#come get yer prints

[flapdoodlez]

prints I recently drew for the Team Fortress 2 voice cast :D you can get em signed by the voice actors here

[sentientcave]

Retirement Party

Price has retired from Military life, and he's not handling the change well. But on the one year anniversary of him hanging it up, his boys bring him something special to help keep him busy. You.

Chapter One - The Perfect Gift

Next Chapter >

Contains: No Y/N (Reader is an OC), Kidnapping, Stalking, Drugging, Forcible relocation, Generally creepy behaviour, Threats (open-ended), I guess this might count as human trafficking?, Dubcon everything because Reader is terrified (non-sexual), plus-sized reader, fem/afab reader, There is something fucking wrong with these guys for real.

~3.2k - MDNI - Dark fic! Please mind the content warning above

"I told ye, she's perfect," Soap said, eyes on the window across the street. They could see you puttering around your living room, wearing a pretty flower print dress as you tidied up. "Good with bairns too, met her when I was pickin' up the niece and nephew from school. She was workin' for some rich family, an' they let her go because the wife found a pair of her knickers in her husband's briefcase." He snickered. He'd been the one to put them there, although, in his opinion, he’d been pushing the bounds for a long while anyway. Sure he’d essentially cast you adrift, jobless and with no one looking out for you, but, well, they were looking after you now, weren’t they? So it wasn’t all that bad.

"Good job, pup," Ghost said fondly, ruffling Johnny's hair. "Captain's gonna love 'er."

"How do you lads want to play it?" Gaz asked. "Could go in tonight. Won’t take much to knock her out, pack up her things, take her to the cabin. Get her nice and situated for when Price gets back."

"No point in waitin', is there?" Ghost asked. "Nice she's on the ground floor. Makes takin' 'er things easier. I'll go round 'n' check the windows in a bit. Should wait till after midnight. Don't want to be spotted by the neighbours."

"No' much risk o' tha'," Soap said. "Knocked over a bunch of bins last I was here and the cunts didna even turn on a light. Just the bonnie thing worryin’ while the rest of ‘em sleep sound."

Gaz lit a cigarette, nodding thoughtfully. "Small apartment too. Is there much to move?"

Soap shook his head. "Nah, no' much. Sweet girl lives simply. I told ye, she's perfect for the captain. He'll be able to spoil the fuck out of her, once she's broken in, aye?"

"Know 'e'll like that. Man needs a wife to dote on. ‘e’s been goin’ a bit crazy, all alone. An' 'e can train'er up nice."

"Think he might share?" Gaz asked wistfully, exhaling a stream of thin smoke as he sighed. "Nice soft girl like that-- Plenty to go around."

Ghost laughed. "Thought we'd 'ave trouble gettin' Johnny to keep 'is 'ands to 'imself, and you're the one droolin'."

"Scuse me for having eyes, mate. Just think she looks sweet."

"We'll get to see first 'and soon.” Ghost clapped him on the shoulder. “Come on lads. Let's get ready."

You wake up on the hard metal floor of a moving vehicle, your pounding head cradled in someone's hands. That's what you notice first, and the thumbs rubbing circles against your neck soothingly.

It has the opposite effect. Your eyes fly open.

“Hi, bonnie,” a somewhat familiar face grins down at you, blue eyes smiling, but too intense, glittering in the low light that filters in from the windows at the front of the truck. “How’s yer head?”

You grimace, trying to make sense of what’s going on around you. The back of the van seems to be filled with boxes. “Aren’t you Finn and Rory’s uncle?”

“Aw, ye remember me? Knew ye were a sweetheart.”

You try to sit up, but Johnny puts a strong hand on your shoulder and keeps you where you are. Your head feels too heavy to try and fight him, your muscles weak. “What’s going on?” you ask. “What— Is this a kidnapping?”

“Tha’s an ugly word, bonnie. We’re doin’ ye a favour, really. Settin’ ye up with someone respectable. Captain’ll take good care of ye.” He pats your cheek. “Whyna get back to sleep? Still a ways to go, aye?”

Maybe it’s just a bad, weird dream. You do feel foggy, like you’re not fully attached to your body, and keeping your eyes open is a struggle. You’ll wake up back in your own bed, and have a funny story to tell if you ever bump into Johnny again. He’s definitely too nice to be a kidnapper, right? Like, people don’t really do that sort of thing. It has to be a dream.

“Okay,” you mumble, letting your eyes close again.

As you suspected, you wake up again in bed. The headache’s receded some, and there’s warm sunlight streaming in through the windows. You bury your face into the pillows, and then bolt upright. The pillow smells weird, like sweet tobacco and spice, and you don’t get morning sun in your bedroom. The window faces a brick wall across a narrow alley.

The room you’re in now is not your room. It’s sparsely furnished, just a dresser under the window and the bed you’re tucked into, and two doors, one that’s clearly a closet, and one that must lead out into the rest of the… house? Judging by the sound of birdsong outside, you’re out of the city.

You pad to the window and look out. There’s a van in the driveway, and three men carrying things in. One of them looks up and spots you in the window, waving cheerfully.

Not a dream. Fear grips you, ice sliding down your spine, shards settling in your stomach, needling and uncomfortable. Your sinuses prickle like you’re about to cry, but no tears come. You’re too dehydrated to summon them. It’s hard to tell how long you’ve been out— It’s fully daylight outside, but you have no idea what time. A second look around the room finds a digital clock sitting on the nightstand, 3:05 glaring back at you in red.

There’s a knock on the door, and it pushes open. The man who walks in is handsome, smiling at you so beautifully that your automatic response is to try and smile back, although you feel that it’s flimsy, unsure. There’s no chance that this man is here to help you, but you at least hope he’s not here to hurt you either.

“How’re you feeling?” he asks. His voice is as pleasant as his face is, smooth and cheerful, although it makes you wary about him on principle. “You hungry?”

You shake your head. It’s not true, but you can’t trust that there wouldn’t be drugs in anything they give you.

“Well, come on downstairs, hm? Get some water at least. Maybe a tea?”

Your stomach churns. “I might be sick,” you manage to squeak out. He quickly ushers you out into the hall and into a bathroom. You don’t make it to the toilet, but you do manage to make it to the sink. If you had a little more fire in you, you might have tried to vomit bile onto the pretty man’s shoes, but it’s hard to shake the instinct to be good, not to make any trouble, to hope that they’ll just let you go. You’re not even sure what they want. You have no family to ransom, you don’t have any money to speak of, you’re just a fat little ex-nanny still paying off an English Literature degree from a second-rate college.

You turn on the sink to wash away the sick, and rinse your mouth out. Your hands start shaking when you realize your toothbrush is sitting in the holder next to the sink, like it belongs there. Your makeup bag is sitting on the counter too, and when you look down, you realize you’re standing on your own bathmat, taken from your home and arranged here, as if effects from your own house are supposed to make you feel comfortable. You look at your reflection in the mirror, and then at the man still standing in the doorway, his brown eyes all concern, as if he wasn’t party to a fucking nightmare.

You straighten up, gripping the counter to steady yourself. “What the hell is this?” you ask, trying to inject some authority into your quaking voice. “Who are you? What do you want from me?”

“I’m Gaz. Nice to meet you. Johnny had lots of nice things to say about you.”

So that hadn’t been a dream either. You look around the room desperately, looking for anything that could possibly be used as a weapon, but Gaz seems to know exactly what you’re doing, and he steps into your space quickly to grab your hands.

“None of that. Come on. You’ll feel better after a tea, yeah? Then you can get ready to meet the captain.”

He leads you downstairs. Questions spin around your head, but you’re not sure if it’s worth asking. Gaz only bothered to respond to one of the three you’ve asked so far, and it wasn’t the one that you were most interested in an answer to. So you stay quiet instead, taking in the layout of the big room. A front door and a back door, and windows that look out onto a forest on one side of the property, and more forest on the other side, beyond a large cleared space with a neat garden and a few fruit trees. There’s a second building that you can just see the corner of from the kitchen window, more likely a garage than a neighbour.

Gaz backs you up against the counter and leans down slightly, his hands gripping your thighs. You panic, the touch surprising you, and slap him across the face. The sharp sound makes you freeze, like it wasn’t you that had done it. He takes advantage of your surprise to shove you up onto the counter and grab both your hands with one of his, all the friendliness draining our of his eyes in an instant as he points a scolding finger at you. You feel like you’ve done something naughty that you’re not fully aware of the implications of yet, a badly trained dog or a child. “I’m going to let that one slide, because I understand that this is a big change for you. But you’re not going to like what happens if you try that again, understood?”

You nod quickly, your own eyes wide. “I-I’m sorry,” you say, the instinct for appeasement rearing it’s skittish little head.

And then the smile returns, as pretty as before, storm clouds blowing away as though they’d never been there to begin with. “It’s alright, doll. Just don’t do it again. And definitely don’t try that attitude on with the captain.” He taps the pointing finger against your nose playfully, and lets your hands drop back into your lap.

The rules seem simple enough. Be good and sweet, and get friendly faces in return, to a degree. No matter how cooperative you are, you doubt they’re going to let you go home. Fighting back means consequences, and you’re not sure how far those consequences will extend. If you’re too much trouble, it’s not a stretch to imagine that they’ll just kill you outright and try again with a meeker woman. You don’t yet know if death would be the more preferable outcome.

You pull your sweater down over your thighs. The black zip-up hoodie isn’t yours (the word Riley is stitched onto the front of it), but it’s big, and even though it smells faintly of cigarettes, it affords you at least a little modesty and comfort, more than the tank top and the sleep-shorts you’re wearing underneath do. Riley must be the third man. Was he the captain? Or was there a fourth one somewhere?

Johnny comes through the door carrying your suitcases, and he grins widely when he sees you, the charming, boyish one that you’d thought was handsome before. It’s only unnerving now. “Didja have a good sleep, bonnie?”

“You drugged me,” you accuse.

“Weel, of course. You were no’ goan ta come all peaceable, and LT wouldna be patient if ye were cryin’ the whole way here.” He trots upstairs, and you can hear him drop the bags with a thump, before he’s clattering back down the steps and leaning against the counter next to you. “How’d’ye like yer new home, bonnie? S’a nice place, aye? Better than tha’ little shoebox back in the city.”

“I like my apartment,” you protest.

“Psh, ye’d say tha’. Puttin’ on a brave face since yer such a good girl. But it wasna verra safe, was it? No’ a single neighbour paid us any mind while we were loadin’ up yer things. No’ a good place for a single girl, aye?” He reaches out and puts a big hand on your knee, squeezing lightly. “Now ye’ll be taken care of, like ye should be.”

“I don’t want to be taken care of.”

“Nonsense. Ye’ll be glad, once ye get used to things. Already looks real homey in here, don’t ye think?” He gestures at the living room.

You twist to look, and your stomach sinks. Your throw pillows are on the couch, one of the afghans you crocheted hanging over the back of it. You recognize the titles of your books on the shelves. These men were nothing if not thorough, surgically removing your entire life and transplanting it to this house in the woods, with it’s wood panel walls and big, overstuffed leather couches.

He continues blithely, like he’s not delivering some of the most horrifying news you’ve ever heard. “Most of your furniture’s in the garage, ye can sort tha’ out with Price, aye? But we brought all yer clothes and decorations and whatnot in. Figure ye should wear tha’ pretty black sundress, an’ those long stockin’s with the clippy belt, ye ken the one? Cap’ll like those.”

They’d been through all your things. If you had anything left to throw up, you might’ve again. Gaz sets a glass of water on the counter next to you. “How d’you take your tea, doll?”

“Milk, two sugars,” Johnny answers for you. “Our sweet lass has a sweet tooth, aye?”

“How do you know that?” You can hear the quiver in your voice, and it doesn’t slip by either of them.

“Come oan, hen, ye ken I didna jus’ pick ye off the street. Did my research. Wouldna pick just anyone for the captain.”

“When he said he’d found the perfect girl, we didn’t believe him at first,” Gaz says, leaning against the counter on the other side of the kitchen while the tea steeps. “But Ghost and I knew he was right, soon as we saw you.” He nods at the glass. “Drink your water. You haven’t had anything since last night.”

“Is it drugged?” you ask flatly.

“No, want ye awake for when Price gets here. Yer a real cute thing asleep, but we want him ta hear yer pretty voice and see that smile, aye?” Johnny reaches past you and picks up the glass of water, taking a big swig to demonstrate it’s harmlessness.

You take a careful sip when he hands it back to you, and then another, resisting the urge to just gulp the whole thing down. The door opens again, and the biggest man you’ve seen in your life walks in, wearing a black t-shirt and a mask with the jaw of a skull printed on it, pulled up over the lower half of his face. He looks at you dispassionately, and then at Gaz and Johnny. “What the ‘ell have you two muppets been sayin’ to the poor thing?” he asks, his voice rumbling like an avalanche. “She looks like she’s gonna faint.”

“Figure she’s just peaky,” Gaz says defensively. “I’m making her tea.”

The big guy swats Johnny’s hand away from your knee impatiently, and cages you in against the counter, one huge arm on either side of you. “How’re you feelin’ bird? Be honest.”

