˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ 🔪 🐰 ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

The soft, hesitant, stolen touches to an old snout, fleeting and fearful of prying eyes. The indolent security guard wouldn't bother to notice. Nor did they care. 

The screams pleased him. Warmed his old rotten heart. Movements deceptively mechanical, lurching, routined before a shuddering monstrous lurch with snapping, gnashing jaws that always sent them shrieking. He almost drooled at the thought of it. But now there is a different appetite to sate.

Soft skin, the fragile warmth of living flesh; pliant, rich, vital. Vulnerable. The thought of it possessed him, ached deep in the bones of his endoskeleton.

They made for pitifully easy prey. Lingering in the attraction in the last few minutes before it would close, peering over old arcade cabinets with hands cupped to disguise the shine of their phone flashlight—another fanatic, how quaint. Appraising the authenticity of the vintage machines. He'll show them a vintage truly worth savouring.

He knew the blind spots, of course. Knew how a hearty rumble of the old agony-choked chassis would fry the security systems with static, enough to require a manual reboot. Foam-and-metal vice gripped over wet, soft lips. Wet with the spittle of a muffled scream, the heat panted against the delicate circuitry and rusted metal there. Frustratingly, tantalisingly distracting.

Freeze-response, like a frightened little rabbit. He twists you in his grip, pressing your back against the vinyl-clad plywood; cheap, tacky, a pitiful reconstruction of those old pizzeria halls. The thought almost made his atrophied heart ache with a perverted sentimentality. A curled claw under your jaw, forcing your eyes to meet the suit's dull, hollow glare.

"Find what you were looking for...?" 

The first vowel fizzing with static, words wrenched from the rusted cabling of his throat.

Metal-pronged claws rake at your abdomen, tracing along the fragile arch of your ribcage, sinking into the tender, vulnerable skin underneath. Soft as fruit-flesh, and just as easily bruised. The touch is experimental, crude, yet reverent; not for you, but for the tangible life therein. The delicacies of flesh and blood, spooled inefficiently, artlessly, within a feeble chassis of meat, skin, and sinew. The handicap of humanity. Thrust now—sharp in contrast, limp prey in its jaws—against the raw beauty of the mechanical form.

Springtrap wrenches you to face the wall, the cheap plywood shuddering from the force of your body slamming against the greasy vinyl. A rattling growl rumbles from the nape of your neck, slipping down your spine like icewater. Plastic teeth pressed to the spoke of bone there, tasting the heat of your skin like a snake; a hiss of hydraulics, something like a moan.

"Curious little thing... how sweet you were. How you touched me... such a tease." A choked laugh, dry as rot.

A mechanical paw thrust between your thighs, raking up the stretch of warm flesh. Spokes of raw metal, the suit's endoskeleton exposed from rotten fleece, rips through the fabric of your jeans as easily as talons through skin—enough to sting, blood beading at the thin grooves raked across your inner thigh. A shuddering, rasping exhale of breath, biting at your nape, and the paw is removed—and something stiff and cold thrust between your thighs in its absence.

"Such warmth..." voice a snarl of rust and static, dripping with wet, animal heat. The paws close in like a vice against your thighs, pressing that heat tightly around his cock. Throbbing, warm—rutted between the coarseness of fabric and the heady give of your flesh. The act is violent, depraved. The drag of his cock against your clothed hole like a threat.

An instinct deep and animal, in spite of all logic or biological reality: to mate, to fuck his little quarry until they were brimming with him.

His hips buck like a jackrabbit, flattening you to the wall with the cold, dead weight of the animatronic suit. Plastic teeth sinking into the skin of your nape, shredding the skin, fleeced fingers choking down your throat to muffle your cries. It's messy, uncoordinated, like a glitching stutter of a preprogrammed routine gone awry. The machine gasps, shudders, wheezing as if malfunctioning, thrusts slackening to a lazy, lax pull of flesh-on-flesh. Red raw against the blooming bruises on your thighs, the fabric of your jeans smeared with blood.

Springtrap heaves a death-rattle sigh, lapping at the grooves left at your nape by the suit's teeth with the flat of his tongue. The liquid dribbling down your thighs is cold and slick, soaking through the fabric of your jeans and mixing foully with your shed blood. Unpleasantly oil-like, gleaming iridescent where it had spattered onto the tiled flooring.

No Flashlight + Rim only versions

Development

Alt Shots

Model Credits Dead by Daylight Springtrap by Torres4