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ckret2 · 1 year ago

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Chapter 49 of human Bill Cipher being such a miserable prisoner even the Pines are starting to feel bad for him: The Eclipse: Epilogue.

####

"The heck did you do to that poor woman?" Tate asked, staring out the window. Bill was sitting on the pier, legs dangling in the water, staring blankly into the depths. He was still muddy and trembling. "She looks more traumatized than when y'all left."

Ford couldn't meet Tate's gaze under the brim of his hat, but he could feel Tate raising a brow when he spotted Dipper pacing back and forth on the pier behind Bill, muttering furiously.

"We've had a very bad day," Ford said.

"Uh-huh."

"Could I borrow your phone to call my brother?"

Outside, Dipper was oblivious to everything except the one line he'd managed to remember from the Axolotl, the words he'd picked out as they crossed the lake. "'Sixty degrees that come in threes,'" Dipper murmured. He knew that much. It was a poem. It was a rhyme. He couldn't remember the rest. What did it mean? He murmured it over and over to himself as he walked, trying to remember the next line, "'Sixty degrees that come in threes,' 'sixty degrees that come in threes'... breeze, freeze, ease, lease, knees—" He couldn't remember the rhyme.

Bill was considering grabbing Dipper by the ankle and dragging him off the pier just to shut him up when whatsisname, the younger McGucket came out of the shop. "Hello there? Miss Goldie?"

Human. Strange human. Human that Bill could get on his side. Be charming. He tried to remember how to be charming. He offered a feeble smile. "Yello?"

"I wanted to make sure you're all right," Tate said. "You look like you, uh... you've had a hard time."

Bill laughed ruefully. "Well, I've been dragged all over the mountain, I'm hungry, exhausted, and half-drowned, and I can barely walk—but I'm not currently dead. Allegedly. I'll take what I can get."

The corners of Tate's mouth twitched down in a concerned frown. "Is there anything you need? A..." He floundered for a moment, "A water, or...?"

"I've had enough water to last me a lifetime." He wondered idly whether he could claim he was too exhausted to make it all the way home—there was a sofa in the staff room, Tate would probably let the poor bedraggled "woman" take a nap, if Bill got that bit of distance between himself and the Pines maybe he could... maybe he could... do something with it? But he couldn't think of anything more definite than that and now Ford was coming back and the window of opportunity closed. He shrugged wearily. "Just need to get back to the shack. Thanks." He half heartedly used the lake water to wash the drying mud off his lower legs and knees.

"Stan will be here in about twenty minutes," Ford said, and tried to ignore the dirty look Tate gave him.

"I'll be just inside if you need anything else," Tate said. "Watching." He headed inside—and then, indeed, stood at the shop window and watched.

Ford was never going to get on Tate's good side. He suspected Tate would be a little less sympathetic to the poor woman on the pier if he knew who he really was; but it certainly wouldn't make Tate like Ford any better for keeping him around.

"Nothing to do now but wait." Ford unloaded the rest of their supplies from the borrowed motor boat. He dropped Soos's Monster-Mon backpack beside Bill—it was heavy, Bill must have just shoved his clothes and bedsheet straight in without bothering to wring out the water—and the plastic bag of snacks Dipper had bought. "You ought to eat more while we wait." Ford nudged the snack bag.

Bill sneered at it. "I don't want that trash."

"What?" Ford examined the bag's contents. Jerky, chips, candy, cups of marshmallow cereal... "This is ninety percent of what you eat."

"Ninety percent of what I eat is what I can scavenge from the counters."

Ford looked through the bag again. Ah. Right. So it was. "If you want something else, you know you can ask us to..."

"Mac and cheese."

Maybe Ford had better stop talking. He sighed and glanced at Dipper to see how he was doing.

It didn't look like Dipper had even registered Ford's return, too busy pacing and muttering to himself. Ford frowned. "Dipper?"

"Axolotl," Bill explained. "He's obsessing over him. Didn't I tell you that meeting that thing would drive him insane?" He tilted his head toward Dipper. "Look at that, he's already mumbling to himself. Don't suppose you have his therapist's number, do you? I doubt that would save him, but it might slow the process—"

Ford shushed him.

Dipper had briefly tuned back into the conversation when he heard Bill say Axolotl; and now he grit his teeth and stubbornly tuned it back out. No. He was not going insane. Dipper would figure this out. If he just remembered the rest he'd be fine. He tried to go through all the potential rhymes alphabetically, "—bees, cease, d—deez?" That wasn't a word. "Fees, geese, he's..." and on and on, "seas, tees, uh... vees? Wheeze..."

"I've had enough of you trying to convince that boy he's about to go mad," Ford muttered to Bill. "What do you get out of saying that? Even if you do convince him he's insane, it won't make him start trusting anything else you say."

"I'm not lying," Bill said heatedly. "You ought to know that, you've been in the multiverse, you've seen plenty of maddening sights. You saw them before you even left the Nightmare Realm."

Ford hesitated before responding; was Bill trying to persuade Ford he was insane? But he could still remember those first few moments of terror in the Nightmare Realm: the creatures that had seemed to move and shift in impossible ways as they swam in and out of dimensions Ford couldn't see, the lights and colors that throbbed like an inverted migraine, Bill himself seemingly suspended a million light years away and a foot in front of Ford's face at the same time. Until Ford had latched onto his quest to destroy Bill and let that focus him, his mind had felt like an unraveling sock. "You were chief among those maddening sights."

"I was," Bill acknowledged neutrally.

"But I didn't go insane."

"Because you knew when to look away." He cast a sideways glance at Dipper, an implicit unlike him. "I know you used to read cosmic horror. Do you know why the narrator always goes mad just from looking at some giant beast? It's not because it's too ugly to take. It's because once you meet something, you try to understand it; but if you want to understand the reality something like that comes from," he rolled an eye up toward where the invisible Axolotl had hung in the sky, "you have to lose your understanding of your own reality. They're incompatible. Like the lunatics who escaped Plato's cave and came back ranting about nonsense like sunlight and colors."

It was a twisted interpretation of the cave allegory. Plato had meant it as a metaphor for education: that learning about the true nature of reality was enlightening, but alienated you from your peers.

Perhaps to Bill, enlightenment and insanity were the same thing.

Ford murmured, "Once your eyes have been too dazzled by the sunlight to see the dim shadows, you'll never be awed by a candle again."

"You have been there before."

Ford didn't answer.

"Once you've seen something like that, if you let yourself dwell on the significance of it all, you're doomed. Better to tell yourself it's unimportant and try to forget it ever happened."

Ford thought of Fiddleford.

Bill twisted around to snap tiredly at Dipper, "So stop staring at the sun before you go blind, moron."

"Shut up." Dipper had been trying to mentally drown out Bill's dire predictions by grasping for more rhymes—"disease, unease, Socrates"—but enough filtered through to make his stomach churn with nervousness. What if Bill was right? What if he never remembered what the Axolotl told him—what if he drove himself mad trying? What if this turned into a lifelong obsession—but he'd be fine and could let it go once he remembered—was that the trap? Was whatever it had told him impossible for a human to remember? Was it something so incomprehensible a human couldn't remember it without going crazy?

But he'd seen plenty of stuff last summer that was supposed to make humans go "insane." Bill had to be messing with him. He remembered the first line—surely that meant he could remember the rest—but was that part of the trap? "'Sixty degrees that come in threes'... come on, there's something else, I know it, what is it? 'Sixty degrees that come in threes'—"

Bill sighed irritably. "'Watches through the eyes in trees.'"

Dipper stopped pacing. He hadn't realized he'd raised his voice enough to be audible. "What?"

"What?" Bill said.

"What's the rest of it?"

"What rest of it? It's a couplet. That's all," Bill said. "Is that what he told you? He gets rhymey when he feels self-important, it's no big deal. Maybe you're lucky. Put it out of your head and you'll be fine."

Dipper turned the words over in his head. Sixty degrees that come in threes, watches through the eyes in trees... "That's not exactly right," he said slowly. "It was 'watches from within birch trees.'"

"Is that how he translated it? I've never heard it in English before. I got close, though, I knew it'd rhyme."

Ford echoed, "'Sixty degrees that come in threes.' Like a triangle?"

Dipper gave him a perplexed look. "What?"

"You're taking geometry next year, aren't you? The inner angles of polygons always have the same number of degrees; and a triangle has a hundred and eighty degrees. Three angles of sixty degrees forms... an equilateral triangle."

