😳

REQUESTS ARE CLOSED FOR NOW

1,321 posts

[scarafvcker]

welcome to my account!!💕

💕about me💕

my legal name is scara fvcker. (real)

21 ;; she/they ;; serenitea pot lover <3

💕the scara fucker oath💕

“i, scara fucker (name), vow to devote every ounce of my being into fucking scara. every ounce of my body, mind, and soul is fully scara’s. i mustn’t rest until scara is content.”

💕masterlists💕

💕works in progress💕

💕more info💕

blog started ~ june 30, 2023

[scarafvcker]

gulp..

[crashingcryptid]

Operation drop off a birthday present at Simon's barrack door while he was in the gym was a go. You had bribed Price with two packs of his favorite cigars to find out this sacred information, and you wouldn't let it go to waste.

You were sure Simon didn't want to celebrate his birthday. He didn't seem the type to make a big deal out of these days, especially since he kept his birthday so secret. After you double-check that the hallway is empty, you make your way to Simon's barrack.

You set down the large gift bag, making sure the card was placed neatly on top before setting the small bouquet of yellow roses beside the bag. Gift placed, now to complete it, you had to high tail it to your barrack. You whip around to speed-walk back towards the room and slam right into Simon's chest.

"Fuck!" You grunt, almost falling right on your ass buy Simon grabs hold of your shoulders to keep you steady. You feel your face flushing, looking up at him like a kid caught stealing cookies.

"What are you doing, Sergeant?" He challenges as he looks behind you. The gift bag stirs up a little warmth in his chest as he looks back at you.

"I asked Price for your birthday so I could give you a gift. You said your room gets cold, so I made you a blanket." You reply shakily, slowly raising a hand to rub your sore nose.

"You made me a blanket?"

"Yeah. I crochet in my free time - Why is your chest so hard, Jesus christ..." You grumble, checking your fingers for blood. Simon chuckles dryly, wrapping an arm around you and squeezing you to his side.

"Thank you, Y/N... Why did you get me flowers?" You wrap an arm around his back, looking up at him for a smile.

"Yellow in flower code means friendship. Also, I think people should give out flowers more." You explain happily, stepping away when he lets you go. "Happy birthday, Simon."

He looks back at you, a smile clear under his mask as he reaches out and pats your head. "Thank you, Y/N."

He presses the flowers into a frame with your letter, and your blanket stays in his apartment.

[im-not-a-pleeb]

The Whitechapel Murders

Ripper!Simon Riley x High Society Fem!Reader

After getting lost in the notorious Whitechapel district, you run into famed serial killer Jack the Ripper without even realizing it's him.

cw: elements of dubcon I think, psychological torment (?), descriptions of murdering/violence, reader makes it home safe.

2.3k Words

"You're not gonna scream, are ya girl?" The man's voice is low and raspy, thick with an accent you can't quite place

You shake your head, eyes wide and frantic to placate him. I'm no trouble, they say. I'm harmless, don't hurt me.

"Right answer."

A03

Rain glistened over the slick cobblestone streets and droplets caught in your hair. It was barely more than a fine mist, but the rain in London never truly stopped. The weather was a blessing in disguise, you supposed, because it helped to mask the horrid stentch of waste and smog that seemed to cling to these streets like an urchin.

You scurried through this darkened part of town, clutching your mantle coat tightly to ward off the impending chill. Alone, the buildings stood taller and the alleys were blacker. Things appeared more menacing at night, for night was when the thieves and scoundrels came out to rob and scare. Night was when the whores wandered and flaunted even more brazenly than in the day.

Drunken laughter spills with the light from a nearby pub and you quicken your pace.

Curse your older sister and her secret lover. Cynthia was supposed to have been chaperoning you for the evening but instead she had ditched you for Mr. Bradling. You weren't interested in ratting her out to father, but it was mighty tempting about now. You were thoroughly peeved that she'd insisted you find your own way home alone at this hour.

