livecrow
livecrow
(it's a shitty dead dove joke)
82 posts
Sideblog of a reformed lurker. I'm over 25 so this is as good as my brain gets, unfortunately.Most of my stuff will be DARK, so tread lightly.
Don't wanna be here? Send us removal request.
livecrow · 3 days ago
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I just spent almost an hour trying to find a post you made and come to find out you're thinking about not posting anymore 😭
I'm not actually thinking about not posting!!
Sorry, I was just being goofy/dramatic. 🤗 I will just have to power through my embarrassment, lol.
Aw, that's a while! I hope you found it, haha.
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livecrow · 4 days ago
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Nooooo don’t stop posting (I say as someone that spells shit wrong all the time) luv all works also <3
thanks, babe
mabye i cann carry on for u. the bad spellers got to sitck toget her, ily
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livecrow · 4 days ago
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Stalker!Simon sedating his hobby by messing with their take out so he can take his sweet time with the clone-a-pussy kit he bought
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livecrow · 4 days ago
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sorry guys I don’t think I can post anymore
i just realized a bunch of shit in my description was misspelled this whole time
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livecrow · 5 days ago
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love Love LOVE ghost and housekeeper reader, eatin up your writing every time 🫶🫶🫶
Thank you!!! Have more housekeeper reader is the WIPs somewhere, lol.
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livecrow · 7 days ago
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John was cooling down from a run when he first passed you on the sidewalk.
A lovely, soft thing with your hands full. A fat, sleepy baby cradled in one arm and a 4-year-old at your hip.
Still hand in hand with the child, you point over to the verge, at a rogue patch of blue wildflowers springing out among the overgrown grass. Stopping for a closer look, you exclaim, all hushed and excited to the little girl, like you've stumbled across something wonderful, "Oh! Look, a bumblebee!"
The air that day is hot, but your voice is as cool and refreshing as a glass of lemonade as you take a moment to indulge the child's curiosity.
It makes his tongue feel painfully dry in his mouth, suddenly parched for a sweetness that his hydro flask couldn't quench. He wishes he really could taste it, drink in that sweet sound—but no, he'd swear instead he feels it at his nape, a cool trickle down the length of his spine. Could imagine a cold glass of the stuff, pressed to his neck, beads of condensation dripping. John's brow is covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and yet he almost shivers.
As the bee buzzes about lazily to another flower, you patiently answer each question you're peppered with.
Actually, that bee is a she! No, she doesn't eat the flowers. She's collecting pollen! Hmmm, you weren't sure what the bee's favorite flower is!
You tell her that particular flower's name anyway. All while the babe at your chest babbles, apparently offering their own insight, drooling on your collarbone.
You beam when she sounds out the word and repeats the Latin back to you, only halfway mangled, asking you if you can pick one to bring home.
It's a beautiful thing. A mother. Right. You make it look as effortless as breathing. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. But he feels green just looking at it.
He's a voyeur. Your honeyed words weren't for him. Neither is that soft, ripe body. Feels even dirtier when chubby fingers grab at your neckline. When he doesn't avert his gaze when it's pulled too hard, giving a tantalizing glimpse of your bra and cleavage before you are able to wrangle it back, redirect the babe's tiny fist.
Coveting some other man's happy, little family. Mulling over stealing it out from under some lad too bloody daft to have his wife wear her wedding band. Thinking about your voice saying other things. Making other sounds. Ones that are not fit for polite company.
No. He keeps a respectful distance, hadn't planned on disturbing you, intruding upon the tender scene. But your gaze still finds him, offers a friendly "Morning!" and a smile that's too good for a man like him.
You share some pleasantries. Brief and polite. Banal even. A wink and you'll miss it. Mother's Day is just around the corner, isn't it? He says as much.
...It shouldn't be anything he'd dwell on. Shouldn't be what he's thinking about on the rest of the walk home. While cooking dinner. While watching the game he'd been looking forward to.
And yet. That remark as you departed sent a thrill in him, nestled somewhere deep inside him, echoing in his head long after.
In the shower that night, he still sees you. How you laughed lightly as you hiked the baby higher up in your arm, resituating your hold as you turned to continue your stroll.
"—oh, no, they're my sisters! I'm not a mother."
No.
Sure as those Houstonia caerulea are a flower, you're a mummy.
As far as John's concerned, whether he's planted the tot in your belly yet is irrelevant.
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livecrow · 10 days ago
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Do you think you’d ever see yourself making a pt 2 to the ‘unkidnappable’ reader fic? It’s so well written and I’m totally into the plot of it! Don’t worry if you don’t see yourself doing more for that fic I’ll just read it again x10
You're so sweet! 🥺 So glad you liked it. Tbh, half the time I get in my head and dislike my stuff, especially compared to the other amazing writers, so that's good to hear!
I probably will at some point, but full disclosure it will likely be a while. It's pretty far down in the queue and I have to feel up to it.
I hope I can post something else in the meantime that you might like! I tend to tread the same ground. ❤️
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livecrow · 10 days ago
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:^)
that feel when
by virtually every metric
you're unambiguously inadequate
and you don't know what the fuck is Wrong with you
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livecrow · 24 days ago
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Gundog!Soap's errand gets derailed when he catches your scent.
A retriever "retrieves" a plump bird.
Shifter/Hybrid Dark!Soap x fat reader
(cw: kidnapping)
Soap’s popping down to the shops.
He just needs to pick up an ingredient for dinner last minute. Ghost isn’t home yet, so he’s off the lead. Unsupervised. Normally, they’d get the messages together, but he only needs one thing. He could manage it. It wouldn’t be more than a wink.
But as he mills about, he can’t help feeling off.
Like he really is a dumb dog wandering around without his owner, his lead might as well be dragging on the floor behind him, collecting lint and stray bread ties—
It’s turning into one of those days where he feels far more mutt than man. 
