#feral reader insert
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So I had a thought
We all know Moon and his feral desperate attempts to get us sleep deprived peeps to bed
But what about those of us that LIKE sleeping?
I mean… REALLY like sleeping
✨Bonus and Tags✨
#hee hee#I constantly switch between#sleep is for the weak#and#sleeping for a week#wanted to show off a feral y/n#gremlin y/n#feral reader insert#gremlin reader#I had to draw Moons reaction#hope y’all like it#funny#fnaf daycare attendant#moondrop#daycare attendant#fnaf dca#fnaf moondrop#fnaf moon#this was very fun
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Based on Solar Lunacy: Chapter 13 by @bamsara
#fnaf security breach#dca fandom#solar lunacy#the daycare attendant#dca x reader#dca x y/n#dca x self insert#fnaf sun#fnaf moon#I'm still going strong I love this fic so much#I did catch back up with it and I really just could draw so much#there need to be more hours in the day#also you can tell I just really love the scenes where Moon is feral#not projecting#totally
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Just Like That
♡ Pairing: tfatws!Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader
♡ Summary: While you two were supposed to be repairing Sam’s boat, you end up giving Bucky head instead.
♡ Warnings: SMUT, blowjobs, deepthroating/face fucking, slight praise kink, literally no plot just filth
main masterlist
MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | 18+
He couldn’t stop his hips from thrusting into your lips, the way your tongue ran on the underside of his dick— tracing the bulging vein.
“Doll… oh my… fuckkk.” He moaned out, his flesh hand tangling their fingers into your hair.
You hummed, sending vibrations into his dick. The action had him gripping your hair tight, the slight pain from your scalp shooting straight to your core. The throb had you whining around his length.
“Making me feel s’ good baby.” He praised breathlessly, easing his grip on your hair— petting it down soothingly.
You flattened your palms on his thighs, pushing forward until the head of his cock bumped the back of your throat.
His hips bucked instinctively, almost crying out at the way your throat was squeezing him. He grabbed the doorway of the boat, the wood splintering in his metal grip.
You pulled all the way off of him, before swallowing his entire length again— gagging as his head hit deeper in the back of your throat.
“S’ fucking good baby…” He whimpered, his head tilted back in ecstasy.
You snuck a hand down, playing with his balls, letting your other hand pump his length. You glanced up at him— spit leaking from your lips. You watched with lust filled eyes as he panted and whined.
“James… you’re so hard,” You purred, his head snapping down at you, “Bet you’re close, huh?”
He let out a pathetic whine as you squeezed his balls—his face contorted in pain.
“Words baby.” You demanded, leaning forward to swirl your tongue around his head.
His hips twitched slightly, the sensation of your tongue massaging around his tip heavenly. He let out a deep moan, feeling your tongue lick over his slit.
“S’ close doll— just like that.” He praised, letting his fingers comb through your hair.
There was something about you kneeling before him, eyes glossed over with lust, as the tears trailed down your cheeks— that made him absolutely feral. The position was so submissive, yet you held all the power. He was melting at your touch— his body putty at your hands.
You pumped his achingly hard length, giving his tip kitten licks. With your free hand caressing his thigh, you could feel the muscle twitch under your palm.
“Gonna cum James?” You asked hoarsely, his hazed over eyes meeting with yours.
You captured his length again, deepthroating him until your nose was buried into the hairs at the base of his cock. You gagged again, the convulsion from your throat making him growl in pleasure.
“Oh… that— keep doing that baby fuck…” He begged, his hips having a mind of their own, rocking into your face.
You whined around him, trying to breathe through your nose as he began to fuck your throat.
You reached around, grabbing handfuls of his ass— kneading the flesh. The action only made his thrusts deeper, his moans needier.
His thrusts were harsher, his needs a priority and if he had to use your face to chase his high— so be it. You on the other hand, we’re dripping. Your pussy was throbbing, him manhandling you making your entire body tingle— ache with desire.
He was nearly crying, his pants mixed with whines, getting impossibly close to the edge. You whimpered around him, his sounds only edging you on.
“Fuck baby… yes— you’re fucking mine,” He growled, his length growing impossibly harder at the image of you crying around him, “All mine.”
Your nails dug into the skin on his ass, your face drenched in tears, salvia leaking out of your mouth and down your chin. You gagged again, spurring him on further, his thrusts quicker. He grabbed your head, fucking your face with such force and suddenly he was pushing impossibly deeper in your throat, your jaw aching.
With an animalistic groan, he was spilling his seed down your throat. His breathing slowing, the waves of euphoria flowing throughout him. He stayed like that for a moment, relishing the feel of your throat around him.
At last, he released his death grip on your head. Slipping his cock from your throat with a hiss, his head sensitive. You gasped, panting in attempts to fill your lungs with the needed air.
With hooded eyes, Bucky gazed down at you with pleasure hazed eyes. His cock twitched at your flushed face, the tears tracks mixing with your spit— and his cum that had snuck out. Your eyes were slightly bloodshot, but as you gazed up at him— you were looking at him with such desire. You looked as if you were just getting started, and you wanted to devour him again.
“Such a good girl.” He whispered, voice hoarse.
He cradled your face, caressing your clammy cheek. He gently pulled you up, helping support your swaying state. You leaned into his palm, holding his gaze with adoration.
“I love you James.” You spoke into his palm, placing a kiss on his rough skin.
“I love you more baby.” He told you, wrapping his metal arm around your lower back, pulling you flush to him. “Now, let me return the favor.”
#bucky barnes#the winter soldier#marvel cinematic universe#reader insert#sebastian stan#buckybarnes#marvel imagines#oneshot#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky barnes imagine#bucky barnes x you#bucky barnes fic#bucky barnes smut#beefy bucky barnes#the falcon and the winter soldier#tfatws bucky barnes#literally ruin me#like pls i need him to gag me#i’m feral
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Unexpected scorch
Part 1/4
Part 1 (you are here)/ Part 2 (next) / Part 3 / part 4
We gonna try and post the other parts of this small out of context comic every once in 7-8 hours or so..
So the rest is coming soon 👀
And Yes, I underwent another small style change and I'm throwing a fit.
Also! Happy one year of marriage to me and Sly today! Hurrayyy
#mod feral#Shut up feral#Today is the mod's marriage anniversary#Arts#Art#Comic#Comics#sundrop and moondrop x reader#sundrop x reader#sundrop x self insert#sundrop x oc#sundrop x y/n#sundrop x you#sundrop fnaf#sunrise fnaf#sunrise sb#I'll never get over the fact his name is sunrise and not sundrop
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Hierarchy of Needs.
Daryl Dixon x F Reader.
Notes: originally, i was gonna keep this one between me and my google docs, but it's kinda cute ngl so everyone gets to see it
Tags: Not SFW, set at the start of Alexandria era, takes place from Daryl's POV.
Word count: 10.5k.
Daryl is a hands-on type of man.
He was never one to dawdle, sitting in one place for too long made him squirm. He swore it could be an allergy or some shit. Gets him all itchy and shifting his weight from foot to foot. The problem is, given the general uncertainty surrounding their current living arrangements, Daryl’s limited on what he can and can’t do. For the first time since the dead started walking, he’s caught up in the invisible net of “social expectations”.
Normally, he wouldn’t give a damn, but this isn’t just about him. This is about Judith getting the nutrients she needs. Carl not having to figure out how many sips of his rapidly diminishing water canteen to take to avoid dehydration. The group that’s come to be his family, in every sense of the word, having a roof over their heads and some peace of mind at night. There’s too much on the line for him to screw this up.
So he’s just got to grin and bear it (without the grinning).
Another particular individual comes to mind — all bright smiles and what seems to him to be the physical embodiment of all that’s good in this decaying world — but he swats the thought away like a pesky gnat. In his heart of hearts, he knows he’s dealing with the uppity bullshit for everyone’s sake, but… maybe there is one person he’s putting in the extra effort for. The person that kept him from glaring at some old folk who were looking at him earlier this morning like he was some escaped convict, the person who he’d kill for if it ever came down to it. Someone he already has killed for.
“Got room for one more?”
Daryl almost jumps out of his skin at the abrupt awakening from his thoughts, though from anyone else’s perspective, it probably just looks like he’s scowling harder. It’s wholly unlike him to not notice someone’s approach, human or otherwise. He’s about to give a grunt of indifference before it clicks in his brain just who is standing before him.
It’s you, the person he’d swear he wasn’t thinking such mushy thoughts about even if someone tried to waterboard the information out of him. He has to blink a few times for your newly freshened-up appearance to sink in. Your skin is clean, not a spec of dirt or grime in sight, the same going for your hair. He can’t remember the last time he’d seen you wear it down. Since the colder months in the prison, maybe? It’s a good look on you. To be fair, he’d think just about anything would look good on you.
One of his shirts, for instance. He can envision it picture it now, clear as day—
He has to stop himself from chasing after that line of thought, recalling with mild embarrassment how he still has yet to answer you.
“Can’t stop ya.”
You roll your eyes at that, giving him a look that screams ‘oh really?’, but take a seat nonetheless. Daryl’s set himself up on the porch of the house the group’s been granted. Given the position of the sun in the sky, he figures it’s about noon now. The shift in time brought a volume change. This morning, he could hear the chatter coming from within like he was in the room, everyone having finally received a proper night’s sleep for the first time in who knows how long. It quieted down when the group dispersed to their newly assigned jobs, or in the case of others, to sightsee.
Daryl takes a long drag of his cigarette while you situate yourself next to him on the porch’s steps. He eyes your outfit from his peripherals, an odd wave of something inexplicable rushing over him at the sight. It’s a nice white blouse with some jeans maybe a size or two too large for you. He can’t help but give his garments a once over. They still show evidence of the rough past few months spent living on the road. Now that he thinks about it, everything about him probably sends that message. He’d yet to take a shower or do so much as clean his face.
Is that why the Alexandrians had been giving him the side eye? Everyone else had practically been tripping over each other at the opportunity to shower, whereas he couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d disregarded Carol’s comments about it and would likely do the same if anyone had the balls to bring it up to his face, but for some reason, having you in his general vicinity is making him feel uncharacteristically self-conscious. You’re not looking at him with disgust, or looking at him with anything really, just your trademark smile that made him feel like melting into a pile of happy goo.
“You didn’t feel up to going out and exploring?” You inquire, hugging a knee to your chest. He shakes his head. At this, you scoot closer, excitement radiating from your being. “Want to come check it out with me, then? It feels… weird going places by myself. We’d always pair up in twos at least. I feel like I’m betraying our unspoken buddy system.”
He snorts at that. “Nah, ‘ve seen all I need to already.”
He knows he needs to change the subject before you decide this is a venture worth pursuing. If you gave him those damn doe eyes and asked sweetly enough, he’d do just about anything you asked. Hell, you didn’t even need to do all that for him to almost always cave. This weakness of his went mostly unnoticed to himself (or maybe he didn’t want to acknowledge it), until Merle put two and two together. It didn’t take him long either. He’d asked none too quietly how his little brother ended up pussy-whipped in his absence. Daryl had almost converted when he realized some higher power stopped you from overhearing the comment.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t the last smarmy comment about you Merle was destined to make. If anything, that was one of the more forgivable remarks, since the brunt of it was directed at him.
No, the worst had come when Merle had been tasked with taking Michonne to The Governor. It was a regrettable final exchange between brothers all around. Daryl can’t recall exactly how the conversation had shifted to you, or the exact words that led up to that final gut punch, but he can still hear his brother’s mocking voice speak the sentence that’s haunted him ever since.
“You've been so busy drooling over her to realize, so let me spell it out for ya nice and slow. She ain't ever gonna want you the same way you want her. We're freaks to people like that. Nothing but redneck trash. And don’t you ever forget it.”
Daryl inhales deeply, the scent of cheap tobacco mixing with the shampoo you must’ve used. It’s light and sweet. Nothing could fit you better.
“Thought you’d be at the infirmary by now,” Daryl isn’t sure who he’s trying to distract anymore — you, or him. “Got ran off already?”
Your closed-mouth smile falters for a millisecond. Anyone else might not have noticed the nearly imperceptible change, but Daryl’s got a hunter’s eye, not to mention how attuned he is to your every mannerism. He’s ready to shove his personal woes aside if it means making room for yours.
“Well, that’s a way to describe it,” he can tell by your tone that you’re trying to keep the conversation lighthearted. How very like you. “When Deanna interviewed me, I not-so-subtly hinted at everything I had learned from Hershel. Although, to be fair, I talked up everyone from our group. I even defended Eugene’s honor like the man had won a Pulitzer. I would’ve said anything if it meant not getting thrown back out there.”
He nods, listening to your every word as if the secrets to the universe were held within.
“Anyway… I guess my sales pitch went purposefully unnoticed. She did say that she’d let the resident doctor know, but that he was ‘particular’ about how he goes about his practice. I think that’s politician talk for ‘not gonna happen’. She seemed eager to move on from the subject. So, for the time being, we’re both unemployed.”
Daryl has to will himself not to get distracted and laugh at your joke. He knows you don’t like to be ‘a downer’ (your words, not his), which leads you to hide negative sentiments behind that pretty smile. He gets it, because he does the same thing, utilizing a gruff exterior instead of your near-blinding charm.
“‘S stupid. Don’t let it get to ya.”
“Oh, I won’t,” you grin at him genuinely enough. He temporarily reassesses, wondering if he read you wrong, when your shoulders slightly slump. “I just really want this to work. We need this to work. The fact we lasted out there for so long, with a baby, is almost enough to have me asking Gabriel if he can send my regards to the big man in the sky.”
“It’ll work,” he tells you, his tongue working faster than his brain. You give him a hesitant nod. You know just as well as he does that there’s no way to make guarantees like that. Still, when Daryl’s so used to seeing you in bloom, having you wilt beside him hurts. Worse than a knife being twisted in his gut.
“Yeah,” your voice drops to a whisper then. You glance around, as if checking for prying eyes and ears, then continue when satisfied there are none. “I hope everyone else thinks so too. Rick looks to me like he's been thinking 'Viva La Vida' ever since we first set foot inside.”
Daryl searches the recesses of his brain to grasp at what your vague term means, squinting while he does so. He thinks he may have heard it in a history class at some point, in between playing hooky. Sensing his confusion, you elaborate, but not without throwing in a shitty French accent that has no business sounding as cute as it does.