"You'll be alright." She had encouraged, shooing you away like a pesky little insect. "Just go, and don't talk to anyone."

"And look out for the Ripper." Mr. Bradling added cheerily. The comment earned him a sharp smack from your sister.

"Don't scare the poor thing."

"I'm not scared." You had rebutted.

But you were. You were terrified that someone would leap out of the dark and hold you at knife point any moment now. Every shadow seemed to coil and writhe, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.

You had no idea where you'd ended up but it certainly wasn't the familiar safety of your well kept neighbourhood. No, this part of town was rough. Gritty. It smelt of decay and piss and factory smoke (that would surely take more than a few washes to get out of your clothes).

Should you be attacked, you'd have no idea where to run to. With your luck you'd probably find yourself fleeing deeper into this wretched borough.

The shrill shreik of a nightguard's whistle sounds a few streets down, startling you. You practically jump out of your skin, ice skittering down your spine as you realize your worst fear was coming true.

You're frozen- shock still on the sidewalk while you try and force your brain to think of what to do next, when a man barrels straight into you.

He knocks you into the narrow space between two buildings, trapping you within the filthy alley before you can do so much as let out a yelp. One hand shoves at your waist and pins you back against the grimey bricks and the other curls around your throat, ensuring your silence.

"You're not gonna scream, are ya girl?" The man's voice is low and raspy, thick with an accent you can't quite place.

You shake your head, eyes wide and frantic to placate him. I'm no trouble, they say. I'm harmless, don't hurt me.

"Right answer." He leans in close, breath too close to your ear and filtering down your throat.

Obscenely, you muse that this is perhaps the closest you've ever been to a man. Your heart jackrabbits in your chest with some wild mix of fear and.... something terribly improper.

The man takes a deep, unhurried breath of your expensive perfume, nose brushing against your pulse point and your knees buckle. The only reason you don't crash to the muck at your feet is because he's holding you up now.

You can barely see him through the dimness. It doesn't help that the collar of his coat is turned up high and the rim of his top hat tugged low, obscuring much of his face. What you can see though, is a nose with a jagged angle to it and a scared lip, curled up in a sneer.

He flexes his fingers, leather of his gloves creaking and he trails his hand up your ribs, skimming over the side of your bosom before falling away from your body entirely. You shiver from more than just the cold.

Improper.

The man tilts his head, assessing you in the same manner as you do him. The fine clothes, the ribbon coming undone from your ringlets, your delicate pearl necklace resting on clean skin. It's obvious that you aren't from around these parts. Painfully so. Perhaps if you simply gave him all your valuables, he would let you go unscathed and you could find a policeman to escort you back home.

"Please." You stammer, trembling fingers reaching back to fiddle with the impossibly delicate clasp. "Take my pearls. And my purse. Just- please don't hurt me."

The man shakes his head and gently brings your wrists back down to your sides.

"Don't wan' that." He grunts.

"Then... what is it you do want?" Comes your timid reply.

"Nothing, darling. Nothing at all, just keep quiet 'nd don't fret your lovely little head." He tucks a stray curl behind your ear, the motion feeling unnervingly sinister. "What's a pretty bird like you doing in this part of town, love? It's a mite more dangerous than you're used', I reckon."

"I... I got lost, Mister." Your hands clutch the front of your coat and twist anxiously. An amused rumble rises in his chest. A ragged laugh, you think.

"Lost, hm? Silly girl. Shouldn't be wandering all alone in a place like this. 'Specially at night. 'Specially with a murderer on the loose. The papers say he's quite deranged." His teeth gleam white in the darkness, but it's not a smile. More of a baring. Dull. Eager to rip into sacrificial flesh.

"I don't read the papers." You admit. "My father doesn't let me."

"Doesn't he now?"

You shake your head.

"But he lets you wander about London at night? All by yourself?" He pulls your coat around you tighter, like how one might bundle a child before sending them out to play. Like he doesn't want you catching a cold. It could have been a considerate gesture but it feels wrong coming from a stranger.