Without Ghost’s firm hand grounding him, the place is a cacophony of input. Too many smells, too many sounds, too many colors, too much movement—all melding together into a murky emulsion of stimulus under the glaring LEDs. 
He squints down the vast row of isles for longer than he’ll admit.
Eeigit.
He should have written a note.
Thought he could have remembered one bleedy thing. Ye dinnae need a list for one thing—
Feeling frustrated and dafty, he resigns himself to traipsing down each aisle and hoping something jogs his memory. Pride wouldn’t let him call up Lt. He’d never hear the end of it. He’s a birddog for chrissake, proper braw at findin’ things—when he knows what he’s fuckin’ looking for. 
Least he can skip the sundries. He knows that much. Soap’s more than happy to avoid the detergent aisle. Stuff is bowfin. Stings his nose, makes his heid ache.
Lot of good his heid was anyway, feeling fuzzy, like it was packed with cotton. Might as well be. Nothin’ else between his ears. Certainly not the one fuckin' thing he pulled on his gutties and left the house for—
He let's loose an irritated huff and it's probably a bit too close to a growl than is wise.
Soap's trying to make good time, but he's a solid four isles in and hasn't had any luck. Eventually, he finds himself staring down a sea of tins. Fruit and veg, beans, and the sort. His eyes scanned the labels, but even readin' was a real Herculean task when he's feeling so out of sorts.
The canine part of him can't be convinced deciphering rows of little lines and squiggles is a proper use of his time. Especially when he could be usin' his nose instead.
Some wee bairn has starts greetin’ a few aise down.
—Green beans, peas, sliced carrots, corn, diced potatoes. Nae, that wasn't it—
....who in their right mind buys tinned tatties?
A passing trolley is making an awful racket. Discordant shrill squeaks and clunks of a stuck wheel scraped against his ear drums.
—It’s definitely not the asparagus—shites mingin’, and that’s fresh. Wouldnae faff about with a recipe that called for that. Cannae think how foul tinned would be… 
Soap sighs in exasperation. As he goes to abandon this aisle, he steps back to turn and bumps into something.
Soft. Soft, soft, softness presses into his hip—
The kind of softness that cradles, that molds around him. Softer than any of his toys. Soft an’ cozy as his own bed, maybe—nae, softer. His bed didn't have the same give, the same wobble. It was a softness that sent a literal shiver up his spine, saliva pooling in his mouth. That smell—
Not something, someone then.
An incidental collision, a bird had been trying to slip by him just as he stepped backwards.
The touch was there and gone in a second but he was mournful for its absence. The scent lingered at least, soothed the whine that crawled into his throat. There was no artifice to it, no acrid chemical edges that came with any fragrance found in a bottle.
You had actually managed to catch him off guard. The shiver that rattled through him began with a slight jolt of surprise at the two of your union. He must have been more out of it than he thought, he hadn't even noticed anyone else in the aisle. He'll never get used to being startled, but he wouldn’t hold that against you.
“Oh, sorry,” you muttered apologetically as you stepped back, embarrassment coloring your face. The contact clearly ruffled your feathers a bit.
Soap’s mouth shuts with an audible click, he hadn’t realized his lips were parted. He hurriedly swallows a completely unadvisable pant in your direction.
“Nae bother, hen,” he blinks. Finally finding his human voice, responding like he's supposed to when he's out and about on two legs. It’s a little breathier, a beat later than he should have responded, lower too. There's a rasp there that chafes the very air. 
...Maybe his head wasn't packed with cotton.
Maybe it was your soft, downy feathers that was muddling him up, making itself a sweet little nest in his cranium—
The bird sends him a polite, restrained smile as it scurries off.
His world narrowed, like he was watching through a spyglass. Or was it a scope? Regardless, everything else but you dissolved into blur, even his peripheral was swallowed up. Framed you in a vignette. Every tiny aspect of the minute interaction seared painlessly into his mind.
A pretty, fat partridge.
Wandering too close.
Game like that, ambling by all round and plump, right under his snout? Feathers close enough they almost tickle his nose—
It's instinct, ya ken?
Mind, for a dog that retrieves quarry, it’s in his nature. Cannae help it anymore than the shade of his coat. So, is it the dog's fault then, when he lunges? Snatches the bird up, into his warm mouth? Firm and soft all at once. The delicate control from a pup that can cradle a raw egg without fracturing the shell. When he brings it back to his master, tail waggin’ as he’s done a hundred other times?
Nae. Noone’d blame him.
He can already practically feel the pantomime thumping of your frantic heartbeat in his mouth—echoing his own excited pulse. 
Soap’s keen eyes never left his prey, even as your back was foolishly to him. His hind paws were already ahead of his brain, he followed, trailing at a distance. Stalking.
Thing should know better, he might have been a wolf. You’d have waddled straight into it's gaping maw, mistake the canines for stalactites and his tongue for a cozy spot to lay your little head.
But no, he’s no wolf. He’s safe. Won't take a bite out of you. He's a good boy— 
Good dog.
Bird dog. A Gordon Setter, Si says.
A jack of all trades, proficient at tracking, pointing, and retrieving. A soft-mouth breed. That’s very important. Most dogs cannae do what he can. Pick up a bird without pricking it. Ghost has been working with him, trainin’ him up. Helping him be more patient, learn new tricks.
Your scent—it was so hard to describe, but he luxuriated in it, nose twitching. It was warm, but not torrid. Sweet, but not cloying. Rich, but not heavy—
Familiar, somehow. Like a childhood lovey. Cheek-worn and supple as a lamb's ear. 
He’s struck by a piercing déjà vu.
It should have confounded Soap—but it didn’t. It just was. The strange mix of familiarity and unfamiliarity that shouldn’t normally coexist. He didn’t know you, nae. But it felt like he should. Maybe he’d seen you in a dream? Some sticky remnant from a past life? Nothing else could explain the strength of the reaction that gripped him by the scruff. Commanded him to “fetch”.
...He’s doin’ so well. Being so, so careful—game’s normally still, after all. Not wriggling about anymore. Is much more effort to control his grip on a bird thas tryin' to fly away.