“Révolution.”
You’re more perceptive than you let on, aren’t you? He wonders if Carol has been taking notes, considering the friendly-totally-not-threatening-cookie-and-casserole-making façade she’s recently adopted. He supposes it’s a bit different. You don’t actively hide your strengths, but you don’t go around advertising them either.
It was one of the first things Daryl noticed about you. In truth, he hadn’t given you much thought when he initially met you back on the side of the highway in Atlanta. He mentally categorized you as some city girl who’d probably complain about how the mosquitos are constantly biting or whatever. While you did express your fair share of disdain over the bloodsucking bugs, it was more of an icebreaker than anything. A way to loosen people up. Lighten the spirits when things got too heavy.
You were the opposite of Daryl in that way, a bonafide people magnet. He hadn’t given this quality of yours enough credit until he saw you bring a smile to Carl’s face soon after his mom’s tragic death. Then there was the way you cared for the people he found out on the road back in the prison days. They were often understandably closed off, disbelieving of the security the chain link fences supposedly provided. You made it a point to help bring them into the fold. No one asked you to, you just did it, because that’s the type of person you are.
Daryl brought people in, you made them feel at home. He cherished that little connection he had with you. It made him feel warm and fuzzy, like he’d downed enough liquor to feel buzzed without getting drunk. Everything about you was similarly stupefying and addicting.
When the prison fell, he thought all possibilities of restoring that connection fell with it. A silly thing to mourn, but he mourned it nonetheless, another line on a seemingly infinite list. Maybe… maybe it doesn’t have to be a figment of the past. If this place, Alexandria, is where your group decides to kick up their feet, he could start recruiting again. Look forward to seeing how you run over to greet the fresh faces upon hearing of his return.
It’s a nice thought. He’ll have to see if reality is anywhere near as kind.
“Rick’s just wary, ‘s all. Hard not to be. Y’know how it was out there. What we saw.”
“… Yeah,” you shift in your seat. “Well, at least these folks didn’t break out the salt and pepper when we walked through the gates.”
“Jesus Christ, woman.”
He can’t stop a single chuckle from slipping out, though he still cringes at the Terminus callback.
“Heard they got a shrink somewhere ‘round here. Might wanna look into that.”
“Hey, I said I’m trying to make this work, not end up in a Hannibal Lecter getup.”
You and your damn movie references. At least he’s familiar with this one. Sometimes he swore you and Eugene were speaking in another language when you two got on the topic of entertainment. Not being able to share that interest with you made him feel a certain way — a real shitty way.
“You’re the last one of us they’d throw out,” Daryl muses. You tilt your head at that, furrowing your eyebrows like when he’d first recounted the chupacabra story. He decides not to expand on the subject; it has too many of his feelings intertwined. Not worth the risk. “Unless they catch wind of your shitty sense of humor. Can’t say what’d happen then.”
You place a hand to your chest in faux indignation. “Well, Dixon, you laugh at my ‘shitty sense of humor’ more often than you don’t, so what does that say about you?”
A lot of things he can’t bring himself to admit out loud, mostly.
You give him a playful punch in the shoulder when he doesn’t dignify you with a response. The touch is so innocent, a mere brush of your knuckles against his skin, yet it throws his mind into temporary disarray. The effect you have on him could be subject to study; it’s as if every nerve in his body is set on fire. He feels warm, from his face to the tip of his ears. Then that heat drifts steadily downward. It’s then that he becomes fully aware of how close you are. How he can see your collarbones, and if he tilts his head at just the right angle, the start of some cleavage.
It’s got to be wrong, how much he desires you. The ways he desires you. It makes him feel ickier than the months without a proper shower ever could. You’re so bright, so kind, so good, he shouldn’t be lusting after you like some boy whose voice hasn’t broken yet. You trust him, he knows you do. He’s overheard you go so far as to call him one of your closest friends. Considering the far better options you have out there, he should feel blessed you even give him that much. Wanting anything more than that isn’t just greedy, it’s downright risky.
Daryl would never forgive himself if he made you the slightest bit uncomfortable, he’s given people shit for less. Someone could look in your general direction for too long and he’d start glaring.
Right when he starts willing himself to pull his head out of the gutter, you go to tie your hair up, effectively shutting any possibility of him doing that down. Your chest arches forward at the movement and he’s treated to a lovely view of your neck. You must sense the heavy way he’s staring at you, for you turn your head towards him. He doesn’t make the situation any better by shifting his attention ahead fast enough to almost give him whiplash.
“Are you planning on coming to that welcoming party tonight?”
Daryl has to bite back a groan at this topic of conversation. Why is everyone so damn interested in his attendance to some yuppie soiree? He knows that if the request is coming from you, it’ll steadily break his resolve down.
His facial expressions must have betrayed his thoughts, for you laugh. “I didn’t think so. I can’t blame you. I’m actually planning on bailing at the first opportunity I get.”
He raises an eyebrow at this. “Really? Can’t believe ’m hearing that from Miss Social Butterfly.”
“I think I’m more of a social caterpillar for the time being. It’s just, uh, a lot. I’m pretty sure Rick wants to put me on display as some sort of standup citizen like back on the farm. That I could handle. This, I’m not so sure. I don’t know the first thing about croquet. I feel like I’m lowering the GDP just by being in the general vicinity.”
He has to stop himself from gawking. He can’t fathom why you of all people would feel this way. That elderly couple who was staring him down probably would’ve fawned over you, pinched your cheeks and welcomed you in for quinoa. He’s about to voice this when your comment about the farm catches his attention more.
“The hell’d he have you do on the farm?”
“Oh, that’s right, you may not have noticed. I’d mostly situate myself in the areas Hershel was bound to come across with a Bible in my hands. Y’know, nodding my head and stuff, looking really into it. Worked like a charm. Tensions were high, but I think he felt slightly less inclined to send us packing knowing there was a God-fearing individual among us.”
He snorts, shaking his head in disbelief. You really were something else. He swears he could talk to you for hours if you allowed him.
“Try the Bible-thumping again. Might just do the trick.”
“Somehow or another, I doubt that. You’ve noticed it, haven’t you? The staring. I swear I saw some blinds being drawn when we all came out earlier.”
Of course he’d noticed. He’s likely half the reason behind it. “That’s what you’re ‘ere for. To get ‘em to stop looking at us like a damn circus act.”
“You and Rick are overestimating me. Maggie and Glenn have got it covered, little Judith adds brownie points too,” you tilt your head back to look at the cloudless sky. “Anyway, I figured if you planned on ditching, I’d invite myself along. Buddy system, remember?”
He flicks the cigarette out of his hands and onto the ground, extinguishing it beneath the sole of his boot. “Like I said earlier — can’t stop ya.”
Daryl silently praises himself for keeping up the cool and indifferent front when he’s internally celebrating over the prospect of having more alone time with you. What he wouldn’t give for more of that. He hasn’t the slightest damn clue why you seem to favor his company, but if there’s anything the apocalypse has taught him, it’s to accept a miracle when he’s handed one.
You smile at him as if he’d just offered you the world on a silver platter. It does too much to his poor heart.
“Great! It’s a date then.”
He almost chokes on his spit from how casually you say that, his eyes wide blown and jaw slacking. Fortunately, you’re none the wiser, standing up and patting the dirt off your jeans. The realization you’re about to leave makes him feel pathetically empty. He’d spent just about every moment of the past few weeks by your side, yet it wasn’t enough, he doesn’t think anything can be enough. The more of you he gets, the more of you he wants. You’re worse than the drugs his brother used to sing the praises of.
“Heading out?” Daryl can’t stop himself from questioning, no matter how obvious it might make him look. The porch steps already felt a whole lot emptier without you sitting beside him.
“Yeah, I promised to save Michonne if she wasn’t back in ten. She’s getting swarmed by children curious about her sword.”
“Good luck on your search n’ rescue.”
You give him a silly salute then, finishing the pantomime off with a bout of giggles. Then you’re off. Daryl exhales shakily, cursing himself for the way his heart’s pounding like he’d just run a marathon. He knows he needs to squash this lovesickness before it’s too late — if it isn’t already too late. He didn’t agree with Merle on a lot of things, especially when it came to you, but that last remark rings true. It’d be laughable for him to delude himself into thinking you feel anything but platonic affection toward him.
Especially with the options you have here in Alexandria. It may have been slim pickings before, but now, you might as well have an entire buffet laid out. You’re bound to catch the eye of some of the folk around here. If you could get him to like you, he figures you could win over almost anyone. Why would you give him the time of day when there are those clean-shaven, college-educated men running around like they own the place? If the world hadn’t gone to shit, that’s probably who you would’ve gone for.
It’s only because the world went to shit that you even know his name.
Watching how some Alexandrians wave at you, a gesture you animatedly return, he reaches for another smoke.
His brother’s words echo in his head, falling somewhere between a taunt and a warning.
“She ain't ever gonna want you the same way you want her.”
He would do well to remember that, wouldn’t he?
-
If someone told Daryl he’d died and gone to heaven, he’d believe them.
You’re leaning against one of the porch’s pillars, humming a tune to yourself, not having noticed his presence yet. He decides to keep it that way if it means he gets to admire you a while longer. You’re wearing a dark blue dress (he can imagine you correcting him and calling it ‘indigo’ or some shit), looking like an angel incarnate beneath the moonlight. It’s such a simple garment, stopping right above your knees, but to him, you might as well be wearing a ball gown. You’ve got those white tennis shoes that he saw you furiously scrubbing grass stains off of earlier today, the outline of a knife tucked away in them. His chest swells with pride at the knowledge you’re always ready to take care of yourself, thanks in part to his teaching.
Eventually, he manages to break himself free from his you-induced reverie, calling out your name to catch your attention.
You spin on your heel, placing your hands on your hips at the sight of him. “There you are. I thought my ditching buddy ditched me.”
He has to stop himself from saying he’d cross a river of broken glass barefoot if you were standing on the other side, instead settling on, “Aaron and Eric invited me over, figured you’d still be at the party. Did I keep ya waiting long?”
“No, you didn’t, I’m just being dramatic,” you revert back to your usual posture and grin. “It’s good. That they invited you over and you accepted it, I mean. Aaron’s a cool guy. Eric is too, from what I can tell. You guys have some manly bonding time?”
He rolls his eyes at the teasing lilt in your voice. “Mhm, sat around chuggin’ beer and talking ‘bout sports for hours. You?”
“Nothing of much note went down, just a lot of handshaking. I did get stuck talking to one of Deanna’s son for a while, though. I had to practically jump through hoops of fire to escape.”
Daryl swallows down the unpleasant taste that revelation leaves in his mouth. “You don’t like ‘im?”
“He’s… fine, I guess? Harmless enough. Just a really dry conversationalist, which to me, is a cardinal sin,” you stretch your arm above your head and Daryl has to stop himself from staring at how your skirt lifts up, revealing more of your shapely legs. Shit, he really does drool over you. “Oh, you’ll get a kick out of this. He invited me to a game of croquet. I was joking about that earlier, turns out I was right on the money.”
“You’re shitting me,” he deadpans.
“As much as I wish I was, no. God. I knew they’d be a bit sheltered here, but this… I don’t know. It worries me. I wish I could tell myself they can keep living this way, because that’s what they’re doing. Living. They really don’t know how bad it is. And if the bad ever makes its way here…”
You trail off, not needing to fill in the gaps for Daryl to piece it together. He gets what you mean. The entire group does. Carol thinks they’re children and Rick’s ready to take over at the drop of a hat. No one aside from you has expressed concern about their wellbeing out loud, although it’d been in the back of his mind when he saw there were children and old folk here. It’s this compassion of yours that brings him in like a moth to light. After everything you’d been through, you had every right to become a bitter husk of the woman you once were, but you haven’t.
And he thanks the God he isn’t sure he believes in for it.
After a moment’s deliberation, he sets his hand on your shoulder and squeezes. “It ain’t too late for ‘em. You learned. So can they.”
“Well, it did help that I had an excellent teacher.”
He grumbles a ‘shut up’ despite wanting you to do anything but.
Silence sets in for a few beats then. It takes him longer to notice this than it usually would, his head caught up in the near-euphoric experience of receiving a compliment from you. He realizes that he has yet to take his hand off your shoulder and has undoubtedly let it linger too long. He clears his throat, detaching himself from your person with some reluctance, suddenly taking an acute interest in the floorboards you’re both standing on.
Why is it still silent, save for the buzz of cicadas and the chirps of grasshoppers? Shit, did he cross some invisible line in the sand?
“Daryl?”
He grunts at that, not trusting his voice when his thoughts are at war with one another.
“You really are a good man.”
His head shoots back up and he’s searching your countenance for any signs of deception. You’re always teasing one another, this could be another instance of that. However, when your eyes meet his, he sees nothing but unabashed admiration shining in them. He doesn’t think he deserves to be looked at that way, much less by you of all people. You were looking at him like he was the second coming of Christ or something. It makes his stomach do backflips and his poor heart might go into cardiac arrest.
He tries to dismiss your claim with a lighthearted ‘nah’, not because he can’t accept the compliment, but because he doesn’t think it’s true. If you knew the way he thought about you, you’d take your words right back. Look at him the way people have his entire life. Disgust, maybe some pity. Doing what anyone would’ve done doesn’t make him a saint, no matter how hard you and Carol try to argue otherwise.
“You might not believe it, but I hope me thinking so suffices in the meantime,” you say, doing that creepy mind-reading thing you tend to be good at. “I’m truly grateful I met you. You make this life worth living.”
Should you keep going on like this, you might make him well up with tears. He’s glad there aren’t any reflective surfaces nearby because he can’t fathom the expression must be making. What is this? What are you doing to him? Those soft, kissable lips of yours must’ve casted a spell. You’re reaching forward now, pressing your palm against his cheek, and he considers pinching himself to see if this is all a dream.
If it is, he might not want to wake up.
Out of some primal, base instinct, he leans down, wanting nothing more than anything to get a taste of you. It’s when his lips are a few inches from yours that his brother’s words come hurling his way, knocking him off balance and making him jerk backwards. He sees something flit over your face — hates himself for it, too — the sight further reinforcing the prophecy spoken over him.