"He doesn't let me do that either. I'm not supposed to be here. Like I said, I got-"

"You got lost." He nods, eying you in a way that makes you want to slip out of your skin. "You're just lucky that I found you first and not some maniac or drunk."

"Or the Whitechapel Murderer." You tack on waveringly.

"Clever girl." He burrs. "So you do know about the killings."

"Bits and peices."

He smiles at that. A horrible smile like you had just told some kind of sick joke.

"D'you want to know how he does it?" The stranger asks abruptly.

You didn't. You'd rather not know about the murders at all, but your sister was facsinated by the articles and often discussed them at supper. Despite the desperate shake of your head, he tells you anyways.

"I'm willing to bet he lures them into a dark corner just like this one." He begins, crowding you against the side of the building. He gathers the material of your dress and hikes it up your thigh, fingers crawling on flesh like an unwelcome spider.

"Get's em nice n' distracted with a hand up their skirt. Maybe dips a finger or two into their cunt."

You gasp at his vulgarity as he traces the seam of you over your undergarments, eliciting a cruel chuckle from him. More of a choked guffaw, really. A wretched noise.

"And then, when they're puttin' on their whore show..." he murmurs, lips brushing yours, "...he slits their throat."

A single gloved finger drags across your neck and there's a wicked gleam to his eyes when he spots your goosebumps. That same finger trails down to your necklace, giving it a harsh tug before continuing it's path and tracing along your collarbone. It trails down the buttons of your coat and upon reaching your stomach, hooks inside the garment.

"Then I reckon he takes a blade to the belly and guts 'em like a fish." He snarls with such ferocity that spittle lands on your cheek. The finger yanks your from coat, ripping it open and scattering buttons along the uneven stones below.

You whimper and squeeze your eyes shut in an attempt to ward off the dreadful images of brutality his touch evokes.

Footsteps approach rapidly from beyond the backstreet, echoing off the vacant storefronts. Your heart pounds and the man catches your quickened breaths. A surgical eye, he has. It misses nothing.

"Think that's him, darling?" He slips a knee between your half exposed thighs and leans in to nip at the side of your neck. "Think ol' Jack 's come to get you too?"

"Oh, please." You gasp fearfully, clutching at his lapel.

Unfortunately, you've always had a runaway imagination. Your mind conjures up a man to match the footfalls. Tall and evil, a blade gleaming in what little moonlight that filters through the clouded night. Terror rises inside you, swelling into a crescendo and leaking out of your throat before-

"Oi!" Someone barks, and your eyes flutter open. A bobby stands at the mouth of the alley and frowns at the pair of you. "This ain't bloody' lovers lane. I'd get back inside if I was you. The madman's struck again."

Your cheeks burn red, mortification blooming at what it must look like to an onlooker. A man and woman tucked away into the privacy of the shadows? Her clinging to him and gasping while he embraces her so intimately?

You rip your skirts from his grasp and tug them back down to grant you what modicum of propriety you have left.

The stranger slowly pulls away from the crook of your neck like he's reluctant and turns to the copper.

"Blimey. Tonight?"

"Looks that way, lad." He confirms in a thick Irish brougue. "The- ah... wounds... look fresh." His eyes dart to you and he changes whatever it was he was going to say into something less grotesque in the presence of a lady. Really, you're just glad he still thinks you a lady after the falsely provocative scene he had stumbled upon.

"I'd best get her home then, safe and sound." The man speaks. "Thank you, officer."

Before you can protest and ask for a proper escort home, the policeman bids you both a goodnight and heads off down the street. It leaves you beneath this man you don't even know- who seems to be intent on scaring you and god only knows what else.

And you still don't have a clue how to get home.

Simon watches with perverted glee as you grow dazed, paling worse than a ghost when the reality of your position sinks in.