Thing squealing like a squeaky-toy doesn’t help, zaps somethin' in his brain, even though he’s hardly pressing. Ghost will look at you an’ see there’s no teeth marks on you. He’s being good. Knows better. Not even a tiny nibble. 
Soap's so pleased.
Only wish he'd had his tail out, so he could articulate his excitement properly.
He’ll take you home and keep you. Rest a heavy paw on you when he wants you to stay put. Carry you round the house with him. Share his food with you. Show you his other toys. Only roughhouse gently, like he would a puppy. Bat you around a bit. Paw at you real gentle like. This soft, living squeaky-toy that he can nap with. Even let you nest in his own bed, tucked under his chin. He’d only ever mouth at you gently, you'd learn you wouldn’t have to fear his teeth. He’d rasp his tongue over you, help you preen yer pretty feathers.
He ached to sigh happily against you, rut his face against you. Wanted all the rest of his sighs to be against you, pressed into your skin. Nose at your crown, in your soft neck, on your squishy belly. He’s curious where on you that scent would be the strongest.
Ghost will be so proud when he sees, when he proudly lays you at his boots—
You'll like his owner. He'll pet you real nice. Ghost always knows the right spot, even before you do. Thoughtful.
So thoughtful that he won't even mind that he'll have to sort something else out for dinner.
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livecrow · 25 days ago
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Brainrotting about Simon and his Hobby again. Everyone who hears about Ghosts bird on base assumes he has an actual bird. Him being a hunter is known and unsurprising, not too long a shot to think he's a falconer as well. Even the base psychologist doesn't prod, happy the workaholic soldier finally took the advice to pick up a new interest.
He did indeed take the advice to find something besides work to think about to heart. Obsessively clicking through his trail cams footage of his hunting grounds, looking for the oblivious nature lover frequenting the trails around his cabin for weeks now. He's enamoured with the cute mushroom picking trespasser. Follows you around the woods and the town whenever he can, safe from discovery thanks to your false belief that the woods have no predators interested in you and his training in covert trailing. You are mapping out the woods, and it's just a matter of time now until you stumble on the clearing, and he can't have his safe house compromised.
He always wanted to keep a bird, just so happens he has the perfect cage for this one.
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livecrow · 25 days ago
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something something being the fat little quail trapped in the jaws of a hunting dog that's fighting so so so hard against it's very nature and carrying you back to its master very, very gently in it's salivating mouth
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livecrow · 26 days ago
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pspspspspsps i added a smidge more to this while making a fix you wanna see it
You've been kidnapped by the local butcher and he convinces you he's going to fucking eat you.
DARK!Ghost x fat fem reader
CWs: kidnapping, rape, dehumanization, gaslighting, bondage, undiscussed kink, animal play, threats and talk of cannibalism but no actual cannibalism
A tidied up and extended ramble I subjected @391780 to on anon. Inspired directly from their post where Butcher!Simon draws a diagram of beef cuts on you.
It’s pretty immediately obvious he’s a murderer. He’s probably a serial killer for all you know.
In reality, Simon doesn’t consider himself a serial killer, despite his body count. He’s just someone who doesn’t have qualms dealing with nuisances. He’s a retired vet; after you’d killed enough people, what’s a few more? 
No, his kills were just business, practical. They were men who made the mistake of getting in his way, of being inconvenient. Most, anyway—there’s at least one or two whose only crime was being an especially annoying cunt. Sometimes, some people “jus’ need killin’.” 
As a butcher, he does find the implication funny, but no, he’s not eaten any of the scum he’s off’ed. “Don’t serve ‘em up to customers, neither.” After all, Simon’s got far higher standards than that. They weren’t even fit for dog food, and he has a reputation to uphold. No one can compete with his quality. 
No, you’re nothing like them. You’re special.
Never in his life had he seen a prettier creature—and you’re absolutely prime. He’s salivating just looking at you, plump and oh so soft. He can see it in the way your skin wobbles gently as you move about. Simon couldn't find a straight line on you. And he’s looked. He’s been transfixed watching you, aching.
You live your life meandering obliviously, no brand in sight, not even a tag on your ear. He's surprised no one else snatched you up. Poor thing, left to fend for itself ‘s cruel. Nothing else to it. 
Wrangling you was simple; it’s not like your large form actually offered you anything towards your defense. It was easy, really. Your total lack of survival instinct was staggering. It was even more shocking that you lasted this long, he could almost laugh.
You were clueless to the danger, even when it was directly in front of you. It was endearing. Your eyes roved over him, not paying him any mind, just carrying on about your undoubtedly inane business. Only when he was on you and it was too late did you start to kick up a fuss.
The look of panic on your face was just priceless. All this crying and babbling nonsense like, “What are you doing?!” and “Stop!”
Simon's first concern was not damaging you too much. He was careful. Just a single huge bicep around your neck, and any fight you had seemingly evaporated with fright. He could have groaned audibly at the squishy softness of your neck alone, his muscled arm practically stony in comparison. But he'll have time for that later. You're bent over in a headlock, his grip as rigid as a pillory. Of course but he’s not actually applying enough pressure to choke you. You’re just forced to come along or be dragged.
Not that it would have mattered if you were too wild to be led; he would simply tighten his hold and let you catch a wink. Pull out the dolly, load up the truck and be on his way.
On the big stainless steel worktable, the metal stings even through your clothes. Unfortunately for you, even that scant protection doesn't last. The sight of the meat shears was enough to paralyze you again, and with a handful of strategic snips and one rough yank, Simon rips your last vestiges of humanity from you. All your skin transforms to gooseflesh, shivering on the table, but it's your turgid nipples where his roaming gaze finally settles.
He’ll have to remember to adjust the heat later. After all, “‘s a bit early to start chillin’ you”, he’d chuckle.
You were a bit of silly thing. It's good that he snapped up you before something bad happened to you. Might be a minute before you caught on, but he didn't mind waiting.