You deserve more. You deserve some man who knows how to speak what’s on his mind, who doesn’t shy away the second a conversation gets the slightest bit personal. Daryl doesn’t know how to do that, he might never figure it out either. If he does try, you’d have to bear the brunt of his inexperience, and your patience is bound to run out. He can barely put up with it himself sometimes, he can’t fathom putting you through it too.
“Are you okay?”
You’re staring up at him, your eyebrows knitting together, a frown that he so desperately longs to kiss away on your lips. He should be the one asking you that. From your perspective, you must figure he’s rejecting you. And still, you don’t stomp off in a huff or put him down. The tenderness emanating from those three words melts his heart like snow come spring. He opens his mouth, then closes it, licking his lower lip while trying to decide the best approach. Catching those damn hogs back at the prison was easier than getting a few words dislodged from his throat.
“You… you’re sure?” Daryl winces at how unlike himself he sounds when whispering this. “You feel that way ‘bout me?”
The pad of your thumb runs over his cheekbone. “Mhm. Guilty as charged.”
No matter how nonchalant you’re trying to act, he can feel the way your hand shakes against him. See the lines of worry you try to cover with a smile. Hear your every shallow breath. This must be fucking terrifying for you, baring yourself before him like you did, granting him a glimpse of your heart. His mask is one of indifference and yours is one of charm. You’re trying to keep things light like all those times on the road. When he saw you tossing and turning in your sleep, fighting back tears when you thought no one was looking.
He knew. He’s always known. He just never knew what to do about it, how to provide the same comfort you gave others.
“I wanna look out for you,” Daryl’s larger hand envelops the one you’ve placed on his face, causing your eyebrows to raise ever so slightly. “Wanna… wanna keep you safe and smiling. Want you to feel like you can do more than that ‘round me too. You can cry, get angry. ‘S alright. I know. I know.”
Tears well up on your lower lash line, and maybe he should feel a bit guilty for thinking so, but damn, you look beautiful. “See? This is what I meant when I said you’re a good man.”
“Cut it with your shitty jokes, woman,” he knows his bark is worse than his bite when you laugh at him, tilting your head back and revealing more of that tempting neck of yours. He swears to burn this image into the recesses of his mind for as long as he lives. You’re being you, he’s being him, and there’s nothing better.
All his bravado slips through his fingers like sand when you stand up on your tiptoes, wrapping your arms around his neck to pull him closer. You breathe a taunting command against the shell of his ear and he shivers.
“Make me.”
That successfully ignites the competitive streak you know he has.
For how coquettish you were acting, you return his kiss in a gentle manner, and he reciprocates the pace you set. His hands find their way to your waist without daring to go lower, no matter how loudly his instincts urge otherwise. He’d sooner breathe his last breath than make you feel uncomfortable. If this sweet kiss is all you want, he’d count himself a blessed man from this day forward. It’s you who parts first, leaning back just enough to give your lungs some much-needed air. You stare up at him through your eyelashes, giving him that look that would make him agree to anything you ask.
“Do you want… to take this inside?”
Your voice dies off toward the end and he swears his brain temporarily shut off at the implication. Barely a second earlier he was thinking how he’d die a happy man just for getting a simple kiss from you, he’d written off the possibility of anything more than that. He nods his head, his hand going to the small of your back to lead you inside, when you turn and start making for the front lawn.
Reading the confusion on his face, you explain, “We were given two houses, remember? It might be a better idea to use the empty one for this.”
Daryl really had forgotten the rest of the world exists when he was in that bubble with you. The streets may be empty, but who knows how long that welcoming party will last. He’s grateful one of you has a head clear enough to consider these things. You’re his smart girl for a reason.
“Ya plan this?” He can’t stop himself from asking when he half-jogs after you. The thoughts that run through his head when you bend over to pick up a key hidden beneath a welcome mat will stay between him and God. You slot it into place, turn, then open the door, beckoning him to follow with a finger. He feels his pants growing tighter by the second.
“I’d be a liar if I said yes, though I wish I could take credit for everything,” you lock the door behind him. “No… it just felt like it was time. I’d been waiting for my moment for ages. Guess I got a little impatient.”
Your back is up against the door the second that last word is out of your mouth. He takes your lips for his own again, something like a gasp leaving him when you lift a leg to curl around his waist. He steadies you with his hands to ensure you don’t fall over, the air in the room feeling thicker than those humid Georgian summers you spent together. When he senses you’re stable enough, he lifts one hand to cup your cheek like you did to him, pulling you as close as he physically can. Your arms are around his neck once more, playing with the ends of his hair that he’s grateful he washed hours prior. He hadn’t anticipated this, yet knowing he had plans to spend time with you gave him the motivation to clean up.
Rick teased him for it earlier. The former sheriff had walked in on him shaping up his beard, a knowing smile on his lips.
“Saw [First], didn’t you?”
“Shut up, man.”
Officer Friendly had called it. Carol gave him a nod that made him figure she knew it too. So much for being covert about his feelings for you. Deep down, he knew it must be obvious, the extensive special treatment he gave you. His brother wasn’t too far off with his pussy-whipped comment, crass or not. Daryl would offer you his last bite of rations, final sip of water, hell, he asked if you wanted him to carry you on the grueling walk to DC when everyone was at their wit’s end. You had given him a weak chuckle and said he wasn’t in any shape to do that.
Regardless of how true that was, had you said yes, he still would’ve found a way to make it happen.
You were that precious to him.
Daryl starts tugging the hem of your dress, revealing the tantalizing sight of your bare thighs beneath. Before he can pull it up any further, your hand is on his, and he stops in fear he’d done something wrong.
Those self-doubts are washed away by the sheer neediness in your next word. “Bedroom?”
You don’t need to ask him twice.
The noise you let out when he lifts you up has got to be one of the cutest damn things he’s ever heard. Your response is immediate, you encircle your limbs around him, clinging on like he’d ever dare to drop you. The house doesn’t have any lights on, but Daryl’s eyes are good in the dark. He carries you up the steps while you bury yourself in the crook of his neck. He finds an empty master bedroom, shuts and locks the door behind him, then brings you over to the queen-sized bed.
You start to take your sneakers off when he touches your wrist and shakes his head. Before you can question his intentions, he kneels in front of you, getting down on his hands and knees. This here is a gift you’re giving him. He’d be damned if he didn’t act accordingly. He takes your shoes off with a surprising amount of patience, pressing a chaste kiss to your shin when he’s done.
“You sure you’re alright with this?” His voice comes out deeper than he’s ever heard it. “That you want it?”
“I’m absolutely positive. I’ll even beg, if you ask nicely enough. I’m nice like that.”
He squeezes your thighs. “There you go, running that mouth o’ yours again.”
“You could always make it so I can’t.”
Daryl raises an eyebrow at the insinuation, his cock twitching inside his briefs at the mental image it conjures up. You, sitting pretty on your hands and knees, mouth open and waiting for him. Knowing you, you’d probably rile him up first. Kiss his tip and apply the bare minimum amount of pressure. Would you take him in slow? Lick him up and down the side while staring up at him with those gorgeous eyes?
Tempting as it is to find out, he’s got other plans in mind. He wants to see your face twist in pleasure and hear his name fall from your lips. It’d do his pride some good to know one as sought over as you chose him.
You start playing with the straps of your dress, pulling him from his fantasies. “Do you want to take this off, or should I?”
He bites his lower lip hard enough that it’s a miracle it doesn’t start bleeding. He had intended to unwrap the present before him, but when you put it like that… it makes him curious about the alternative. He’d love to see what little show you’d put on for him, he’s got front-row seats, after all.
“Alright. Let’s see it.”
Daryl gets up from his kneeling position and takes a seat beside you on the bed. You get the hint, standing with legs that wobble ever so slightly. You don’t look surprised when he chooses to poke fun at your current state.
“Woah there, you good? Legs still work?”
You stick your tongue out at him. “Better than ever, thank you very much.”
He leans back, making himself comfortable for whatever comes next. “Mhm. Whatever you say, princess.”
At hearing the sarcastic nickname, you go stiff as a board. He catches the way your pupils dilate. You press your face into your hands to muffle a groan, hiding a very noticeably flustered expression from his prying eyes.
“I haven’t heard you call me that for ages. I think it may have awoken something in me,” you confess, pulling your hands away at his prompting. “I may or may not have developed the biggest crush on you when you called me that back at the prison. It got me riled up every time. Even if I was laying on my ass ‘cause you flipped me over for the umpteenth time that day.”
Daryl snorts at the memory. “Ya always did seem to be out for blood after I said it.”
He keeps the fact that he found your frustration cute. It was a hidden ace up his sleeve that he utilized when it looked like you were about to give up, his training regiment admittedly brutal. He couldn’t risk going easy on you with the world being the way it is. You’d be down on the grass, soaked in sweat, groaning for him to call it a day because ‘you think every bone in your body is broken’. Apparently, all it took was a little taunting for you to hop right back on your feet again.
Your competitive streak might be as bad as his.
“Did you like me then, Daryl?” You question, dropping the left shoulder strap just enough to give him a treat. “You must’ve, if you never shooed me away.”
Damn freakishly perceptive woman. “Why ya asking if you already know the answer?”
“Because your voice is the best sound I’ve ever heard. Can’t blame a girl for wanting to hear more of it.”
He grunts, unable to meet your eyes after an embarrassing proclamation like that, his face flushing. How is it you say half the stuff you do? You and your stupid silver tongue would be the death of him. There are worse ways to go, he figures. He struggles to keep his eyes focused on the wall when you lean forward, granting him an unrivaled sight of your cleavage. His embarrassment still slightly outweighs his burning desire to ogle you. Sensing this, you splay your fingers against his clothed chest. Slowly, ever so slowly, your hand ghosts upward. Over his jugular then settling on his jaw. You move his face until he’s looking you dead in the eye again.
“Hey handsome,” your voice pours over him, sweet and thick like honey, “Eyes over here. I get jealous rather easily.”
God, he hopes you don’t notice the goosebumps dotting his skin. Maybe you were a cross between an angel and a witch, what with your ability to enthrall him. His boxers have never felt more uncomfortable in his life. He balls his hands into fists by his side, utilizing every ounce of his self-control to stop himself from picking you up, throwing you on the bed, and utterly ravishing you.
“That so?”
“Mhm,” you confirm, the next strap falling victim to your ministrations. The front of your dress starts to slip down. His Adam's apple bobs from how thickly he swallows. The swell of your chest comes into view, pushed up by your nude-colored bra. His knuckles go white from how tight he’s grabbing the comforter to keep himself in check. You’re treating him to a show, it’d be rude to interrupt your performance now.
Without the support of the straps, the fabric continues falling, revealing more and more of your beautiful body for him. The wet patch of your panties isn’t lost on him — you’re relishing in every second like he is. While never looking away from him, your hands disappear behind your back, fiddling with your bra strap. He swears he’s never felt less like a man and more like a beast when he’s finally able to see your chest in its entirety.
You walk to him as if you have all the time in the world, your knees hitting the bed’s side not nearly fast enough for his liking. Finally, you take a seat on his lap, your crotch pressing perfectly against his. He lets out a low groan then, grateful for any pressure to relieve the near painful hard-on you’ve given him. His hands settle on your ass, grinding you against his clothed length, and you stifle a moan by biting down on your lower lip.
Daryl tuts, stopping before he’s even begun. “Nah, I don’t think so. Don’t go getting shy on me now, girl. Ain’t like ya.”
After a moment’s consideration, you nod your head, your eagerness apparently outweighing the shame he didn’t know you had. He grins at you, resuming his previous actions and earning those debauched noises he’s longed to hear. Your panties might be staining his jeans, but he can’t find it in himself to complain, he’d wear it like a damn badge of pride. You’re his woman now. He belongs to you as well — heart, mind, body, and soul — if you asked, he’d happily hand it over.
“It feel good? Hm?”
“Like everything I ever wanted and more,” you confess, the breathiness of your voice making his brain feel hazy. “You’re— god— I adore you, Daryl. You’re so good to me.”
His lips are on yours then, this kiss being the messiest yet. His tongue pokes at your lips, and when you part them, ready to receive whatever he’s willing to give, his tongue goes to explore the newfound territory. You taste sweet (is that chocolate?), like the best treat he’s ever been given. He swallows your little gasps and whimpers, giving your ass a firm squeeze to ground himself.
Daryl can’t believe this is really happening. That you want him as much as he wants you and have no qualms showing it. He might be drunk on lust, but there’s something else in there, a flavor he’s never experienced before you stumbled into his life. It’s sweeter than the chocolate, more addicting than the bottle.
He loves you. He has for the longest time.
He slows down his maneuvering of your body, letting you catch your breath and tuck a strand of hair behind his ear.
“You okay?” You ask in between huffs, peppering his hairline with featherlight kisses.
“Better than ever,” he repeats your words from earlier, albeit with a southern drawl. Faster than you can process it, he flips you over, kicking his shoes off to lord knows where. You get over your surprise fast enough and shuffle back to make room for him. He hovers above you, almost uncertain of where to start. You must be feeling particularly gracious, for you let him drink in the sight of you without making any smart comments. Your body is pure eye candy and he’d be damned if he didn’t get himself a nice taste.
His lips are feverish against your neck, alternating between bites and open-mouthed kisses. He’s finally able to lavish your chest in some well-deserved attention, his rough palms pressing against the flesh, feeling you up like his life depended on it. You, being the perfect creature you are, grind up against him, drawing out a growl from his throat.
“It alright if I mark you up?” He breathes against your skin in between kisses. “Show everyone you’re mine?”
“Yes, please do.”
Never one to deny you anything, especially when you ask so nicely, he gets to work leaving proof of this tryst on your neck. Little bruises start to form where he’s concentrated his attention, right above your racing pulse. Content with its appearance, his lips start adventuring down. He takes a nipple into his mouth and sucks, more than pleased at the gasp you let out in response. While his tongue swirls around you, his hand makes its way to the hem of your panties, the last clothing item keeping you from being entirely bare. He detaches himself from your chest with some reluctance, so he can witness this final barrier being torn away.
“If you look at me like that, I might just get embarrassed,” you laugh at the halfhearted glare he gives you for the comment. He supposes it wouldn’t be you if you weren’t actively trying to rile him up. You were coy like that, frequently looking for a way to get him going, not that he minded. It’s starting to add up in retrospect. You’d been flirting with him all this time, a fact that went right over his head.