Another murder. Tonight. Just on the next street over and moments before he ran into you. A wicked man on the loose and killing young women for no true reason the police could discern. You could have been next.

You could have been next.

And you might have been next, but no. You, little lamb, were sweet. Timid. You avoided the slaughter because you were everything those sluts weren't; soft, tender. Virgin, he was sure.

Seeing you so completely terrified had something akin to pity tug the void where his heart should be. Sympathy, but not quite. He would have killed you just the same as the others. Lord, it would have been easy. And two in one night? The thought thrilled him like no other.

But the cops had been coming quick lately. There wouldn't have been enough buffer for a second kill, so he used you as his alibi instead. That didn't mean he couldn't toy with you in the upcoming weeks, though. Despite his baser instincts still simmering beneath his skin, he does his utmost to temper the lust for blood, and softens for his own benefit.

"I'm sorry for scarin' you, luvie." He curls his fingers around your arm in case you really do faint. "I get carried away sometimes and I forgot that a thing like you is used to more delicate conversation."

"It's alright." You whisper, shock starting to seep into your conciousness.

He slings an arm around your waist when you sway, keeping you at a strategic distance. He kept his work tidy. Always did, but these things were never perfectly clean.

As long as you didn't get too close, you wouldn't notice that his collar was turned up to hide the splatters of blood on his cheek. You wouldn't notice the scalpel tucked safelty away in his breast pocket, nor the fresh blood that was growing sicky beneath his gloves. It was hot and viscous and fully caked into his knuckles by now.

"Let me walk you home, yeah? Get you back to your bed safe and sound like I promised the officer?"

You nod vacantly and it's all too easy to guide you back into the empty streets. A fawn, too naive to fear the hunter. One who knew nothing of the dangers ever-present to a creature as dainty as you. As trusting.

It's endearing, the way you flinch at every sound. Every bottle broken, every angry shout. Even his careful touch has you shying away from him. That hardly surprised him, though.

He would bring you home to your (no doubt wealthy) neighbourhood just as promised. Though the temptation was there, he wouldn't harm even a single hair on your head. Maybe later, once he knew where you lived and the patterns of your days, he could insert himself into your life and play the part of a respectable gentleman. An attentive new suitor. One you would come to depend and rely on wholly.

Yes. He would sink his hooks into you not as the notorious Leather Apron, but as the respectable Mr. Riley.

And the best part? You'd never have any idea how close you'd come to heaven tonight.

Chat, we might be back to writing? I might have overcome the worst of my brainfog for now? Lets go?? AHHHH this was so fun to write, even if it took me months of coming back to it! Thank you for reading ♡

I have so many plans that I can't share with you rn because the haters will sabotage me. (I'm superstitious and if I tell you, they aren't going to get finished. BUT I'm locking in again, and we'll see what happens)

[scarafvcker]

y’all know that one scene in rdr2 where arthur is pissing………… i need to be kneeling in front of him ngl

[scarafvcker]

replaying literally rn……….. gulp

[scarafvcker]

is still being called scarafvcker false advertisement bc i’ll be real i haven’t thought of him in like.. a year……. gulp

[succubusvalentine]

ᴘᴇʀᴠᴇʀᴛᴇᴅ ᴋɴɪɢʜᴛ ꜱɪᴍᴏɴ ʀɪʟᴇʏ ɴꜱꜰᴡ

Knight Riley caught you stealing. You had to do it, in your defence. No money to afford food, a person finds other ways to survive.

"Stupid thief." Simon muttered, pushing you into the dungeons. You'd been here a few times. You'd stay overnight, he'd let you out in the morning. "OUT!" He barked at the other knights. Your brows furrowing in confusion—he'd never done that before.

"Need to make sure you aren't hiding anything else you've stolen since you're a repeat offender." Simon mutters, standing behind you and rubbing your waist and hips. Your body tensing.

You'd never admit it, but you loved the bickering between you two. The back and forth, push and pull.

You gasp quietly as he then groped your breasts, and you turn your head to the side, eyeing him with a raised brow.