“Terrified,” you admit.

He chuckles. “Sensible, considerin’. But you don’t need to worry, olright? No one’s gonna hurt you, so long as you’re good. And you want to be good, don’t you, bird?”

You nod. You’d thought Gaz and Johnny were big, but this one’s huge, broad and tall and even scarier. It’s clear why they started off introducing themselves to you in the order they did. If this man had been the first thing you’d seen after waking up you probably would have gone into hysterics.

“Use your words, pet.”

“I want to be good,” you say obediently, because you don’t see any other options, at least for the moment.

“Good girl,” he says, and there’s the slightest hint of a smile in his dark eyes.

Somehow, this is the most comforting thing that you’ve experienced all day. You won’t be hurt if you’re good, and you are being good.

He pushes back from the counter slightly, giving you more space, takes the mug of tea from Gaz, and hands it off to you. “Small sips,” he instructs. “And maybe a biscuit, if you think you can keep it down.”

“Are you the captain?” you ask nervously, gripping the mug with two hands.

“Hm? No. ‘e’s still about an hour out. I’m Simon. Ghost to these two.” He fishes an open package of biscuits out of the cupboard and sets them next to you. “Once you finish your tea, we’ll get you ready. Want to make a good first impression, right bird?”

“Not really,” you admit. “I’d like to go home.”

He laughs, at least finding your honesty amusing. “That won’t be ‘appenin’. If Price dun’t want you, I’ll keep you myself. But I’ll tell you right now, you’ll like Price better. If you’re good for him, he’ll be real good to you, understood?”

You bite your tongue. It won’t do you any good to point out that a man that would accept a person as a gift is probably not capable of being good to anyone. Good is subjective, and the three men in front of you are lunatics. Their captain probably has the slightest bit stronger a grasp on his sanity, or a consistent moral code, if not a particularly righteous one. So you just keep your mouth shut, and drink your tea, and eat two chocolate digestives while Gaz and Johnny start collecting things to make dinner.

As soon as you set your empty mug to the side Ghost pops you down from the counter and ushers you upstairs with a big hand placed a little too low on your back. He tells you what to wear (down to the lingerie), but blessedly doesn’t insist on watching you get dressed. He does sit on the edge of the tub and watch you put on makeup, however, requesting red lipstick and winged eyeliner. Your hands are still a little shaky, but you manage to do as he asks. His eyes smile at you just a little when you’re obedient. You feel pathetic for not making a fuss, but you’re not sure what you can possibly do, except something stupid that will make them angry enough to hurt you.

He helps you into a pair of strappy red heels that had been languishing in the back of your closet before they dug everything out, and straightens the seam of your stockings, running his big hands up your calves. It’s like you’re a doll, dressed just how he wants, something to look pretty and say less than nothing, a gift for some other man you’ve never met to keep on a shelf.

Or worse, to play with.

You hear Johnny and Gaz greet someone downstairs, their voices loud and excited, and your heart skips nervously.

Ghost rises to his feet, smiling so big you can see it even with the mask. “Wait right here, pet,” he says firmly, leaving you sitting on the edge of the bed while he goes off to greet his captain. “Want to introduce you proper.”

So you sit, and you wait, shaking and nervous, for what feels like eternity, until you hear Simon’s surprisingly light footfalls on the stairs again. He offers you a hand, and hoists you over his shoulder as soon as you’re on your feet, carrying you down into the living room.

“We all pitched in,” Gaz says, as casually as if he meant throwing in five dollars for a card. “But she was Soap’s idea.”

“Picked ‘er out special, Cap,” Johnny says. “She’s perfect for ye.”

“She?” an unfamiliar voice asks. “Don’t tell me you got me a dog.”

“Better than that, skipper.” Ghost laughs as he circles around the couch, and drops you carefully into the man’s lap, stepping into line with the other two. “We got you a wife.”

I've been low-key thinking about this concept since I read ohbo-ohno's Don't Leave Me Locked in Your Heart a while back (If you haven't read and you like a good dark fic, you should click that link, you may enjoy it). I think getting someone a person as a gift, or being given as a gift, rather, is a fun fucked up fantasy to explore. I'm not entirely sure where I'll take this but I promise to put in content warnings. Let me know if I miss something, I don't want anyone to be surprised by what they find!

Image Credits: Banner

Dividers: 1 - 2 - 3 by @/Cafekitsune

[flowerfreya]

The Office AU

part 17 - Poly!141 The men are trying to show reader that they like , but she has some issues reading the signs Pairing: poly!141 x reader

There has been a lot of causal touching. That you are starting to slowly freak you out. 

Everytime John calls you into his office to ask for a really simple and almost down right disrespectful task that he is asking for you to do. 

“Hey bird, need your help for something”, John calls to you , leaning against the doorway in his office. 

“Sure, let me just find a stopping point”, you could stop at any point but just wanted to seem like you were doing something, not because you aren't doing anything but because you always finish your work early in the day. Standing up and walking over to his office , he puts his hand on your lower back as you walk in, it has you stiffening up and developing a little sweat on your hands. You don’t know what he means when he touches you like this. 

Is he doing it on purpose? 

Does he always touch women like this or just you? 

Does he like me ? 

“Can’t figure out the printer again”, he says, a little too shameful. Considering you’ve shown him how to do this a couple of times already and he just seems to not be getting it. You go over the steps again , sitting down in his chair and you swivel around to him to see if he’s got it. 

“Does that make sense”, you ask him. Look up at him. He then crowds your space and points to the screen and asks a question but you miss it because all you can do is feel his body heat. 

He’s standing right behind you leaning over, which puts some weight on his body on your shoulder. 

You breathe in long and hard and swear you can smell his deodorant and a little of his natural body musk. 

You want to have an oxygen mask of just that scent and only have that survive. 

He brings you out of the haze when he lays his hand on you shoulder, “think I got it, hen” 

“Got what”, you ask. 

“Seems like it printed”, he says, then points to the door frame where Gaz is standing holding what looks to be about 20 copies of some order form. 

“Oh”, you let out quietly, standing up from his chair , “let me know if you need anything else”, you say as you walk out. Going immediately to the bathroom and re applying some powder because you know you are shiny after going through that tortuous 20 minutes. 

You do your nails almost every two weeks. Since you do it yourself it takes forever and you always had a design or too and you’ve been getting better at it. 

So when Soap grabs both of hands and stares at your nails, you forget that you did themand the only thought that is going through your head is that his hands are soft. 

“This look right good," he says , leaning on your desk and bringing your hands closer to his face. 

“Yer did it yourself?”, he ask and you know it takes a second to answer him but he’s still holding your hands and it’s kinda hard to focus. 

You answer and it gets you excited about your nails. You're super proud of them. 

Then god damn him , he starts giving your hands a massage. 

You were not prepared for that, letting out a quick but low moan. 

It has Soap stopping what he’s doing , giving your a little smirk , “feel good?”. 

“J-just surprised me is all”, it did feel good but you didn’t want him to know that, you don’t even know how he feels about you. 

He still flirts with everyone that comes in this office. And he’s playful. Maybe a bit too playful. You’ve done playful before and that just turn into taking care of all the important stuff because “your better at that stuff” and whole bunch of resentment. 

Pulling your hands away slowly , you thank him for the compliments and start to open your yogurt that doubles as your breakfast. As he walks away, “that yogurt is expired”, he says. Which has you looking down and you see the expiration date of two days ago. 

[miiyas]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MIYA !!

little birthday moments with him.

wc: 482, 401, post-ts, fluff, gn reader, may be ooc, slight proof read

ATSUMU MIYA loves his birthday. he’s very vocal about it, bragging to everyone about how he gets to have osamus homemade vanilla-yuzu cake and how he was going to get absolutely wasted with him today. and as much as he loves all the attention and gifts, he also loves you.

everywhere he goes, there always would be a reference to you. your favorite drink, the restaurant you so desperately want to go to, favorite shopping brand, the bundle of smiski blind boxes atsumu always finds himself buying for you— everything reminds him of you.

now, despite his actions towards you, atsumu isn’t one for cheesy sentimentals. he thinks he’d rather suffer through sakusas earful lecture of cleaning his room and which sanitizing products are best for his shared home with you then admit that he’s soft for sweet affection and care. so when you give him his small birthday present after his actual party, he’s a caught a little off guard.

“savin’ best fer last, huh ? what’didya get me ?” he hums, leaning against the bed frame. he watches you crawl back atop of his waist, big hands coming to rest on your hips as you hold the small wrapped gift. it’s dark in your shared bedroom with the only source of light being from a lamp by your bedside.

atsumu almost reluctantly slips his hands off your sides and gently takes ahold of the present. it was no bigger than his palms, maybe a bit smaller, and it lacked weight. with sleep on his mind, the blonde carefully peels off the wrapping with blunt nails, tired eyes widening as he sees a small golden locket drop onto his stomach.

“it’s a keychain.” you whisper to him, picking it up and handing it back in his bigger hands.

“i wanted to get you a necklace so we can match, but i figured because of volleyball, you wouldn’t be able to wear it around as much.”

as you explain, you could see your boyfriends eyes prick up with tears ever so slightly which only engulfed panic in your system. the blonde brushes it of, telling you that he ‘ain’t cryin’ !’ and thumbs the tears away, opening the locket with a hand with a soft click.

“.. there’s nothin’ inside..” he mumbles, a little disappointed to not see your pretty face already displayed. that’s when you tug out your matching necklace already looped around your neck, opening it up to show its similar emptiness.

“i wanted to print stuff out with you tomorrow. y’know, i have your face on mine and—”

“i have yers on … mine.” atsumu finishes the sentence for you, his words a little drifted off as his thumb grazes along the intricate lines on the metal.

atsumu knows for a fact that he fell first and harder, and he can’t help but feel it happen all over again.

OSAMU MIYA doesn’t wish for a lot of things on his birthday.

the only few things he wishes for are for the prices of onigiri ingredients to go down, find a bigger mattress for the two of you, and maybe get sponsored by a good kitchen utensil company and get some free goods. other than that, he likes to think that he’s content with the things already given in life.

he also wishes for people to stop teasing him for taking the second slice of his own cake.

there’s been a small birthday ritual the twins had been doing since they were younger— to give the first and second slice they cut to the people they care about the most.

first slice would always and forever belong to their ma, no matter what. that much would never change. second slice normally was given to one another, but osamu had soon gone irritated with the fact that his brother would always purposely make him take the best slice, only to hand it off later. so overtime, osamu had began to claim the better slice for himself, saving it and giving the third slice to his twin.

he doesn’t think he’s being greedy, just reasonable and fair.

but after starting to date you, he subconsciously sees himself handing you the first bite to all his meals, sharing a bento box when normally he would glare at those who want a bite, and letting you enter the kitchen whenever he’s at work in it which is a surprise in itself.

so when greedy-glutton osamu hands you the second slice to his cake, you’re a little taken aback.

“.. want me to hold onto it for you ?”

you sit right beside him by the table and osamu shakes his head, sliding the plate closer in front of you. there’s a soft look behind his pretty hooded eyes that makes your ears burn red, the atmosphere around you growing quiet until it was just your boyfriend voice you could hear.

“i wan’cha ta have it.”

you blink, eyes wide as you watch your boyfriend continue to slice through the cake with his twin before handing the slice to one another. your lashes flutter as you look down at the plate, you realize how generous of an amount you had received.

osamu likes to say ‘i love you,’ but he loves to show it more.

[chloessleepystories]

School Daze

Miss Schism walked into the empty lecture hall loaded down with books and papers. She scattered her desk with plans and textbooks, and sat dutifully for a long time, writing and researching, making notes, glancing at the clock frequently and increasingly fretfully. Finally, she rested her forehead on the cool desk, and whimpered.

After a few quiet minutes with her eyes closed—which didn’t help—she leaned back in her chair, wanting to cry with frustration. “There’s only a few days left before I have to give the final, and I’m not even done creating it!” she wailed to the empty room. “And there’s still so much left to do!!”

“Like what?”

She gestured to the mess before her. “I’ve got to grade the last two weeks’ worth of work, create a rubric for the final project … " She suddenly stood, and walked to the blackboard, grabbing the chalk and making frantic notes to herself. “Not to mention skimming through three months of discussion notes for questions … ”

“—planning what you’re going to wear the last day, and what debauchery you’ll get up to on vacation … ”

“—downloading and organizing and printing and planning … ”

“—dressing and undressing and squeezing and sucking … ”

“Stop!” she told the Voice, dropping the chalk in the tray, but not turning around. “I can’t—I can’t be thinking about that right now. I need to focus.”

“You certainly do need to focus,” came the Voice, which was deep, and male … and persuasive. “Focus on the tingling in your breasts, focus on how hard your nipples are getting … ”

“No … " moaned Miss Schism.

“They’re so aroused. You’re so aroused … ”

She put both hands on the chalkboard, bending over, squeezing her thighs as she felt herself getting warmer. “Please … I c-can’t … ”

“But you can. You need to. You need to focus, that’s what you said. Focus on what your body needs … Turn around.”

She whimpered an almost-protest, but pivoted to put her hands on her desk, leaning over further and scanning the empty room, the rows of bare chairs, with eyes blurred with growing lust.