You're his perfect little prize. No doubt you'd win "Best of Fair"— that is, if Simon was willing to let someone else gawk at what's his. It was tempting. You'd look pretty in that blue ribbon.
He knows exactly where he'd stick it. The pin would sink riiiiiiight through the tender flesh of your nipple, easy as. He'd make it quick, but you'd squall all the same. His cock strained impatiently against his trousers at the visage. Your teary face, that shiny rosette hanging down proudly, bobbing slightly at your teat, forked ends kissing your belly as he made you "sit pretty" for the cameras.
...but no, you're just his.
Simon will keep you at home. Coddle you, give you plenty of softness and warmth. You’ll not want for blankets, pillows, and other such treats, but not a stitch of clothing will ever touch your skin again. There would be no hiding your nakedness from him.
“Clothes? Clothes ‘re for people, what you need clothes for?” he scoffs. You don’t make the mistake of thinking it’s a question, because he doesn’t want an answer. A dog doesn’t answer “Who's a good boy?” does he? 
You’re groped and prodded like some saran wrapped package of beef at the grocery store. He's feeling and squeezing every inch of you. And he’s—he's measuring you? Jotting things down. Snapping at you to "'old still" as he steadies the tape, making sure there's the right amount of snug tension to get a proper measurement. Just as you try to obey, he's manhandling you again, moving you this way and that, one position to the next. The tape tickles terribly.
As he lassos your wide upper thigh, the tape suddenly brushes against the lips of your pussy, making your heart stutter painfully. When he pulls back the tape, you're holding your breath. He just returns to the pad of paper. As you try and calm yourself, you think distantly that the stubby pencil looks puny in his giant fist as he adds to his chicken scratch.
You were sorely mistaken when you thought that you'd get even a brief reprieve. No, what's coming next is worse. You're completely helpless to fight him off, your punches and kicks might as well have been the frantic swats of a rabbit's soft paws, for all he reacted. Your wrists were lashed to your ankles behind your back, joints complaining at the unfamiliar stretch. Hogtied. By the end of it, you’re panting, trussed up in practically half a roll of twine, fat bulging between the strands, desperate to escape it. While the measuring tape may have tickled, the twine fucking bites.
Simon admires his work, says it looks good on you. He can’t resist taking one of your new little rolls between his fingers, giving you a teasing, humiliating pinch. You struggle, of course, but the terrifying man commands you to “Settle”, says the only thing your fussing will get you is rope burn. 
He claps you on the ass affectionately, assuring you that the scratchy string is only temporary. You still feel the warmth of his hand long after the swat. He knows a guy for leather, does good work. All hand-stitched. Simon will have a proper harness made for you. Something with a lot of D-rings. It will be more comfortable for you, and more importantly, he can situate you how he likes with minimal bruising or chafing. 
"I'll 'ave somethin' made from you too."
As he admires your skin, that's what he muses offhandedly. He’s not usually one to bother, but it’d be a travesty to waste hide like yours. "Couldn’t find more supple, could you?" He hasn’t decided what you'll be yet, he’ll need to do some maths to figure out how much material you'll make. If he's careful, he's hoping he could get a jacket and a fine, sturdy pair of boots out of you. Every time he sits down to clean his boots, buff and polish them to a shine, he'll think of you.
Behind his mask and the façade of impassivity, he savors your reaction. That's the first time your consciousness flees from you. Seeing your face suddenly slacken, fat cheek smooshed against the table, is delightful.
Simon lays it on thick, praising how "well-marbled" you are. Delectable. So plump and well-fed, you honestly can't blame him for any of this, really. Something about wagyu beef.
Oh, come off it, he's going to take good care of you while you're still bleating too, not just your hide, so why are you pitching a fit? You won't find meat living a softer life. He’ll massage you daily, knead every inch of you between his huge, oiled hands. He'd take his time, temple t' toes. You couldn’t get a knot in a muscle if you tried.
Your more delicate bits don’t escape his tender ministrations either. He takes painstaking work in rubbing your insides down with thick fingers, wringing orgasms from you until you're limp and still as the rest of the meat in his shop. Says it’s good for the flavor, will make you even sweeter.
It’s all completely horrifying; it has to be a nightmare. He says all this so casually, like he’s telling you the time of day. This man is truly completely deranged. 
His hands are always on you; it’s never-ending. Brutish fingers always pressing, tips disappearing into your doughy plushness. He's taken it upon himself that you never “exert” yourself and you have no choice in the matter. Bastard won’t even let your hands free to eat or bathe. He "grooms" you. Brushes your hair, trims your nails, cleans your teeth, brushes, lathers, rinses, dries, moisturizes your skin. It’s humiliating, and you hate every second of it.
The juxtaposition is too much, the horror and absurdity of it all. All the restraints and manhandling, your looming demise, while insisting on soft surfaces for you, water temperature just right, food carefully curated and cut up just so. He won’t let anything happen to spoil the meat.
He doesn’t spare any expense on your “feed” either. You eat what he eats; might as well be eating off his plate. Albeit simple, it’s good food. You don't see a point in denying it. It's fresh and flavorful, and to no one’s surprise, it includes a lot of meat. Always from his shop, of course, only the best for you.
He’ll bring out some new parcel every night for dinner, unfolding the brown paper wrapping, holding up to you to admire his work. “‘S a ribeye.” He goes on about the marbling, the even color of the meat. “Couldn’t find fresher,” he’d say, "was only jus' bleedin' this mornin'."
You’re his captive audience. There’s nothing else you can do but warily watch him make dinner from whatever position he's left you tied in at that particular moment. Just seeing a blade in his hand gives your heart palpitations. That day, dinner is steak, sautéed mushrooms, jacket potatoes, and roasted broccoli.
You’ve long since stopped fighting him when it comes to meals. Because it can always get worse. After being bent over, forced to eat off a dish on the floor without the use of your hands, knees aching, you’d resigned yourself to the fact that eating off his fork was a sufferable compromise.