“‘S fine by me. Would probably do you some good.”
Your eyes crinkle from how wide your smile is, unadulterated affection gleaming in your eyes. He can’t help himself — he bends down to peck your now pouting lips. Tempting as it is to kiss you silly for the remainder of the night, he’s a man on a mission. You lift your legs to help him get that final undergarment off. He sets it aside so you won’t have any difficulty finding it later. Then he’s drinking in the beauty that is your glistening folds, subconsciously licking his lips at such an appetizing display.
A soft call of his name breaks him from his stupor. “Hm?”
“Don’t, uh, feel like you have to do that,” you give him a sheepish glance. “It’s okay if you just want to, y’know.”
If he were a cruel man, he’d tease you until you squirmed for how adorable you’re acting, but he decides to have mercy. Gotta be gracious with the love of your life and all that. Still, he can’t help feeling slightly miffed you’d think he’s going to eat you out over some obligation. Your pleasure is his pleasure, your happiness is his happiness. He thought his desperation for you soaked into his every action since you confessed on that porch. Then he remembers he hasn’t got much room to talk, the voice of insecurity could be brought down to a whisper, yet never entirely silenced.
He gives your pelvis a kiss. “I wanna. Simple as that.”
Daryl’s reassurance comes out gruff, and while it might not be dripping with romance, it visibly puts you at ease. He doesn’t do anything until you nod. Then he’s in between your legs, feeling more at home by the second. He kisses you up your inner thigh, his beard tickling over the smooth expanse of skin. Finally, his tongue slips between his lips, pressing flat against your cunt. The way you shudder encourages him to repeat the action, testing the new waters with care.
His technique isn’t the most refined, but he’s eager, lapping you up with unmatched zeal. The wet sounds of him feasting himself on you fill the room, and he thinks it might be one of the best sounds to grace his ears. He alternates between licking you and pulling on your folds toward him slightly with his teeth. Whatever it is he’s doing, you seem to be enjoying it, if the way your legs go wide for him is any indicator. He pulls you flush against his mouth by your love handles, delighting in how you moan so prettily for him. He’d tried to imagine what you might sound like if he ever had a chance with you, what dulcet tones your voice would take on.
Those thoughts were enough to satisfy him on lonely nights, but they pale in comparison to the real thing. You’re a force of nature. So beguiling, so easy to love, that he’s once again reminded that it’s a miracle he’s the one you’ve chosen. Never has he felt so grateful. People had tried, yet you never went for it. Was he on your mind in those moments? Steering you away from anyone that isn’t him? He could only hope so.
Daryl pulls back, chuckling at the whine you let out at the loss. “Needy thing, ain’t ya?”
“Only for you.”
Once again, you prove to him that you always know what to say. You and your feminine wiles.
“Think you can handle my fingers?”
At this, you nod. He gathers your slick in his pointer and middle finger. He starts with his pointer finger, watching with something like awe as it eases inside you. Once he’s certain that it doesn't hurt, his middle finger is next, stretching out the walls that envelop him. A sinfully delightful sound is produced when he takes his fingers out and slides them back in. He eyes the slick coating his fingers, and after realizing he misses how you taste, dips his head back down to messily kiss your clit. Your hips are thrusting to meet his fingers halfway, an action that doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Close,” you breathe out in between moans, “I’m close.”
He hums against you, the low vibration adding to your mounting pleasure. He doesn’t care if his wrist hurts for the foreseeable future, he wants you to feel good, to completely unravel and show him he’s done a good job. The muscles in your thighs go tense and he hears you let out the most depraved whimper of his name. He doesn’t let up, hellbent on seeing you through the entirety of your high.
Your body goes limp as a ragdoll against the bed. Gently, you pull him back, combing your fingers through his tousled hair. He removes his fingers from you and plops them into his mouth, content to savor your taste a while longer. It’s second only to the taste of your lips. Once he’s finished cleaning them off, you guide his hand to your face, and he watches the act with muted confusion. He lets out a sound like a choke when your mouth wraps around his fingers, hollowing your cheeks while you do so.
“Christ, woman. You tryna kill me?”
A quiet pop sound resonates in the room when you detach yourself from him. “Of course not. I’m far too enamored with you.”
Daryl still can’t entirely fathom why exactly that is, but he keeps the thought to himself.
In his fervor, he neglected to shed his own clothes, a fault he works to remedy. There’s nothing he wants more than to feel your skin against his without any barriers. He stands up to make the process easier, starting with his vest, then the halfway decent shirt he picked for the night. Next is his buckle and jeans. He doesn’t have time to feel self-conscious, not when you’re laying there, waiting for him so well. The scars and other various imperfections marring his skin must be difficult to make out in the low light, anyway. He knows you wouldn’t judge him — he feels it in his bones — yet that’s a can of worms he’d prefer to leave for another day.
He lets out a sigh of relief when his cock is freed from its restraints. Copious amounts of pre-cum leak from the tip, a testimony to your influence on him. He gives himself a few strokes, yet stops when he releases how sensitive he is. He wants to make this last. He needs to make this last. He knows that every second he spends inside you is bound to feel like heaven on earth.
Daryl crawls over to you. You part your legs without him needing to ask, your eyes lidded and hair messily framing your face. He lines himself up at your entrance yet makes no movement beyond that. This isn’t an act that’s meant to be rushed through — no, he intends to savor every second as if it were his last. The intensity of his stare can only be matched by yours. It’s an intimate moment, this little reality you carved out together, apart from the struggle and anguish you’d both become so familiar with.
He knows it won’t magically go away. You know it too. But if you have one another, you can both start living again instead of surviving.
“Still sure you want this?”
“I’m sure,” you whisper in a voice meant for his ears and no one else’s. “Please.”
Daryl handles you with care he didn’t even know he was capable of. He begins to push into you, sucking in a breath while he does so, his eyes glued to your face for any signs of discomfort. Your warmth wraps around him and draws him in. When he’s halfway inside, your hand grabs his, fingers intertwining. He stops, rubbing circles into the top of your hand with his thumb, silently admiring every way your face contorts while adjusting to his length. You inhale and exhale shakily before nodding your head, giving his hand a squeeze. He groans when he’s sunk all the way inside you.
You both stay like that for a moment, breathing in each other’s air.
“Have I ever told you,” he almost sounds pained when he speaks, “That you’re fuckin’ gorgeous?”
You give him one of those melodious laughs that makes his heart do things. “This’d be the first time.”
“Won’t be the last.”
You crane your neck to give him a chaste kiss. He’s about to chase after your lips when you pull away, but the words you say next cause all his higher thought to temporarily cease. “You can move now. Fuck me, Daryl.”
He feels himself twitch inside you and curses under his breath. It’s slow at first, so he can gauge what sort of rhythm you might like. The roll of his hips is sensual, his admiration of your facial expressions bordering on worship. Your hands go to his back to find purchase, unintentionally pulling him even closer in the process, and he grunts. He sets a steady pace. You throw your head back into the pillow, letting all your pretty noises out for him unabashedly. Praises fall from your lips, reassuring him of how good he’s making you feel, and how you want everything he’s willing to give. The encouragement makes his chest swell with pride.
You chose him. Out of everyone you could’ve pursued, you gave your affection to him, and that knowledge alone almost feels better than the way your walls flutter around his length.
“I care about you,” he pants into your ear, a declaration that makes you whine. “Have for so long. Want— want to show you. How much you mean t’me.”
Daryl hears you try to muster up a response in between your gasps, but it’s no use, you’re too lost in the throes of pleasure. He notices the way your moans grow higher in pitch, the sound music to his ears. Utilizing what little brain power he has left, he figures you must be getting close. The fact you’re going to come undone around him spurs him on. His fingers find their way to your clit, rubbing rushed circles around it. You tighten around him and it takes all the strength he has not to collapse on you, lost in the dizzying feeling.
There’s no more precision to his movements, everything is messy and frenzied.
You let out a cry of his name, and then a high-pitched whimper of, “I’m—”
And just like that, you unravel for him, nails digging into his skin and hips thrusting forward to meet his. He wills himself to stave off his own release so that you can enjoy yours. The sight and sounds you let out might be the most erotic thing he’s ever seen, he etches every detail of it into his memory.
He loves you, he loves you, he loves you.
Daryl pulls out once he’s certain you’re done, fucking his fist like a man possessed. It doesn’t take much for him to come undone after witnessing what you just showed him. A gruff rendition of your name leaves his lips as he spills out onto his hand, his release coming out in spurts, coating his palm in white.
You both stay still for a few moments, taking the time to catch your breath. You’re the first to move, sluggishly at that, sitting up on your elbows and giving him a content smile. He’s about to cradle your face and put his forehead against yours when he recalls his release is still on his hand. He shifts to get up, noting the attached bathroom in this room. You stop him before he gets the chance, gingerly wrapping your fingers around his wrist, stilling his hand in the process. He gapes like a fish out of water as you lick the remnants off his skin, closing your eyes and humming as if it was the best thing you’d ever tasted.
When you finish helping yourself, you give each of his knuckles a kiss. “I think the bones in my legs are broken. For real this time.”
Daryl snorts at the callback to your prison days, fond nostalgia swirling in his head.
“Need me to carry ya?”
You outstretch your arms for him. “Yes, please.”
He knows you’re being dramatic but can’t bring himself to care. He lifts you up, taking care not to trip on any of the clothes strewn on the floor, then sets you down on the sink’s granite counter. You both help yourselves to some nearby washcloths to get cleaned off. He kisses your shoulder when you’re done. Once back inside the bedroom, he slides his boxers back on, and you, your undergarments. You throw your back onto the bed and stretch, letting out a cute little noise while you do so.
Daryl’s feeling exhausted himself, but he figures you both shouldn’t be missing for too long. It’d make the others worry.
“I’m claiming this as our bedroom,” you fluff out a pillow before laying it down. The way his heart skips a beat at your usage of the word ‘our’ almost embarrasses him. Almost. “I’m not going to let you keep sleeping out on the porch. It hurts my back just thinking about it.”
He makes his way back over to you, footsteps silent against the hardwood. The second he lays down, you’re cozying up against his side, resting your head on his chest. His arms wrap around your frame as if he’d done it a million times before. It’s divine, hearing your steady breathing, feeling the warmth of your body. Despite everything, you’re still here. So is he.
He’ll do anything to keep it that way.
You lift yourself up to get a good look at him, your hair tickling his face. “Hey.”
He grunts to prove he’s listening.
“I love you,” you give him a kiss on his forehead, then his nose, and finally, his lips. “Thank you for letting me.”
The words from his brother on that sweltering day breathe down his neck. For some reason, the specific verbiage can’t form in his mind, it’s more of a muffled voice coming from another room. The sentiment is still there. Piercing, meant to hurt his heart in ways a weapon never could. That deep of a wound won’t heal itself overnight, yet if you’re the one holding the thread and needle, he thinks it can finally start closing.
He only whispers his next words when you press your forehead against his.
“I love you too. More ‘n anything.”
There’s a mischievous glimmer in your eyes which makes him nervous. Uh oh. He knows that look.
“… Enough to be my croquet partner tomorrow at noon?”
“Hell no.”
Unfortunately for him, you know as well as he does that if you keep asking nice enough, he’s bound to give in eventually.
He always does.
#i know this is so random but i'm going absolutely feral over him right now. god bless#i locked myself in my room this weekend and thirsted over an older man#daryl dixon x reader#the walking dead x reader#reader insert#not sfw#my stuff
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Tangerine on his way to beat up anyone who hurts Y/n or makes her cry shshs
@kpopgirlbtssvt your asks are always so on point and wonderful! i love your ideas! 🥹💖 also this gif is *chef's kiss* 👌🏻 mr. 🍊 will protect you!
"Love, are you home?"
Tangerine closed the front door, grocery bags in hand. He was eager to see you as you had been at work all day. Tangerine didn't have any upcoming jobs for at least a week, so he was aching to spend as much time with you as he could in your shared apartment.
It was quiet, though. Too quiet. Usually, music from your record player could be heard in the background or you'd be humming a tune in the kitchen as you cooked. But, no. All he heard was silence. He dropped the bags in his hands and made his way down the main hall, his thoughts spiraling.
What if something had happened to you? What is someone had taken you?
He heard a sniffle coming from the living room. As he entered, Tangerine's jaw immediately tightened as he watched you wipe the tears from your eyes, your face contorted in pain. He'd come home to find you curled up on the couch, shoulders shaking with barely contained sobs. The sight of your anguished expression had immediately set his blood boiling.
"What happened, love?" he asked, concerned voice low and laced with barely-contained fury, "Who did this to you?"
You hesitated, not wanting to make a big deal out of it. "It's nothing, really. Just some jerk at work being an asshole."
Tangerine's fingers clenched into fists at his sides as he listened to your explanation. Someone had dared to upset you, to make his precious love cry, and that was completely unacceptable.
"The fuck did he do?" he growled, eyes narrowing dangerously. "Tell me."
You winced at the barely-contained rage in his voice, hating to see him this worked up. "It's really not a big deal, Tan. He was just...making some rude comments, that's all."
"Rude comments?" Tangerine scoffed, his jaw tightening. "Bullshit. Nobody gets to talk to my girl like that and get away with it."
He started pacing the room, mind racing with all the ways he could make that bastard pay. No one hurt the person he loved most in this world and lived to tell the tale.
"Tell me his name," he demanded, turning to face you. "I'm gonna make sure he never goes near you again."
You reached out, placing a hand on his arm. "Tan, please, it's not worth it. I don't want you to get in trouble."
Tangerine let out a humorless laugh. "Trouble? Love, you've got it all wrong. This prick is the one who's gonna be in trouble if he ever so much as looks at you sideways again."
Before you could protest further, Tangerine was out the door, a storm of rage and vengeance on a collision course with the unfortunate culprit.
It didn't take him long to track down the man responsible - a slimy, arrogant coworker of yours who had been making snide comments and belittling you for weeks. Tangerine didn't bother with pleasantries, confronting the man head-on in the parking lot after work.
"Oi, you!" he growled, striding up to the unsuspecting target. "You got a problem with my girl, is that it?"