“Oh my! Look at that … You weren’t very focused when you got dressed this morning, were you? I bet you haven’t even noticed what top you put on, by ‘accident.’ How sheer that blouse is. How it’s almost … invisible.”

She looked down and gasped. It was, indeed, so sheer as to show the white lace on her bra. “Oh no! I can’t be out in public like this! … At least I have a bra underneath it … ”

The unseen Voice seemed to move from one side of her to the other as it chuckled. “No you don’t.”

She looked down again as she felt her erect nipples brushing the silky fabric, swaying suddenly. “Oh no! What was I thinking!?” she gasped, covering her breasts with one arm. “This is totally, like, see-thru!”

“You weren’t thinking,” said the Voice. “You were being dumb.”

She chewed her lip, shaking her head bashfully, girlishly. The beginnings of a grin began to show. “Nuh-uh.”

“Like a dumb bimbo.”

“No I wasn’t!!” She dropped both arms to stamp a foot. “I was, like … . I mean, I am! Like, smart!”

“Much too dumb to be a teacher … ”

“Stoooop … .” she whined. “Yer mixing me up!! I gotta find something to put on before somebunny sees me!!”

She hurried to her bag beside her desk.

“It’s too late. Your whole class has seen you. Look.”

Sure enough, there they were! Every seat was filled! When did they get here??? A student in every seat, and every single one of them, boys and girls, wuz LEERING at her!!

“My goodness, what they must think of you … " said the Voice, right in her ear now. “A sheer top, and no bra … Oh and look, you forgot your skirt as well … ”

She didn’t need to look down, she FELT the scratchy tweed disappear from her thighs, and her fingertips. She watched as the boys in the front row leaned forward, their gaze growing hungrier.

“I’m having a dream, it’s a terrible, terrible dream … " she murmured.

“Nonsense!” came the Voice, but now it was coming from the doorway. Miss Schism looked, and saw an older man walking toward her, with a beaming smile, his arms out. “It’s not terrible at all … ”

“Principal Grossman!” she cried. “What a relief!”

The man was pudgy, and mostly bald, with a horseshoe of white hair. A relaxing presence, even in these circumstances. She didn’t think to cover herself, but moved toward him as if he were an oasis in the desert. “They’re all lookin at me!!” she whispered, her voice moving up the scale as if on helium.

“Poor girl,” he said tenderly. “You’re so confused. Did you think you were teaching this class? No, no, you’re the experiment.”

“I am?”

“And you’re doing very, very well,” he said, grasping her forearms reassuringly.

She beamed proudly. “Oh goody!”

He turned her, facing the students. “Such a silly girl.” He unbuttoned her blouse, stripping off the wispy material. She stood, topless, her nipples hardening, as the boys licked their lips and rubbed the crotches of their jeans. The girls uncrossed their legs, spreading their knees, revealing the lack of panties under their short skirts as they slouched in the chairs, eyes hooded with lust.

“Silly girl, you can’t be a teacher. You’re much too dumb.”

“I am?”

“Dumb and slutty,” he said into her ear, and the word “slutty” echoed through her empty head, sweeping up so many thoughts and feelings and memories. He cupped her breasts from behind, fondling them, offering them to the students. “Aren’t you, my dum-dum dolly?”

A wave of pink fluff went through her brain as he said that. And a wave of golden sparkles tingled through her body. “Uuunngghhh … .” She staggered a little. “Yes … ”

“A slutty, horny, dum-dum dolly?”

Her pussy ached with sudden need, drenching her sodden panties. He was pinching her nipples now, and tingles raced through her body, not just from his touch but from his words, his triggers … “Yes, Principal Grossman.”

“Are you sure?” he said, and his voice changed. “Look again.”

She blinked, and turned, trying to focus on the man whose hands were running over her belly, her hip, as she heard and felt the students shift hungrily in their seats.

And it wasn’t the principal at all!! He was taller, and muscular, and dark as rich chocolate!!—with shaved head and trimmed beard, but the same gentle smile …

“Coach Brickhouse!!!!”

“That’s right, little girl. And you’re my suggestible bimbo snowbunny, aren’t you?”

“Uh huh!” she grinned, and “Ohhhhhh … " She moaned as her eyelids fluttered, as the word ‘snowbunny’ stole more of her IQ points. Oh, it felt so good to let go.

The coach caressed her cheek as he hooked one dark thumb under her panties, at the hip. The other thumb slid into her slack mouth, and she sucked it eagerly, her eyes closed and her mind eclipsed. “That’s my docile, suggestible idiot,” he murmured in his rich baritone, as she sucked dutifully on his thick, black, powerful thumb. “It feels so good to drop, and obey, doesn’t it … ”

“Mmmmm … " Miss Schism, her mind delightfully fractured, leaned her blond head against his hand, mindlessly sucking, awaiting orders.

“Then why don’t you get on your knees, and show me how much you love being cockdumb.” She giggled as she dropped happily, and took his massive member in her little white hands. It filled her lips with its intoxicating meaty taste, and she stuffed it into her throat until her jaws ached with pleasure. She looked up at him with big eyes, reveling in his kind gaze as he stroked her cheek and hair with his strong hands.

“Then we’ll see how many of these nice boys and girls want to play with your body, and break your little brain with pleasure. How does that sound … Mmmmm, imagine a silly girl like you, thinking she was a teacher. You’re just a slutty bimbo airhead, aren’t you?”

She nodded happily, and kept sucking his hard, gorgeous member, her eyes rolling back and her eager cunt gushing with grateful pleasure.

***

Abigail slurped happily on her husband’s cock, humming peacefully and mindlessly to herself, two fingers stroking her sopping pussy.

Jack stroked her dark hair lovingly, and throbbed in her mouth. He glanced over at the bedside desk, strewn with term papers and textbooks.

She could finish the rubric in the morning, he knew, and still have time for everything else before finals next week. She deserved a break.

And fortunately, she’d long ago given him the tools to give it to her.

“What a good slut,” he murmured. “Look out, here comes that football player with the big dick … He’s holding your hips, getting ready to slam it into you … ”

Her eyes met his, her cheeks sunken in with sucking, and suddenly her eyes … WIDENED … and her body moved with the first thrust of the phantom cock. She squealed in pleasure, and her husband knew that meant “thank you.”

“My goodness, look at these hot co-eds who want to suck on your tits while you’re being spitroasted … ”

[lazyneonrabbitt]

Metalhead

Daryl Dixon x Reader

You had dragged Daryl along to something you liked last month, so now it was his turn.

To anyone around, including yourself it was clear you stood out from the crowd.

Inbetween the mass of black on black, spiked everything and the odd masked figures in red boiler suits your bright blue jeans and simple bright teeshirt.

Daryl had come along to your weekend event last month, so now it was your turn to join him to a concert.

"What's with the masks?" You were settled against Daryl's side, not entirely sure what to make of the group before you.

"Really, ya haven't paid any attention when I showed ya who we're seein' tonight?" Daryl, all decked out in his usual looks of heavy boots, black trousers with chains hanging off the belt loops and a black shirt that hugged his form ever so perfectly. It was printed with the picture of a blonde woman that you didn't recognise.

"Hey, Dixon!" A man's voice had you both turn and look behind you, where a bearded guy in a beanie walked up with two women in super gothy outfits, their makeup extreme but flawless.

You had never met Daryl's friends before and in all honesty you felt intimidated by them.

"Oh my god you brought your girl, finally!" One of the women gestured excitedly and hopped over to introduce herself, perfectly manicured hand outstretched for you to take. "Hi! I'm Viv, that's Sammy and Jesus." You shook everyone's hands and introduced yourself as well before Daryl did his rounds and gave everyone the biggest bear hugs. "Hey, hun." "How's the apartment lookin'?" "Tell yer mom I'm sorry fer not comin' over ta cook with 'er."

It was weird to see Daryl be so social. Normally he'd be the quiet one when you went out together, but now he was all smiles and talk.

"Gotta rep the guesting band, I see." The Jesus guy tugged on Daryl's shirt, staring at the print, while one of the girls chimed in. "You gotta know by now Dee's got the biggest crush on her." The three laughed as Daryl dismissed the comments, all while you stood by and listened to their banter. Who did Daryl have a crush on? What?

"Here, in case Daryl forgot to give you some." Sammy extended her hand to you and handed you a clear plastic baggie with two foam earplugs in them.

"Ah, crap.." Daryl rubbed the back of his neck and smiled nervously as he accepted a packet himself too. "Yer a lifesaver, Sam. Thanks."

You waited close to the front of the line for some more hours, having ordered food with a large group of people that all seemed to become friends at that moment.

Once the doors to the venue opened up you followed Daryl like a lost puppy, stuck to his arm in fear of getting lost in the sea of the dark clad people.

"Come on, Dixon, get your ass in gear!"

"Yeah, man. Barricade's gonna be full at this rate." His friend had already moved further along as you and Daryl put your stuff in a locker. "Go ahead. Takin' it easy with this one." Daryl's hand found your hair and ruffled it softly, much to your annoyance. But you appriciated his concern for you and was willing to not go full out.

You followed along with the stream of people and ended at the bar off to the side of the venue.

"One beer, and one--" Daryl gave you a look, and saw you just looking around the place, taking everything in. "And a Redbull, please."

By the time you had your drinks and the crowd had all settled in, the local opening band had started their first song. Daryl's beer was gone fast, kindly waiting for you to finish your overpriced can before slowly easing you into the crowd.

Every tine you stood still for a moment you took a peek at the stage, seeing the band perform the songs was something entirely different than hearing come from Daryl's huge sound installation at home.

Daryl was keeping a close eye on you the whole time, not caring much for the small band on stage. He was enjoying how curious you were. Less how easy it was to lose you in the crowd if he wasn't holding your hand.

"Yer havin' fun?" Daryl stood behind you with his hands loosely on your hips, you had found a spot closer where you could see the stage nicely.

You gave him a nod, resting your head against his shoulder as he pressed a kiss to your hair. "Good, gotta lemme know when's gettin' too rowdy for ya, 'kay?"

"Promise, Dee." You turned to give him a quick kiss, laughing at how the previously considered scary people were all chanting along to the pop songs the speakers played between bands.

You were checking a few messages while you waited and hadn't noticed Daryl taking out his phone too until it was in front of you and his chin was resting on your shoulder. You looked up to see yourself on his screen, he was taking a selfie with you. Next to you he stuck out his tongue as he pressed the capture button and held it as he went to smooch your cheek.

He watched the short looping video back and added a caption before sending it off.

'Girlie's first metal gig!' He addded under it with a little black heart emoji.

The crowd around you cheered and hollered all of a sudden, making you look up and seeing the first members of the next band come onto the stage, waving and getting ready to perform.

You watched the stage didn't notice how giddy Daryl had gotten behind you. Most of the band had gotten onto the stage and an eery tune started playing that had part of the crowd whistle and cheer.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN."

Suddenly a loud, distorted voice called out from the speakers.

"I AM NOW PROUD TO INTRODUCE TO YOU,"

More howls and whistles surrounded you as the eery tune continued.

"THE ONLY,"

"IN THIS MOMENT"

Spots beamed to the centre of the stage as a gorgeous woman appeared as the band's instruments joined the tune, starting the song.

Behind you you felt Daryl's body jerk against yours as he raised a fist and joined the crowd in cheer.

His body stayed pressed againts yours with his arms around you, hands resting on your hips and stomach as he swayed you along the tunes of the first song.

As the band played on the crowd got more rowdy, jumping around and bumping into each other making you stagger in Daryl's grip.

Daryl kept being your shield as the crowd's shoves got worse. "Ya wanna move?" He tapped your arm and pointed off to the side where you could suddenly see a wide open space inbetween the few people that separated you from it.

Over the intro tune of the song a large hole had formed in the crowd, a few people in the middle bouncing around as the lyrics went on.

With your lack of answering, Daryl just kept up holding onto you and kept his gaze between you and the pit.

The second the woman's voice went from a distorted speaking to a loud growled singing the crowd surged into the large open space, almost taking you and Daryl with them.

You didn't know where to look. The gorgeous frontwoman on the stage before you, or the massive swarm of people throwing themselves around next to you.

You peeked behind you at Daryl, who was staring, mesmerized by the woman leading the band. One arm stayed around you to ward off the thrashing crowd while the other one was raised above you in cheer.

The crowd bounced in unison making you want to join in, softly bopping to the beat on the balls of your feet. You knew nothing of the song so you went along with the crowd, much to Daryl's enjoyment as he joined in as well. You blended with the crowd now, barely noticing you were slowly moving around the floor agsin in the moving sea of people.

It was only when the band's set ended that you realised you had moved a lot closer and further off to the centre of the crowd.

Daryl had his face buried in the crook of your neck the second the band was off the stage, nuzzling against your skin and squeezing your soft thighs. "Yer havin' fun. S'good." His mumbling tone was barely audible over the waiting time music and the crowd's chatter. But you recognized the tone, he was getting high on your enjoyment. You could already tell that of the next band didn't interest him enough you'd be dragged into the nearest bathroom stall to show you just how much he loved seeing you enjoy yourself.