Still, if he’s in a mood, he won’t even allow that. You'll eat off his fingers, and he’ll laugh at your expense and chide you when you inevitably “make a mess” when he deliberately misses your mouth. 
The food was prepared, but this time the knife didn’t leave his grasp. It wasn’t a steak knife. It was too big and not serrated, but that didn’t seem to bother Simon. It certainly bothered you. Its presence loomed like a guillotine in your periphery. Glinting.
He feeds you bites between his own. Every mouthful and he looks so pleased as you dutifully open for him without being told. You desperately missed his mask at meal times. At least then you couldn’t see his smug fucking face.
On the plate the steam billows and curls. The meat gives easily under your molars, practically melts in your mouth. Hot and rich and juicy, it’s basted in butter, with garlic cloves and sprigs of rosemary, seasoned with cracked peppercorn and flakey sea salt. It’s a touch rarer than you’d like. 
You wish you were capable of escaping the horror of it all for even a second, pretend you were anywhere else, with anyone else.
Simon punctuated his first bite with a low rumble of approval, watching you with those dark, cavernous eyes. He’d continued in that way, a man content in silence. Until he wasn't
”...you'll taste better.”
He waited until your last bite to say it, maybe that was a sort of twisted mercy on his part. The meat transformed in your mouth, became sinewy and bitter. You couldn’t swallow, and went to spit it out. But he expected that apparently, was on you in a second. Giant rough hand sealed over your lips, practically enclosing the bottom half of your face, smooshing your cheeks up into your eyes. 
“Chew.”
It takes longer than usual, but you try to obey. His hand hasn’t moved from your mouth.
“Swallow.”
His eyes move from yours to your neck, his thumb grazing your throat lightly, tracing the bite’s trajectory as you force it down. His eyes are back on you then. 
With Simon’s free hand he deftly pierces the last drippy morsel off the plate with the oversized knife, popping it between his scarred lips. The hand still on you moves, migrates to cup your jaw, gradually starting to squeeze. You don’t have any fight left and open before it becomes painful.
Fear paralyzes you again, when he brings the knife towards you.
The movement is slow, as if he’s actually concerned about frightening you. He’s holding it longwise, pointed off to the side—
Then it’s on your tongue.
He drags the flat of the blade’s length across the trembling muscle, leisurely, only moving it away to flip it and clean the other side, myoglobin discarded on your tongue 
“They’ll say ’m spoilin’ you rotten. Eatin’ off my own plate, sleepin' in my own bed, warm under my roof. Keepin’ you safe indoors. Such a sweet, tame thing, are you?” He strokes your cheek, wiping at a drip at the corner of your mouth with a thumb before popping that in his mouth too.
Whether Simon lets you speak depends on his mood. Somedays you're gagged the whole day, besides feeding and watering. In that case it's usually a milder gag. Cloth or tape. If you give him a reason, run your mouth , you'll force Simon to remind you "what you are." His favorite is the look of your wide wet eyes and your trembling lips stretched around a padded ring gag.
The sounds you make are special. Little nonsense noises, almost like "you're tryin' to talk like a person would." Sweet, pitiful sounds. He also loves when wet, choked sobs that cascade out of your open mouth, forcing you to drool. “You’re so messy, sweet’eart. Nose runnin’, too.” Says you're leaking from practically every hole. Eyes, nose, mouth, cunt.
Sometimes, you might almost be fooled into thinking he feels sorry for you in those moments when you're hyperventilating and hysterical, or wailing so mournfully. He always hushes you when you're crying, pets and hold you, dries your face, as if he’s not the cause of your tears. Despite how much Simon adores the taste of them, adores the soft jingling of the little cow bell tied ‘round your throat when your whole body quivers with sobs, the stress will sour the meat. He’ll say as much, but surprisingly it doesn’t help calm you down.
If it was necessary, he's not opposed to sedation. After all, he's done the research to find one that won't affect your flavor. But most of the time, his solution to your despair is yet another thorough fucking. Dopamine to counteract the stress.
Simon forces the orgasms out of your body as easily as he forces his cock into it, you're utterly helpless to stop either. His livelihood is working with his hands and unfortunately he’s damn good at it. When all's said and done and you're spent, he’ll lightly chastise you for working yourself up, for fussing.
He loves the heft of you in his hands, weighs your heavy tits in his palms, grips your ample belly. Simon can't resist taking mouthfuls of you into his mouth, worrying your supple fat with his incisors. Your tits, ass, thighs, arms, belly, back fat, hell, your double chin. It doesn't matter, any squishy bit of you. You're always afraid he might be getting impatient, that he’ll take a bite out of you, but he never does. Simon says he's just sampling, maybe tenderizing you a little. 
His favorite taste of yours is still between your legs. He has you thank him for being so careful there. Past you inner thighs and plump mons, the pressure of his teeth yields, feeling barely a graze. 
He likes putting mirrors in front of you, says he wants you to see how lovely you are. Your hands are clipped together, chain snagged in one of the shop's many meathooks, just low enough that you don’t strain your shoulders or quite have to stand on your tiptoes.
He directs you to watch, popping the lid off of a permanent marker with a squeak.
He maneuvers you this way and that as he works, dragging the marker down your body. His lines are surprisingly clean considering his canvas is such a pliant, organic shape. Hands are as steady as a surgeon. The marker tickled terribly on skin, the ethanol smell burning your nose, making it hard to think.
It only took a minute to recognize what he was doing. Your skin itches under the felt tip. You flail, trying desperately to smear it, to muss his work, but the ink dries too quickly.
Simon wouldn't let you keep your eyes closed, so in that moment you were grateful for the onslaught of tears blurring your vision somewhat.
That day, he showed you all your different cuts, as if you cared, as if you were together enough to pay attention.
Chuck, rib, loin, sirloin, rump, round, flank, plate, brisket, shank.