The man sneered, unintimidated by Tangerine's imposing presence. "Your girl? She's nothing but a-"
He never got to finish that sentence. Tangerine's brass knuckles connected with his jaw with a sickening crack, sending the man reeling backward. Before he could even regain his footing, Tangerine was on him again, raining down blows with a fury born of his fierce, all-encompassing love for you.
By the time Tangerine was done, the man was a bloody, whimpering mess on the pavement. Tangerine stood over him, chest heaving, eyes blazing with a dangerous glint.
"You ever come near her again, and I'll fucking end you," he spat, voice dripping with venom. "You hear me?"
The man nodded weakly, cowering in fear. Tangerine sneered in disgust, turning on his heel and stalking back home, his knuckles already starting to throb.
When he walked through the door, you were waiting for him, eyes wide with a mix of concern and awe.
"Tan... what did you do?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Tangerine pulled you into his arms, burying his face in your hair. "I took care of it, love. Nobody gets to hurt you and get away with it. Not on my watch."
You wrapped your arms around him, heart swelling with a fierce, sense of adoration. In that moment, you knew that Tangerine would always be there to defend you, no matter the cost. And that knowledge filled you with a sense of unwavering security and an undying love for him.
@little-miss-dilf-lover @sebsbarnes @kiss-me-cill-me @idontknowwhattohaveasmyuser @j23r23 @spookyspecterino @liukangsgirl @azureseacloud hope you guys enjoy!
#bullet train#bullet train movie#tangerine bullet train#bullet train tangerine#tangerine#tangerine x reader#tangerine fanfiction#x reader#self insert#i am feral for this man and not sorry#please love me mr. tangerine#pleease protect me
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Heartsteel!Kayn NSFW Alphabet (18+)
Previous Members: Ezreal
Inspiration: I mean A. feral hours. B. This is for @mysticdelphox97 and everyone else who is absolutely wrecked by Kayn. 😏 Enjoy! (Again used the NSFW alphabet template from @the-coldest-goodbye.)
Champion: Heartsteel Kayn
Genre: Headcanon
Type: HAHAHAHA NSFW. COMPLETELY NSFW. 18+ ONLY. MINORS DO NOT INTERACT.
Gender: Gender Neutral Reader
TW: Swearing, discussion of NSFW activities/kinks. Ex: Semi-public sex, mention of BDSM. Smutty as FUCK.
Extra: Implied settled relationship!
LOOK AT THIS SEXY FUCKER!
A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)
Fully believe Kayn is better at aftercare than people might think him to be. Yes he can be wild in bed and take a lot, but he also gives a lot. He’s not a selfish lover. He cares deeply about you and wants to make sure you’re fully enjoying yourself with him. He understands that extends to aftercare, especially after an intense session. Will wash you off and help you into a bath/shower and get any snacks/beverage you might need.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)
Himself: His hands. He loves how you respond when he tugs your hair and moves his hands around your body. His hands can do a lot of good things and he knows it.
His partner: Your lips. Whether wrapped around various parts of him, kissing his neck, moaning his name, when he’s nipping them, etc…Kayn absolutely loves your lips.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
His absolute favorite place to cum is your mouth. You on your knees waiting with open lips? One of his very favorite sights.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
As discussed in a previous headcanon (HERE), Kayn has a secret phone with photos and videos of you/you and him which he takes on trips. Obviously you know about it and he only started taking videos and pics once you and him talked about everything extensively and you consented to him doing so. Everything on that phone is for your eyes and his eyes only.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing)
Kayn’s probably the most experienced of Heartsteel. Definitely knows what he’s doing (even better for you).
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
Doggy-style. Absolutely doggy-style. Or in general anything where he can hit it from the back. He loves being able to control the pace and being able to pull your hair a little bit (if long enough).
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
Can’t see Kayn being super goofy, per say. Teasing? Absolutely, but goofy no. He’s pretty serious/focused/in the zone when it comes down to things.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
Keeps things pretty tidy. Definitely doesn’t match the drapes though. (Lmao can you imagine?)
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
Ok so in general Kayn’s not super romantic when it comes to sex. Definitely a guy who prefers “fucking” to “making love.” But if you ask him, or he can tell you want him to slow it down and be more on the romantic side, he fully can and he does it well. (A/N: I wish there was a better phrase to describe romantic sex because “making love” just sounds so fucking awkward.)
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
Oh absolutely he jacks off. No question about it. Probably every day and occasionally multiple times a day. Of course, nothing compares to time with you, but you can’t be around him 24/7 and a guy has to do what a guy has to do.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
HAHAHA It’s easier to say what his kinks aren’t! This sexy motherfucker (affectionate) is kinky as hell.
Some of his big ones though: dirty talk (giving), BDSM, edging/orgasm control (giving), and semi-public sex.
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
While he definitely enjoys having you to himself, there really is something about semi-public sex that excites Kayn. The boldness, the risk, the excitement, it all drives him wild.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
Kayn is a man with a very high sex drive. It really doesn’t take much to turn him on. Give him bedroom eyes and he’s pulling you into a dark corner to at least make out. He sees you wearing something of his at home? Well let’s just say you won’t be wearing it for very much longer 😉.
N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)
Age play. As kinky as he is, age play is just something he cannot get into.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
He definitely prefers to receive oral. As stated earlier, seeing you on your knees for him is a sight he absolutely loves. But dont get it twisted, Kayn will gladly reciprocate and it’s something he’s extremely talented at.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
Definitely a more “fast and rough” sort of lover. Loves when he’s able to get your noises to the point of only gasps and broken attempts of his name. But again, Kayn can occasionally surprise you and go slow and sensual.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
Big fucking fan of quickies. Kayn’s down to have a quickie whenever you are, really. Since he loves semi-public interludes, quickies are a staple for that.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
Risk is Kayn’s middle name whether in or out of the bedroom. He’s always down to try something new, especially if it makes things better for you as well. (Again, he’s not selfish as a lover.)
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
Oh man Kayn has quite a bit of stamina. In one sitting, he can go like 3-4 rounds as long as there’s a short break in between. His refractory period is remarkably short. If it’s not a quickie he can last around 20 minutes a round, with each following round after the first getting a little shorter.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
This is an interesting thing to consider. Yes Kayn does, but they’re mainly for you. He might have one or two toys for himself, like a cock ring or a plug of some kind, but most toys he has he bought as your physical relationship progressed and he figured out what you enjoy.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
Kayn’s a master at teasing you. He will rile you up in public then pull away. He will lean over and whisper something absolutely filthy into your ear at random and inconvenient times where you can’t slip away. He’ll send you NSFW teasing voice messsges and texts. He loves to make you blush and he loves making sure he’s on your mind.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
Definitely louder when not risking something semi-public, but even then he can’t fully silence himself. Low growls, groans, moans, and dirty talk galore, Kayn will audibly express his pleasure.
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
Will absolutely fuck as Rhaast, mask on and everything, and his intensity is turned up to 14/10. Like those are the truly wild nights, but boy are they fun as hell.
X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)
Around 6”. Fairly thick with a little curve to one side at the tip.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
No question Kayn has the highest sex drive in Heartsteel. He just really enjoys sex and enjoys having it often.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
During nights with you Kayn definitely doesn’t fall asleep immediately. He’s up for a little bit, making sure you’re alright and even cuddling or partaking in some surprisingly intimate and occasionally vulnerable pillow talk. This is the time when his walls are the most down.
#writerblue275 feral hours#Heartsteel#heartsteel kayn#heartsteel headcanons#heartsteel x reader#reader insert#headcanon#heartsteel smut#Heartsteel Kayn smut#Also I stand on the hill that he's more dom#And I will die on this hill. You cannot change my mind.
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It's one of those days
Sans.
Sans.
sans sans sans
I wake up, mind foggy and disoriented.
I go about my morning routine on autopilot.
Empty eyes.
Blank expression.
Mind far away.
Sans.
Sans squirms under the covers, nuzzling into the warmth of my body.
I brush my teeth, unseeing eyes locked onto a random spot on the sink.
Sans lets out a low grunt and I growl, clenching my teeth on the toothbrush, foam all over my mouth.
How fitting.
I wash my face with shaky hands while Sans arches against my body in the most delicious way.
My hands trace his lumbar vertebrae, edges rounded and soft.
He's such a gentle, non-threatening creature. Nothing about his body is harsh to the touch.
No sharp angles.
Nothing to attack with.
No armour.
Just inviting softness.
He is so human in that regard.
I rub the intervertebral discs with the tips of my fingers and feel the jelly-like surface yield under the careful pressure.
His breath hitches and he whispers my name.
I sigh and start making tea, walking around the kitchen in a haze.
My shift at work starts in 10 minutes.
Sans whines ever so softly as my hand reaches inside his hollow ribcage, caressing, massaging the warm bones.
I stop in the middle of the kitchen, spilled tea trickling down my arm onto the floor.
I watch the droplets fall.
Smooth bones shiver under my fingers.
I put the glass back on the counter and turn around lethargically to get some paper towels.
Teeth pressed against my lips.
Ragged breath.
Sugar.
I need to get a soap. Or the floor is going to be sticky.
"please, just... please"
The floor tiles are cold and smooth when I kneel down.
I can't see my kitchen anymore.
Sans leans into my hand needily as I wipe the sweat off his forehead.
It's going to be a torturously long day.
#I am struggling#send Sans#send help#you've just made me finish that piece of writing with your yummy art#yes you#you know who you are and I bet you feel guilty now#'cause you should#look what you've done#GIVE ME THE SQUISHY CHUBBY BABY BOY#ALERT: feral Fudge on the loose#DO NOT APPROACH while wearing a blue hoodie and/or pink slippers#but if she sees you:#RUN#sansnomaly#sans x reader#sans x self insert#suggestive#cw suggestive#my writing
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hellooo, i loved the max verstappen nsfw hcs and alphabet! could you do some fluff hcs? especially cute moments if they are out to the public :)
Fluff Hcs MV1
Fem aligned people may read but not f3tishize my work!!
Summary: Read above! <3
Warnings: Sweet stuff, Max Emilian Verstappen
Now playing: 'Radio' by Lana del Rey
AN: Hey anon! Thanks for the request! <3
As mentioned many times before, he loves to touch you, no matter when, no matter where. Max loves brushing trough your hair or having a hand on your thigh on car rides. Your warmth and love is what he strives for. In every photo taken by the paparazzi he has an arm around you.
He adores helping you get ready. Like closing the clasp of a necklace for you or tying your tie. He’ll for example also help you shave before going out; He’s sitting on the sink, while you stand in front of him, warmly smiling at his concentrated gaze.
During his streams he’ll let you sit on his lap while he plays with his mates or he’ll let you play while he needs to go to the toilet. “Omg hello y/n!” Lando secretly loves playing with you.
Nights out are always nice with you, but he adores staying in with you too. You both will be cuddled up with blankets and Chinese take away, while jimmy and sassy sit by your legs, craving yours and Max’s body heat. He’ll put on one of your favorite movies while it pours down outside.
Before every race he’ll give you a sweet kiss, or if he already has his helmet on, he hold out his head for you to give the helmet a light pat. This became a sort of good luck ritual and he won’t race without it.
I think I’ve added this to many fics before, but I’m convinced he loves cooking together with you. You’ll be telling him the ingredients you need while lighting the stove and he’ll immediately go and get them from the cupboard. Or during the Christmas season you guys will for sure be baking loads of cookies together; though it most definitely will end up in both of you giggling and covered in flour.
Max isn’t one to post a lot about his private life, but his Instagram could as well be a fan account of you. He takes pictures of you holding Jimmy and post it with a caption like ‘Love both of them’ with cheesy emojis like a grandpa.
He loves sharing his passions with you and he’ll also happily indulge in yours. He talks about playing paddle? You make sure to come along the next time he goes to play with Charles. You like arts? By the next day there’s tickets to a Theatre night stuck to the fridge.
Showering or bathing together is one of his favorite intimate moments with you. It doesn’t have to be any sexual, he just loves the serene feeling of you rubbing shampoo in his hair or the warm water running down both of your bodies while you smile at each other. Max also loves to wrap you up in a towel after getting out of the shower/tub.
Max loves to see you interact with his two Bengal cats. The way they rub against your legs or lift their chins for you to scratch them shows him how much they trust you. Jimmy and Sassy have accepted you as part of the family, which makes him feel proud.
A habit you both picked up since the start of the relationship is leaving little notes for each other. Short messages like ‘I’m at the grocery shop. I’ll be back soon <3’ or ‘Hope you have a great day! See you in the evening.’
He definitely convinced you to wear redbull merch in public. I mean most of his wardrobe consists of red bull polo shirts. The ‘Max stigma’ is a running joke in the fandom, referring to him making you wear the merch. But it’s not like he forces you, no. You’re proud of his achievements and don’t mind showing your support this way!
#I love his smile#i'd kill for him#im feral#f1 x male reader#male reader#f1 fanfic#f1 x reader#reader insert#male reader insert#x reader#max verstappen x male reader#gay#max verstappen x reader#max verstappen fic#x male reader#male!reader#male x male#ZyonsRequests
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minors DNI. warnings: Suggestive content, possessive Izuku
Izuku and his goth!girlfriend who is rivaled only by Bakugou in attitude. Who pops into the agency to bring Izuku a surprise or lunch, and listens to people talk about how undeserving you are to be with someone like Izuku. Gentle, soft, sweet. Everything they think you’re not. Because they don’t know you. They don’t see the softness of your expression when you cook with your boyfriend or hear the sound of your laughter when he places a dot of frosting on the tip of your nose. They just see the way you dress, your makeup, and judge you instantly.
And Izuku knows you can defend yourself. Knows if their opinion mattered, you would have already told them off, but you strut by them, tongue swiping out to adjust the piercing on your lip. And as you waltz by their desk, you tilt your head with a wink and cheerful wave. It isn’t much, but it’s effective. Leaves them with scrunched brows and confused gazes.
But Izuku? He’s not sure why but there’s something about your confidence, your attitude that drives him crazy. Makes his cheeks darken and pants tighten as he watches you saunter towards him. A smile plastered on your face, directed at him. Only for him.