You found it cute how a big grump like Daryl got off on something as soft as seeing his girlfriend happy.

The intermission was a nice time to mellow out a bit before the headliner got on stage and quickly check your messages. This time it was your turn to send out a snapchat to your friends, showing them you were still alive and breathing.

A selfie of you in the dim lights with Daryl nuzzling your hair, and a simple text that read "having fun!".

While you sent away your snap and went to respond to a pauzed conversation from earlier the stagelights moved as the headliners entred the stage.

You scrambled to put your phone away with how wild the crowd got all of a sudden.

Almost immediately after the members got on stage a guitar rhytm set in and thr crowd moved around you, so much it made Daryl move along and before you knew it there was another empty space in the crowd.

Right next to where you stood at the edge of it.

The drums kicked in, joining the guitars and right next to you there were people running in circles in the open space.

Daryl had let go of you for a moment to look into the pit and right at that moment the song started in full blast. Daryl's arm got grabbed by someone passing by and got yanked into the whirlpool of people. "Sorry!" You heard him yell, leaving you on your own off to the side against his will.

"Daryl?!" You called in shock and backed up when a guy ran too close past you, stepping into another person's side.

"Ah, I'm sorry.." Your fun was gone in an instant and the guy saw it, carefully patting your arm and offering to shield you from the rowdyness of the pit. A careful nod was all you needed to share before going back to watch the band play and glance to your side whenever Daryl passed by.

You listened to the song and followed Daryl's movements, watching him throw himself around with a wide smile on his face.

With the song nearing its end the pool mellowed out and Daryl came back to you, panting and smiling, placing a soft kiss to your cheek before grabbing you in both his arms and pulling you into the still active pit, making you let out a yelp.

He moved along with the stream of people that ran in circles again and stepped back into the crowd after making two rounds, ending up almost at the centre front of the crowd.

Daryl's plan worked, snow standing close enough to his friends at the barricade. He whistled and saw Viv turn and reach out her hand to you.

"Grab, I'l follow." Daryl took the hand you didn't reach out with and you were pulled to the front with ease, quickly being squeezed between the two girls on the front row.

The view from your new spot was amazing, no heads blocking half of the stage, no shoulders moving just an inch to blind you entirely or needing to stand on your tiptoes to see.

You watched all the members perform up close, unable to resist the urge to photograph them all. It took you a moment before you noticed you recognised the song they were playing. Daryl had played it foe you, all those years back when he first got into this music.

You had heard it so often you could even hum along to the words, nodding to the rhythm. The girls beside you caught on quickly, smiling and nudging you to guide you along, showing you the 'proper barricade etiquette' as they called it.

Viv had your hand in hers, raising them together as the song ended and howled out in cheer along Sammy at your other side. Behind you Daryl, and beside him Jesus joined as well, Daryl's chest pressed against your back.

The music was loud, the crowd wild but the energy was one you never thought you'd welcome, there on your spot at the barricade of a heavy metal show.

Once the last song of the night ended you felt the cool air return around your body with the crowd leaving the hall.

"Think you swayed her?" Jesus asked Daryl. The two walked just a few steps behind you, watching you chatting happily with the two other girls beside you when you three suddenly made a turn towards the merchandise stand.

The men watched you all point out different things on the wall. "Course I did. 'S a lil' rebel, tha' one. She jus' gotta figure tha' out 'erself."

Jesus and Daryl caught up with you all, Daryl snaking his arms around your waist as he got to you. "Did ya find somethin', hun?" His chin rested on your head, taking a look at the wall for himself too as you waited for the person in front of you to finish their purchase.

"That one's pretty!" You pointed at one of thr shirts off to the side, having Daryl steer you towards the available salesperson.

"Girlie wants tha' second one op there." Daryl pointed at the shirt you liked, and moved on to some others as well. "Tour shirt in ..two XL, an' I'll take tha' last one down there."

The guy gathered all Daryl's choices and gave him the total, which Daryl happily paid before you joined your friends again off to the side.

"Always spending money, how much did you get this time?" Jesus crossed his arms as he raised a brow at Daryl, who showed him the bag with the three shirts. "Ain't much at all. Where's the girls?" Daryl looked around to find you and the others but you were nowhere to be found.

"They kidnapped her to the bathroom, probably lockers too." Jesus held out his pack of cigarettes in offer. "Smoke? I'll text them we're outside."

Daryl nodded and accepted the smokes, following his friend outside and smiling at you making new friends.

At the bathroom sink you were splashing water in your face to fully cool down and waited for the other two before heading back.

"They're outside already." The informafion came at the locker where you had left your jacket and bag, where you had told yourself earlier to try and have fun and not to worry so much.

With your jacket on and bag slung over your shoulder you left the venue to meet back up with the boys.

Daryl welcomed you by pulling you into his side. "Ya calmed down after all tha'?" His sweet smile leaked some smoke before blowing the remainder out over your head.

"Hmhm! I had more fun than I thought." You nuzzled his jacket and looked back at the friend around you. "It was really nice to meet you guys, too."

It was true, you did enjoy the event and were sure you'd be joining Daryl more often now.

With a last round of goodbyes you and Daryl left to catch the last train home, spending your late night moments almost falling asleep against him.

"C'mon. Yer takin' a shower with me 'fore we go sleep. Yer gross." Right, Daryl's after show routines, you almost forgot.

It was clear to him you were extremely tires so he made sure to treat you like a queen as he cleaned you up and dried you off, carrying you to bed and laying down with you, holding you close.

[creepling]

that boy is a monster - j. slaughter / 2.6k

in contribution with THE HAUNTED HOEDOWN

prompts: sex in the woods or somewhere public (added bonus if it includes knife, blood, hunter x prey kink)

summary: everyone comes and goes from the slaughter residence, either as survivors or stacks of meat. but as you escape and run further into the woods, johnny won't let you go that easy.

tags: DEAD DOVE - read at your own risk. smut. MINORS DNI. fem!reader. non-con. hunter/prey. knife/blood-play. descriptive injury. narcissistic johnny. fem penetration. blood hunger. choking. roughplay. slapping. kidnapped ending.

It would help to know the surroundings. Sprint the track to get to the finish line. But you’re bleeding. Your legs ache, and the tree branches are tearing at your skin. The calls of the Slaughter family echo in the distance.

Running for your life is supposed to be the escape. You’re out of the house, but your heroic end is not at a close. You have to keep running. You have to survive. And one person, in particular, will not give you up so easily.

“You’re the reason this is happening. You brought them damn kids here. You go get ‘er!” Drayton told off Johnny, waving his bloody stick towards the exit you stumbled out of.

Johnny was cool in his stance. He is cleaning his knife, sharpening its blade. He admires the glint of it in the moonlight, a sly smirk winking back at him in its reflection.

“Keep yer panties on, old man. I’ll get her,” He brushes off the Cook, swaggering towards the gate.

With his family seeing him off, Nubbie chuckles and cheers him on. Sissy claps and howls. “Bring her back fresh now, ye hear!”

Johnny was not going to share. He wants to play with his food and keep you all to himself. Once he finds you, you’re going to scream. He will have your insides, grip your flesh and suck your blood. His family will not have a nip of you. You’re all his.

The beginning of the hunt sent Johnny’s instincts into overdrive. Your shadow mystifies into the forest, and he picks up the pace to dive into the belly of the beast. He grunts as he sprints, inhaling the air. He was only human, but everything in his attitude was animalistic. A coyote in a man’s body, wanting to catch your scent, embarks on the trail you left behind and chases you until your soft flesh is between his teeth.

Deep within the sun-dried trees, Johnny halts his speed and listens to the silence. He peered his hearing for the snap of a twig, the ruffle of a leaf, anything to assume you were close by. He crouches to the earth and calculates the ground. His eye caught an indent, your shoe print heavy in the dry dirt, the heel dragged out, exposing your struggle. Johnny was mesmerised for a moment, then he advanced, tailing the track of your footprints to the direction of your hiding spot. He arrives at a dead end, cursing under his breath. He catches a look above, checking the trees, but both the trees and you are too fragile to hold weight. His eyes scan the horizon, wondering how far you have gone.

“I’m gonna find ya soon enough, sweetheart. Why don’t you come out, and we can get this over with?” Johnny called into the night, his skin tingling at the thought of you nearby.

He was closer than you thought. Tugged low in the dip of the earth, you bite the inside of your cheeks and muffle any sound of panic that threatens to burst. You may be bleeding, tired, and traumatised, but you will not give up. If he wants you to meet the same faint as your friends, he will have to come and get you.

At the deafening silence, Johnny sighs. It was long and drawn, but it soon shifted into a chuckle, and he gripped the handle of his knife tighter. “Fine, I like the challenge.”

Johnny advances, his footsteps descending to whisper when you decide to leave your hiding spot. You drag your limping body in the opposite direction, clenching your side as a cramp takes over. You look around with alert eyes, hoping to find an opening or another hiding spot if he is close. Your hope dwindles at the same scenery repeating: trees, branches, dirt. Over and over. No sounds alert you, making your eyelids droop and blur your vision. You look down at your body, your clothes drenched in blood, giving sense to your lightheadedness. The blood loss and dehydration were slowly creeping up and taking over you. Legs wobbling, making you fall.

“Come on,” You whispered, “You can do this.”

Johnny had his eyes on you. He watches you struggle, crouching within the dry branches. Your pain and fatigue amuse him, reassuring him that mortality can be handy for this line of passion. He loved a prey’s fear, how it ignites them with the endurance to keep living. Yet, the thing that is chasing them will always catch them. It can only get them so far. It lets them die with a fight still in them. People call that honour, but to Johnny, it is the thrill of the game.

It has been long enough. Johnny watches you collapse, grunting at the pain taking over, your knees buckling as you try to crawl your way further. Johnny cracks his neck and readies his blade, his heavy steps approaching you.

“I gotta hand it to ya. You got some fight in ya,” Johnny mused, towering over your struggling state.

The widening of your eyes made Johnny chuckle, tuts leaving his mouth as you began to sob.

“Come on now, I ain’t gonna kill ya. Not yet, anyway,” Johnny grips the back of your hair, yanking your head from the ground and crouching down on top of you. His legs saddle your sides, squeezing in to hold you in place. You catch the glint of his knife hovering over your throat, threatening to slice if you struggle.

“Ma mama always got at me for playing with my food as a kid. I never grew out of it. Y’know why?” Johnny presses his lips to your ear. You could now hear the husk in his voice.

“Because I fuckin’ love it,”

Your hands grip the earth, and a scream bellows from your strained throat, sirening through the trees, making birds take flight. Johnny shoves your head to the ground to silence you, pressing his blade tighter to the skin of your throat.

“You shout one more time, and I’ll cut you,” He spat, causing you to dwindle your struggle into small whimpers.

“Just kill me, please,” You plead, Johnny on top of you, detecting that you would rather be dead than be at his mercy.

Johnny enjoys having the upper hand far too much, grazing his gloved hand down your spine, lingering on the skin exposed from your summer blouse. He glances at the cuts littering your exposed arms, blood dripping from a knick on your shoulder. Johnny licks his lips in anticipation, locking his lips on your wound. You gasp, cringing at the suction from his mouth, his tongue swirling around the cut and soaking his mouth with your blood.

As if energy surged through him, Johnny groans at your taste, licking his lips dry. Your taste is sweetly metallic. He has never tasted something so pure—the blood of a lamb or a calf, laced with innocence and avoidant of bitterness. Johnny’s eyes wander down at you like the discovery of the Holy Grail. “You taste amazing.”

Johnny grips your arm and manhandles you to lie on your back, your arms feeble in your struggle. Johnny scans your body for more wounds, grunting in annoyance as most were muddy grazes. His legs add pressure to your sides, his hand nipping at the hem of your blouse.

“Keep still,” Johnny orders sternly, moving his knife to your shirt and cutting the thin fabric with the blade. You whine in defiance, but your top is torn off completely and tossed to one side. Johnny stares at the curvature of your bra, tucking his knife under the band and slicing it swiftly. Your breasts graze with goosebumps at your exposure. You squeeze your eyes shut from the humility. Johnny runs his knife down your left breast, the blunt end teasing your hardening nipple.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” He breathes out, removing his glove with the pinch of his teeth. His bare, rough hand grips your breast, making you squirm. You glance up at Johnny, the maddening of his eyes, the flex of his muscles as he holds you in place. Sweat glistens on his face. You feel warmth between your legs as Johnny’s bulge presses against your stomach.

Without warning, Johnny slices a small incision on your soft breast, making you gasp from the shot of pain. Johnny immediately locks his lips on the fresh slice, his tongue collecting your new blood, letting a groan vibrate against you. He sucks your breast as he would with your nipple, except his infatuation is solely on your blood. Your fingers lace through his hair, and you attempt to yank him away, but he points his blade quickly to your throat.

“Move your hand, or I’ll cut you open,” Johnny threatens, pressing the blade hard, alerting panic within you.

“I can’t- I can’t do this, please,” You beg, “I want to go home,”

“Is this not want you want, darlin’?” Johnny teased, “Your cunt says otherwise.”

