking her onto your chest, waiting around in bed while Phillip tended to this work.
It wasn’t like you didn’t like when he was away, but life was so boring without work.
Your hobbies had really just been farm work, so it wasn’t like there was much to do inside, and picking up a book wasn’t exactly an option when everything on his shelves was dusty and seemingly a bore based on the long, manual-like titles alone.
Duchess left you with something to do, a bowl to fill up, kitty litter to scoop, sweet fur to pet, someone to play with and more.
—
Bless her heart how you loved her…
But a pet wouldn’t quite cut it for socialisation anymore, you realised one day when her nudging her head against yours didn’t fully abate you softened sobs, another night alone in bed, all because you wouldn’t let him touch you intimately.
Phillip must’ve been feeling cocky when he hired the new farm-hand.
Taller than him by a long shot, with rippling muscles that seemed to want to pop the buttons right off his blouse, pecs in conflict with physics, and much less creepy, no underlying bad faith.
But he wasn’t very talkative, that Simon, you remember your first meeting clear as day despite its… uneventful conclusion.
—
Slam, smack dab into solid chest, hands gently gripping your shoulders to guide you back up before you could even realise you had fallen.
“Oh I’m so sorry— wait… who in the ever-lovin—“ he cut you off with a firm shush to your lips, gesturing vaguely to your husband who was only just out of ear-shot for whispers, but certainly not for the scolding you were about to give the strange man on your porch.
He must’ve not liked Phillip either.
“New farm-hand, ‘olright? Just… please keep it down” there was an odd pleading tone to his words and the gleam in his syrupy brown eyes, large hands squeezing softly, careful not to go too rough on you, he really didn’t like Phillip.
And he also definitely wasn’t American, but you probably shouldn’t comment on something he’d likely heard a thousand times over.
“Alright then, I’ll keep Phil out of your hair, scouts honour.” You started in a hushed whisper, giving a playfully serious nod, as if accepting critical orders. “What’s your name then, Mr. Farm-hand?”
“Thanks birdie, it’s Simon.” He supplied lowly and you repeated his name back to him, flushing a little at the appreciative nod he gave you.
And then he was off again, likely ready to put those sweltering biceps to good use.
—
He wasn’t even really charismatic or anything, didn’t smile anywhere near as much as Phillip, yet you couldn’t stop thinking about him, couldn’t stop betraying your holy union in the realm of thought and fantasy.
In bed you’d sometimes even let Phillip feel you up a little, if you closed your eyes you could imagine pawing, soft hands were instead gentle, calloused hands.
You really just wanted affection with no ulterior motives, the kind of affection you heard your mother so passionately describe after your younger self came back from your first bible-study with far too many questions for a good Christian girl.
And the now ever-sassy Duchess could only take so much lovin’ before her claws came out to play.
So you turned to the local country club for company that wouldn’t betray any holy matrimony nor overstep a prissy kitty’s boundaries.
You weren’t any good at golf, but most of the other wives weren’t either… or at least they didn’t seem to be given how they were always off to the side, sitting in the shade and chatting shit.
Sarah was one of the aforementioned wives, a sweet lady, if not a little ignorant—but well-meaning to the bone.
You quickly got to know her, learned about her two sons, and her daughter in Heaven, the one she had coveted so long, the loss of who had shattered her in two. It was reminiscent of your own feelings, and so you grew ever closer.
—
“Aw nah, he’s plenty nice… it’s just…” you trailed off, trying to explain your apprehension whenever Phillip paused his golfing game to come up to you without really explaining it.
“Too perfect?” Sarah tried, and she was wrong… but…
“Yes! it’s got me messed up, having to play the Barbie to his Ken.” You replied, perhaps over-enthusiastic in your hurried response.
“Well, you’re certainly pretty enough for it, sugar.” She spoke truthfully, smile warm like your mothers; like the sun-kissing your skin, nothing like the hellfire you were used to from his easy smiles.
“Well, I’d best be getting home, dinner won’t make itself, and it looks like our men are done duelling…” Sarah laughed as her pine-green eyes gestured to the artificially grassed hills—two men making their way up the steepest one of all—collecting her things into her little snakeskin coach bag.
“Mhm.” You hummed weakly as you noticed Phillip’s wobbly gait, hurriedly turning to go to the car.