He tells you which are his favorite. Tells you which of his mates he’ll have over to enjoy you, ponders what pieces he’ll think they’ll like best. How to cook different cuts to get the best effect, that some cuts are naturally tougher and have to be cooked slowly, while the other cuts are tender and fatty, can be cooked at a higher temperature, quicker. 
From the very beginning, he’s referenced the “Big Day.”
He’ll ask if you're excited over the shinnnnk of a knife against a whetstone. Simon always keeps his tools in order, clean and sharpened expertly, but he thinks he'll polish them up extra shiny for the occasion. To a mirror finish, so you can see yourself. You're so beautiful, it'd be a cryin' shame for you to miss it. 
It’s been months now you’ve been with him and the day never comes. 
...
You didn't dare question it.
But if you did, Simon would just chuckle, dark eyes crinkling, amused that you're so eager. Maybe he'll say that he decided he wants some milk from you instead.
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livecrow · 1 month ago
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listen what if i told you i only post stuff publicly on the off-chance one of my faves sees it and tells me they like it
what then
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livecrow · 2 months ago
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had brainworms about kyle thinking he's too pretty to resist vs a fat girl who thinks he's fucking around when he flirts, and it got dark fast
cw: drinking/intoxication, noncon somnophilia/intox, drugging, extremely concerning dirty talk, creampies, face slapping (just one), choking, the arrogance of beautiful men, blatantly unedited
big house parties are a bad idea when you've had a shit week. you lost your job, a guy you were casually seeing got married (!), and you had to sell your grandmother's ring in order to make rent. with a mental state like that, heavy drinking around acquaintances is probably the last thing you should be doing right now... but fuck it. macie's back home and throwing a big to-do at her new place, least you can do is stop by and get a few drinks. she told you she's invited some of her guy friends to the party, gleefully informing you with a wink that kyle will be there.
ugh. kyle. where to begin with kyle. he's handsome, classically so, with a lean but muscular build, high cheekbones, long eyelashes, big doe eyes, and a megawatt smile that gets every male-attracted person in a five kilometer radius to swoon. he's nice enough, sure, and he hasn't been shitty to you in the way most conventionally attractive men are to fat girls... but. he does this thing that puts you on edge, publicly acting like he's flirting with you so everyone can see. it's your least favorite joke in the world, and you've taken to just politely ignoring him and the resulting laughter whenever he slings his arm around you and starts calling you 'babes'.
when you show up to the party, macie's smoking on the porch, surrounded by a bunch of tall, handsome guys (you assume simon is handsome, anyways. everything not covered by his kn95 is pretty hot as far as you're concerned) who mostly smoke on the porch and sip their whiskeys straight from the bottle. kyle, however, is right by your side in an instant, handing you cup after cup of alcohol, insisting that he needs a taste tester to make sure each batch of his punch has enough, well, punch. you don't know why he's worried, that shit's got enough alcohol to fuel a jet engine, probably.
that's when the sweet talk starts, and it takes all your strength not to roll your eyes and tell him to fuck off when he loudly proclaims in front of macie, his mates, drunk strangers, and god about how much he's missed seeing you around, how good you look, and that he wants to give you his number so he can take you out properly later. you hear a couple of people laugh, and you can't tell if it's at you, at kyle, or unrelated, but it makes your cheeks burn and your stomach drop, humiliation making the acid in your stomach rise up and burn at your throat. or maybe that's the jungle juice. hard to tell.
you don't even bother saying anything in return, excusing yourself to go inside and pointedly closing the door behind you as you try to get lost in the sea of bodies crammed into this house. the party's been going for maybe an hour and already the kitchen floor is sticky under your shoes. no matter. you find your way towards the living room, where the sound system is cranked up, playing some fast, bassy beat that you lose yourself to as you throw back the rest of your drink and try to forget all about everything that's bothering you.
you go hard all night, dodging kyle's dogged pursuit of you by dipping every time he enters the room you're in, pounding beer after beer until you feel that telltale sour belly that tells you it's time to grab a glass of water and tap out. as if sensing your weakness, kyle's suddenly by your side, bright smile dimming as he takes in the queasy look on your face. it's hard to hear him over the sound of run the jewels making the windows rattle, but he holds up a finger, telling you to wait, and against all instinct and impulse, you do. he comes back with a gatorade, opening it for you and instructing you to drink. you only get half the bottle down when he gently tugs at your arm, guiding you up the stairs to a quiet bedroom and helping tuck you in, shushing your slurred apologies and insisting he's just glad to help take care of you. he's so nice. and hot. it's a wonder he helped you out at all, considering how cold you've been to him. he's always been so patient with your wariness, maybe he really meant it? maybe he hasn't been taking the piss this entire time? you'll have to talk with him in the morning, and maybe finally give him your number. upon reflection, it's wild that he's single, really, but you suppose his work schedule probably is the relationship killer for him, what with him being in the military and all.
sleep hits you hard, like a bus being dropped from the sky. there's no gentle easing into it, no slipping off gracefully into unconsciousness. one second you're staring up at the ceiling, the next you're sprawled out on your stomach, drooling on your pillow and entering rem.
it's impossible to tell how long you've been out when you open your eyes again. your guts feel weird, not sick or anything, just... twisted. tight. unexpected. it's hard to clock what it is, exactly, but it's not 'gonna puke imminently' nausea, so you just thank the stars for that. the light under the crack of the door is out, and the house is quiet, but the light outside the windows is a faint pre-dawn grey. it takes a couple of hard blinks and a shake of your head before you realize that your body is rocking back and forth on the mattress, almost like you're- wait. hang the fuck on.
you're barely able to gasp an inhale to scream when a large, warm hand slides over your mouth, applying hard pressure as if they're trying to pull your head backwards and muffling your shrieks.