Dipper and Ford stared at Bill.

Bill gave them a tired, unreadable look. "What?" he said. "Don't look at me. I'm not the only equilateral triangle in the universe."

Well, now Dipper was sure there was more to the poem than just a couplet. "How many other equilateral triangles spy on people through birch trees?"

"Lay off," Bill said crabbily. "I didn't have to tell you that line. Don't make me regret it." He planted his elbows on his knees, laced his hands together, pressed his forehead to them, and massaged his eyelids with his thumbs.

He tilted slightly to the right, keeping the weight of his head off his left arm.

####

"Nice shirt," Stan said, eyeing Ford's anger management t-shirt.

"If you like it, you can have it."

"What happened to your coat?"

"Somewhere at the bottom of the lake," Ford sighed.

"How...?"

"I'll fill you in later."

Bill's trembling was almost unnoticeable by the time Stan arrived. Or, at least, it was slight enough that he could stand and make the short walk from the pier to the car without an obvious struggle.

He climbed into the back seat, slid across the bench, leaned against the door, wrapped his arms around his Monster-Mon backpack, fell asleep, and didn't wake up for the entire drive home.

Dipper and Ford fell silent when they noticed; and, sensing the heavy atmosphere, Stan followed suit.

####

The event organizers for Higher Dimensional Gate had arranged for the Magister Mentium's audience to surround him in a circle with as large a circumference as possible, so that as many shapes as possible could pack into the first few rows where they could see him. Even so, the crowd was much too large for everyone to be in the first few rows. Speakers had to be planted throughout the crowd so that they'd all be able to hear the Magister speak. Most of his audience couldn't see him.

But he, with his all-seeing eye, could see all of them.

The crowd extended back, row after row after row, in every direction like flecks of multicolor confetti filling the air all the way to the horizon. He'd never spoken to such a large crowd before. He didn't think he'd ever seen such a large crowd before.

Not all of them were his worshipers. He didn't have that many worshipers. The rest were drawn in by his boast—to be the first shape outside of legends to predict an eclipse, over six months ahead of schedule. They were here for a spectacle. He meant to give them one.

If he succeeded, all these spectators would become his worshipers, he was sure of it. If he didn't succeed, he lost everything. The whole nation knew about his bet. He'd be financially ruined. His worshipers would abandon him. There would be no fleeing to a new town and starting over; everyone everywhere knew who he was. His life would be over.

This would be only the third eclipse he could recall. There's no way to neatly map shape ages onto human ages. Different year lengths, different aging speeds, different mental and physical milestones. But approximately, compared to a human, he was scarcely over fifteen years old.

But he wouldn't fail. He pushed all his fears aside. He didn't even want to think about them. He wouldn't, because he couldn't, because he could see what nobody else saw. He could see the eclipse's approach.

It was traveling across the vast empty gulf outside the world.

The only other third dimensional objects he'd ever seen were the sun—which looked to him like a circle—and the stars—which seemed to be mere points. He assumed all third dimensional objects were fundamentally just second dimensional objects, moving on a strange plane. He had no capacity to model a 3D object in his mind.

But the eclipse was a beast that twirled and gyrated around impossible axes, moving and rotating in ways his eye couldn't even comprehend. To him, it looked as though the living creature—he assumed it was a living creature, sometimes it manifested a couple of limbs or an eye—was constantly shapeshifting, its perimeter moving and altering. Its uncanny undulations had haunted his nightmares for months after he first watched it, so young he'd barely started school. It wasn't any less nightmarish now.

But as incomprehensible and terrifying as it was, he could see it, and nobody else here could, and that was all that mattered. He could watch it on the horizon and publicly announce that it would cross the sun in two weeks—and then in about three days—and then, to his humiliation, not tomorrow but today, guaranteed, as the creature sped up and threw off his estimate. His worshipers and bemused spectators had taken over the square to while away the time. They'd quickly gathered around him to wait after he'd declared it would arrive within the hour

That had been almost an hour and a half ago. The stupid thing had slowed down.

The triangle was terrified.

In every direction, shapes were staring at him. Waiting. His father was watching him—his stare seemed to grow heavier by the minute. He could see reporters in the crowd taking notes.

He had to fight not to pace, not to cringe, not to show any nerves in front of the hundreds of eyes.

Now. It had to be now. It was so close. Please don't let him be wrong. Every cord in his body quivered in terror as he grabbed his microphone and announced: "Lines, bis, tris—quads, quints, and more! My dear students and beloved believers, and my—" he cut off the urge to say something nastier, "—curious visitors, who I hope will join our quest for enlightenment. This is the moment you've been waiting for! The eclipse is upon us! In less than a minute, it will begin!" He had to keep his gaze forward as he spoke, looking at his audience. (His mother had always said the way his eye went white when he was looking at the third dimension unnerved people.) "Soon—you won't have to take all my claims about the third dimension on faith. You'll be able to see for yourself the effect of the third dimension on the plane."

The crowd murmured excitedly. He could see his father relax. He stared up-but-not-north, gnawing nervously on his eyelid until he caught himself. The beast above glowed a warm pink in the light of the nearby sun.

And the stupid thing. Slowed. Again.

He stared in disbelief.

"Sixty seconds," his father whispered, out of range of the microphone.

His stomach flopped. He was dead.

"One minute, fifteen seconds. What's going—?"

He held his microphone away and hissed, "The eclipse decided to zigzag."

"Eclipses can zigzag?"

"Shhh!" He'd already failed. He'd already shown everyone he was wrong. He could hear the murmurs. His eye hurt from staring at the sun and from straining for so long to turn so far upward-not-northward, go faster faster faster—

There! The snout of the eclipse was this close to kissing the perimeter of the sun. He cried triumphantly, "Now!"

The wretched beast did a loop-the-loop around the sun and missed it entirely.

The triangle felt the last strands of his fraying self-composure snap.

He howled in rage.

He could hear laughs from the crowd. They felt like daggers in his sides.

"ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!" He was bellowing into outer space as if he thought it might hear him, "Do your think this is a game?! Is this funny?! Are you trying to humiliate me in front of the whole world!" His father put a hand on his arm; the triangle shoved him away. "Get back here right now! You thick, brainless, blobby, pink, feeler-faced two-eyed freak of nature! GET BACK HERE and LOOK ME IN THE EYE!" He was a lunatic, everyone would know it, their leader raving in a direction no one could actually see about some big pink delusion, what did he care, no one would ever take him seriously again anyway—

And the thing in the sky.

Stopped.

And looped back.

And came closer, and closer, and bigger, and bigger—it just kept getting bigger, how far away had it been before, how large was it, how large was the sun?

He hardly noticed the crowd's gasp as the creature twirled between them and the sun—the light shone through its body, pink with blood—and then out of the way, and then in again, and out—until finally it was so close that its perimeter completely engulfed the sun. He'd taken a field trip to the planet's surface once—an enormous solid mass of stone and crystal. Until now, he'd never seen another solid objects so large. To his limited understanding of 3D objects, it looked as though there were no organs inside its perimeter—just a layer of solid, uninterrupted flesh. He didn't know how it could even move.

It stopped straight over him.

He was sure the two black circles embedded inside its body must be its eyes. His whole life he'd heard psychic powers—psychic powers like his own—described as having an "inner eye." But he'd thought the phrase was just a metaphor. An eye on the inside of a body instead of on its perimeter would be useless to most people. He'd never seen a creature with an eye literally on the inside of its body. But the eclipse had two.

And they were looking at him.

A giant ever-shapeshifting cosmic horror from outside of reality, staring through the veil separating the sane world from outerplanar space, and it was looking—at—him.

He was terrified.

He heard an alien voice in his head, vast and deep and slow as distant whale song:

"Hello there!" It was overjoyed. It was tickled pink. "I've never been spoken to by a shape on the wall before. I didn't know you could see off of it!"

Weakly, the triangle repeated, "'A shape on the'...?"

"Yes, this wall of yours." The eclipse gestured with its tail at—everything. A single sweep that took in an entire dimension. "I've probably commuted past this wall billions of times, and nothing's ever called to me before. I didn't know shadows could do that!"

"'Shadows'?" the triangle echoed again. That was all they were? An eclipse's shadows?

"I'm absolutely delighted," the eclipse said. "First contact from a lower-dimensional species! I've watched you for eons and never imagined. Isn't this exciting! How charming of you! Tell me who you are."

Him? "Me?"