"Thorough." Simon smirked. He tore his glove off with his teeth, slipping a hand through a hole in your dress, just over your thigh. His hand grazing your folds. "No panties?"

"Can't afford them." You glare, letting out a small squeak when his index finger slips inside you. "Must you make sure I am not hiding anything inside me?"

Simon chuckled, curling his fingers into your spongey spot. "As I said, thorough."

You moan quietly, grasping Simons hand and bringing it up to cover your mouth. Echoes went far in the dungeons, you weren't taking that chance.

Though you'd thought about your moans, you hadn't thought about the fact your pussy was dripping and with every movement of Simons fingers, a loud squelch followed.

Your eyelids flutter as his hand moves faster, moaning into the hand covering your mouth.

"Swear I can feel something." Simon teases, causing you to roll your eyes. Though all the sarcasm in your bones immediately left as your orgasm drew closer. You gently yet frantically tap Simons arm. Moans getting more frequent, thighs trembling—though Simons muscular arm kept you from toppling forward.

You bit down on his hand as your orgasm swept through you. Eyes rolling back and a squeal coming from your throat.

Simon fucked you on his fingers through your orgasm, his fingers slowing as you came down from it.

Simon slowly uncovered your mouth. And he licked your slick from his fingers before wrapping that arm around your waist; allowing you to lean forward against it.

"What the-What in the gods are you doing?!" You demanded as Simon lifted you over his shoulder.

"Gods, as if I would allow you to stay in here. You'd be more of a mess than you already are." Simon hummed, spanking your ass when you mimic him in a deep voice.

⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧

Buy my cat a treat? (•˕ •マ.ᐟ

[fictitioussaturday]

Yes, it's been done before, but the idea of Ghost tapping the tip of his dick against Reader's clit and calling it kissing makes me swoon. Like, big, nasty man pinning you down, spreading your legs and just teasing you until you're begging for more than a "kiss"?

I'm feral

[total-killer-brainrot]

Grabbing Ghost's arm to get his attention and immediately forgetting what you were going to say. Eyes going wide as you squeezed his bicep.

"I... uh..." You feel your face grow hot at you grope him. Feeling the muscle tense below your fingers.

"Did you fuckin' want somethin'?" He glares down at you.

[scarafvcker]

hed have to surgically remove my mouth from his bicep after that

[scarafvcker]

y’all know that one scene in rdr2 where arthur is pissing………… i need to be kneeling in front of him ngl

[valkoayin]

. ꜝꜞ➴ʷᵃᶰᵈᵉʳᵉʳ ➴ꜝꜞ. (@Wanderersimp3)

ঔৣ۝ ⋆*･ﾟ☽ {𝑾𝒆𝒍𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒚 𝑷𝒂𝒈𝒆!} ☾ :*･ﾟ ۝ Name: Haichi 𝐈 𝐋𝐈𝐊𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋𝐒 𝙿𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚜➳ He/She ...

wanderer is back stealing stories, if you are tagged, just know that he has taken your work without permission. his current tumblr url is @wanderer4waffles

new tumblr url: @hikarusimp3

**Edit: a lot of these books have already been deleted, but the tagged authors have the right to know about this user and how he's going around stealing and translating works without permission.

HIS HONKAI STAR RAIL BOOK IS STILL UP!!

https://www.wattpad.com/story/390176592-❝𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐊𝐀𝐈-𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑-𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐋-❞-✓

final edit: he finally deleted his honkai star rail book 😋

authors / writers he has stolen from:

@quinsilie | @doucmyheart | @yurilvr4 | @terriyeah | @grayalreadyis | @julysn | @beepboopkek | @illumeew | @if-loves | @heliosunny | @diz-eaze | @miyaz6ki | @muvlanc | @aellesira | @brunokiss | @if-loves | @celestemona | @kkai-zen | @kelpies-inthe-marsh | @admirxation | @spears-literature | @minxlivesforu | @p3anut-brain | @chiscaralight | @bugsbia | @tragicdruid | @synqiri | @quimichi | @scarafvcker | @iceunhie | @rene-darling | @anantaru | @yzashaven | @odoraful | @sixosix | @xazse | @shizukano | @zph | @hitomisuzuya | @bluelockmaniac | @jinxlixir | @r0ttenhearts | @taintedtort | @259kmvn | @allfearstofallto | @otomeyotsu | @seoulmatez | @maissafespace | @laughingfcx | @rindreamery | @jifloulette | @ryescapades-archived / @ryzheling | @kenyummy | @glamourscat | @simplyvyn | @bluelockmaniac | @retroaria | @hayatoseyepatch | @aciddrattboyy | @cutecatlov3r | @uravitypng | @dangopango00 | @wabatle | @melovrs | @ninibeingdelulu | @xo-adeline | @xxknockoutxx | @a-ikuoliver | @chocochozi | @heartmaddie | @blondeboyfriend | @lumiambrose | @earthtooz | @x-noechi-x | @hxnbi | @enassbraid | @hoejosatoru | @kingkatsuki | @11rosebunny | @that-one-p00k1e | @icypopz | @thinkingotherwise | @schrodingers-romy | @aeruia | @honeyrokoi | @megutime | @momodita | @fanged-fanfics | @lohotine | @juricel | @umbrella-show | @lycheebloom | @poorxsouls | @speed-world | @lazilybeinglassie | @kleptokure | @cloudyynebulas | @saranghoeee | @bunni-v1 | @honestcompassion | @sleepingdeath-light | @snail-noodle | @pukefactor | @quimichi | @mewnbuns | @ariichive | @n0tamused | @blueberrisdove-sideblog | @felibrary | @chokifandom | @ddarker-dreams | @sqgeism | @mystt-mystt | @riaruu | @aventurineswife | @madam-herta | @lampridius | @harmonysanreads | @cyofii | @todoriin | @lilbabypanda-blog2 | @lvzrii4 | @xiao-come-home | @zyxoxox | @358jours | @lilylovestowrite | @milksnake-tea | @halovians | @lowkeyren

[livecrow]

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 (Ghost is just fucking with you)

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.

[freaksteur]

Hello hello hello!! Absolutely DIABOLICAL brain worms today. uhhh yeah…. GN!Reader with Simon.

(nsfw)

Simon liked to carry his gun on him at all times.

When people would ask him why? ‘For safety,’ he’d be quick to respond, as if that’s all he was using it for…

Sure, it was for safety, but when his pretty little dove looked so sweet? It couldn’t just be for that.

Simon was the type of man to have his hand on the back of your neck when you two were rough-fucking. Holding your face down into the pillow below, watching you slobber over it — as he pounded you from behind, your hips arched to meet his thrusts.

He loved doggy style.

He loved it because his cock would drill you perfectly on the spot deep inside you that made you scream. But also because you couldn’t see his hands before they moved.

He carried his gun around with him to protect you.

But also to pick up when you’re oh-so-close to cumming — loading it, making sure you hear the click — and pressing it to the back of your head.

‘Good sluts will wait to cum,’ He’d mutter. It wasn’t just a phrase to get you riled up — he meant every word.

He pressed it tighter. ‘You will wait. Cum before my word, and I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out.’

… Hell, if that didn’t make you melt.

Your moans only got more lewd. More hoarse — begging, sobbing for him to let you cum — feeling his thick cock drill you full. It made your stomach feel way too hot. That familiar knot building in your gut.

He’d pull out before you got a chance to cum. His rough, calloused palm painfully slapping your sopping, gaping and abused hole.

He’d pause, hearing you whine, a shiver wracking through you.

Then, he’d drag the cold head of the gun down from your neck, tracing your spine. It made you convulse — but he held you still.

The metal, still frozen to the touch, heavy in his hands — tapping against your entrance.