His head motions down and between your legs, sliding his fingers along the denim fabric of your shorts. Your throat hitches, and your legs tense, locking eyes with the darkening stare from Johnny.

“You want this, I know you want this,” Johnny mutters against his lips, “Let me make you feel good. I need this, darlin’, you gotta give yourself to me.”

His lips lock roughly with yours, his kiss hard - possibly laced with a lingering passion. You taste your blood on his tongue. You moan unexpectedly.

“See? You taste so good. Let me taste you more,” Johnny said as if he were asking, but you know you have no choice.

The sound of panic bubbles in your throat as you feel Johnny’s hands unbutton your shorts, yelping as he tugs the tight fabric down your legs. He crawls his fingers under your pants, catching your slick cunt with the tip of his fingers, collecting your wetness. Johnny groans, reaching his fingers to his lips and licking your juices. Just as sweet as your blood, warm and intoxicating.

Johnny grinds his hips down onto you before unbuckling his jeans, tossing his belt to your eye level. Your eyes trail to the sky, your mind dissociating at the sound of his jeans undone. Johnny preys your legs wider apart with his thighs, the tip of his cock at your entrance.

“You’re so wet for me, darlin’. Still sure you don’t want this?” Johnny’s pride swells at your defeat, pupils dilated at the sight of yours glazed and lost.

“I would rather be dead,” You said airily, almost inaudible. Johnny narrows his eyes, power swelling in his muscles. He wants you to beg for his cock or mercy; it does not matter.

Without warning, Johnny thrusts his cock inside, and pain shoots up your spine. He was big, more significant than you have ever taken, and he was stretching you out. You squeeze your eyes shut, and the tears trapped in your waterline pour down your cheeks. You silence the yelps filled with pain to adjust to the horrible feeling. But your cunt was wet, wet enough for Johnny to thrust deeper inside you and hold his length firmly inside you.

“Fuuuck,” Johnny groaned. Your walls clenched around his cock, and his hands grip the sides of your waist. “Sucha tight little pussy,” Johnny chuckled.

You shift your body back and forth to adjust to the pain, but it paralysed you, and Johnny drilled you deeper into the ground with the weight of his body. The cool earth stings your wounds and gathers in the grooves of your skin. It is disgusting. It is revolting. You wanted the ground to swallow you whole. “Fuck you,” You spit at Johnny, manifesting your cunt to grow teeth and bite his cock clean.

Johnny furrowed his brows at your revolt, burning a glare to your core. “The fuck you say to me?” Johnny smacked your face, stunning you, but you force eye contact.

“I said fuck you, you fucking-“ Your rage stopped short at the shuddering pain shooting through you. Johnny digs his knife into your side, toying with an open wound. You squirm, scream, try to pry him off you, but his other hand pins your wrists above your head, and his cock is stuffed deeper inside you.

“You really think talking to me like that is a good idea?” Johnny scoffs, watching the pain in your expression with perverted fascination. “Such a stupid ‘lil brat. I need to teach you a lesson.”

The pain melted into numbness. Your eyes drift further away from reality, and Johnny amps his stamina. It seemed neverending, his cock pumping into your cunt, the depth of his thrusts consistent. Johnny’s body towers over you, his knife tossed to the side. It proved useless as your body grew limp, the strength of Johnny’s arms pinning you in place enough to restrict your escape. No more were you retaliating to Johnny’s dominance.

“That’s it, good girl. Take it,” Johnny grunted, but he was not satisfied with your reaction. Lying there as you get fucked dumb, staring into space. He needs you to be compliant, to be grateful. Johnny tugs your hair and forces your gaze onto him, bathing in your bewildered stare.

“C’mon girl, I know you want this. Say how much you want it,” Johnny demands, continuing to rut into your pulsing cunt.

“I-” It was hard to string words together, but you had nowhere to look except deep in Johnny’s hunter eyes as he pressed his forehead against yours.

“Say it, fucking say it,” Johnny grew impatient, smacking his fingers over your cheeks, hoping that knocked sense into you.

“I want you, Johnny,” You sobbed, mesmerised by his insanity.

“Yeah, you fucking do. Start thanking me for fucking you so good,” Johnny enfolds his cock deep inside, holding it in place until you speak what he wants to hear.

“Thank you,” You swallow the lump in your throat, “You’re so good at fucking me. I want you to keep fucking me.”

Swelling with pride, Johnny exhales a deep groan and continues to drill into you, picking up the pace. He felt his climax ascending from his core, gazing at the bounce of your tits, your plump skin covered in the blood he poured from you. He bites the inside of his cheek.

“I’m so close, darlin’. Fuuuck,” Johnny wraps his callous hand around your throat, suppressing your air flow until you see stars.

Johnny rutted his cock to ride his high. You feel the strips of warmth melt from your slit as he pulls out, his pants hot and misty against your neck. Your eyes trail over to Johnny, buckling his jeans and quickly putting on your underwear and shorts.

“Sorry about your blouse,” He mutters, removing his tank top and putting it on you. There is no point in convincing yourself he did it out of the kindness of his heart, as it is to carry you back to the place you tried to escape from and not make the rest of the family suspicious.

Johnny lifts you and tosses your body over his shoulder, your mind and body too exhausted and petrified to wiggle from his grasp. “Let’s take you back home,” He says.

Home. That place was not your home. But to Johnny, he is making it your home. There goes the days of elaborate escapes, deception and retribution. He will have you wrapped around his figure. He shall convince you that no one else cares for you. Only he will protect you, care for you, and love you. 

Welcome to the family. 

[darlingsfandom]

can we please have a daddy kink with cillian please!!!!! I literally need this...

I’m sorry it took me awhile!

TW: daddy kink! Mean dom! Spanking! Brat reader! Choking! Facial ! Female and solo male masturbation !

The two of you stood toe to toe as you kept your arms crossed across your chest. Cillian arched his eyebrow making you huff , blowing some of your hair out of the way before you sighed and uncrossed your arms.

“I never said no baby, I just said not right now.” He ran his hands down your arms making you tilt your head to the side giving him puppy dog eyes. “Dats not gonna work darlin, ya gotta wait.” He kissed your forehead gently before walking back over to the shoot leaving you with a pout on your lips. Cillian straightened himself out and continued on as if nothing had just happened.

And with a roll of your eyes and stomp of your foot you huffed out of the room. You could feel his eyes on your back side slowly burning you. You sat down on the couch that was in his dressing home, sighed and scrolled through your phone mindlessly in order to ignore that ache between your legs. It was his fault after all! He looked amazing and smelled just as good which made you crazy.

“Daddy, please” you begged him as he had finished getting ready.

“Not right now baby.” He kissed your head before walking out to the set which is what started this whole situation. You needed him and he had to work.

After replaying that moment in your head, you chewed your lip as you texted him: “hurry up! I need you daddy” before tossing your phone next to you and slid your hand below your dress. Your legs spread open slowly , teasing yourself with your fingertips on your inner thighs , chewing your bottom lip, your hand slid into your panties and ran your index finger over your folds. The wetness collected as you rubbed gently on your clit while your free hand reached up and massaged your tits through your shirt. As you rubbed a little harder the door came flying up with a very angry Cillian whose eyes were about to burst when he seen what you were doing!

“Wat da ya think yer doin?” He snatched your hand out of your panties and watched your finger glisten before he shut the door with his foot.

“It’s your fault!” You quickly closed your mouth because you knew in that moment you fucked up. He pulled you up to your feet before bending you over the arm of the couch, flipped up your dress, yanked down your panties and rubbed your ass slowly before coming down hard with a spanking that made you lurch forward. You let out a little yelp as the sting spread across your cheeks. A red hand print instantly appeared.

“Ya think ya can do whatever ya want! Actin like a stupid little slut! Touchin ya pussy in public where anyone could’ve caught ya? What a slut!” He breathed heavily into your ear as he gave you another hard spanking.

“I’m sorry daddy!” A small hiccup left your lips along with a few tears dripping down your cheeks. “I just wanted you so bad! I couldn’t help it.”

“Daddy told ya ta wait fer me! Only had ta wait a little longer but ya were a bad girl!” Another hard spanking before he wrapped his hand in your hair and yanked your head back so he could look down on you. Your eyes were filled with lust and fear but he enjoyed it. Cillian wrapped his hand around your throat as he kissed you hard. You whined against his mouth before he pulled away, let you go and pushed you down on your knees.

“Since ya were a bad girl and touch yerself without me, I’m gonna stroke my cock and yet gonna watch.” Cillian had his pants around his ankles faster than you could process. He was already hard as he stood above you with a smirk. Your hand went up to wrap around him but he smacked it away. “Daddy said no!” He spat at you making you whimper and clench your thighs.

“But please daddy!” Out came the puppy dog eyes again making him jerk off faster above you. You whined pathetically wanting to touch him so you slid your hand down your body.

“Don’t ya dare touch yerself! Bad girls don’t get to cum!” He gritted his teeth as he tapped his cock against your cheek making you open your mouth but before you could even lick it, he pulled away with a grin.

“This isn’t fair daddy!” You whined. Cillian gripped his cock tightly and jerked faster as he studied your pathetic looking face. Your make up ruined from crying when he spanked you, how your eyes were big and filled with desire and some sadness since you were being told no!

“Bad girls … don’t get.. to cum!” Cillian gave you a small cock with the tip of his cock making you huff . You could tell he was close by the way his face twisted, how his hand was slowing down on his cock and how he was looking down at you.

“But daddy… gets to cum all over that pretty little face of yours!” His orgasm washed over him rather quickly and with a loud grunt his cum was all over your lips and chin. Your tongue stuck out so you could at least taste him a little. You panted like a bitch in heat as he rubbed the head of his cock against your tongue, cleaning him up you sucked gently before he pulled away.

“Now be a good girl, clean yerself up and maybe if yer good on da way home I’ll play wit ya when we get home.” He pulled you up to your feet, fixed your dress and walked you closer to the mirror just to show you how pretty you really looked.

[flapdoodlez]

Your support has arrived! 😇 Commission by Medic and Mercy voice actors Robin Atkin Downes and Lucie Pohl! Get it signed by both of them at Streamily

[moondirti]

charcoal

pairing: John 'Soap' MacTavish x f!Reader rating: explicit (18+ mdni) word count: 2.6k summary: you and johnny draw portraits of one another warnings: cock warming, unprotected p-in-v, creampies, handjobs, tooth rotting fluff, nude drawings, light masochism, mentions of death notes: inspired by soap's journal in mw3. our sweet boy can draw :)

“Sit still.”

A whisper, spoken like a fervent kiss to the space between you. Humid air, smothered under his peppercorn cologne and the tangy warmth of lingering sex. Johnny’s pelvis remains glued to the back of your thighs, conjoined at that sweltering centre, gently swelling back to rock-hard shape. It works to plug you full of him, a barrier to the cum he’d spilt a mere thirty minutes prior.  

Mere. To you, long hours have gone by while stuck in this state, oscillating from painful overstimulation to an insatiable urge that only exists with him – more, more – and back again. But he exercises a surprising restraint. No. Unexpected. A fortitude obviously cultivated in the SAS, carbon under pressure, polished and primed. One that is diamond-sharp, deadly even, but usually crumbles to dust around you. 

He keeps your leg hooked over one broad shoulder. The other quivers, cushioned by the duvet, serving as a surface for the item he’d fetched in a rush. 

Fuck. Hold it righ’ there. Freshly spent, glowing with an endorphin-logged high.

Huh– W-What’re you doing? 

Y'look so bloody beautiful like this, hen. Have ta memorialise it. 

Ever the flatterer. You’ve no doubt you’re a mess – mussed hair, smudged mascara. The only thing he’d left in his stripping you was the necklace you’d worn for his welcome home; a golden chain, charmed with a replica of his dog tag and an antique locket you’d salvaged from your grandmother’s place.

You thought he’d been reaching for a polaroid; a quick snapshot of the moment, print to be stapled to the inside of his combat coat. But he’d ducked under your bed – not the nightstand where you kept the camera – and ruffled through dust bunnies and expired condoms for the stash of things he deems too important to take with him to the job. Material objects, little keepsakes, left to rot behind, with you. 

He’d come back up with a self-satisfied grin, a journal – moleskine bound and half-full of rough scribbles – clasped between waving fingers. 

It’s not the first time he draws you. Just the first time he does of such an intimate scene. 

Clenching involuntarily, you flush at the thought. Johnny’s free hand tenses from its place on your knee, soothing circles turned bruising touch. Giggling, you squeeze him again, only to be met with a particularly vicious thrust of his hips. 

“Nng-! Christ,” 

“What'd I tell ya?” 

“I had been.” The protest peaks at the back of your throat, forming something more akin to a whine. His chuckle is indicative of the fact; sunlit bough and soft moss gaze catching yours. His eyes pool like honey in the lowlight, gold drawn out by the haze of your surroundings. Warm. “You’re taking too long.” 

“Wad ye rather I get the shadin’ on yer tits wrong?” He teases, gaelic-curled accent accompanied by sharp scratches of charcoal on paper. The black dust coats calloused fingertips, concentrated on the middle, the one he uses for smudging. “Ye'll end up lookin like ma great aunt.” 