"Of course. Who else?" It stared at him. Only him. A shapeshifting force of nature the size of a planet with two inner eyes, an eclipse that saw him as a shadow—and it was looking only at him.

Weakly, he said, "I'm... the Magister Mentium."

The eclipse thought that over. Its tone was a tad dubious and not terribly impressed (why should it be impressed? he was embarrassed at himself for giving his silly puffed-up title)—but it said, "Yes, I suppose that's true. I am the Axolotl. It's been a pleasure meeting you." It began to shapeshift again—its eyes slid sideways through its body, until one reached its perimeter and disappeared.

It dawned on the triangle, in its first immature understanding of third dimensional objects, that its eye had disappeared because the Axolotl was turning away. "Wait!" he cried. "Why..." Why answer him? Why focused on him so completely, if he was just a shadow? Why ask who he was like he mattered? He didn't even know how to put those questions to words in his own mind, much less out loud. "Why are you here so early?"

The Axolotl turned back to the triangle. "Oh! I had to go back for some documents I forgot at the office. Big case in the morning," it said. "You shadows know my schedule?"

"You... pass in front of the sun."

The Axolotl turned away, eyes disappearing and frills fluttering, to look at the sun. "So I do! How funny." It turned toward the triangle and gave him a strange, grotesque look that—by the tone of its psychic voice—he suspected was a smile. "I must get going. I'll be heading into the office a few hours late tomorrow, but perhaps I'll see you again then." And it turned away. It felt like it took forever for the enormous body to sail over-not-north-of the triangle—and pass, at last, out of the sun's path.

The triangle didn't look down-but-not-south until someone shook his side—his father. He lowered his dazed gaze to the crowd—the cheering, applauding crowd. Ma-gi-ster, Ma-gi-ster. A sea of multicolor confetti shapes that filled the air to the horizon.

Shadows.

His father shook him again—"Go on, say something. They're waiting"—and the triangle held up his mic as though he were in a dream. He tried to remember what he was supposed to say. "I was right," he said flatly. "Just like I always told you. I can see the third dimension. The realm of dreams—of colors, of light, and..." The lies left a sick taste in the back of his eye. He couldn't say them. Points of light in darkness and pink nightmares.

"I'm s— You'll all have to excuse me," he said, his voice childish and small. "I can't—I've had a... a... profound... spiritual experience. I must meditate on the revelations I've received." The words felt like woo-woo mumbo-jumbo. "The next eclipse will be a few months after the new year." It seemed important, for some reason, to pass that information on. Wasn't that what he always said he did? Share the wisdom of third dimensional spirits with his followers? "I... have to go now."

His father took his elbow. "This is your moment," he whispered. "Come on, son—you don't want to lose your chance to speak directly to them, do you?"

He shoved the microphone in his father's side. "You speak to them."

"But—"

"I can't," he said. "I can't."

He cut through the crowd as fast as it would part for him—if they were any slower, he'd have started stabbing his way through—haunted the whole way by their applause.

####

And that was it.

From the Axolotl's perspective, he had just had a brief pleasant exchange with a precocious tadpole in a sidewalk puddle.

From the triangle's perspective, he might as well have been standing on the boat deck watching as Cthulhu rose from his millennia of dead slumber at the bottom of the ocean, turned to the fragile vessel bobbing on the waves, and said, "Good morning! Glorious weather we're having, isn't it?"

And from the perspective of the Higher Dimensional Gate, their Magister Mentium had predicted an eclipse, been rightfully insulted when it didn't come the exact second he ordered it, and furiously summoned down an eclipse darker and swifter and longer than any in recorded history.

Up until then, he had been seen as, at best, an oracle. A prophet. A messenger to share the secrets of the third dimension, but that was all he could do. But now, he had commanded forces in an unseen dimension, creating an eclipse months before it was natural. He had made it flicker on and off like he had his finger on the sun's light switch. News reports and the most unimpeachable scientific authorities reported that the eclipse had centered on the location of the Higher Dimensional Gate rally, narrowed down to an inexplicably small radius around that point, and then remained unchanged for several long minutes, long enough for anyone in its shadow to grow fatigued from the missing sunshine. Nothing like that had ever happened before. It defied every known fact about the science of eclipses.

People around the gathering—even people who had known nothing about the Higher Dimensional Gate rally—reported that during the eclipse, they'd become inexplicably disoriented, unable to tell compass directions, and had felt themselves fall toward the darkness—as if gravity's pull had suddenly moved from the south to the epicenter of the eclipse. Public building inspections confirmed that somehow the entire town had shifted, ever so slightly, closer to the epicenter. Closer to the Magister.

Never mind prophecy; as far as the Magister's rapidly-increasing followers were concerned, he might have been a god.

It was the greatest triumph a baby cult leader could ask for.

He barely noticed.

####

For days, he could hardly sleep, speak, or think. He kept losing track of conversations to stare into space. Now, it awed his followers when his eye turned an empty white—he must have been communing with something in a higher dimension.

He didn't argue. It was better than letting them know he was losing his mind.

He spent his time alone locked in his room, pacing back and forth, trying not to look up-but-not-north and failing. Dwelling on the significance of it all. Feeling like he'd never figure it out.

He used to love cosmic horror stories, back when he had time to read. They followed a reliable pattern: the hero travels farther than any rational shape ever should, meets something big, and goes mad from the realization.

And what was it that the hero always realized? That he was a dust fleck in the firmament. That he was insignificant. That he didn't matter. That there were things out there he'd never seen before and would never truly understand, and that they cared not for mere shadows on the wall like him, and that in the grand scheme of the cosmos he was nothing. That he was utterly unimportant.

In moments of what felt like lucidity in between the shivering horror, the triangle wryly acknowledged that it was no surprise he'd ended up in a cosmic horror story. He could see into another dimension. In the stories he'd read, that made it all but inevitable.

But all the authors had gotten the maddening revelation wrong. He could have handled knowing he was nothing. It almost would have been a relief.

True horror was knowing he mattered.

He'd spent the majority of his young life selling the idea that he was oh-so-important, as part of a big con to trick gullible idiots into liking him and flinging cash at his rotten undeserving family—and he'd only been able to do it because when the guilt got to him, when his conscience asked what would become of the shapes forking over their life savings on false promises of divine secrets, he could look out into bleak black space and tell himself that nothing really mattered, nothing was important, nothing he'd ever do would really make a difference, and the people he manipulated didn't matter any more than he did. He meant everything to his worshipers, and nothing to the universe. He could do anything and it didn't matter.

For a moment, a vast mind-melting shape-shifting incomprehensible eldritch god had focused its full attention on him—of all the universe, of all the dimensions beyond the known universe, it had looked at him and only him—a mere shadow on the wall, and yet in that moment, it found him interesting. It found him worthy of notice. He had screamed into the cold uncaring void, and the void had cared. For a moment, he'd held cosmic importance. He mattered. His actions mattered.

He'd felt it see him as important, but why? What was so important about him? There had to have been something significant he'd done, something he showed it, something in what he said. He replayed their conversation in his mind over and over and over and over, trying to remember what he'd done that proved he mattered.

He didn't know what it was. He couldn't find it. All he could remember was just... being.

The writers were wrong. Cosmic horror wasn't when an elder god's eyes slid past you without noticing you existed. It was when the elder god gazed down at you at your lowest and bleakest, during your most petty and selfish act of mass swindling, from a dimension where not even slamming the door and shutting your eye could shield you from its gaze—and it decided you were worth caring about. Cosmic horror was when you encountered a colossal alien that planted the incomprehensibly alien idea in your head that you had an inherent worth just because you existed. Cosmic horror was when a force of nature asked the name of a shadow on the wall.

If it was true... if it all mattered... then what was he doing? How could he? What had he done?

####

He was lucky—he was lucky that his parents had raised him to think so clearly about issues like morality and money and easy marks. His only saving grace was that he was too rational to seriously entertain the Axolotl's mad ideas.

And yet, his mind boiled with mad regret. It blazed with insane guilt. The heat of it could burn him out. It was months before he could continue his public sermons without feeling sick—and even once he did, he could still feel the delusion that what he did mattered, festering in his mind.

It would fester for the next trillion years.