"quiet now. no need to cause a fuss, babes. s'just me." kyle's voice whispers into your ear, and you immediately feel sick. he's leisurely fucking you from behind, long, slow, measured thrusts into your cunt. you can't tell if there's a condom or not, but you pray there is. you try to throw him off, to pry his fingers from your mouth, but he holds firm, not losing pace for even a moment. all you can do is squeeze his wrist in your hands and kick your legs like a tantrum while you cry out against his palm.
"i said don't fuss." kyle hisses into your ear, and he chuckles when you do your best to shake your head 'no' despite his grip. "aw, don't be like that, babes. bloody hell, you feel so fucking good. i know i should have waited, but i've already been waiting ages, you know? i made sure to stretch you out a bit on my fingers first so i wouldn't hurt you, but you didn't wake up."
that makes alarms go off in your head. oh, god, how long were you out for? was there something in the gatorade he'd handed you? what else has he done since you've been unconscious? kyle shoves his free hand between you and the mattress, squeezing at your tit with a groan. his forehead drops to your shoulder and he immediately starts picking up the pace, and it makes your eyes water. if he did use his fingers to stretch you out, he must've half-assed it- his cock is stretching you out to the point that it almost feels like it's burning as it pistons violently in and out of you. molten heat begins to pool deep in the cradle of your hips, and you resent the sensation.
"i've never done this sort of thing before, but i've also never wanted someone the way i want you, have i? i was afraid if i didn't take the opportunity that i'd never get you." he pants into your ear. "you keep playing hard to get, keep blowing me off, and it's been driving me mad. just couldn't bloody take it anymore. just needed to show you i meant it, that i can make you feel good. and i do, don't i? doesn't my fat cock feel nice in your pretty cunt?"
you thrash your head violently from side to side, a clear and obvious 'no'. he digs a thumbnail into your nipple, making you squeal behind his palm. fuck, it hurts so good. kyle seems to know it, too, the way he's chuckling in your ear.
"god, i love fucking up against this big fat ass. you're everything i'd imagined, you big soft wet dream. love how that pretty pussy's grippin' me, like she doesn't want to let me go. let me- let me-" he pulls out suddenly, which leaves you feeling empty and breathless, his hand sliding off your face so he can try to shove you onto your back. now's your chance to try to reason with him.
"kyle- stop- please just stop and i won't tell anyone, please-" a quick, sharp tap with the back of his hand against your cheek cuts you off, and you can only give him a shocked gasp in reply. it wasn't hard enough to do damage, but enough to scare you and sting a little bit as you allow him to roll you onto your back. through the light from the street that's filtering in through shitty, half-open blinds, you can see him. his dark eyes glitter in the dim light, his expression clearly annoyed. as soon as you're on your back, his hand is at your throat, applying just enough pressure to serve as a warning.
"here's what i don't fucking get. anytime i want someone, all i have to do is banter a little, give them all of my attention, and by the end of the night they're creaming on my cock. but you? i try and i try and i try, and nothing seems to work. you're not seeing anyone, you're not celibate, and you're not gay. i checked with macie. so tell me- what's your bloody problem?" he snarls as he shoves his cock back into your sopping wet cunt without ceremony.
"i thought you were teasing! i thought it was a joke! people always laugh when you flirt with me, i thought- i thought-" you can't finish your sentence, hiccupping sobs cutting you off. you can't help it, you're overwhelmed and afraid. you'd always assumed kyle was harmless, maybe a little bit mean at most for teasing you. now he's hit you, possibly drugged you, and fucking you against your will with his hand on your throat. how easy it was to forget that the career military man with the big brown eyes is actually incredibly dangerous.
realization dawns on his face as he watches you cry underneath him, melting away into a softer, more compassionate expression. the hand on your throat disappears as he leans down and rests on his forearms, pressing his entire body against yours, rocking his hips and grinding against your clit as he continues to fuck you, pressing kisses to your tear-streaked cheeks
"shh, shh, it's all right babes. don't cry. you see that it wasn't a bloody joke now, don't you? come on, it was all just a misunderstanding, but we've got it cleared up now. just relax, let me make it up to you." he murmurs against your skin, tone gentle in a way you know is meant to mollify. fuck, he's got a point. you hate him for how good it feels. had he waited, had he actually talked to you instead of forcing himself between your legs, you'dve been ecstatic to have kyle between your legs, his stomach rubbing up against yours, seemingly determined to make you cum. as it is, you resent the way that pooling heat is growing inside of you, climbing up your spine and radiating an electric buzz through all of your nerves. the drag of his chest hair against your nipples pushes you even closer to the edge, your breaths getting shallower and the muscles in your legs starting to tense.
"fuck, you feel good. knew you'd be worth it, knew you'd understand." he pants into your ear, ignoring your tears as he keeps you pinned to the bed and speared on his cock. "ah, fuck! i can feel you squeezing me, you getting close,babes? come on, cum on my cock. need you to. be my good girl, give it to me."
he gives you a particularly dirty grind of his hips against your clit, and it sends you rocketing to the stars as your eyes roll back and your spine bows. vaguely, you can make out the sound of a very satisfied chuckle over the rush of blood in your ears as your body succumbs to his ministrations, sending you into a soul-rending orgasm that leaves you boneless and panting on the bed while he still chases his own release. all you can do is lie there and take it, grateful that he's less interesting in grinding against your clit and sitting up on his knees, fingers dug into your plush hips and slamming into you with a single minded determination. your legs flop uselessly on either side of his hips as you grit your teeth and try not to yelp at the sensation of your sensitive pussy being brutalized even further.
"gonna cum inside- fuck!- gonna fill you up." kyle grits between his teeth, his pretty face twisted into an angry looking mask.
"no, no- kyle, don't, please-" that hand is around your throat again, this time pressing harder against your windpipe. panic rises up as your body fights for air that simply won't come, and kyle leans back into your space, practically nose to nose.