It’s the way you place the box of his favorite sweets on the corner of his desk, stiletto black nails with red tips toying with the golden ribbon tied around it. And the way you lift yourself onto the corner of the cherry wood of his desk, crossing one leg over the other to display your platform shoes. Not to mention the smirk you press against Izuku’s lips when he rewards you with a chaste, grateful kiss. He notices. Doesn’t miss the way your eyes drift to the people who had been judging you only moments ago, their mouths parted just enough to appear shocked.
He’s not sure what possesses him then. What forces his hand up to grab the side of your neck, large palm stretching so his thumb presses against the front of your throat. Maybe it’s because he’s fed up with the way people judge you, the way they ridicule you when they think he isn’t watching. The way girls try to flirt with him, claiming they’d be a much better match. And he’s tired of it. He’s a sweet man, selfless, but something about you makes him primal.
He squeezes your throat just barely, enough to make your shoulders rise in surprise. His action elicits a soft groan from you, Izuku’s melodic tenor ringing with a content hum. Your eyes have focused solely on him now, half open and glazed with memories of his hand wrapped around your throat while he thrusted into you the night before. But the dark haired man’s eyes have drifted to the people who whispered about you when you entered his agency. And he stares, glares at them with half lidded eyes, and squeezes your throat again, tilting your head up to press another kiss against your lips. Harder this time, certainly not standard for his normal appearance.
But maybe, they’ll get the picture now. With his large hand wrapped around your throat and your black lipstick smeared across his lips. Maybe they’ll take a hint and fuck off. And if not, he’s happy to give them another show tomorrow. Because you’re his and he’s yours, whether they like it or not.
#idk what this is#its self-indulgent though#reader insert#bnha#midoriya izuku#izuku x reader#goth girlfriend reader#Bnha x reader#bnha smut#izuku smut#bnha drabbles#i just know he’s feral for his s/o
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Severus; "I think I might have an interest in Y/N. Although I doubt they'd feel the same way."
Y/N; "I would literally write a thousand sonnets for that man. Carve his name in a blade made by only the most precious metals. Hell, I'll purchase a goddamn star for him. He can have whatever he wants, he already has my heart."
#incorrect quotes#severus snape#severus snape x reader#reader insert#Here's to feral Snape lovers#pro severus snape
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First month on the job and Sun seems already smitten.
They're lonely and touchstarved your honour.
Tari is also practically vibing, which is a nice change for them.
Part 1/2
This was originally just something silly to explain their drastic design divergence from anything even remotely canon in this au, but I went and I turned it into angst cuz that's what I do best 🙃
Part 2/2
#shut up feral#Art#Comic#Arts#Comics#Small comic for once#sun x reader#sundrop and moondrop x reader#sundrop x reader#sundrop x self insert#sundrop x oc#sundrop x y/n#sundrop x you#sundrop fnaf#sundrop and moondrop#Biblically accurate sundrop#We are surrounded by fire in the mountains#A dumpster caught on fire and now the city is on approximate lockdown cuz of the toxic smoke#47 degrees celsius outside#and im like#Caught red handed and simping
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In the Bayverse feral human carrier au, I really love the idea that Optimus carries you around on his shoulder.
Cybertronians are able to shift their frames on a micro-scale level, so he's able to produce a contained area with enough holds and comfortable for you to rest. Plus, with your newfound enhanced body, your grip strength has been greatly enhanced and you unconsciously manipulate your own electromagnetic fields to produce a magnetic effort to stick in place.
(Optimus thinks that you know that you're doing that, so he gets later confused when you complain about losing car keys to a rental car, so that's another conversation that happens.)
It keeps you and everyone else out of trouble because of the effects of bridging the human lizard brain and Cybertronian feral-protocols. You're basically a living detector for Cybertronians, while the nearby mechs can't help but be keenly aware of your pinging distressed presence. This keeps your hyperactive fight-or-flight reaction under control, and gets the other mechs to back off since Optimus essentially wrangles and modulates your and newspark's fields -it calms the instinct to flee the vicinity or make a mean attempt to swim away from the Diego Garcia base.
(On a side note, Sam tried to perch on Bumblebee as well, but nearly pancakes himself because he doesn't have magnetic abilities. Mikaela has it recorded.)
#transformers#transformers bayverse#bayverse#reader insert#optimus prime#optimus#pregnancy#feral human carrier au#bitlets#sparklings#cybertronian biology#tf headcanons#my writing#my thoughts#maccadam#bumblebee#mikaela banes#sam witwicky
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Imagine taking Diavolo to the human world for his birthday with a promise to show him something unlike he’s ever seen.
You take him with you to traverse the wildlife of a national park, hiking over weathered earth while you take candids of his enthusiastic reactions to the unfamiliar scenery. You send the snapshots to Lucifer and Barbatos throughout the day, assuring them of your safety and reveling in how adorable your lover looks.
Imagine how your heart swells as you take in the wonderment and childish glee that overcomes him as he insists that you two stop at each infographic on the trail. It’s necessary that he take in each one, he tells you, so that he can learn more of the world you were born upon, and how it formed.
The world he appreciates as an extension of you.
Imagine explaining to Diavolo how the sun’s warm caress can soon come to burn as you lather him in sunscreen - how he purrs his thanks as you delicately rub the lotion into hard-to-reach areas, and check him over to make sure he didn’t miss a spot. His grin is as unwavering as always, but his eyes are another story. Unlike how they shimmer beneath the Devildom moon, Diavolo’s eyes glimmer in the human world's sunlight.
This time, you make a selfish request for him to briefly remove his glamor and pose him for a picture that you send to no one. The way the specks of gold scatter through the trees and shift across his skin, blending into his eyes and the collar of his true form, is just for you to admire - your golden Adonis. You press a kiss to his cheek when you two finish, standing on the overlook and spending some time drawing out pictures in the clouds that float by as he hugs you close.
Imagine his complete and utter fascination with the cavern tour you’ve surprised him with. You laugh at how often he has to duck beneath the drapery formations to avoid hitting his head, but grip his hand as tightly as he holds yours as you both traverse deeper and deeper into the earth. Admittedly, snippets of the tour go over your head as you stare at him, unabashedly. You can’t help it with how cute he looks, enraptured by the tales your tour guide spins of human history, strife, and success. He asks questions as to how they initially uncovered and cleaned out the cave, how they’ve preserved the structure, and how they currently manage upkeep. When he is not inquiring, he points out every bat that crosses your path. He coos at how their little feet and talons grip onto the crevices and gasps when the guide shows him closely how they are able to use their wings to hold themselves up as they rest.
Imagine that near the end of the tour, the guide gives you guys a special treat and turns off all the artificial light planted throughout the cavern. Pitch blackness enshrouds you and robs you of your sight, but you don’t panic. This deep into the earth, there is no noise pollution; a pin could drop and all would hear. Yet, all you hear is the small murmurs and shuffling of the other ongoers who remark at how fascinating and terrifying this is - that no wonder humans once thought only demons resided deep within the pits of this cave. You smirk at that, squeezing Diavolo’s hand. He squeezes your hand in kind before he tugs it gently.
You quietly follow him as he pulls you a bit further from the group. Although you cannot see him, you feel him turn to face you before he kisses you deeply. Yes, humans were made to live in daylight; but demons thrive in darkness. You shiver as the ridges on his wings slide against you, embracing you as they push you into his chest. You melt into his hold as he tenderly rubs his thumbs beneath your eyes, whispering softly so that only you can hear among the murmurs behind you.
“Never will you need to fear the dark or demons, my heart. For I will be your eyes, your strength to command, and swear to guide you safely back to me when you stray too far from my side.”
Imagine how happily he digs into the plate he’s ordered at the nearby diner, famished from your long trek. He’s tried most of the teas before finally settling on a classic vanilla shake. The warmth of his hand seeps into your own as he interlocks your fingers atop the table.
You admire his features as the shadows and sun rays pass over him. He intently watches the sun set through the glass window beside you both.
“Volo,” you shake his hand when the last of the sun has dipped beneath the horizon, stars starting to prickle the night sky, “what did you think? Did you have fun?”
“I believe,” he begins, thumb rubbing over each of your knuckles with great reverence as he lovingly looks to where your hands meet, "I am the happiest I have ever been.”
“I also believe,” he takes another sip of his shake and you laugh as you have to thumb off some cream that catches on his lip, “ah-thank you, beloved. Yes, I think tours like this would do well in the Devildom, don’t you? How revolutionary would it be, to be able to share our lands natural formations with other realms, just as you’ve granted me the pleasure of today?”
You smile at the prince, marveling at his endless enthusiasm for, and dedication to, his dream. You know you should hold your tongue. When your love is enamored with an idea, he tends to run with it without thought to the paperwork that piles up as a result.
But you could never deny him. Strong as you may be, you do not have the heart to snuff out the awe that sparkles in his eyes.
“I think it would be a great way for our people to be introduced to the history and customs of one another. A beautiful showcase of the tenacity of each realm and an experience which could peak interest in the scientific study of our vastly different wildlife,” you muse.
“It would be interesting, too, if we could fund some research and uncover ways in which our lands may be compatible, especially in terms of agriculture. It would be good if we could open up trade between the realms sometime soon, and even better if we could grow some food appealing to both groups in either realm to encourage joint food establishments. Maybe a restaurant or food court you can visit after the tour?”
Your heart flutters as he brings your hand up to his lips and presses a chaste kiss onto the skin there.
“You astonish me as always, my heart. Truly, we are fortunate to have your insight on these matters.”
“And I,” he leans over the table, pressing a quick kiss to your lips, ”am fortunate to call you mine.”
Later, before you call for the check and prepare to return home, you make sure to set a reminder on your D.D.D. to treat both Barbatos and Lucifer to a bottle of expensive demonus for the unintended work you’ve set out for them.
#I've never called Diavolo Dia#He's Volo to me#would have loved to write a fic but don't have the time to invest in 10k words rn - yes 10k bc Diavolo makes me feral#I thought an imagine would suit it fine and I'm satisfied with it hehe#I'm working on more but I do return to school this week and another project is starting so I will be a tad bit more slow#no worries though - I'm sticking around for the long haul <3#diavolo x reader#reader x diavolo#obey me#diavolo x y/n#diavolo x you#obey me x reader#obey me one master to rule them all#omomtrta#imagine#obey me imagine#obey me barbatos#obey me lucifer#reader insert#reader imagine#om! diavolo#obey me x you#obey me x mc#obey me mc#gn reader#gn!reader#gn!mc#this was entirely self indulgent and i wish i could explore the world with him#best travel buddy because he's interested in nearly everything and has the enthusiasm to keep you going#aa i love him
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it's like as if somebody was gripping my throat
relationship: eyeless jack x reader
word count: 6.2k
links: available to read on ao3
warnings: canon-typical violence
M. Eerie National Park is one of the most boring places to work. You hike the trails to make sure nobody is trying to stay after hours, clean up garbage, and befriend the local cryptid.
Nobody knows about that last part except for you.
(like/reblogs are greatly appreciated, requests are open ✷)
“—Shocking news for M. Eerie National Park. Another victim, twenty-one-year-old Penn State student Ryan Sheppard, discovered on the property—”
You dig into your food, tuning out the broadcast as you scarf down your lunch and prepare for work. You rinse your bowl, toss it into the dishwasher, and move into the bedroom to change out of your pajamas and into your uniform. You pull up your cargo pants and pull on a green collared shirt with the M. Eerie National Park logo embroidered on the pocket. After deodorant, you pull on your hiking boots, grab your jacket and bag, and leave towards your car.
She’s a beat-up old thing, but she gets you to and from work without too much trouble. It’s a short, red, rust-damaged Honda Civic. Your car’s engine is strong, and it, other than the external imperfections and duct-taped-on mirror, has treated you well, and you’ve never felt the need to trade up.
(Nor the want, being a park ranger hardly gives you enough money to keep your head above the water, but you love it, and working an office job sounds worse than pulling all your toenails out at once with rusty pliers.)
The car sputters to life, rumbling beneath you in her comfortable and familiar way. You look down at the radio—the clock reads 14:37—you’ll be on time for the start of your shift. The drive isn’t exciting, and you’d take your boring drive over a three-hour drive to the office any day. Your job is so easy, too, a simple routine you follow every day—go in during the afternoon, hike the trails before closing, watch for lost folks and garbage, and close up the park. It’s easy, so easy that your job is almost dull. You walk into the break room, your lunch in your non-dominant hand, and stumble into a meeting.
“Oh. Hey guys.” You hesitate, creeping over to put your food in the fridge. Usually, the break room was empty, and Leslie, your superior in the standard uniform with her beat-up clipboard, was marching back and forth like a drill sergeant.
In the kindest way possible, you hope she retires. She’s been working here for so long and managing everything that she deserves some R-and-R. Leslie is the backbone of the team, and one would have to pry her position from her cold, dead hands (even then, it would still be a fight), but she should consider passing the job to someone else.
You plop down in one of the three empty chairs. Two of your coworkers transferred to another park (quite suddenly, too, no two-week notice or anything). It’s not good, especially considering they were the only other people working your shift.
“Alright, we can wrap up this meeting with a quick problem,” Leslie begins again, waving quietly to you. “Guests have been reporting stolen items more than usual, lots of jackets, gloves, boots, ooh—food, too,” Leslie jots something down on her clipboard, “To be honest, I think people are just misplacing things and blaming it on the wildlife, but if you see anything, just radio me, and I’ll come to help you sort it out.”
You nod. People leave things where they shouldn’t be all the time—you can't count the number of times families wake up with ransacked coolers because they leave them outside unprotected.
Leslie sighs, “And—look—there have been more than a few teens sneaking off into the woods before we close. Please, I don’t want another 24-hour challenge incident on our record. Keep an eye out for them. I mean it.”
Everyone affirms, whether with a nod or a “Yes, Leslie.”
The team filters out of the break room, and one of your coworkers (with wild, dark hair and stickers nearly smothering the Molly on her nametag) bounds to your side like a deer.
“You think it’s a bear?” She asks. She’s practically bouncing off the walls despite Park Ranger being the least thrilling job on the planet.
You shrug. You don’t carry the same energy that Molly does. She is just a wee sixteen-year-old at your side working her first big girl job, and any excitement at this middle-of-nowhere park is a godsend for her.
“Well, it could be a bear. But, I mean, a bear wouldn’t be stealing men’s jackets or boots.” she suggests, “Maybe not a bear, or maybe it’s those kids again… Remember the kids from a few weeks ago?”