The next thing you know — he’s filling you again, with the gun.

‘Cunt up, slut,’ was all he said — but it still made you see stars.

The sopping walls welcomed the gun — your toes curling behind you, jaw dropping slack — as he buries the gun to the trigger. All the cold, heavy metal pressing against all your hot, gushy walls. You tried to hold the whines and whimpers tumbling from your lips like a prayer.

He fucked you rough.

Probably ruining his favourite gun… but he could always go and get a new one, of course.

He’d never put a gun in his mouth for as long as you were beside him — but the moment you came, gushing out all your sweet, sweet juices, he put the barrel in his mouth and lapped it clean.

Filthy bastard.

… 🤗

[rawme-price]

Ghost who just cant handle his partner seeing him naked, doesnt even like having his bare skin touched.

Its just too much most days and on bad days reminds him of dark cellars and concrete walls. He tried to be normal for someone before, and that ended with blood stains on his bedroom carpet. Since then ghost resigns himself to never really being what someone wants.

Then you come along, and you seem totally fine to meet ghost where hes at. He expects you to ask for it eventually, but that moment never comes. Even three months into the relationship and you still turn around so he can eat without having to lift his mask every bite. Its...really nice. He never knew having a partner as considerate as you are would be a possibility for him.

Then he starts getting these...urges. nothing hes not felt before, but usually he could jerk off and be fine. Now? Now he wants you and only you. His hand wont work and the one time he tried a toy was pathetic and just left him upset.

So he brings it up one night while watching a movie. Its always easier to confess stuff when you dont have to look eachother in the eye. "I...I want to...I want to fuck you. I think."

Youre quieter for a breath, letting his words stand for just a moment. "You think?"

A gentle prod, it always is with you. "Yes. I...I really want you. I wake up so fuckin' hard just dreaming about you, but..."

"But you dont want to be touched. Or seen." Not an accusation, just a statement.

"Yes."

The movie plays on, and you shift a bit to half-face ghost. Hes fidgeting with the hem of the blanket without realizing. Anxiety bubbling because this is usually where people would ask him to get over it, and he- "okay. I can work with that."

Oh. Oh, okay. Ghost breathes hard for a second, forces the anxiety down long enough to watch you climb onto his lap. You motion between the clothed forms "dry humping can be just a fun, baby. And this way you can keep your clothes on. Here just lemme....yeah, there we go"

A whine unlike anything ghost knew he could make pulls out of his throat. Hands instinctively coming to grip your hips and push you down against his bulge. "Fuck- shit, baby thats...thats really good."

"Oh, I know sweetie, cmon ill show you just how good I can make it."

And by God do you, grinding against ghost in the most delicious ways. A hand coming down to palm at the outline of him until theres a wet patch forming, even then only letting up when tears cling to ghosts lashes.

Yeah, he cant stand people touching his skin, but you make that problem seem so small. With you, ghost feels just a little bit human.

[scarafvcker]

dry humping 🤤 ghost 🥺 dry humping and ghost!! 🥰😍

[dr-wormman]

And what if they were little critters. Huh. What then.

Otto and Arora are pigs because of their intelligence + high rate of conjoined twins + the class system in Animal Farm. Didn't want to do any ‘exotic’ type animal for them because I didn't want to, idk, prove them right by making them blatantly different/ ‘rarer’ than the others. Your blood ain't special!!