"shut up, shut up and fucking take what i give you." he hisses. "you've been such a little cocktease, keeping me waiting this whole time. i've earned this, earned you, and now i'll do as i like. suck my fingers. go on."
you're not given the chance to argue, the hand is gone from your throat for half a second before two long fingers are shoved into your mouth, petting at your tongue and tasting vaguely of salt. all you can do is obey, sucking on them and running your tongue over the pads, hoping to god that you're giving him what he wants. maybe he'll go away when he cums. maybe now that he's apparently gotten what he's been chasing, he'll get bored and move onto the next. god, you hope so.
it takes a few minutes, but eventually kyle cums, flooding your pussy with a satisfied groan. the orange street light pouring through the window illuminates the genuinely pleased looking smile on his face, like he won something instead of having stolen it. he pulls out with a wrinkle of his nose and a little grunt, flopping on the bed next to you and shoving at your shoulder, nonverbally demanding you roll onto your side. as soon as you comply he's on you, plastered to your back, his sticky wet cock pressed against your ass as you leak his cum onto your thigh.
"we'll go get breakfast in the morning, yeah? take you out properly and show you off like you deserve." he murmurs into your ear as you sniffle. "come on now, no more crying. you came, didn't you? you liked it. stop playing hard to get, the game's over, babes. you're mine now, i caught you. now get some sleep."
he tightens his grip around your wide waist and shoves his knee between your thighs, clearly preparing so he'll wake up if you try to slip out of bed while he sleeps. all you can do is lie there and wait for dawn while silent tears slide down your cheeks and dampen macie's pillow, dreading whatever the morning will bring you.
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livecrow · 2 months ago
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cw: kidnapping, off screen noncon & dubcon. angst. low self-esteem can you tell this is a mere projection? mdni.
dark fic with gaz but it's angsty on his end because reader has low self-esteem but with a sense of humor that he definitely does not appreciate:
in which gaz kidnaps you but after a little while, you actually realize that you want to stay and no, it's not stockholm syndrome, but actually it's because have you seen the world out there?
"with capitalism rising prices exponentially, you really think i'd want to go back to a life where there isn't a man who wants to forcefully take care of my living expenses in exchange for pussy?"
Kyle visibly bristles at that. "technically, it's not just for that—"
"well, fuck—" you laugh, turning to face the mirror so you can continue with your skincare routine. "if that's all it takes for me to be your pretty little human blow up doll in this little cabin in the middle of nowhere, away from all the noise and political bullshit, i would've been nicer to you ages ago."
it physically pains him to hear you call yourself that.
"if i wanted a blow up doll, i would've ordered one online." he says.
in fact, he did at one point. one that looks exactly like you. and every other sex toy he's gotten before that was used to get off to the mere thought of you. vibrators, cock rings, fleshlights, you name it, he's got it.
"i didn't take you away from the rest of the world because i wanted a doll to play with. i took you because i can't fathom the thought of not breathing the same air as you for the rest of my life." which is only the short version of what he truly feels but he's becoming progressively more and more upset that he can't find it in him to fully articulate that.
the wide eyed stare you give him as you try to compute what he's telling you is too damn cute. but his bubble is popped when all you respond with is laughter. a short chuckle with the shake of your head as you pick up another bottle from the dresser.
"you must've gotten your wires crossed."
it's sardonic. dismissive, even. slotting his feelings for you into a form of insanity. concluding that you being the choice of such heinous actions had to have been a mistake.
and he's made plenty in his life. far too many to count. but you weren't one of them.
his frown deepens. "and why is that, love?"
"with a face like that, i doubt that you have a hard time getting anyone to fuck you. and yet, you decided to pick me, of all people, to be the one you're stuck with." when you finish applying your moisturiser, you turn around and smile at him. "but that's okay. i'll be the best sex doll a deranged man such as yourself could ever ask for. i won't whine or complain about a damn thing and you never have to worry about me trying to run away again."
it dawns on him that you think he abducted you for all the wrong reasons and it doesn't sit right with him that genuinely believe them. the mere thought of being a plaything doesn't even phase you. it doesn't upset you in the slightest. in fact, he thinks it's the only answer you do accept because you believe you can't possibly be good for anything else.
"no, love—" he's cut off with a sweet peck to his lips.
"goodnight, my love." you pat his shoulder and leave the room.
he supposes that this is the best outcome. a captive that can't escape is one who doesn't want to leave. but he didn't think it would be this easy.
he thought you would understand what his actions meant when he took you. that you're his moon and stars, the light of his light that he wants to keep safe. that you are the reason he strives to keep living. the only reason to believe in a god that has long since forsaken him.
and you don't even believe you're worth more than something to keep his bed warm.
Kyle thinks he's going to cry himself to sleep.
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livecrow · 2 months ago
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cw: nonsexual cnc (?), bondage, gn!reader
reader who overworks themselves so bad with everything they do, refusing to take breaks or even slow down because they think they aren't allowed to, things will go bad if they rest, they don't deserve the rest. constantly tired, stressed, burned out and on the edge but still pushing forward - vs price who's had enough of seeing his little love tear themselves apart like that and decides that, after countless gentle heart to hearts; countless attempts to get them to rest for a day at least, he won't let them keep going like that. so the natural response for someone like him is to catch his sweetheart when they're at their most vulnerable - the few hours of sleep they let themself get at night - and simply ties them to the point of being unable to move. turns off the alarm, holds them when they wake up and quickly calms the fear response by making his presence known. explains why they're in the state they are in right now, gently shushing their concerns and tells them he'll care of everything. feeding them, bathing them, entertaining them, adjusting the tie if needed, anything they ask him for, except to be let out.
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livecrow · 2 months ago
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Warnings for manipulation and gaslighting but…. Price replacing your ADHD meds with fake pills then gaslighting you that nothings changed, maybe you’re just not meant for things like… you know- a job, paying the bills, stuff like that.
After all, he doesn’t mind having his wife occasionally wandering around confused and unable to think or having bursts of hyperactivity if it means he gets to keep her home and dependent on him. Don’t worry, he’ll take care of you. It’s better this way anyways. You don’t need those silly meds, all you need is your loving husband and a bit of patience.
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