Oh. Oh, of course, you remember those kids. Three of them, two girls and some in-between kid, all seventeen and seniors at the local high school (local being the closest high school, which was thirty miles away) that Leslie caught trying to stay overnight for some silly internet challenge. One of them, the in-between kid with the flattest hair you’ve seen in a while, brought an Ouija board because of some weird internet gossip about your park. It was strange—super, duper weird—because the couple (apparently, maybe? You aren’t sure) ditched the third girl to make out under an abandoned deck. Leslie only caught them because the third (a taller, more heavyset girl with colored hair) was terrified of some tall, slender man who scared her on the internet.
“God, don’t remind me.” You finally say. You still remember the three of them yelling at each other, Leslie dragging them out by the collars of their shirts like scruffed cats after they got caught (because one of the girls was a crybaby, their words, not yours).
Leaving the break room and finally feeling the sun this morning, Molly waves you goodbye and starts jogging down her favorite trail. She’s got energy for miles; if she were older and wiser, she could compete with Leslie.
Speaking of, Leslie pats your shoulder. Her grey hair shimmers in the sun, and she, with wrinkles showcasing her long and fulfilling life, smiles down at you.
“Afternoon, kiddo. You doing alright?”
You nod, more focused on the heavy workload you have in front of you.
Leslie pats your back like a coach would to her favorite player, “I know Josh and Ryan quitting hasn’t been easy on you.” Her voice is too solemn for a work transfer, “I’ll be working tonight, too, if that eases you.”
You perk up, half with relief and half because working with Leslie is the best. It’s comforting to have a superior like her around when people start getting wild in the woods; she’s good at grabbing people by the scruff and dragging them out, kicking and hollering.
“You can take care of the Southern Reach, yeah? You’re a big kid—you can handle it.”
You’re more than just a kid, but between her being near retirement age while you are fresh out of college—you are a kid in her eyes. You nod, already unhooking your heavy flashlight from its carabiner.
“That’s the ticket. I’ll take Northern. We’ll meet back up here for closing.”
“No, no, I’ll handle closing.” You persuade, “Come on, Leslie, I can handle closing a big gate. Just handle Northern and go home.”
She debates it, rolling the idea around in her mind before conceding. “Alright, kiddo. Just this once, though.”
At first, with the sun just touching the horizon, your checks go well, and you clean up a few empty beer cans along the southernmost trails. Your trash bag is light, which is a plus. You don’t need to pull your flashlight out until past seven in the evening when the moon peeks out behind you. You find an empty can of soup (chicken-noodle but with star-shaped pasta instead of noodles). The top looks messily cut, as if with a knife, which isn’t at all uncommon.
Except, well, this can has a pull tab disregarded by the previous user. You turn over the can in your palm, examining the shredded metal and paper label, and toss it into the bag with the rest of the trash.
Further, closer to the center of the trails, there is another disemboweled can. You pick up one, the lid is also ripped off, the pull-tab forgotten about, yet this soup can has more than half of it ripped off into a swirly shape, almost like someone was desperate for something to eat. It’s Campbell’s, not Grandma’s cooking.
There’s another can further into the woods, more shredded than the last, with a deep dent in the center; the can was clean, too clean, which is both weird and disgusting. Dogs shouldn’t eat this stuff concentrated—too much sodium.
Another one; there is a streaky, black substance marbling with some soup still sitting at the bottom of the can; another, and more of that black slime. You carefully pick up each one and add it to the bag. The next can has more of that substance—almost too much. The smell is putrid. It burns inside your nose, and you get a whiff of formaldehyde or something that reeks of death.
You keep traveling into the woods, finding more debris and litter, an old chewed-through sleeve, a jacket, and a glove smattered with that syrup-y oil. There’s something wet beneath your palm, and thank the stars you chose to bring your gloves this morning. It’s red, with a black slime marbled in it. It’s sticky between your fingers, and it smells awful. You follow the trail of red and black with your flashlight.
The source is the mangled carcass of a hiker wearing a high-vis vest. You suck in a breath and reach for your walkie-talkie. It’s sickening, and you can’t stop looking at the body as you radio for your superior.
“Leslie? Leslie, you there?” You plead, hands shaking and mind racing. Of all the people you want to pick up, it’s her. She’s been working here since before you were born—maybe she’s found a mutilated person in her time working the trails.
The silence stretches for an eternity until you hear a familiar voice on the other end.
“Hey, I’m here. What’s going on?” She asks.
“Uhm, I don’t know,” You make the mistake of looking at it, at the remnants of a man, at the carcass before you. “I don’t even know what could do something like this.” God, it makes you sick, but you can’t look away.
“Come on, talk to me,” She barks, her voice firm with years of seniority, “What are you seeing? Talk.”
You swallow. “Some hiker got attacked. They’re not responsive,” You mutter into your little plastic lifeline. “I’m off Trapper’s—I don’t know—Christ, I’m going to be sick.”
“...Okay,” Leslie replies quickly, “Are you safe?”
You don’t know the answer to that question. You swallow a lump in your throat as you look frantically for movement in the dark woods. Leslie says something, but you can’t hear it over the sound of your heart hammering away in your ears. You see movement between the trees, the primal part of your brain attempting to identify any immediate danger. Everything is spinning, it reeks of death, and Leslie’s voice is staticky because of the shitty speakers.
“Answer me! Come on, kiddo, where are you?” She shouted, her voice laced with harsh static.
Your flashlight flickers, and you hope whoever ordered these flashlights has something horrible happen to them. Something rustles in the bush. The only thing you have to protect yourself is a bag of loose garbage and your shitty flashlight. Leslie is shouting so loud you can only hear half of her words. Whatever emerges from that bush will eat you alive—you’re sure of it.
The stench of death gets heavier as a figure crawls out from beneath the foliage, wearing a dark hoodie and a blue mask. There’s blood and guts caked under their fingernails, and they look filthy and smell worse. They lock eyes with you and try to stand, stumbling and letting out a near-inhuman cry. You hold your heavy flashlight like a baton—all it’s useful for, considering the lightbulb works when it wants to—as the masked stranger lets out a wheezy breath and crawls towards you.
You grip the flashlight so hard your hands are shaking, taking careful steps back to maintain some distance between both of you. Their approach doesn’t stop. They reach and grab at your leg and pull you to the ground. Your head is spinning as it collides with the damp earth, and you feel two hands digging into your abdomen, sharp nails scratching and attempting to burrow into your stomach. You shout as their ice-cold hands scrape across your body, their claws raking across tender flesh.
You thrash and try to push them away, but they hold you down with one hand and remove their mask with the other.
You always said you’d know what to do if you were in a slasher flick. You always called the protagonists stupid for freezing up in front of certain death, never thinking about what it felt like, knowing you were probably going to die. You look them in the eye—more so what’s left of them, staring into two tar-filled sockets where their eyes would be—and unable to do anything.
You lay back, each breath barely making it in and out of your lungs. They stop, hands still pressed firmly against you. They crane their neck, probably just as surprised as you for simply giving up. They tug your shirt back down, pressing a palm over it and smoothing the fabric with their palm.
It reignites something in you because before either of you can register what’s happening, they’re squealing in pain as you hit them upside the head with your flashlight. You scramble away, pulling yourself to your feet and running blindly to the main trail.
You don’t stop, even after the demonic cries die out under the sound of the beginning storm. You push and push yourself until you nearly collide with Leslie.
“Stars—! Kid, where the hell were you? What the hell happened to you?”
She shines the light across your face, then brushes a leaf from your coat. It’s hard to think about speaking; Leslie knows you’re trying.
“Hey, it’s okay. Come on, I’ll drive you home, kiddo.”
“But the—”
“Don’t worry about it,” She says as softly as she can, “You’ve done all you can do. Anything about you that I should be worried about?”
You pat your abdomen, a few lines of brown blood staining the front. You shake your head, and Leslie holds off on grilling you for details.
✷𓃞 ✷
She drives you home in her big pickup truck (she even went through a drive-thru and got you something to eat on the way home). She pats your back as you dig through the bottom of the bag for scraps.
“Don’t think about coming back tomorrow—Partly because you’ve been through hell tonight—but also because there’s going to be an investigation. Look—take it easy, maybe go see your doctor, don’t come back until at least next Tuesday.”
Leslie pulls over to the side of your street and pulls out a box of cigarettes. “I mean it, take it easy. You do enough work while you’re on the clock; don’t worry about anything—I have people that can cover your shift if you need more time off.”
You nod, gathering your things and walking towards your house, digging your keys from your jacket to escape the rainy weather. You shut the door behind you, and Leslie walks towards her truck, a thin line of smoke trailing behind her.
You open the door, and a warm puff of air welcomes you home. It’s quiet and dark, leaving you on edge from tonight’s incident. Instead of relaxing—like Leslie practically ordered you to—you drop your bag at the front door and book it to your computer. It hums to life, and you punch in your password and open your web browser. Surprisingly, being attacked by a person-shaped thing did not perturb your furious web-searching.
Creature in the woods near me
Masked creature, person that tried to eat me?
Blue man— you hastily hit backspace as Blue Man Group auto-fills in your search bar.
You keep trying outrageous combinations of words, eventually finding a near-defunct blog with a picture of the freaky humanoid that almost killed you.
EYELESS JACK. Well, the name fits. At least you’ve finally got a name for that face. You read through this article, which recounts this woman—a hiker-slash-rock-climber, to be more specific—coming into contact with a human-ish guy. They had a few photos of deep claw wounds that scarred over pale on her dark skin. You jot down the name, continuing to dig into the incident recounted by this woman.
You pause and close all your curtains and turn off all the lights (and you get yourself a drink to keep yourself awake). Sinking into your chair again, you continue the deep dive into this Eyeless Jack fellow, feeling like a detective from some once-popular show that wasn’t that good. You keep searching—jotting down leads for your search—until the sun is peeking over the horizon, and you can hardly keep your eyes open. Eyeless Jack has been around for longer than you first believed—they’ve probably been terrorizing after-dark visitors of your park for years, right under your nose.
Are there more missing-person cases? Did any of your coworkers who quit unexpectedly actually have a reason? God, this journey to the weirdest parts of the internet has left you with more questions than answers.
You look down at the big sticky-note pad you used for notes. It looks like you fell off the deep end with your feverish scrawling, smeared ink, and lots of quick notes about disembowelment, kidney removal, and even cult activity. You think this may need another night of internet excavation to answer those (and inevitably, come up with more, even crazier, questions). Based on a few accounts of unwanted kidney removal in their sleep, you think about getting something to eat—
—and staying as far from your bed as possible.
✷𓃞 ✷
You can’t even eat breakfast without being tempted by your thirst for knowledge; it’s unbearable. You don’t even want to think of spending more than a few days at home. Hopefully, the police hurry up and finish so you can start your investigation.
You quickly rinse and dry your empty dish, filling a glass of water and flopping onto the couch. Surfing channels and finding something mindlessly entertaining will probably take your mind off things.
The news is boring—talking about the recent storm off the southern coast—and some cooking show. A history documentary—about someone you don’t care for—a jewelry channel, another news channel, and a kids’ show.
(Tempting, but no.)
The local news, though not mindless, is entertaining. There’s an over-top camera view of the park. Dozens of police cruisers and K-9 units are parked—and you can see your car, your old, rusty girl in the lot—Cops are infesting every corner of your TV, some moving into the woods toward Trapper’s, others lingering to talk in the view of the helicopter. It cuts to a news anchor recapping the incident from last night. They think it’s a bear attack. Leslie says it was a bear attack. Your coworkers say it was a bear attack, and Wildlife Removal will deal with it.
They don’t know anything—Jack tore into that hiker like a wild animal—and left the poor guy’s insides all over the forest floor.
You don’t stop watching the news until they start talking about the weather, where you only half-listen. There’s going to be a storm tonight. The teams at your job are probably going to try to recover the body and bring it to the morgue before it starts raining.
You turn off the TV after that. You examine your abdomen, five short lines across your belly where their claws made contact. You decide to go to the bathroom to clean and dress them.
“Better to be safe than sorry.” You tell yourself.
After a few cotton balls soaked in alcohol and big bandaids later, everything is clean enough and about as well-dressed as you can, considering your supplies.
There’s not much to do at home, and trying to take your mind off things with your usual hobbies isn’t working. You even try scrolling mindlessly online, but you can’t stop thinking about last night.
Why did they stop—and so suddenly?
You lift your shirt and brush your thumb over the bandaids on your belly, the skin still too hot and tender. Maybe you were just lucky, stupidly lucky. You pick up your home phone and dial Leslie’s number. She at least deserves a warning about what’s out there.
“...What are you doing?”
“Leslie,” there’s some strain in your tone, “Hey, Leslie. How are things?”
“You’re calling about work? You’re supposed to be on vacation.”
Yes. Yes, you are.
“I know, but—Look, it’s about last night. I know you specifically told me not to do any digging, but—”
“Kid,” She cuts you off. You can picture her frustration as she probably rubs at her temples, “Tell me you did not do that.”
Yes. Yes, you did.
She sighs dramatically. “You work too hard—even when I order you to stop thinking about work, you do it anyway.”
“Look, it wasn’t an animal. It was a guy.”
“...What.”
You pull the phone from your ear. You probably do sound crazy. And you will continue to sound crazy when you talk about what you found online from defunct blogs from 1999. No matter how you try to spin it—every time you start talking—you can not come up with the words to explain that the scary internet creature is real. Leslie will not believe you, and who the hell would?
“...Nevermind. I have to go. I have, uhh, laundry in the dryer.” You mutter.
“Well, feel better, and stop going on the internet—you’ll scare yourself out of your skin with stuff people make up for fun,” Leslie sighs, then her voice goes soft, “I mean it. Take care of yourself. We’re thinking of you, kiddo. Oh, and Molly says hi.”
You swallow a lump in your throat. “...Well, let Molly know I said ‘Hi’ back.”
“Will do. Okay, see you next week.”
You hang up.
✷𓃞 ✷
It’s damp. The fallen leaves are starting to rot and turn mushy under their boots. Jack tears through another can with their claws and downs a mixture of soup and soaked-through chicken. They drink, grinding the sinewy chicken and too-soft between their teeth, swallowing harshly and curling up at the taste. Police swarming the woods like ants to fruit has been awful; Jack is tired. Everything burns, they’re tired of running, and they’re still so hungry.