“That’s gross.” 

“Watch it. Rory was a great woman.” 

But his chest widens in that special way, skin rippling over thickset sinew, and you know his current contentment runs bone deep. He gloats it, wearing the radiance like he does the sweat; the tender marks along his neck, imprints of your teeth cut in blood. His battle scars pale in contrast, silver and thin and nothing when set beside the raised scratches, red, carved mid-fuck. 

You’ve tried to be gentle with him. Really, you have. 

You just found he doesn’t prefer it.

A Noah’s-Ark cataclysm of rain, unending cataracts of water sluicing from the sky. They wash over the windshield, the windows – you can barely see beyond the hood of his car. 

It was your suggestion to wait the storm out. You’d gone on a picnic for your first date, perched up high on some mountain that now seems too formidable to scale down.

Spice with rosy overtones. His scent is intoxicating, distilled on that spot – the edge of a broad tendon that stretches up his neck. Johnny’s clad in a polo shirt, the collar slightly popped to cover the patch of skin, but you catch sight of it every once in a while. Enough to fuel your internal screams, urging you to act against what is proper. 

Hold out ‘till the next time you see him. Leave him wanting more.

He’s talking. Something about football and fake turf scrapes. 

God. That voice. Full-bodied, confident with all the charisma to match. You latch on to every syllable, basking in the way they furl from him – rolled r’s, two element vowels morphing to one. What’s the word for gorgeous in Scottish jargon? He’d taught you it over a bowl of strawberries. 

Broad. Brock. Brow. Br… something.

But his thumb had swiped out to the edge of your lip to catch a bead of stray juice, and you’d lost all wit. In one ear, out the other. Boiled down to a saccharine, lust-filled puree. 

You’d wanted to take the digit into your mouth. 

The high altitude ensures the car is frigid, windows chilled with a freezing pellet downpour. The skirt you wore does nothing to hide the goosebumps that prickle down your thighs. 

It’s not the weather, though. It’s him. He inspires a cyclone in you, a vortex of violently rotating winds that upturn every function. Hot. Cold. A puddle of melted something, stirring deep within the recesses of your gut. Your attempts to smother it down will forever be in vain. 

Him. Him.

He drives you mad. You’re fucking stupid. 

But pellucid blue light streams in from outside, the sun sinking behind gunmetal clouds, and Johnny fills his jeans nicely, you think. Hulking thighs force the denim to its limits, stretched and spread and–

Oh.

Maybe your mind had skipped over it purposely. For knowledge of what it would do to you. In knowing that your panties are already slick, unable to hold the extra saturation. You’ll leak onto his seat. 

Fuck.

A prominent, massive bulge. Strained, outwardly painful. 

Enticing. 

You flood, anyway. Overbearing heat and oblivion striking your core. A breath catches, spinning to form a small bubble of recklessness between constricting lungs. 

You speak before you begin to process it all. 

“We’ll be here for a while.” 

Stupid, silly girl. 

He halts, tangent lost to the half-lidded look you give him. Your nails graze the arm nearest to you, propped on the console, brushing through hair to elicit a deep shudder – mirror to your salacity. It tells him what he can already guess. 

In the split second it takes for your impulse to waver, he recovers, back to that ludic man you’d met just last week. 

“And there are only so many things to talk about.” Johnny nods.

Your heart slams on hollow ribs. He may hear it if he tries hard enough; an echoed melody of cosmic yearning. 

“Gotta save some for next time.” 

“Aye.” His head ducks closer to yours, locking you to those bonfire eyes. “Next time?”

“Hmm, if you like me enough.” The suggestion skips across your nervous titter. Spearmint washes over you when he speaks, cold breath a product of the pack of gum he keeps tucked in his car door. He’d told you he reserves the stash for special occasions, with only the ‘prettiest of hens.’ You’d folded the wrapper into a heart and placed it against the stick shift. 

“I like ya, bonnie. Only question is–”  A bent forefinger taps your chin, thumb caressing the curve of it. “Do ye like me?” 

You let your stare flutter down to his lips; perfect, pink, pulled in a devious smirk. It wipes any semblance of logic from you. Propriety, the manners your mother taught you at a holiday dinner table – cross your legs, elbows off the table – dissipate to ash. You’re raw; skinned alive and vulnerable to whatever he wants. 

Crackling nerves. You don’t answer, don’t say a word. 

Instead, you lean in to kiss the scar on his lip. 

And it all goes to hell from there. 

Hurried gropes, desperation fogging. You bend over the centre – precariously balanced on your knees – to hug his head closer to yours. His hands find purchase on your waist, exposed now, your sweater rucked upwards to hang just below your bra. You can see his back in the reflection of the window, his muscles rolling under a too-tight shirt, expanding to accommodate the weight you throw onto him. 

It’s hormone fuelled, messy. Your teeth clack and your tongues wrestle and you can only ponder on releasing him, on untucking his hard length from hindering pants. 

“H-Here–” You stutter into his mouth, left hand smoothing down his chest to dance teasingly at the waistband. His hips buck the slightest bit. “Let me…” 

“Wanna make ye feel good too, lass.” 

“Please.” 

And it must be the way you say it, the keen in your tone, the pout of your lips. You’re close to tears, eyes glossy like the wet road ahead. It must be; mutual magnetism, some shared fondness that makes him concede to your plea  (I like ye, bonnie), before he helps you pull them down to let his cock spring free. Head flush and base thick enough to split your lips. 

You swim impossibly deeper into the pool of crush-drunk abandon. 

Braw. That was it. Braw, for mind-numbing attractiveness. Or so to say– 

Maybe you’re exaggerating. It doesn’t feel like a grand enough word to encapsulate this. To capture him. 

Nothing could be enough. Your first date and yet you sit here, obsessed already, willing to spend a lifetime showing him all you can’t say. How those eyes draw from you a lightness, an ease. Hazel has quickly become your favourite colour. How mohawks are an abomination to conscientious style, but how he makes them work, much to your displeasure. You imagine plugging clippers in a shared bathroom, helping him buzz off the sides prior to longer missions. Sending him off with a kiss that means more than just interest.

“Fuck.”

“Feart, now?” 

His accent thickens in the throes of pleasure. You add the word to your growing list and spit on your hand to help slick him up. 

He stops you before you can wrap it around his leaking cock. “Wait, wait.” 

Head still buried into the crook of his neck, a trail of purpling bruises adorning the stubbled skin of his jaw – you can only spot him in your peripheral, a hazy blur of long eyelashes and a prominent nose. 

His hands unclip your bra when he speaks again: 

“Do it dry. I like when it hurts a little.”

A year later now. He’d wrapped an assignment early to see you on your anniversary. 

“Done?” 

You’re sticky with cooling sweat and spit, fluids hardening on supple flesh in the filtered air of your bedroom. Both naked, posed in the same position; your right glute burns with the ache of a prolonged stretch, still thrown over his shoulder as he hurriedly finishes the final details of his sketch. 

“Almost. Canae fuckin’ get the lightin’ right.” 

“Lemme see,” You make a grab for the journal. He bats your hand away. 

“No.” Johnny huffs, shifting to look at you from a slightly different angle. “I think it’s the glow.” 

“The glow?” 

“Aye. Took ower long ta get those gorgeous tits down, you’ve lost that sex sheen.”

“You’re mad.” 

The hand that was at your knee starts to knead your thigh, grabbing whatever it can hold. An intentional touch, he targets every tender area, sparking a match to an already smouldering flame. The pressure at your core tightens.

“I’d say it’s a quick fix,”

Your hips buck to meet the heavy weight of his palm as it flattens against your pelvis, seeking true fusion to the rough skin. You’re feverish, practically singing him; you spread your legs and do what you can to spear yourself further onto his cock, one that has not yet left the tight clutch of your cunt. 

This is what the poets eulogise, this ‘swete breeth’ reverence. Zephyrus – he’s zephyr adjacent – the god of westerly wind. But he places you on a shrine like he’s not the being made of sun; touches you with a prayer imbued into his callouses – barnacled reminders of his life as Soap. Your Johnny, as he is with you, finds you speechless and continues giving – pouring water onto wet clay, bending you as he pinpoints an electric centre, that bundle of nerves that has you seeing star-speckled pantheons. 

He continues to work your clit even as you kick his back, heel thrashing onto freckled skin. The overstimulation is not creeping, it does not wait until you’ve come undone – no. You’ve been on this tightrope for far too long now, and your legs tremble with the sheer exhaustion of it all. It’s never clear with him, whether the end is in sight. There are often moments of recovery where you pull away, only for him to flip you over and stuff you full again. 

The lewd squelch of your cunt, your wailing moans; you hardly register them as he begins pistoning into you, both hands and dick devoted to completing the picture. All that exists is sacred, divine insensibility. Pleasure in its purest form, locked in this haven where you’re safe to imagine holding onto him forever. 

“J-Johnny… Johnny, God– I’m gonna–”

He gains speed, fucking your sopping heat with a brutal pace, unrelenting as he circles your abused clit. You don’t have it in you to even move, boneless and wholly open to his ministrations. 

“Tha's exactly what we want now, bonnie. Go on, cum for me.” 

The muscles in your core harden, too brittle to stand against the wicked tide brimming within you. It drives you delirious, flooding your instincts. Your eyes roll to the back of your head and your back arches – you absolutely ruin the continuity that comes with being his live model. But you don’t care. You don’t care. He’s so good at hitting you in all the right places – head nudging your cervix, his breadth stretching you out with a fiery sting. He rubs you raw, chafing, and you’re so close. 

You think about jerking him off on your first date, coaxing from him groans that taste like scotch and spearmint-covered strawberries. The sorest handjob known to mankind – he’d cum hard, spurting thick globs of warm fluid onto his lap, webbing your fingers together with his essence. His apologies had fallen on deaf ears when you’d licked yourself clean. 

You think about meeting him at that bar, nursing a fruity drink with a wild name. Your friend had abandoned you for some blonde chick, but Johnny took your lonesome as an opportunity to swoop in and compliment your dress. He’d later told you that he’d only been looking for a quick fix to stall on the grief of a close friend's death. Turns out, ye're not so much a stall, more a remedy, love. Sad tae say I'm glad yer friend was horny that night. 

You think of him, now. Of the past twenty-something pages of his journal filled with nothing but idle doodles of you and gum-wrapper hearts, no longer dedicated to anguished attempts at remembering lost comrades. He’s grown to be a better artist, lines bold and drawn in sole strokes, able to capture just about anything in ballpoint pen alone. 

Well I’ve got the perfect muse now, haven’ I? 

You break, shattering into a million fragments. You know he’ll pick you up.

Finally resting, spooned together under clean sheets. A strong arm thrown over you, holding open a page for your scrutiny. 

“It’s nice, baby! You might’ve made me too pretty, though.” 

A growl. “Shut it. That’s all you.”

taglist: @yeyinde @guyfieriii @nqberries @kkinky @ravenhood2792 @allekat1988 @rattlemyb0nes @simonrileywife @melancholyy-hill @sexlapis

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[gamblersdoll]

can you do a hakari fic where he gets his “special” birthday gift from reader? (idk when his birthday is 😭)

tw: blowjobs, 18+, spit, cum eating.

authors note: i dont know either, i wanna say hes a sagittarius or a leo.

“happy birthday bookie!!” you shouted, kissing his cheek and sitting directly next to him.

“thank you, ma.” he chuckles, reaching his arm around to rest his hand on your hip, gripping at the plumper flesh and kissing your cheek.

considering the fact that he owned a fight club, everyone dropped by to express themselves to him on his birthday, the ‘happy birthdays’ or ‘happy bag day.’ from many people that work for him were flowing in. eventually he made it very clear he wanted to just be with you, a blunt, and thats it.

the day was spent, and eventually he did get what he want, minus the blunt, but it was cool with him. currently speaking, you were on his lap, he had originally pulled you in.

he had kissed you, slow kisses turned into needy ones, needy ones turned into grabbing anything that he could.

“ma- mama..” he said, pulling away from the kiss and kissing your neck. he also pulled you close, bucking his hips into yours and nibbling on your collarbone. “if it isnt too much to ask-“

“blowjob, kin?” you cut him off, already sliding off his lap and back to his side.

“fuck. you know me so well.”

you giggle in response, focusing your attention to his lap which his print was showing. he was already hard, so you freed his cock from his jeans and slowly pump his length. he hisses in response, throwing his head back on the couch and relaxing into the couch. he whispers a ‘fuck mama,’ and bites his lip.

you wrap your lips around the head of his cock, he clenching his jaw while he makes a fist. you then hollow your cheeks, sliding your head down and up slowly around his cock.

he puts his hand on your ass, groaning at you bobbing your head on him. “fuuuckk..” he says, drawing his words. he slaps your ass, making you jump slightly but continuing your ministrations.

you take his cock out of your mouth, spitting a fat glob of spit onto the head and jerking his cock. you spread his spit around himself, taking him back in your mouth and slowly pumping him. you and your hand would go down, then go up while your hand twisted around his cock.