Phyllis is a cat wearing a goose’s face because I was thinking about a wolf in sheep's clothing type thing. Luring kids in with the face of a prey animal while actually being a predator. Also I just think kitty gooseberry is cute

:3

Franco and Coyle are pretty self explanatory I think lol

[konigs-lover]

(141?) reader who matches ghost’s non-intentional death glares perfectly and has no idea that ghost is obsessed with them and thinking reader is flirting HARD when really reader has no fucking clue because they look at everyone like that and are just zoning out lolz

AGGHHHHH reader always looking incredibly pissed off and glaring at everyone they’re so me <3

you’re a new soldier, sent over from laswell for one reason or another, and maybe you wear a mask too!! ugh that would be so good, maybe not a full face covering one like simon’s but must cover the bottom of your face, and from the moment you’ve been introduced to the team you’ve been glaring

laswell had warned price that you did that, but he was pretty surprised you actually could look so pissed every moment of your day

anyway ghost finds you intriguing, interested in the way you glare at him, a glint in your eyes that spoke interest in him (he’s delusional, poor man, you’re just glaring at him extra hard because of his mask)

and yeah he becomes obsessed pretty hard pretty quickly, you look incredibly beautiful and sexy with your mask, and goddammit you always look at him like he’s an asshole and he’s so into that

you’re standing in price’s office, debriefing about a mission? you’re glaring daggers at ghost, arms crossed, and he mirrors you, crossing his arms too, puffing his chest and glaring back at you, and he thinks you’re flirting with him, you must be with the way your eyes are so bright

you’re sitting in the mess hall eating and he finds you, your eyes already on him, and he’s so excited about that, but he can’t eat next to you for fear of losing his control and ducking you already, meanwhile you’re just zoning out, thinking about next missions or tasks you have to tackle

[scarafvcker]

freaking love this 😭

[aquaholicsanonymousworld-deacti]

A Clean Shave | Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Reader

She was watchin’ him again.

Arthur could feel it—same as feelin’ the sun on his back or the breeze off the river. She thought she was bein’ sneaky, standin’ there with that damn laundry basket like she wasn’t burnin’ holes clean through him with her eyes.

He sighed low, dragging the razor slow down his jaw, careful and steady. No hurry. Couldn’t be, not with a blade this sharp near his throat. And not with her there—lookin’ at him like that.

Christ. She had no business lookin’ at him like that.

Too young. Too soft. Too full of foolish dreams and trouble he wasn’t about to reach for.

But God, if he didn’t notice every time she hovered near. Or sat by the fire just to be close. Or glanced sideways at him when she thought he wasn’t payin’ attention.

He was always payin’ attention.

The razor scraped clean, smooth down his cheek. He dipped it in the basin, shaking off the soap.

"Enjoyin’ the show there, little miss?" he drawled without lookin’, eyes flickin’ sideways to catch the way she stiffened—caught good and proper.

Her mouth opened, stammering something about restin’ her arms. Poor damn excuse. Cute, though. Sweet. Made his chest twist the way it hadn’t in years.

He kept on shaving, hiding the smile that tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Gotta be careful starin’ at a man while he’s holdin’ somethin’ sharp, y’know."

"I ain’t scared of you," she shot back, brave as ever.

Brave. Foolish. Beautiful.

Arthur rinsed the blade again, watched the sun catch in her hair as she shifted her weight—feet nervous, but eyes bold.

"You're too young for me anyway. Oughta keep your pretty eyes on somethin’ else."

He meant it. Mostly. But it sounded weaker every time he said it. Like maybe he was tryin’ to remind himself more than her.

And then she said it. Soft, like it didn’t matter. Like she wasn’t wreckin’ him without even tryin’:

"I don’t care how old you are. Ain’t my fault you look like that."

Arthur nearly cut himself.

Christ.

His throat worked slow. Careful. The razor dragging clean along the curve, but his hand wasn’t as steady anymore. Not when she said things like that. Not when she meant it.

"Careful, girl," he muttered rough, the words low like warning and wish all at once. "You keep lookin’ at me like that and you’ll get ideas you got no business havin’."

I’ll get ideas I got no business havin’.

But she only smiled—damn trouble in that smile—and backed away slow, hips swinging like she knew exactly what she was doing. Like she wanted him lookin’.

"Guess I’ll have to get real good at hidin’ ‘em, then."

Arthur watched her go. And for the life of him, he wanted her to stay. But he didn’t call her back. Didn’t trust himself to. Not yet.