livecrow

[livecrow]

You have the most wrinkly, wet, foldy brain ever. Love the way you write for us fat readers, its rare to find accounts that write for that. So all the love to you and my biggest thanks 🙏🫶Thank you for letting us enojy your amazing writing.

-🦭

brb crying

You are so incredibly sweet! I know how reading something that I truly related to touched me, so the idea that I could give that feeling to other people like me makes me so pleased.

[livecrow]

wanna read virgin/inexperienced x reader fics so bad but they're all barely fucking adults.

i need spinsters goddammit.

[livecrow]

I pinky-promise you guy's will regret encouraging enabling me. I'm squinting at said draft right now.

...I literally compare this guy's dick to the tamper of a Vitamix blender.

So.

A conniption came over me and I now have a mostly complete, albeit messy, non-COD thing in my drafts for a fandom I'm not in and for a show I don't even fucking watch.

Should I even finish it? Especially if I'm not gonna post it? Should I post it here? It'd be a 1000% one-off thing.

Ngl it feels weird to shove a completely diff fandom in all of your faces. Like, I'm pretty sure there's ZERO crossover with COD.

I'm peeking at said fandom from a safe distance through binoculars. It's a slightly(?) controversial, albeit popular show. Idk or care enough to look further into any of the discourse.

I'd be low-key embarrassed to post it, but I'm also conflicted because, there's like no fat readers or fat character rep so i feel bad for the fat readers with no content for them.

Should I post on the off-chance someone might like it even if it's not necessarily that accurate? I literally only looked clips and wiki summaries so that it makes sort of sense.

Would some of you enjoy a non-con fat reader thing regardless of the source material?

Just to be clear, I never intended this blog to be COD exclusive anyway, just whatever I felt like—but I'm not getting into that one, lol.

[livecrow]

So.

A conniption came over me and I now have a mostly complete, albeit messy, non-COD thing in my drafts for a fandom I'm not in and for a show I don't even fucking watch.

Should I even finish it? Especially if I'm not gonna post it? Should I post it here? It'd be a 1000% one-off thing.

Ngl it feels weird to shove a completely diff fandom in all of your faces. Like, I'm pretty sure there's ZERO crossover with COD.

I'm peeking at said fandom from a safe distance through binoculars. It's a slightly(?) controversial, albeit popular show. Idk or care enough to look further into any of the discourse.

I'd be low-key embarrassed to post it, but I'm also conflicted because, there's like no fat readers or fat character rep so i feel bad for the fat readers with no content for them.

Should I post on the off-chance someone might like it even if it's not necessarily that accurate? I literally only looked clips and wiki summaries so that it makes sort of sense.

Would some of you enjoy a non-con fat reader thing regardless of the source material?

Just to be clear, I never intended this blog to be COD exclusive anyway, just whatever I felt like—but I'm not getting into that one, lol.

[livecrow]

what if you shaved your bush into a grown out landing strip and sent a pic to Soap with no explanation besides:

"look, we match"

[livecrow]

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.

[livecrow]

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

[livecrow]

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

[livecrow]

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

[livecrow]

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.

[livecrow]

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. ❤️

[livecrow]

:^)

that feel when

by virtually every metric

you're unambiguously inadequate

and you don't know what the fuck is Wrong with you

[livecrow]

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.

[livecrow]

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.

[livecrow]

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

[livecrow]

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.

[livecrow]

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