“fuck yeah! suck that shit..” he groans out, pulling your shorts down and groping at your asscheek. he then slapped it, moaning in response.

you could tell he was getting close, by the way his thighs would tense up and he was grinding his teeth. you could also tell his toes were curling in his jordans. you decided to pick up the pace, receiving a hand on your head and ass.

“fuck- im gunna fuckin’ cum baby..” he warns, moving his hand from your head. he resists the urge to turn a blowjob to throat-fucking.

you remove your hand from his cock, bobbing your head around his length and wrapping your tongue around it, too.

“fuckshitimgunnafuckin—“ he groans out, he stops your head movement, coming inside your mouth and you greedily swallow, him bucking his hips downward. “too sensitive ‘fer that sucking my cum out shit..” he chuckles with a pant. “thank you, mama.. i love you.”

“ ‘yer welcome, baby. what else does the birthday boy want?” you ask, taking a paper towel and wiping the spit off your lips and his cock, meanwhile he puts his cock back in his boxers.

“jus’ lay with me.. or cuddle me, whatever you wan’ call it. just me and you, babydoll.”

[lou-struck]

Seat 14F

Atsumu Miya x reader

WC: 1.3k 

~You are peacefully getting ready for your flight home in your long awaited window seat until your talkative seat buddy arrives. 

A/n: I am having so much fun finishing some of these WIPS. I hope you enjoy this one.

The terminal beneath your feet echoes the hollow yet eager sound that is created by your footsteps. The beige hallway twists and turns until you see a fight attendant gesturing you into the cabin with a large red-lipsticked smile. 

“Welcome aboard,” he beams as you step onto the plane.

“Thank you.” You smile back and readjust the strap on your backpack so it’s tighter to your back and at less of a risk of smacking the others in the face as you pass them. Their crumpled boarding pass is in your hand as they make their way down the long aisle. They had only started boarding minutes ago, but already, you see people slumped in their seats, softly snoring into their neck pillows. 

You are in Seat 14F, a window seat. There is something so comforting about having an extra wall to lean up upon in case you were to find yourself drifting off on this flight. 

Your eyes scan the row makers as you pass,

Row 9, 10, 11, 13. 

Row 14 is completely empty as you come to a stop, sliding past the first two seats on the right-hand side of the plane and tucking your travel backpack underneath the seat in front of you to save yourself from a lecture from the flight attendant later. 

You feel your phone in your pocket as you sit down in your seat, which apparently can be used as a flotation device should the plane come down over a body of water. Knowing you’ll most likely forget to do it later, choose now to turn the device into airplane mode and slip it into the mesh netting in front of you for later. With your phone gone, you choose to entertain yourself by watching out the little oval window as airline workers load the bottom of the plane with everyone’s luggage. 

Peering at the little cart, you try to see if you can spot them loading the suitcases you checked. Your white plastic one and the other one…

“Well, isn’t this my lucky day?” a honeyed voice drawls from behind you. “Looks like I got myself a cute lookin seat, buddy.”

“What brings you here?” you ask, watching as a handsome man with faux-blond hair slides into the seat next to you. He unceremoniously slides a gray backpack underneath his seat before wasting no time in making himself at home. 

“14E,” they beam, flashing you their paper boarding pass. Already, the parchment is crumpled beyond recognition and speckled with droplets of what you assume to be coffee. 

You roll your eyes and send him a playful smile. “Atsumu, I printed that boarding pass for you less than an hour ago. How have you managed to beat it up so badly?”

“Who’s Atsumu?” he asks, cocking his head to the side in mock confusion, obviously wanting to keep flirting terribly with you for as long as he can. “I’m uhhh.” he scratches his head in thought, “Mr. Handsome Stranger.”

You sigh as he continues this little ruse of his. “Well then, Mr. Stranger, have a seat.” You place your earbuds into your ear and try to keep a look of disinterest on your face as you scroll through your downloaded podcast episodes. 

“It’s Mr. Handsome Stranger.” He pouts, his cheeks puffing out comically, and he sits down in the seat next to you. From the corner of your eye, you see him looking at you with the biggest puppy dog eyes he can muster. When they spot something shiny on your finger, they gleam, and you can practically see the cogs turning in that pretty head of his. 

“Well, that’s a real nice ring on yer finger,” he hums, leaning well into your personal space; now that he’s closer, you can smell the mint gum he’s chewing, and you can’t help but wonder if it’s his attempt to cover his coffee breath. 

“Thank you,” you sigh, shifting in your seat and admiring the gem yourself in the light of your small oval window. “I got it from my Fiance.”

“Not husband?” he winks, “I guess I still have a chance with you then.”

You laugh at his terrible flirting like the hypocrite you are. Because that same flirtiness that (unbeknownst to you) is causing the other passengers to cringe in their seats was able to ensnare you over two years ago.

“Is there a problem here?” the flight attendant from earlier comes over with a stern expression. Their eyes narrow when they see the way your goofy fiance is practically on top of you, fiddling with your engagement ring. They make eye contact with you, looking for any kind of discomfort in your expression. “Is he bothering you?”

Atsumu slides off of you and into his seat quickly. His cheeks flush pink in embarrassment. “I-it’s not what ya think.” he starts to explain but he is silenced by the commanding gloved hand of the flight attendant who you now think is one of your favorite people on earth. 

People are watching, listening, just waiting for the moment to step in and rescue you. If it wasn’t some big misunderstanding, you would feel that your faith in humanity was restored. 

But you’re not in any danger, so just for a moment, you may as well enjoy this little in-flight entertainment, 

“Sir, did you know it is a crime to interfere with the takeoff and departure of an aircraft?” they ask with a vicious customer service smile. “Is this behavior of yours really worth jail time?”

“Wha?” No, I was just messing around..” Atsumu says in a smaller voice. His tone pulls at your heartstrings, and you know you have to come to his aid. 

“Tsumu, I got this.” You murmur, placing a hand on his bicep as a grounding touch and giving your would-be hero a genuine smile. “I am so sorry about this; this doof is just my fiance. He likes to use those cheesy lines to make me laugh.”

They look between the two of you with a discerning glance before. “Do you promise?” they ask. 

“I promise.” you laugh, relieved that Atsumu is feeling a bit less freaked out now that he isn’t at risk of being dragged off the plane and thrown in jail for his cheesy pickup lines. 

“Here’s my lock screen.” the volleyball player adds, showing the attendant a picture of the two of you wrapped in each other’s arms after one of his games. “We’re together, I swear.”

“Awe, cute.” the attendant says, shutting the luggage compartment above your head. “Glad you’re not a creep. We are about to take off soon, so don’t forget to put that phone in airplane mode, hon.”

“R-right, thank ya.” he breathes his fingers, fumbling with his slightly cracked screen protector to switch his device. 

“I see; one moment, please,” they hum, turning and walking down the aisle away from seats 14 E and F, leaving the two of you rather confused at his sudden exit. 

They come back a few moments later and sneakily slides two prepackaged snack boxes over to you. The ones that are only available in first-class cabins. This sly gesture of good faith is very much appreciated by the two of you. 

“Thank ya,” Atsumu whispers happily, unwrapping his miniature charcuterie snack. 

“For what? The attendant asks, looking innocent. “You two enjoy the rest of your flight.” With that, they turned and left to do their pre-flight duties. Now alone, you and Atsumu lock eyes and fall into a fit of laughter. 

“Oooh, you almost got in trouble.” you tease, leaning your head against his shoulder.

 “What do ya think plane jail is like?” he hums, fiddling with your engagement ring. 

“Hmm, I don’t know,” you murmur. “It’s not too late to find out, though, if you want to call the flight attendant back.”

“Oh shuddup,” he chuckles, turning in his seat and kissing the crown of your head. “You wouldn’t do that to me; ya like my flirtin’ too much.”

“Whatever you say, baby.” You smile, prepared to spend the rest of your flight in the arms of the man you love. 

Tagging: @enchantedforest-network

[miiyas]

Hi Atlas! Hope you are doing good. Can you please do a atsumu x reader fluff where reader is from karasuno who comes to cheer for the team in nationals. Sorry if this is vague i don't know how to put this. I love your fics thank you!

LUCKY NUMBER SEVEN

atsumu was lucky to be getting your number and to be wearing your favorite number on his jersey

fluff, wc: 1.1k, gn reader, really rushed ending, lovesick tsumu, pre-ts, not proof read

atsumu miya wasn’t one to bother looking at the opponents side of the bleachers. he didn’t care if their school banner was fancy, he never cared if the girls up there were shouting his name. when he’s on the court, he’s on the court.

so he caught himself off guard when he heard your pretty little voice shouting throughout the gym and by then, he just had to have a glimpse. and by god, was he glad he did. with your little twirls and jumps of excitement, atsumu had a sudden, unexpected hint of lingering jealousy that karasuno, some stupid, stupid underground team with some freak first years, had you to cheer them on.

you were pretty, he has to admit. he wonders where you got that karasuno boys volleyball zip up jacket and imagined how black and gold would look on you.

his school track suit, not karasunos.

as the court line up faces the large crowd and band on their side of the court, atsumu nudges osamu slightly, mouth slightly agape as he pants for air.

“oh my god,” osamu grumbles under his breath, already expecting what his twin was going to say. he’s already noticed his brothers wandering eyes, too tired to deal with his bull. “if this is about the one up at karasunos bleachers, i don’ wanna hear it.”

“wha ?! i didn’t even say nothin’ yet !”

“i know what yer gon’a say, ‘n i don’t care.” atsumu scoffs at this, more irritated than he already was. as he bows and thanks the cheer team in front of him, the only few things on his mind was on how his back ached with sweat sticking his shirt onto his skin, how he could really go for a icy gatorade, and how desperately he needed your number. hell, even a simple conversation would be enough for him.

the team disperses and go their separate ways in the arena, getting food or watching other games throughout the extended court. there was a strange craving for something spicy that lingered on atsumus tongue. despite knowing how badly his stomach would hurt after, he goes on his hunt, pushing through the crowd of people.

there isn’t anything particular that catches his eye and he takes note of the small onigiri stall, debating whether he should get a kimchi onigiri for himself (and maybe for ‘samu too) or if he should continue to wander around and find something more suitable.

he glances at the price. seven hundred yen for one, what a deal. as his eyes wander around to the quality of the rice and ingredients being used, he finds himself gravitating to the line.

with a hand in his track suit pocket, atsumu counts up a total of two thousand yen— enough for two onigiris and a drink for himself. he mouths what his order would be quietly, tired eyes glued to the printed menu. the wait from the person in front makes his eyes peel away slowly, honey brown eyes sliding down to see the smaller one in front of him. just as he does, atsumus eyes turn wide and he’s paused from shock.

holy shit. it was you.

you struggle to find extra bucks for a drink, cheeks a little flustered from the embarrassment of taking too long. giving up on finding the money, you sigh shakily and look up at the cashier, an apologetic smile displaying your nervous features.

“shit, uhm, you can put down the green tea bottle, actually.” you mumble out, pulling out eight hundred yen and gently handing it to the hands of the cashier. “keep the change.”

just as you were about to step out of the line and wait for your order, atsumu speaks up, his voice coming out louder than what he expected.

“i can get you that ..!”

with rapid blinks, you turn on your heel to face the blonde, recognizing him almost immediately, panic engulfing your eyes.

inarizakis setter, atsumu miya … how embarrassing this was for you.

“what ..? no, it’s fine, seriously—” without giving you any time to finish your sentence fully, atsumu pushes past you, his right hand slamming down his two thousand yen on the counter while the other sticks up two fingers. there’s an oddly determined look on his face, which only makes you cringe slightly.

“two kimchi onigiri and one oi ocha !” there are now three fingers sticking up and the cashier hesitantly nods, tapping on her screen and giving atsumu his receipt. the blonde steps out of the way as he receives the bottle, looking down at you and handing the cold drink over. as you were going to take the bottle away from his hands, miya snatches it away, a smug grin growing on his lips.

“if i give you this,” he teasingly shakes the bottle, lifting it up so it was just out of your reach. “you need’ta gimme yer number.”

“what.” you deadpan, irritation hinting at your voice.

“your number.” the blonde repeats, lips tugging up as he sees your face turn into a rosy pink. there’s a pretty smile that grazes your features, and atsumu swears that he feels his heart skip a beat.

“… fine.” you sigh out, looking around for something to write on. there’s a napkin dispenser and you slip one out, finding a pen by the counter to write your number on.

“you’re lucky i like the number seven.” you grin out, scribbling your number on the paper. at your words, atsumus terrifying combination of pride and ego inflates, straightening his posture to make sure the bold number was to be shown. you place the pen down on the counter of the onigiri stall and fold up the pale napkin, handing it over to the blonde. “let me treat you sometime. it’s only fair.”

a little stunned, atsumu simply accepts the napkin and nods. he swears he wanted to kiss you right then and there, take you out and spend all of his money (and maybe ‘samus too) just to see you smile over and over again.

with a breathy exhale, he nods with calloused fingers rolling the corners of the napkin. he’d like that. he likes that idea a lot. to go out with you in casual atmosphere with your carefree smile shining all for him.