####

(And that concludes this plot arc! I hope y'all enjoyed it!! I'd love to hear what y'all thought of the whole thing—especially now that we've looped back to the original eclipse. 😁)

#bill cipher #the axolotl #(for the art)#human bill cipher #(for the fic)#gravity falls #gravity falls fic #gravity falls fanart #fanart #my art #my writing #bill goldilocks cipher

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stellaspectral · 1 month ago

Note

I’m in the mood for a rottmnt Donnie x reader where Donnie has the realization that he has fallen in love with his best friend, a nerdy girl who can be both the sweetest human in the whole universe or the sassiest little gremlin, and he has no clue what to do with it.

Awkward moments + our genius Donnie making a fool of himself + annoying siblings teasing him but secretly trying to make the ship happen + some tooth rotting fluff at the end!

Thank you for writing for the tmnt fandom! I love the way you write, I’m so happy that I found your blog and your fanfictions!

A/N: Thank you, this means so much to hear! I’m glad you found my blog and enjoy my fics! It really makes my day to know my writing is loved and appreciated 😊 I hope you enjoy this story as well! 💜

Neural Network Overload (fluff)

💜 ROTTMNT Donatello/Female Reader 💜

CWs: Fluff, mutual pining, friends to lovers, love confessions, first kiss, teasing siblings, awkwardness & embarrassment (poor Donnie!), and very very mild angst. All characters are aged-up.

There’s no scientific explanation for what’s happening to Donatello Hamato.

He’s a genius. A self-made technological prodigy. He operates with logic, with precision. Emotions, while acknowledged, are typically compartmentalized into manageable sectors of his brain.

But apparently, there is no compartment big enough for you.

You’re curled up in his hoodie, legs tucked underneath you on the lair couch, hair messy and glasses slightly crooked as you stare intently at the screen of your laptop. You’re reverse-engineering one of his drone’s command scripts. For fun. And maybe because he challenged you to, and you couldn’t resist.

Donnie is across the room, supposedly working on his battle shell. He’s holding a micro-soldering iron. But he hasn’t used it in thirty minutes. Because his eyes haven’t left you once.

You chew on your bottom lip when you concentrate. Do this little wiggle when your glasses slide down your nose, refusing to use your hands because you don’t want to break your work flow. You snark like it’s a superpower, but then turn around and give him the most genuine smile.

And that’s when it hits him.

He’s in love with you. Utterly. Completely.

The realization is instant. And horrifying.

Because you’re his best friend, his partner in crime. The one who yells at him to eat when he’s working too long and calls him out when he’s being ‘a smug, purple smartass.’ You’re also the one who listens to his rants, who understands his sarcasm. Who laughs at his dumbest puns and wears his hoodie like it belongs to you.

Still, somehow, he finds himself wanting more.

He wants to hold your hand when you’re hyper-focused. Wants to tuck your hair behind your ear when it falls in your face. Wants to kiss you after you sass him into a corner.

So naturally, he begins malfunctioning, dropping his soldering iron with a loud clatter.

You glance up, raising a brow. “You okay over there, D?”

He clears his throat, sitting up too straight. “Yes! Fine. I am functioning at optimal capacity, thank you very much.”

You squint at him, not convinced. “You sure?”

He tries to scoff, tries to pull off his signature aloofness. But his voice cracks halfway through and he ends up choking on air instead. You blink. And he wants the ground to open and swallow him whole.

This is mortifying, he thinks. A master of composure reduced to a sputtering mess by a simple question.

You set your laptop aside, concern softening your features. “Seriously, Don-Tron, you look like you’re about to short-circuit. Need some water? Or … a reboot?” Your attempt at a tech joke, one you know he usually appreciates with a dry chuckle, now makes his internal processors whir with panic.

He waves a dismissive hand. But it’s far too jerky, betraying his inner turmoil. “Negative! My … my processors are merely … recalibrating. Due to … atmospheric particulates!” He cringes internally. Atmospheric particulates? Really, Donatello? That’s the best your genius brain could concoct?!

You give him that look, the one that says you’re not buying it but will play along. For now. “Atmospheric particulates? In the sewer lair? Okay, Dr. Science.” The familiar nickname, usually a term of endearment, now feels like an accusation.

“Precisely!” he squeaks, then clears his throat again, trying to regain some semblance of dignity.

You rise slowly from the couch, still in his oversized hoodie, and Donnie swears time skips a frame. The hem swishes at your thighs as you pad barefoot across the lair towards him. “Alright, Doc. Let’s run diagnostics,” you say, tone playfully serious as you step into his space.

He stiffens. You’re standing too close. Not objectively close, but close enough that your shampoo tickles his sensory nodes.

“You don’t look optimal. You look like your neural network is spiking.” You tap his plastron with a single finger. “You overheating or something?”

“Preposterous,” he says, backing up, only to bump into the cluttered mobile workbench he was using. Casually, he tries to lean against it—only to knock over a container of screws. They spill everywhere.

“Uh-huh,” you murmur, folding your arms. “Definitely optimal.”

He wants to say something sharp. Something deflective. Maybe even something sarcastic. But then your face softens again, like it always does when you realize he’s not okay. And you do that thing where your hand rests gently on his forearm for grounding. For reassurance.

And his brain completely blue screens.

“You know you can talk to me, right?” you say, your voice quieter now. Not teasing. Not joking.

His vocal processors seem to have staged a mutiny. “Talk?” His voice shoots up three octaves, thin and reedy. “Regarding … what, exactly? The inevitable heat death of the universe? The latest advancements in neural network architecture? My … my perfectly standard, non-deviant, utterly nominal vocal output?” The last few words are practically a shriek.

You blink at him. Once. Twice. Then you slowly reach up and adjust your glasses. “I was gonna suggest talking about what you’re feeling,” you reply, tone dry. “But sure. Let’s start with the heat death of the universe and work our way backwards.”

If Donnie had a fan system, it would be blasting at maximum speed. Instead, he just stands there, frozen, trying desperately to reboot a single coherent thought. His brain is still trapped in a loop: She’s touching me, she’s touching me, she’s touching me—

“Unless …” You lean in slightly, just enough for him to notice the glimmer in your eyes, “the topic of feelings is causing that spike in temperature.”

He lets out a noise. Not a dignified one, but the auditory equivalent of a dying motherboard holding on for dear life. The sound escapes him before he can stop it, and your brows shoot up. He clamps a hand over his mouth.

There’s a beat of silence where you both just exist. You, with that slightly smug, knowing tilt to your head. And him, doing his best impression of a panic-stricken robot who just got hit with an unexpected firmware update.

Donnie’s hand remains glued to his mouth, eyes wide as if his own body has betrayed him on the most fundamental level. His other hand twitches at his side, like he’s running mental diagnostics but getting only error messages.

You place your hand over his. Gently pry his fingers away from his face. His eyes meet yours, still wide. Terrified. Then slowly—so slowly, as if buffering, he speaks, voice tight and squeaky around the edges. “That was … That wasn’t … I didn’t mean—”

Then, inevitably, the peanut gallery arrives.

Leo saunters into the room, stretching lazily. “Hey Donnie, have you seen my …” He stops short, taking in his brother’s rigid, almost statuesque posture and your amused yet concerned expression. His eyes narrow before that familiar glint of mischief appears in them. “I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

“Leo, don’t you dare,” Donnie practically hisses, voice still several octaves too high. His gaze flicks between you and his blue-clad brother, a trapped animal assessing escape routes where none exist. “This is a … a highly sensitive recalibration process!”

Leo smirks. “Recalibration? Looked more like a full system crash from where I’m standing.” He looks at you. “What’d you do? Confess your admiration for his meticulously organized and alphabetized collection of bad guy threat assessments?”

You snort despite yourself, and Donnie lets out a strangled noise that’s one part gasp, another part groan, and three parts existential despair.

“Leo,” he says, tone lethal but wobbly, “do you have literally anything else you should be doing?”

“Not when you’re this entertaining,” Leo replies with all the smugness of someone who’s been waiting his entire life to catch Donnie mid-swoon. “Seriously, bro, I’ve never seen your face that flushed. Are you overheating or blushing?”

“I do not blush,” Donnie replies, his voice clipped and brittle, like it might snap in half under the weight of his own embarrassment.

You tilt your head. “I dunno, D. You are sort of radiating the same energy as a stressed-out Roomba caught in a corner.”

Leo cackles. “Ohh, that’s good. Can I use that?”

Donnie glares at both of you with the kind of energy typically reserved for malfunctioning lab equipment or Raph’s punching of things labeled FRAGILE. “I hate you both.”

“You love us,” Leo says. “But especially her, huh?” He throws you a wink and ducks just in time to avoid the screwdriver Donnie hurls in his direction.