—
He acted… strangely when inebriated, you had yet to witness it first hand since he usually took it outdoors when he’d had a bit too much, but Simon was a good storyteller—despite his usual quiet demeanour.
More agitated, didn’t quite tolerate the same amount of defiance from his trusty steed, the stallion receiving kick upon kick until he was practically flying off the handle.
Sometimes he’d come back black and blistered, Simon having to carry him.
Serves Phillip right.
But most times he was just tired, but the stallion was currently sick with a mystery illness, resting up while some vet he had the wealth to hire all week occasionally attended to him.
So no riding for Phillip today, just you, him, and an empty bottle.
You’d expected the agitation, the set of his jaw, the crackle of something unsaintly in eyes of steel, but the yelling was beyond anything you could’ve predicted.
Phillip wasn’t the type to yell, he was loud; yes, but he didn’t yell, spittle flying around like he was some rabid animal fighting for feed, fiending to sink his teeth into any viable prey.
And when he picked up one of those dusty books you certainly hadn’t expected it to come down over your head a second later…
Masterlist
(Yes the kitten’s name is a reference to Aristocats, I love that movie and Duchess is just such a cute n classy name for a cat!! Hot sweaty Simon thirst is actively pending we just have to start off a little slow… Graves I hope u die of gonad cancer)
Fem!southern!reader x Farm-hand!Simon Riley (eventually, starts out with Phillip Graves)
Cw: implied arranged marriage, somewhat innocent!reader, religious guilt, implied misogyny, fat shaming, implied drugging + SA.
(WC: 970)
The obnoxiously heavy diamond necklace around your neck felt like a feather in comparison to your steps as you neared those church doors, without your rosary and the modesty of a more understated dress you felt naked.
Naked yet ensnared so tight you couldn’t breathe, the swirling, dark clouds far off in the horizon looming like a bad omen from The Lord himself.
You should feel at home, but the church wasn’t familiar anymore, didn’t quite represent purity anymore.
And… truthfully, Phillip was a nice man, but you knew for a fact that your father had accepted the union solely on the basis of the money it would provide your family.
Plus, Graves didn’t have quite the same ring to it as your own last name.
—
“…I’m scared,” you had whispered in passing to your mother, who had nodded with a look that seemed to indicate pity, but she hadn’t pulled you away from it all, not like she promised she would when you were just a babe.
It… hurt, in a way, even though she had no reason to do so.
Phillip wasn’t the monster under your bed, nor the persistent bully at school, not even the bruises and bloodied wounds on your knees after a bad fall off of dad’s horse.
He was perfect, yours, and dad said you had practically already chosen him before the arrangement was made, and after a while you found yourself able to believe that he was right.
So what was the hold up?
—
For now you decided it had to be nerves, as your dad was getting fidgety next to you, and the choir seemed to have gone off-key, distracted by hushed conversation.
Patience was a virtue, but it was like the grapes of forbidden fruits; small and easy to indulge in excessively.
And the selfish greed you’d exhibit, were you to turn around and make a run for it now… well it would be a forbidden indulgence far worse than irritated whispers, something that you weren’t sure praying could mend.
“I’m ready…” you breathed, barely noticing the tear drops carving a river down your cheeks. Your dad opened the door for you, crystalline chandeliers, grand walls and the stained glass encrusted windows just behind the altar a familiar sight.
Well, it would’ve been a familiar one if it wasn’t grizzled by a white carpet that went from door to altar, white petals scattered, and a good hundred faces all seated neatly, staring at you—the coveted bride.
You tried to look ahead for the most part, holding on to the comfort of your dads forearm interlaced with your own, but he quickly had to leave you to join the other familiar figures standing off to the side of the altar.
Phillip’s grey-blue eyes eyeing you like a hungry wolf weren’t much of a comfort, so you had nothing left to do but continue walking, praying your intricate veil hid the way you frowned.
—
The rest of the ceremony went by in a blur of your own apprehension and the enthusiasm of others—that you so desperately wished could be infectious.
When he had offered to cheer you up you had been hopeful at first, but when he started immediately leading you toward the bridal suite you quickly turned him down.
You explained that you simply didn’t wish to miss the reception, that it was rude to leave the guests to their own devices.