“yeah, i’d like that.”

you smile politely, and atsumu feels his ears burn red. adrenaline thoughts get interrupted by the call of his orders. two onigiris, neatly wrapped in plastic, await for grabs. as he watches you take your drink and onigiri, the surrounding feels all too warm as he hears you ask where the two of you should sit. his heart thumps in his chest as you look around the stadium, trying to find a seat for two.

gosh, so sorry, ‘samu. you’re gonna have to buy your own onigiri this time.

[shootingstarwritings]

"Mmm, that's good. Keep that pose." Natasha said as she took another photo.

Snap!

"Great! Your pictures look wonderful, Landon," said Natasha, giving him a thumbs up. "I'll send them to you in a minute."

"Thanks, darlin'. Lemme just get yer payment. 's in the kitchen." Landon excused himself and made his way inside his home. As he passed the hallways mirror, he couldn't help but stop and admire his face. Although it was technically the first time he had ever shaved himself, he really did a good job.

"All right, Nat, here's yer pay. Thanks fer the pics. I'll make a killin' sellin' 'em online."

"Didn't see you as the OnlyFans guy, Landon. What changed?"

"What can I say? It's time the world saw a whole new me." Landon couldn't help but flex a little as he said that. He inwardly chuckled as he saw Natasha stare just a second too long.

"Ah, well," she said, quickly regaining her composure. "Either way, it's nice to get a commission. You don't mind if I post a pic or two on my site, right?"

Landon shook his head and shot her a suave grin. "No prob, darlin'. Don't mind the whole world seein' this new me." Natasha thanked him for the boost in her new photography career and left.

Finally alone, Landon made his way to his room and lied down on the floor, enjoying his stolen flesh.

"Lookin' cute, cowboy," Landon said to himself as he took a selfie of himself on the bed. Natasha's pictures were on the way, but he couldn't help but take a quick pic to admire.

"So glad I took your body, earthlin'." When the alien fell to earth one fateful, it quickly slithered into Landon's home in search of a worthwhile host. It found the cowboy resting, clad in just a pair of heart-print boxers, after a hard day's work.

Its slimy form slithered into his cock, causing Landon to wake and panic as a foreign being invaded him. The possession caused Landon to climax, and the little alien quickly fell in love with its new host. Now it planned to share its beautiful new home with all its new lovers, both its sexual partners and those who would admire from a screen.

"It's me, Landon," the alien spoke with its southern accent. "Lemme make all yer dreams come true."

[galactiquest]

I just adore your blog! Something about it and your imagines are just so sweet and homey 🥺 Could I please request some headcanons for Vash, Woowoo and Knives with a reader who loves to draw and is really passionate about it? I mostly have general sketching/figure studies in mind but you can do whatever is easiest for you! I hope that you have a good day and your blog continues to prosper <3

Thank you for the compliment 🥺!!! I'm so glad it feels homey. I try to make things like a home here... after all I LIVE HERE... thank you I hope to keep this blog going for a while after trying to revive it like twice before!

I think this request is so cute, I'm an artist too (have been for like, over a decade ^_^) so I've got lots of ideas in that aspect. I tried to keep to general sketching/traditional stylings of art but I think a lot of these can be applied to other art areas too!!

Vash, Wolfwood, and Knives x Reader: Artistry

Content Warnings: None! Reader doesn't have a specified gender, and some parts of the imagines are a little romance-oriented but this could also be interpreted as a strong friendship. Also this is my first mutli x reader so I hope the formatting's alright. No version was in mind for any of these so take them as you will!

Vash

Oh, he is definitely excited about this.

Vash is a bit of an artist, himself. He can do those super-complex technical drawings, and he really likes making art of machinery and stuff like that. There's a lot of diagrams of his arm lost in a notebook somewhere.

He loves to see your style and interpretation of the things around you. Seeing the world through your eyes, even for just a moment, is like heaven to him.

If you ever give him some of your art as a gift, he keeps it hung up on a wall or wherever he can stay for a while. (If he's in a more permanent place, his walls are covered in your art. He just loves it that much.)

The ones that are most special to him, he likes to keep in his pockets, so he can look at them whenever he needs a morale boost. Like, this is what he's fighting for: a world full of love and peace, a world that's able to keep creating beautiful art like this for years to come.

One day, the two of you get to draw each other as a sort of practice. Seeing each other through the others' eyes... again, it feels like a dream. Vash draws all the parts of you that you weren't always confident about with such care that you feel truly loved by him in that moment.

Wolfwood

"Oh, yer an artist? ... Can ya draw me?"

Yes he will absolutely pull that stunt at least once or twice, if only to get a hilarious dirty glare out of you. If you do actually take him up on this, he might let out a nervous "Haha... I mean, ya didn't have ta' do it, but..." He'll be really charmed.

Though his hands are strong and nimble from doing all those flippant tricks with the Punisher, he's entranced with the way you're able to use yours to create, to draw.

He's always sneaking you extra supplies, like pens, pencils, and paper, whenever you least expect it. You never have to ask for any of those things anymore, or even shop for them--they just happen upon your desk whenever you think you're running low.

One day, he takes a piece of your paper and a pen and doesn't let you see what he's doing until he's all done. He's a little dodgy about showing you, eventually he does. It's a crude scribble of the two of you, though you can tell he really put his all into it.

It's your most prized possession, and you give him a big hug for it.

Knives

Much like Vash, he's actually an artist himself--but doesn't really call himself one, rather saying that he's... capable of copying something he's seen part-for-part. So, his drawings are more like pictures or prints. They're exact. Eerily so.

The art that you make gets a half-hearted snort of approval from Knives, which is basically one of the highest praises he can offer in his own sort of language.

Though normally he'd want to give some sort of unwarranted criticism for a drawing looking wonky or off, he saves you from it. He doesn't want to break your passion--but he's not going to admit that outright.

If you do ask for criticism, though, he's very thorough while keeping you on the road to improvement. If you're studying a specific style, he's reading up on it. If you're trying new materials, he's making sure you have all the tools necessary for it.

And speaking of materials, he's able to secure uncommon colors and rare tools for you to use for art. He's making sure that everything you create is of the highest quality.

One day, you drew a portrait of him and presented it to him as a gift. He gave out that little snort of approval and maybe even a a tiny "Thanks..." as he wandered off. He secretly keeps it close to look at it in his private time, tracing his fingers over the ink marks and recalling your movements.

[lazyneonrabbitt]

Records of forgotten times.

Daryl Dixon x Reader

Old music records bring back memories and sparks talk of a new future.

~~☆☆☆~~

Today was relaxing day in your Alexandria home.

Daryl had come home from a run and had brought home a literal truckload of items of which a couple of boxes were dropped at your place.

He busied himself moving the boxes into the living room while you continued your work in the kitchen.

"What did you bring back, Dee?" you mused from you spot in the kitchen, where you were cleaning off last night's dishes in your favorite shorts and one of Daryl's shirts that were way too large on you. It was fraying at the hem and the old classic rockband on the print was fading badly, tour dates from a long forgotten time barely recognisable anymore. He never thought twice about you stealing his shirts. They were so much more comfortable than his button downs and with the shirts smelling like him they helped you sleep when he was out on runs.

“Found an old storage place, had a bunch of boxes with music. I got first pick cuz I found ‘em.” He kept filing through the large boxes filled with records and taking each one he liked out to stack near the old record player your house came with.

“Let me have a look too when I’m done here, please?” He grumbled an agreeing response and you made sure to hurry along with your cleaning round so you could join Daryl on the living room floor.

Daryl had gotten up off the floor to fumble around with the record player and try out one of the records and to his luck it still played. He had pocketed some still boxed replacement needles and swapped the old one out before playing a Judas Priest record and got a nice, crisp sound to which he comfortably hummed along to and even sang along with some parts.

As you were hanging your cleaning rag and towel over the opened oven door to dry you mumbled along with some lyrics that had remained in the back of your head.

This surprised your dear old partner to the point of stopping entirely with what he was doing to stare at you enjoying his all time favorite band. “Ya know this music?” He sounded so confused it made you laugh. You never really talked about your old world life, never really feeling it was needed to share about it. Not until now.

“My parents were old school rockers, I grew up on this kind of music.” You had walked over and sat down at one if the boxes.

“Yer calling me old now?” Old. He hated that word, even if you were both adults he still didn’t like the sound of him being put in the same box as your late parents.

“I mean,” You started, not sure how to properly say this without being offensive. You loved Daryl and you were happy with him, really not wanting to make him uncomfortable. “I guess you’re around their age, right? Dad would have been sixty-two by now. He loved this music so much we had cabinets filled with CDs, he'd go to concerts with friends and have music nights every month. Mom woukd have been around fifty-eight I think. She preferred more symphonic stuff.” You were so caught up in your memories you had stopped looking through the music entirely, your hands shakily holding onto one record a little too tightly for Daryl’s comfort.

“I’m fifty-three, if ya really gotta know.” He had moved over to your side and put an arm around you to pry your fingers off the record. “An’ I really hope yer not secretly seein’ me as a father figure cuz I'd love it if my kid'd be one year old in about two years from now..”

You registered his comment and were pulled back into this world with a soft sob. You hoped it’d be saved for later when the sadness that these boxes brought you had blown over.

“I miss them.” Your words were barely above a whisper, but Daryl caught them all. He had managed to get the record from your hands and took a glance at the cover.

The image didn’t look all too different from the current world. A blue sky behind the ruins of a building, and a man in a rather unnatural pose on a regal looking wooden throne in the foreground. The title reading ‘A Farewell to Kings’ by RUSH.

“Yer old man listen to this?” You quietly nodded, sniffling and wiping at your tears that were now freely running down your face. He put the record aside to make a new separate pile just for you.

“Come on, let’s see what else is in here. Maybe some Ozzy. Ya like Ozzy?” You now nodded with a smile appearing on your face. “Y.. yeah, we had a dog named Ozzy. Mom liked him a lot.” The memory of the dog you had for a short while did lighten the mood a bit, thankfully.

Daryl had abandoned his search entirely and only looked through the boxes with you now, picking out records he did like and ended with almost the entire collection by Judas Priest, which you learned was his favorite.

“Oh shit, look!” You held up a copy of Mötley Crüe’s ‘Dr. Feelgood’ with an excited squeal.

“Nah, that’s what yer into? Crazy girl.” He shook his head with a loving smile. By the time you reached the second to last box you had both gathered quite the collection. Daryl had reluctantly handed you all the Crüe records he found, even if they were duplicates. You wanted to keep them because of their different covers. Even in this world you loved collecting and Daryl admired your ability to find happiness in these items.

“Hey, ya want this one too?” A Metallica record. Not one that you knew so you declined. A grumble let you know he heard you and the fwips of records being looked through continued until another one was being held in your direction. This time it was a Black Sabbath record. You took it to inspect the track list on the back and added it to your pile. “Oh! Another one, yess!” You happily pulled out an Iron Maiden album and admired the cover art, taking in all the small details.

“Ya really listen to them or just love the art?” A hand extended to hand you one more. “Ah, thanks. I like both.” You declared, staring at the next artpiece. “But I wouldn‘t be mad if these end up not playing. We could decorate with the cover arts.”

Daryl looked around the still bare walls of the house and loved your idea to make it more truly yours.

With all the boxes thoroughly searched and your collection put away you went to take the leftover boxes to the communal area for everyone else to enjoy. Seeing the other residents get so excited over music brought smiles to your faces and you went back home more satisfied than you’d thought.

“So..” You locked the front door behind you and nervously stepped over to the cabinet that held your newly acquired collection. Daryl followed your every step with a true hunter’s eye, wondering what got your nerves up all of a sudden. “Which one of these do you think has the best baby making vibes.”

“M’sorry?” No way he heard that correctly. He had convinced himself you hadn‘t heard him since you completely disregarded his comment before. “Ya sure? I mean.. I know wha’ I said but,” he stopped and couldn’t get himself to look you in the eyes. Opting for the crack in the floorboard instead. Before he had a chance to find the right words you had abandoned the record cabinet and stepped over to stand in front of him and kiss his cheek. “I love you.” You whispered before properly kissing him and making sure he got the hint that this was really what you wanted.

“But seriously, pick one. We need something loud to drown out the ..other noises.” You joked with a wink.

~~☆☆☆~~

The talk you had with Daryl that day months ago turned out to be true.

When you laid in your shared bed you spoke about the one obvious thing about your relationship and how the Alexandrians were gonna be judging you for it. When word got out about yours and Daryl’s romantic relationship you already got stares from concerned women who thouht you were being claimed by the older man. You both were way more open about your relationship now that you had a safe place to live and try to have a normal life again, but the original residents who had never gone through the horrors that you had never really let go of their old world beliefs. And now that normal life you tried to live also came with your own child shich had the staring and quiet comments becoming even worse. Uncle Daryl already had Judith, who would always make rude comments to whoever dared to speak ill of her new auntie, but now he had you and with that his own soon to be born child and he wasn't gonna let anyone ruin his happiness because of some dumb opinions.

~~☆☆☆~~

A/N: This one made me cry while writing. The parents are based off my own, one of which is no longer with us. Did some painful remembering for this one.