After the tool clangs harmlessly off the wall, Donnie shouts, “Out!”

Leo exits stage left, laughter echoing through the lair.

Silence falls again. Except it’s not really silence—because Donnie’s heart is practically trying to punch its way out of his chest, and you’re biting your lip to keep from laughing too hard.

“Alphabetized villain assessments, huh?” you tease.

“It’s called preparedness.”

You poke his side, grinning as you tease, “But especially me, huh?”

His eyes meet yours. And this time, even through the flustered static still buzzing around his brain, he answers honestly. “I could never hate you.”

The next day, everything goes downhill.

Donnie spills oil on his blueprints. Walks into a wall. Nearly blows up his mini fusion cell because he accidentally enters your name instead of the energy input variable.

Leo, of course, catches his slip-ups instantly.

“Broo,” he drawls, dramatically leaning against Donnie’s workbench in his lab. “You’ve got it bad.”

Donnie stiffens. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you don’t,” Leo says, twirling a stray wire between his fingers. “You only turned redder than a mutant tomato on prom night when she asked you to pass that tool thingy.”

Donnie scoffs. “That doesn’t even make sense. What mutant tomato? Prom night? Leo, your analogies are garbage.”

“Not as garbage as your poker face, lover boy.”

Mikey slides into the lab, grinning like a fox. “So when’s the wedding?”

“I-It’s not—!! I don’t—!!” Donnie sputters.

“Dude.” Even Raph joins in, chuckling. “Just tell her. We all know you like her.”

“I do not like her,” Donnie insists.

But then he thinks of the hoodie—his hoodie. You wearing it. The soft fabric, the way it hangs off your shoulders, the scent of you mixed with the faint, familiar smell of his own laundry detergent. The image flashes in his mind, clear and warm, and a traitorous little flutter happens somewhere in his chest cavity.

Threatening his self-control.

He covers his face with both hands. “Okay, I might like her.”

Raph raises an eyebrow. “Might?”

“Definitely,” Mikey says, voice sing-song. “You’re toast, dude. Emotional toast. And not the crunchy, golden-brown kind. More like the kind that fell butter-side-down into a pit of feelings.”

Donnie groans louder, dragging his hands down his face. “This is not how my cognitive trajectory was supposed to go today.”

“Then allow me to suggest a new trajectory.” Leo gestures grandly. “Operation: Tell Her Before You Spontaneously Combust.”

“Negative. Absolutely not. That’s a suicide mission.”

“Correction,” Raph says with a grin. “That’s a you’ve-got-a-chance-so-don’t-blow-it mission.”

Donnie bolts upright, pacing now. “You don’t understand. If I confess and she doesn’t feel the same, I lose everything.”

“She wears your hoodie,” Mikey says, as if this fact alone should end the discussion. “That’s like a universal sign of mutual crushing.”

“Correlation is not causation,” Donnie mutters, then spins around with wide, panicked eyes. “And what if she’s just being … nice? What if she just thinks of me as—”

“Don’t say ‘brother,’” Raph interrupts with a grimace.

Mikey throws an arm around Donnie’s shoulders. “She reverse-engineered your drone code for fun. If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.”

“Donnie.” Leo crosses his arms. “You’re stalling. Again.”

“I require more data before making a declaration.”

Leo smirks. “Or you could just ask her how she feels.”

“Statistically, that has a high margin of—”

“Just talk to her,” Raph says. “Before your nervous system explodes.”

Later that night, you’re snuggled back in Donnie’s hoodie. It still smells faintly of him. Something uniquely, comfortingly him.

You’re on the same spot on the couch, scrolling through lines of code. It’s Donnie’s latest security encryption. It’s unnecessarily complex, almost ridiculously so, like he wanted to see if you’d lose patience with it.

You haven’t. And if anything, you’re more determined than ever to crack it.

Donnie stands just inside the lab entrance, fingers twitching at his sides, almost like he’s mentally rehearsing lines. He watches you, a soft, almost bewildered expression on his face. For once, he doesn’t even try to analyze the storm of variables churning within him. He just feels it. All of it.

He clears his throat, the sound a little too loud in the quiet lair. He walks over, hands clasped tightly behind his back, his usual confident stride replaced with something a little more careful. Like he’s approaching a very delicate, potentially explosive experiment.

You glance up, a warm, welcoming smile spreading across your face. “Hey, D.”

He sits down beside you, perhaps a little closer than strictly necessary, but still maintaining a careful distance. You can feel the slight warmth radiating from him. You wait, watching him with an encouraging gaze.

“I …” he starts, then stops. His brow furrows. He swallows, eyes darting away for a nanosecond before refocusing on some indeterminate point near your shoulder.

“You okay?” you prompt gently.

A faint flush of pink dusts his cheeks. “No atmospheric particulates this time,” he mumbles, the words barely audible.

You smile wider, your heart doing a little flutter. “That’s a relief.”

Then he says it, his voice dropping to barely a whisper, gaze fixed firmly on his now-trembling hands in his lap.

“I like you.” His hands twitch, fingers interlacing and unlacing. “Like. More-than-best-friend like. Not just ‘you-stole-my-hoodie’ like—though, for the record, that is also a contributing factor. I mean. You can still steal my hoodie. In fact, I … I hope you do. Often. Preferably forever.” He finally risks a tiny, hopeful glance at you.

A soft chuckle escapes you. “Donnie, is this your version of flirting?” you ask, your tone gentle, your own cheeks feeling a little warm.

“I … I genuinely don’t know,” he admits, looking utterly lost, his shoulders slumping a fraction. “I think I’m glitching.” He looks so earnest, so vulnerable, that your heart melts.

You lean forward, your smile softening into something tender. You reach out, slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wants. He doesn’t. You cup his cheek with your hand, your thumb gently stroking his skin. He leans into your touch. Eyes wide, a tiny, almost inaudible sigh escaping him.

“Well. For the record?” you say, and he holds his breath, his gaze locked on yours. “I like you too, Donnie. Like, ‘please keep giving me impossible tech puzzles so I have an excuse to spend ridiculous amounts of time with you because you’re brilliant and funny and sweet.’”

He blinks a few times before his systems finally restart. A slow smile spreads across his face, lighting up his features. To you, it’s like watching a sunrise. “You … do?” The disbelief in his voice is almost painful, but it’s quickly being overridden by dawning joy as he digests your words.

“I’ve been waiting for you to catch up, genius,” you tease, your thumb brushing along the line of his jaw. “Took you long enough. I was starting to think I’d have to spell it out in binary.”

He exhales a short, shaky laugh. Part shock, part awe, all relief. “My predictive algorithms … they … I was running every probable outcome. This one … this one had a statistically lower probability than I preferred, given the stakes.” He shakes his head, still smiling that dazzling, rare smile.

“And which one did your brilliant brain finally land on?” you murmur, your faces incredibly close now—so close you can see the way the light catches the unique patterns in his irises.

He leans in, his gaze dropping to your lips for a breath before meeting your eyes again, his voice a soft, warm whisper against your skin. “This one.”

Then he kisses you.

It’s hesitant at first, a gentle press of lips. Careful, like an experiment he wants to get perfect. You can feel the slight tremor in his hands as one comes up to rest on your waist, the other still on the couch, gripping the cushion. You sigh into the kiss, your own hand moving from his cheek to tangle lightly in the ends of his mask tails, encouraging him.

He deepens the kiss slightly, a spark of newfound confidence igniting. It’s sweet, and a little clumsy, and utterly, breathtakingly perfect.

And for once, Donatello Hamato doesn’t need data, or algorithms, or any empirical evidence to know that this feeling—this connection—is his best, most wonderful result yet.

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alastor-x-reader-stories · 9 months ago

Text

"Bite Me" - Alastor x Reader - Part 2

You....really shouldn't have bitten Alastor.

It was a threat, yep, and the guy did need to learn his actions had consequences, but...er. Was that really worth this?

The Radio Demon had practically been your shadow for the past week. His expression never changed, his tone never shifted. You were like, 90 percent sure he was thinking of the best way to kill you for maximum pain.

Pain wasn't good. You were allergic to it.

...That line usually got a chuckle out of whoever heard it, or in your case, whenever you thought it. However, this time, it didn't quite tickle your funny bone as it usually did.

Because Alastor was standing right there.

And staring at you.

In your goddam bedroom.

"....Hi." You said, chewing on your bottom lip.