And all of that was true, so you didn’t know why you were justifying it to yourself over and over again in your head, yet another weird dilemma you should really just pack away for now… or forever.
“May I have this dance?”
“You may,” you giggled, amused by the propriety, since he usually just took what he needed, no words required.
His hand at the small of your back was a little too warm after a while, in fact, you felt alight all over, felt like a hug from the devil himself, but the music was still going strong, and who wanted a bride that stopped dancing after twenty minutes?
Your soles were aching by the time he guided you to a seated position at the head table, fetching you an awfully small thing of cake.
“What? Can’t have my wife getting any chunkier.” He’d quipped when you hesitated for a moment, looking at the large slice on his plate.
“What about you?”
He raised a brow, suddenly unamused.
You swallowed hard.
“Never mind… you ain’t too far off, honestly a good point.”
His smile returned and he sat down next to you, subtly rubbing a hand against the junction between your knee’s, not quite indecent but certainly enough to hitch your breath and make your cheeks flush.
Suddenly the tiny portion of cake was a blessing, because you felt dizzy and nauseous, flustered half to death.
“Aw honey, don’t pass out on me before I’ve even gotten you into my bed.”
“No promises,” you answered with an easy salute, conversation with him much easier when you didn’t think nearly as much.
You tried to stay up and chat with guests a while longer, but after only an hour or two you felt so light-headed that he had to bridal-carry you to bed, practically feeding you water to get you back on track.
But you felt too awful, so after a moment of apparently deep thinking he decided the reception was dead to the both of you from now onwards.
He was surprisingly speedy with undoing the corset backing of your dress, you removed the veil and shoes on your own accord, how the rest got off was lost to your spotty memory, but your last memory of the night was fairly pleasant.
A wet kiss to your cheek and something muttered you couldn’t hear.
Probably just saying goodnight.
Masterlist
(If you saw the first ver of this no you didn’t, I changed my mind immediately, still don’t know if I like this but eh, it’s whatever.)
(Heavily inspired by my (wrong) atheist interpretation of “Church Bells” by Carrie Underwood, but I am by no means from the southern USA, so I’m sorry in advance for innacuries)
Main CW’s: religious trauma, religious guilt, violence, arranged marriage (kinda), implied SA, spousal abuse, cheating, slut-shaming. Oh and reader’s abusive husband is Graves… so maybe don’t read this if you like him :) also kind of an AU since neither Ghost nor Graves are military men in this.
(Fem!reader, well just afab I suppose, tit-holder mentioned)
Simon is the type of guy to adjust your bra for you in spaces he really shouldn’t be,
It’s a little Ill-fitted and drifting to the side with every harsh movement during sparring? His pawing hands are there to slide it right back into place, with an efficiency that even you couldn’t manage in your utmost agitated state.
Or maybe the pads are all crumpled together, and you can’t be assed to have a weird man complain about the almost imperceptible dent of your nipples through your shirt? He’s solving that shit like a puzzle piece in a back corner of the train, giving you a monotonous fist bump when he beats his personal record, like it’s a bloody video game.
Or worst of all, the strap is all twisted like a Twizzler sweet, digging into your shoulder until it burns and aches, but it just feels wrong to adjust while browsing a sweet old lady’s antiquities at the flee market, good thing he’s here to do it for you!
(My bra is pissing me off so I had to write this before bed)
I’m a proshitter (thats code for I think the anti/proship discourse is dumb but I don’t like censorship and also I shitted so much as a kid that my parents wrongly thought I was lactose intolerant) but I’m personally squeamish and not super extreme about what I’ll write, so if anyone ever decides to sauce me an ask, it’s probably good to have this list…
I like a lot of kinks; I simply can’t be bothered to list or remember them all, so don’t be too apprehensive with asks.
Will write: AU’s, A/B/O, werewolf stuff, pup-play, hybrids, gender swaps (butch Ghost ily), light gore, dub-con adjacent things, kidnapping/stalking, Stockholm syndrome, bondage, voyeurism, allusions to past rape (in a negative light.)
I also won’t write readers that are explicitly stated to be a specific race, there’s a lot of good black, asian, etc. fanfic writers on here, and I don’t think a white girl like me can give you the substance you deserve in that regard anyways.