Other foods are necessary to Jack’s diet—they can’t live off meat. They need carbs and stuff—but if Jack has to spend more time seeing faces, they will start digging for their kidneys. They collapse underneath a fallen tree, curling up like a woodlouse. If the police find them, Jack just hopes it’s quick.
They can hear men shouting somewhere nearby with their big, angry dogs.
Jack falls asleep there, eventually, and they don’t know what time it is when they wake up, just that it’s dark out again, and it’s so quiet.
They survive off stolen clothing and soup cans between stays at the manor. Though their vision is gone, Jack still lives with psychosis (one would figure getting their eyes melted with hot tar would prevent visual hallucinations). Eating human flesh, though a taboo solution to their symptoms, allowed Jack to clear their mind and function.
Jack sunk deeper under the heavy log when they heard footsteps and a whining dog.
“I know, boy.” A man says, coughing as the air smells of cigarettes.
Jack’s nose burns at the smell. The dog sniffs at the earth and knocks aside a pile of leaves with its nose, whining and howling. The officer kicks aside the leaves and sighs.
“...Alright,” He says, the metal bits of the dog’s vest clicking together as the dog grows restless, thrashing against it.
The man hunches down, the sound of a plastic bag crinkling in his palm, muttering something to the canine.
“Atta-boy. Come on, Chester, it’s damn creepy out here.” With the tug of the leash, the officer and his canine retreat out of the woods.
When the two are out of earshot, Jack squeezes out from under the log and feels around in the dirt, sniffing the air and only smelling wet earth. Their chest tugs in a sickened sort of way, and they sink back into their hiding place and curl up into a ball. The rain picks up again. Wind howls and thunder crackles in the sky, rattling the earth.
Their new jacket, which they snatched off an unsuspecting hiker, was Jack’s only protection from hypothermia stealing the heat from their digits. Jack breathes into their palms, hot air flowing across their stiff fingers (which Jack promptly stuffed into their underarms to warm them up).
The wind doesn't hesitate to rob Jack’s already-deprived body of what little it has. Jack can’t stop thinking about how hungry they are—and how they see faces melting in their periphery whenever their mind wanders. They pick at the raw edges of their sockets in a measly attempt to soothe. It doesn't work. Nothing works anymore, even when Jack can consume human meat. After only a few hours, Jack’s skin is already itching with the need to keep consuming, to keep eating, to stave off their psychosis by any means necessary. They tug—and tug, and tug, and tug until they’re shaking—at their raw skin, where hardened pitch meets seared flesh and patchy brows. It’s unbearably cold, it’s so fucking cold, and going back to that hellish manor sounds like paradise right about now.
But that’s not an option.
✷𓃞 ✷
Tuesday finally comes around, and you can return to work.
You pack two lunches today. Your bag is just leftovers in a takeaway container (dinner from yesterday), and the other is a sandwich with a few slices of Swiss cheese and meat (far more meat than you’ve ever used at once). It’s got other things on it; you aren't going to give some hungry person—who’s probably been living alone in the wilderness for who knows how long—a boring sandwich. Too bad if they don’t like mayo (Well, you hope they like mayo, lest they rip you in two for the offense of a condiment on real-people food).
You fill your water bottle, grab your keys, and head out the door.
Leslie’s truck is humming outside. Your car is still in the lot at work. You were not in any condition to drive after, and Leslie would not have let that happen. She moves her bags as you climb into the passenger seat. You set down your things on the floor, trying to conceal the second lunch you made.
“...Glad to have you back, got everything?” Leslie asks.
You nod, jingling your keys.
She flicks her turn signal to the left and drives onto the road, turning right onto the main road.
The car is quiet, except for the radio playing old 80s hits, thick with the tension that you almost died the last time you went to work.
“You can work wherever you want today. Molly’s willing to work with your plans. I can imagine not wanting to do trail walks after, well, you know what.”
“I’ll be okay,” You say, ”I’ll do trails today. Not a problem.”
Leslie grips the steering wheel tight. “You’re sure? After you know what, I figured you would want to quit,” She turns left, “I wouldn’t blame you.”
“No. I’m a little shaken up, but I’m okay.” You say, looking out the window.
Leslie makes some noise like she knows you’re lying. Your brush with death should have turned you off from any outdoorsy work, but here you are, making lunches for the thing that tried to rip you open like an orange. Maybe your too-empathetic and hopeful parts hope this sandwich helps them out. Everything you read about them was far from pleasant—Some of it didn’t seem real.
“A mixture of blood and hot tar poured into the eye sockets.” You recall.
This stuff about Eyeless Jack you read felt like fiction, but what you saw that night was real. God, it sends shivers down your spine, makes you feel ill—you don’t know what you would do if put in that scenario (blinded, abandoned, and left to die in the woods with an insatiable hunger for human flesh? Jack has been active for years, all alone, you think, you’re not sure how you would last even half as long).
“...Did they find anything?”
Leslie sighs. “No. But it’s an animal, so it’ll return next time it’s hungry. We’ve got more people on watch. Hopefully, we can get Wilderness Removal or Animal Control on it, maybe kill it if we have to.”
You hope not. Leave the critter that keeps eating people alone; they should just leave a plate of food out.
“Maybe don’t try to hunt down the wild critter-person like an animal.” You think. The rest of the ride is silent. You pull up to the park and see Molly chatting with a guest. She spots you looking out the window and waves, delighted to see you again.
“I wanted to give you this in case anyone tries giving you trouble.”
She passes you a black cylinder that’s roughly four inches tall. The button on top and the spray nozzle tells you it’s pepper spray.
“...Thanks, Leslie.”
“Anytime.”
You pull on your coat and leave your lunch in the fridge, taking the other out. Then, you jog over to your car and abandon the pepper spray in the cup holder; you hope that this choice won’t get you killed tonight, but you need to start on a good foot.
Your day-to-day rhythm comes back to you. You warmed yourself up on the more populated trails, picking up cans and directing folks about. It’s sparse, only seeing small groups unfazed by the recent killings (perhaps through ignorance or a belief that death is beneath them). The dread is heavier when you walk an empty trail that’s usually lively with people, even during the day, when dangers lurking in the bushes are more visible. As the sun creeps across the sky—and lower towards the horizon—fewer and fewer people choose to risk hiking after dark, lest they get disemboweled like the last guy who tried.
By 19:00, it’s empty. There’s nobody around other than you. But you know they’re still out there, listening to your every movement (and every breath and every hitch).
You scan the edge of the woods where they’re probably hiding, carefully stepping over the foliage while you intentionally stray from the carefully manicured path.
The trails are well-kept. The landscaping crew works diligently and takes pride in their work, keeping them free of debris and roots that would make the footpath a challenging terrain. Beyond the edges of the dirt roads, however, the forest is wild; vines writhe and twist along the floor, every plant fighting for sunlight in the undergrowth, with bigger-than-your-head leaves and trees wearing thick coats of creeping ivy. You witness the cycles of life and death within this delicate ecosystem—young trees climb higher and higher, growing larger and larger; insects feast upon the trees, rely on the trees, live and die by the trees; the trees, after centuries of life, die and rot; the lichen and insects feast on the rotting wood and refresh the cycle anew.
It makes you feel small and insignificant, as the world around you lives and dies without even noticing your existence. It’s like being surrounded by other people’s ideas in a museum, thousands of other people, forgotten by time, remembered by their art, or their shoes, or their stories through other people’s mouths.
Your boot slips on slick earth before you can continue your mental spiral about your insignificance as one among billions. Your boots squeal against pulpy mud and you nearly slip down into a strange recess; the earth is slick with that same slime, though it is more grainy and pus-like in texture. You follow the streaks in the muddy ground, where it slips underneath a large, rotten log.
You shine your light underneath, spotting a shivering, cobalt-blue mask underneath layers of jackets and stolen fabrics.
Maybe they’re sleeping, and waking them up (though with the promise of real people food) may upset them enough to maul you like a bear and eat you for lunch instead.
They shift and wiggle into the recess they carved out for themselves, hearing some shuffling outside of their burrowing. They suck in a deep breath through their nose, and the smell of human sears the insides of their lungs like smoke. They hunch a little bit, curling into a more upward sitting position, sniffing the air, inhaling once, twice, then a third time until they have that scent burned into their hindbrain. They can’t stop drooling, salivating at the thought of finally feeling okay again, having something to cut through the smoky, blurry feeling. They hear shuffling, their prey slinking back as they curled forward. They can’t suppress the growl that rumbles in their throat, teeth licked behind the mask. They don’t move like a person in preparation for a chase. Jack slips out of their nook, their body curled forward and arms hanging limp.
Jack reaches up and peels the mask like a second skin, revealing tar-filled sockets that bore down at your scent.
Jack lurches forward like they’re on a leash, sinking their claws into your arm and digging in, etching out five deep grooves, each weeping a stream of blood that makes Jack’s mind run wild. Without thinking entirely, Jack pulls your arm forward and sinks their teeth into your bicep, leaning their body weight against you, knocking you both to the floor. There’s kicking and screaming, high-pitched whining as Jack’s teeth tear through skin and sinew, coating your arm in blood and spit.
You cry out, trying to pull their steel trap of a jaw out of your arm—managing to loosen their upper jaw, and by shoving them away with the heel of your palm, you manage to rip out their lower jaw, too.
They shiver, licking their teeth over and over again. Feral, animalistic delight rattles their whole body; they’re giddy at the taste of your blood, but they hold some restraint at the sound of their name.
Your breathing is frantic, and your heart is hammering in your throat. Jack’s breathing slows, and they quit licking their teeth. You’re not sure where to start. You hold your breath as Jack’s tar-filled sockets bore down into yours. Their breathing is heavy, and there’s saliva dribbling down their chin. You squeeze your arm, your skin clammy with blood and sweat, while Jack stays still above you.
Your mouth is nailed and twisted shut like you’re at the morgue. Jack doesn’t finch as they, strangely again, don’t tear you to shreds like the last guy. You sigh, which comes out as an exasperated laugh, your chest squirming like a bucket of mealworms as Jack’s warm, blood-soaked breath enters your nose. Their hair is long and matted, greasy and cool-brown in color; their skin is a deep gray like the living dead, bulked up by layers of stolen sweaters and pants to keep warm.
“I, uhh…” You start, “I brought you a sandwich if you want it. I didn't know what you liked, so I just put a little bit of ever—”
Jack’s knee presses into your ribcage as they climb over you, feeling around on the ground for your bag. A wheeze rattles from your throat, and they dump your belongings onto the forest floor unceremoniously, sniffing the contents like a tracker hound.
They pinch the bag between their claws, disemboweling the brown paper bag, the contents hitting the floor with a wet thud.
You watch them eat, tearing through plastic and paper with their teeth, eating with no sensibility nor dignity. The sandwich is shoved into their mouth and swallowed in about fifteen seconds, and a crushed bag of potato chips you forgot at the bottom of your bag perishes, too. They crack open the plastic container full of your dinner and hesitate, neck craned in your direction. It takes a few moments to find them, but Jack finds the metal utensils you packed for yourself, showing the container to you.
“Oh, well, yeah. That’s mine. My dinner, I mean. You can have it if you want.”
They shake their head in a fit.
They push it in your direction, a flatly affective expression on the remainder of their face, but their body language pushes your cold leftovers on you with a lot of force. You gingerly take the container from their claws, crack it open, and eat. Jack listens attentively to you, sockets trained on you, on the sound of metal utensils clinking against your mouth, the sound of you swallowing your meal. Their hands squirm and play with the dirt and leaves, excited to share a meal of leftovers with somebody they nearly killed twice. Your arm is throbbing as you carefully feed yourself, your jacket’s sleeve shredded. Hopefully, your emergency fund can cover a trip to the hospital for however many stitches you’ll need, as well as the antibiotics you’ll be taking (or paying for amputation if this gets infected, but you try not to think about that as this demonic forest creature is enraptured by you eating supper with them). You scrape the bottom of the container, not missing a single morsel.
They move their hand under their chin, and you recognize what Jack is doing. You took a few classes in uni, so you pick up on the ASL as soon as their hand collides with the other in a neat thank you.
“Oh! You’re welcome,” You say, “Was it good? I was worried if you liked mayo or not.”
They grin. It’s small, subtle, and hard to do with the tar seared to their skin, but there’s a quiet peek of teeth as they chuckle at being understood. They like mayo.
You laugh, too, exhausted and relieved. After so many restless nights worrying about getting your organs surgically removed in your sleep, you’re looking forward to a restful night after the day you’ve had. At the hospital, because you’re arm is looking pretty ugly.
“Look, I think I have to go.”
They tense up.
“I won’t tell anyone about you, I promise,” You sigh, trying not to look down at your bloody limb, “They’re still looking for you, though, so be careful. If you need food, I can try to sneak you some from Lost & Found.”
Jack pats at their pocket, pulling out an old, beat-up phone. They pass it to you, and you type out your number and put it into a contact.
“I’ll, hopefully, see you soon?”
They shrug. It’s probably for the best that they don’t make any promises. Jack walks into the treeline, eventually disappearing from view.
#can also be read as: domesticating the feral they/them at your job#mewrites#eyeless jack x you#eyeless jack x reader#eyeless jack#creepypasta eyeless jack#creepypasta fanfic#fanfiction#creepypasta#mecreepy#x reader#reader insert#gender neutral reader
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idk if ive sad it here or not but, yes, sun and moon DO interact with a cat in (it was, in reality, not fine)
her name is Miss Peepers and she is a delight
(and yes she belongs to Reader)
#she knows how to make three sounds: hiss. angry purring noises. and that tiny 'mek' sound cats do thats more like a click than a meow#reader calls it peeping. like a baby bird peep#(hence her name)#yes she is a feral alley cat that strikes fear into the hearts of men just trying to walk to the bus on their morning commute#she is also small and only likes one(1) person#doodles#sketches#fnaf x reader#fnaf fanfic#fnaf sun x reader#fnaf moon x reader#fnaf sun/moon x reader#reader insert#bones of a rabbit#bones of a rabbit fic#it was in reality not fine fic#not fine fic#miss peepers
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