Alastor's gaze darted for a second to your lip, then back to your eyes. And he said nothing.

"...Did you need something?" You said.

He continued to stare at you, unblinking.

You sighed "Listen, if you're going to kill me can you just hurry up already? I'm sure it beats how awkward this is."

Other than the slightest twitch of an ear, he still didn't respond.

You huffed, narrowing your eyes as a growl permeated through the air. "At least say something!"

He didn't.

"OKay, fine!" You snapped, throwing your hands up in the air. You crossed them over your chest with a pout, giving Alastor a mean side-eye. "Keep standing there doing nothing. I guess I could use a new hat rack anyway."

"...You don't have any hats?" He said, tilting his head to one side.

"I'll get some so I can justify having a hat rack." You said, tail flicking.

"Mhm... So, how sincere is this threat?"

"What?"

Alastor straightened his posture, taking a couple long strides to stand right at your bedside. "You make a lot of threats, my dear. And I've only ever seen you carry 1 out."

"Usually people listen to me." You said, rolling your eyes.

"So you've never actually follow through before?" He tilted his head to the opposite side than before. His grin seemed to stretched a bit, ears becoming less stiff.

"Does that make you happy?" You said, turning to face him "That you're the first idiot who made me actually do something?"

From how he practically beamed you can only assume it did. You sighed, flopping down onto the bed on your side. The intent was to ignore him until he got bored and went away or got sick of you and killed you.

Instead you found a shadowy tendril wrapping around your middle, rolling you onto your back. Alastor grinned down at you, his body a perfect 90-degree angle bent at the waist.

"I'm the first one you've bit?"

"...Yeah?" You said, raising an eyebrow. "I mean. I think I bit people when I was little and pretending I had rabies, but not really intending to hurt them..."

His grin widened. "How did I taste?"

...

"What."

"I want to know. How did I taste?"

Oh right he was a cannibal. You grimaced internally. Was that just something cannibals got giddy about? 'Hey I'm the first person you've eaten hurrah!'

The tendril around you gave a firm squeeze. You sighed and met Alastor's crimson eyes, giving him a flat look of your own.

"Dry and tough- like badly made jerky."

He laughed. "Well, of course! You bit into my jacket! Silly creature, you."

"....Well, you asked."

"That I did, that I did." Alastor hummed. He tilted his head too far to one side, leaning in closer to you "Would you care for a taste without my jacket?"

"No." You responded curtly.

The silence was palpable. Neither of you broke eye contact or changed your expressions for several moments. Those moments seemed very, very long.

His eye slowly twitched up and his ears dropped ever-so-slighty-

"Hm. Well, it's not like you'd manage that anyway."

"Probably not. Are we done?"

Another beat of silence passed before the shadows tendril dissolved into mist and Alastor was standing up straight again.

"Now, I wouldn't say this matter is done, but I suppose it could wait."

You sat up, staring at him. The more you stared, the more his eyes couldn't seem to decide on what to focus on. Was he...nervous?

That encounter didn't go anywhere else significant. He simply said a farewell and left you to your own devices.

===========

Your eye twitched as you took a long, deep breath.

Alastor was being so horribly, horribly annoying.

The last couple days he resumed his role as your shadow, but this time solely with the task of irritating you. He'd chew loudly, he'd step in an off-rhythm on purpose, he'd claw the surface of things you couldn't stand the sound of and it made your ears hurt and your jaw ache from how much you were grinding your teeth.

You had enough.

"Will you LEAVE ME ALONE!?" You snapped at him. He didn't so much as flinch, simply tilting his head and he leaned closer to you.

"Or what?"

"I'm going to shove your hooves so far up your ass you'll be coughing up horseshoes for a week-"

"I'm a deer, not a horse." He said, eyes crinkling up in amusement at your 'threat'.

You hissed out an agitated breath before taking a couple deep, long breaths and you felt your jaw lax (a little) and your temper die down a bit.

"...Yeah, you're right." You said after a moment "And I'm sorry. I didn't really have much of a reason to snap at you like that."

His eyes narrowed and you couldn't be bothered to wonder why. You said a curt goodbye and meandered off, feeling his eyes trained on your retreating form. You couldn't be bother to think about that, either.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Hi it's me the writer. Letting you all know that this is not planned in the slightest and i'm just winging it. No smut will happen EVER though because I don't wanna write it. So kindly look elsewhere if that's what you want. I will put a poll here though with considerations for potential next installment

#hazbin hotel x reader #alastor x reader

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borderline-sanity · 1 year ago

Text

GRWM as I ✨Wake Up with a Panic Attack✨

** None of this is medical advice, and is just a system I’ve worked on for myself. Everybody is different, everyone is in different circumstances.**

When it comes to the fight or flight instinct during panic attacks, I’m 100% a flight person.

I’ve dealt with panic attacks since high school and have been diagnosed with panic disorder. In high school I lived in constant fear of having an attack, which caused the attacks. It was all very cyclical. I have them less often now, but they still happen from time to time.

My go to method is to mix comforting and uncomfortable sensations and to overstimulate myself. I’ve tried deep breathing and relaxing music and the things that should logically help. But they always made me feel worse because I’m acknowledging the panic in such a head on fashion. I try to ground and overstimulate as many senses as I can, so I don’t have the energy or space to feel the panic anymore.

The initial terror, it’s going to happen. How fast you can pivot depends on the severity of the panic.

I tell myself I’m an expert in panic attack management. I have over 12 years of experience in the field and have worked tirelessly to perfect my methods. I have to convince myself I’m a pro at this, and have a 100% success rate of not imploding from anxiety. I narrate what I’m going to do and why it helps me specifically, basically what I’m doing here.

—-

My first stop is consistently my bathroom. I go through my bin of old lotions and pick a scent I have specially set aside for panic attacks. I use something that’s way too overpowering, but having something that smells bad to you is also an option. Sometimes I’ll use two different smells. The goal is to have a scent to ground you.

When I have a panic attack, my body fails at temperature regulation. Typically my feet are cold and clammy. So, I like to run some hot water in the tub and just stand in it for awhile. As I’m standing there, I apply whatever lotion or perfume I grabbed. Once my feet are warmed up, I get out of the tub and only sorta dry my feet. Then I put socks on my damp feet. Why? Because I hate the way it feels. And that harmless discomfort is going to distract me as I make my way to the next room.

I pick up a hoodie from the closet. Since I don’t know which way my temperature is going to flux, it’s nice to have on hand. I also have a big comfy shawl I use only during panic attacks.

I have to go down stairs to get to my kitchen. I take them really slow, especially with the damp sock situation. If I’m feeling too weak, I’ll just sit down and scoot down them. My instinct is flight, so staying in one room too long is no good. I usually feel safer being on the ground floor.

—-

Things might get messy in the kitchen, but that’s for future you to deal with. I used to keep a fresh lemon in the house at all times, but have moved away from that, opting for lemon juice. You can either bite into a lemon, or swish some lemon juice in your mouth and spit it out. A benefit of a fresh lemon is that it’s more messy. You’ll have lemon juice on your face and hands and that stickiness, at least for me, is an awful sensation.

You’re going to chase the lemon down with something else. I like to grab sour candy, like Warheads. But something like Pop Rocks also works. Picking an opposite flavor, like pudding or beef jerky is an option. You’re just trying to overload your tastebuds by making another harmless, but powerful distraction.

Alternatively, this step can be done when you’re in the bathroom. Swishing mouth wash and following it up with something sour is miserable. The face I make in the mirror is ridiculous and sometimes that’s enough to help soothe me.

—-

Like I said, I’m a flight person. So the next steps I either do pacing the house or on a treadmill. It just depends how steady my legs are feeling.

I grab my headphones, connected to my phone, and my tablet. I put the headphones on one ear and play music. The music is going to change every time. Sometimes you want something soothing, sometimes you want something loud. Sometimes you want music you love, sometimes you want music you hate. Having different playlists prepped helps you figure out what you’re in the mood for. I think one hit wonders are also a great option. There’s a familiarity and nostalgia that just hits the spot sometimes.

There are a few options for the tablet. You can put on a movie or tv show, and listen with your un-headphoned ear. I also like doing crossword puzzles or logic puzzles. It usually goes poorly, but I get so wrapped up in it. I’ve also found ‘Simon Says’ videos and follow those. Anything challenging and low stakes works here.

And this is where things usually begin to ease up. If my legs are too wobbly, I’ll just lie on the floor. Sometimes I go back to the lemon juice / sour candy. But eventually, my body is just exhausted and overstimulated. And there’s no more room for panic.

Once I feel myself winding down, I’ll get an electrolyte heavy drink. My go to is Pedialyte Zero Sugar packets but it doesn’t really matter what you use. I’ll have something light to eat if I feel up to it, usually just crackers.

When the panic has finally eases up and I feel safe again, I’m usually left exhausted. I fall asleep wherever I land, usually on the floor because it just feels nice and sturdy. When I wake up, I take care of any messes I left behind. And I drink more water.

—-

Important Notes and Additional Tactics:

Drink lots of water. Just have water dead drops everywhere.

Make it a point to keep yourself stocked up on supplies. Future you needs to restock supplies and put things back for next time.

Fidget toys are great and should also be in every room if possible. I like to use different ones depending on which room I’m in, just to keep up variety.

Ice cubes under the armpits or on the back of the neck are great. I guess anywhere works, I just find the cold distracting. As they melt, I’m left with water on my clothes. Similar to the damp socks, I hate this feeling.

My plant misting bottle stays in the kitchen and I’ll use it to spray my face or arms. Having glasses makes this more annoying, which is the goal.

I personally like to turn on as many lights as I can, but I understand this isn’t always possible.

Stepping outside can be helpful, just be mindful about it.

Reach out to people if that’s an option and you’re comfortable with it.

Walk through your routine when you aren’t in the middle of a panic attack. Developing this type of muscle memory helps you to be familiar and prepared. Remember, you’re the expert in panic attacks.

Take time to reflect on things. The day after a panic attack, I find a quiet place. I think back to everything I was feeling and who I was during the panic attack. And I talk to that past version of me and comfort her. Sometimes I find it easier to write it all out.

—-

I typed this while experiencing a panic attack. Usually I just narrate these things to myself. Recently, my older brother has started having attacks similar to mine. My hope is that sharing what I do to get myself through a panic attack will help at least one person. It is truly one of the most defeating and vulnerable experiences. I feel like I’ve lost so much time to my anxiety, I’d like to think I can help someone avoid the same struggles my younger self dealt with.

**None of this is medical advice, and is just a system I’ve worked on for myself. Everybody is different, everyone is in different circumstances.

#panic attack #mental health #coping mechanism #anxitey #panic disorder #advice #a very long walkthrough of how I get through a panic attack #self care

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revelboo · 8 months ago

Note

absolutely in love with your starscream series! i feel like you're one of the only people who write him like he's actually HIM, you actually give him his internal struggles and fears instead of just making him a big jerk "just because he can be" like everyone else does for some reason... can't wait to see what comes next in the story!!!

I’m trying my best to figure out their characters and motivations

Everything is Alright Pt 44

IDW Starscream x Reader, Soundwave x Reader

• Listening to the soft chatter of you and his cassettes as he works, Soundwave cycles through security feeds. For the most part, it’s a monotonous job aside from the occasional brawls between the ranks. But with both factions desperate for energon, neither side is willing to launch an attack just yet, locked in a stalemate while Autobots and Decepticons both hunt for viable mines. Standing when he catches a flicker of a thought, he bends to offer his hand. Watches Frenzy and Rumble exchange a look as you wrap your arms around yourself and come to him without hesitation. Trusting him. Those tumultuous thoughts ringing clearer through him when you climb into his hand so he can lift you to his desk. And nudge a box toward you. “Fuel, little one.” Reluctantly losing your warmth as you step onto the desk, servos flexing with the urge to reach for you.

• Glancing up at him, warmth spreading through you at that affectionate tone, it’s almost like he can read your mind some times. Just responding to things you want or need before you can even think to ask. Because the box appears to be full of food. Hungry, but knowing all too well from Starscream that human food is confusing at best for Cybertronians, you look inside. The box is full of bottles of sriracha, barbecue sauces, dry rice, cans of soup, and bags of jerky. Well, it’s something different from the junk food Starscream keeps giving you and the dwindling supply of dried and canned food he’d taken from your house. And he’d thought of you, went out just to find things you needed because he wanted to. Tearing into the jerky, you feel him run a servo down your spine and try not to think about that little fantasy or your very messed up, tangled feelings for both of them. “Unsatisfactory?” He inquiries, nudging the box again with a servo as you chew.

• It would be easier if he could pick up more than emotions and brief flurries of images from you, but your organic thoughts are just too quick, too chaotic to untangle. You glance up at him as his servos linger on your spine to strengthen that connection between you. Picking up on your amusement at his question, a lick of heat that warms him as your mind circles back to that fantasy and you tear your gaze away suddenly, but not before that need can sink into him, into his spark with a delicious tension. “The soup and rice needs to be cooked,” you say finally, leaning back into his touch, distracting him from the images he’d accidentally taken from Starscream. Those fantasies of his tangling with the way you crave his touch and needing more. Spinning him tight with a hunger so ferocious it’s almost unnerving.

• The feel of those warm servos moving lazily against your back slowly drains every worry away. Like Star, you feel safe with him. Unlike Starscream, you have no idea what Soundwave really wants from you. What you want? Laughably unattainable. “Cooked,” he echoes with a soft rumbling noise, a servo sliding up the side of your neck in a gentle slide. Where Starscream is lonely even if he’ll never admit it, Soundwave has his cassettes. And maybe it’s as simple as that. You’re not that much smaller than they are, so maybe you’re just another cassette for him to care for. You have no idea, but you like his quiet presence. Leaning into his touch, you look up when the door opens, feeling Soundwave stiffen before making what sounds suspiciously like a soft growl as Starscream lets himself into Soundwave’s quarters.

• Wings stiffly up and trembling with barely leashed anger, Starscream zeroes in on you sitting on Soundwave’s desk, the communication officer’s servos stroking down your spine as he turns to glare. Soundwave’s touch is possessive, servos lingering on you, fueling his own aggression. He’s aware of the cassettes on edge at him invading their space, too. Of Soundwave’s stiff posture. And that makes him bare his denta in a smirk, because Soundwave clearly doesn’t like it when it happens to him. You at least smile for him, twisting to look at him as Soundwave curls his servos around you in a silent claim. The other mech watching as Starscream moves to deliberately sit on Soundwave’s berth, his wings flaring out in challenge. He might not be able to take you back without risking Soundwave going to Megatron, but he can at least protect you. Look after you and ensure you aren’t harmed. Though, truth be told, he doubts Soundwave would hurt you. He’s just a bit too interested in you, something that twists about Starscream’s spark, because you’re his. And antagonizing the other mech? Just a bonus.

#transformers x reader #starscream x reader #idw soundwave #idw starscream #soundwave x reader

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makeyoumine69 · 5 months ago

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Daddy Knows Best 4.0

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: Patrick Bateman x Fem!Reader

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Even though you and Patrick are not dating, at some point the Daddy and Little Girl game between the two of you came to a very controversial point when Bateman suddenly began to feel jealous and extremely possessive of you. And he is certainly not happy about it.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: Smut, Daddy kink, dry humping, handjobs, face riding (f), cum play, mild overstimulation, teasing, spanking, jealousy, choking, dirty talk, pet names, Patrick is possessive and hypocritical af.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 2.2k

𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐑𝐄𝐂: Modern Talking—Sweet Little Sheila💕

𝐀/𝐍: I got a lot of asks where people wanted me to make Patrick really jealous in this story, so I decided to add some plot for the drama. I hope you enjoy it!

𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒: [MASTERLIST]; [Daddy Knows Best 1.0]; [Daddy Knows Best 2.0]; [Daddy Knows Best 3.0].

Being on top of this man was always exciting, but being on top of him when he was spread out flat beneath you, his hands pinned to the mattress and his cheeks a little flushed from such a vulnerable position was even more alluring. It was intoxicating, to say the least.

"C'mon, kitten," Bateman bounced you on his knees, making you move with him, but you didn't react even when he bit his lower lip and gave you a look full of need and something that could be called affection. "Don't keep Daddy waiting long."

You chuckled and pressed his wrists even tighter, then bent down to peck his freshly shaved cheek and you could still smell his lotion - the scent fresh and tangy. "Are you in a hurry or something? It's Saturday!" You chirped, your hips slowly rocking back and forth, grinding against his hard bulge, but not crossing the line because you wanted to tease him, to inflame him to the point where he couldn't control himself. "I think we have plenty of time."

Gasping breathlessly, Patrick groaned but stopped struggling. "Uh, honey," the man let you turn his head to the side, and as you traced a wet line with your tongue, you sensed his dick throbbing against your soaped pussy lips, his briefs getting wetter with each passing moment. "You better not test me-"

"Or what?"

Bateman sneered, revealing his perfect white teeth including his fangs, which looked really sharp. The sight made you imagine how easily those fangs could sink into your skin and spill some blood as you kissed his collarbone and then his prominent chin. "What a brat," he growled, shifting his legs a bit to lie more snugly. "But I like you being bold, I really do," he hissed, his eyebrows furrowed as you humped his hard groin. "It suits you, babygirl...uh-mmm-fuck..."

"You like it, Daddy?

"Yeah," Patrick replied in a husky voice, fighting the urge to flip you over and fuck you senseless. "Keep...k-keep going like that."

The way he bucked his hips to give you more space to play with only added to your movements, but when you saw him close his eyes as the man lost his temper, you quickly straightened up on top of him before bending down to pull down his tight briefs—the moment you did, his strained cock popped out. Flustered and thrilled, Patrick couldn't help but moan as you trapped his dick between your juicy thighs and began to slide along it.

"A-ahhh, you make Daddy feel so good, kitten," he was barely able to speak as his hands clung to the sheets and his knuckles soon turned white. "You're gonna make me cum...I fucking swear!"

"Mmh...yes...yes, please," your movements became more and more jerky and intense, but as you leaned against his strong chest with one hand and wrapped another around his cock to stroke it—the stars began to dance before your eyes. "Please...Daddy...I want your cum!"

Pumping his dick and never ceasing to slide your inner thighs over it, you whimpered loudly as you rubbed his red-hot head against your swollen clit, smearing his thick pre-cum around your cunt and his length. God, it felt so good and yet so sinful, you never really thought you were capable of such things, but this man - he was like the key that unlocked the door to your most depraved desires.

Inflamed to the point of no return, you threw your head back, literally grinding against his hot flesh as your hands were busy working him up, his dense fluid forming a ring around the base of his cock as he literally drooled hard. You knew Bateman was on the verge of falling apart, you knew it but you never stopped because you wanted him to moan louder, to thrash around on his expensive sheets since he was so vulnerable like that. Vulnerable, but absolutely perfect in the way he unraveled for you. The thin layer of sweat covering his skin made it glow even brighter, the red tint spreading all over his body, contributing to the sight, but when you cupped his balls to give them a gentle squeeze, Patrick gripped your hips so tightly that you squealed in surprise.

"Daddy! It h-hurts," you murmured in a shaky voice, looking down at his agitated face, his eyes half closed, and you were afraid he was going to draw some blood because he was biting his lip so hard. "You...you're so savage and strong and..." the praise you knew would help him reach his peak never failed. "Cum for me, Daddy, please..."

The moment he arched his back, you heard him growl as loud as if he was going to die—the rawness of it almost pushed you over the edge too, but now you were so focused on his orgasm that you didn't really care about yourself—Bateman was writhing beneath you as he couldn't stop himself from cumming around your belly again and again, and you didn't let a drop of his seed go to waste, spreading it all over your body, especially your chest, even taking a quick taste of it.

"Fuck, oh-fuck," the man kept mumbling, his hands digging into your skin one more time until they fell off your thighs like two heavy whips. "You... you are such a stubborn girl," he grinned, panting and wiping the sweat from his forehead. "Thriving on being in control, huh?"

Propping himself up on his elbows, he gave you a playful wink, but you were still on top of him, and little did he know of your further plans—you were not done yet.

Without saying a word, you pressed him down with your weight, only to change positions and take a place over his blushing face. The man was shocked, but he didn't stop you, and this kind of obedience was thrilling, yet a bit suspicious, but you didn't care about that now.

"Maybe it's you who desperately wants to be controlled?" You murmured teasingly before lowering yourself to rub your wet pussy along his chin, then his nose. "You can just admit it...I won't tell anyone-ah!"

The second his hot tongue made contact with your overstimulated little bud, you thought you were going to faint—it felt so amazing and heavenly. How in the world could this man be so good at everything related to sex?

There were so many questions you wanted to ask him, but now, oh now, you were so close to your second orgasm as you rode his face and Patrick only encouraged you to use him more enthusiastically by spanking your ass and then stroking your burning skin. It was sick. Bateman skillfully alternated between sucking your clit in his mouth, but then he was already probing your soaking entrance with his tongue, allowing you to fuck yourself on it as you bucked your hips against his face, grabbing his head and almost scratching his scalp. And the sounds this madman made, uh, they were so fucking hot and the vibration they caused was like an electric shock cursing through your system. Whenever it came to eating your pussy, Bateman was like a thirsty beast, literally feasting on you, his deadly grip leaving you no choice but to submit to the inevitable rush of pleasure that would wash over you like a tidal wave.

A week later, Patrick decided to give you a break from his intrusive persona, which was both relieving and frustrating because you couldn't stop thinking about him having fun with other girls while you were busting your ass at work. And it so happened that you were working as a paralegal because you had recently graduated from law school, so you couldn't work as a lawyer right now, and the craziest thing was that your boss was Bateman's lawyer. That was how you met him in the first place. One day you were stuck in the office late at night when Patrick showed up, and since he couldn't find Mr. Carnes, his full attention was on you. But how did you let him get under your skin so quickly? Bateman was so persistent in pursuing you until you said yes and the two of you had your first date. Now it all felt like it had happened a long time ago.

Tired as hell, you were organizing documents into folders at your desk when you heard the door crack with an unpleasant sound that immediately caught your attention.

"Mr. Carnes, I'm almost finished..." Your words stuck in your throat as you raised your eyes to see Bateman walk in with that classic arrogant smile that made him HIM. "Pat...Mr. Bateman?"

After a soft chuckle, the man stopped in front of your desk, clasped his hands together and looked at you intently. "Hello, little one," he purred, smiling even more mischievously. "Where is Harold? I have some important business to attend to."

Breathing a sigh of relief that he was not here for you but for his business stuff, you opened the drawer and took out your notebook. "Let me check Mr. Carnes' schedule," you replied in the most formal way you could muster, and that brought a sparkle to Patrick's eyes. "One moment."

"You sound so sexy when you're being bossy. Did someone tell you that?" Patrick asked seductively, leaning on your table as he adjusted his coat, even though he already looked perfect. "Someone like Carnes?"

Bateman's audacious statement forced you to stay still for a split second, barely managing to hold the notebook in your suddenly weak hands.

Am I delusional, or does he really sound... jealous?

"Excuse me?"

"Carnes," Bateman spat out your boss's last name before walking around the desk to stand right next to you. "What kind of relationship do you two have?" Rolling your eyes, you wanted to get back to what you were doing, but then Patrick suddenly grabbed your hand—you almost shrieked—and pulled you closer right against his buffed form. "Tell me!"

"Just business," you blurted out, but didn't try to break free, afraid that people outside the office might hear you. "Why do you even ask?"

The man didn't answer—instead, he quickly moved one of his hands from your waist to your neck, grabbing it in the most unexpected way—Bateman's eyes were like two big pools of black gold. For a fleeting second, time seemed to stand still and all surrounding sounds ceased to exist. There was only the two of you and your wildly beating hearts.

"Look at you," he hissed into your face, scorching it with his hot breath. "That skirt can barely cover your ass! When did you start wearing such slutty clothes?"

This was already too much.

In desperation, you tried to push him back with both hands, forgetting the notebook that fell on your desk with a thud. "Let me go...that's not...a turn-on for me!"

"Oh, really, honey?" Patrick spat out the words, his grip getting tighter and tighter around your throat, sending a chill of horror down your spine. "Did that bastard tell you to dress up like that?!"

"N-no," you managed to plead, your voice hoarse from lack of oxygen. "Stop it!"

Just when you thought he was about to strangle you, there was a barely perceptible commotion from behind the door, and the next second someone opened it, literally saving you as Bateman had to let go of your neck and stand back as nothing happened. The unexpected intruder turned out to be a middle-aged man who looked extremely rich, judging by the number of seal rings he wore on almost every finger.

"Bateman, is that you?" The stranger croaked, his lips curled into a cocky smile. "Looks like our old friend Harold is having a busy day."

Seizing the moment, you quickly straightened your skirt and blouse, which looked a bit disheveled after the unplanned encounter with Patrick, then grabbed the notebook and almost ran to the other side of the room while two men were busy talking to each other. You were so scared that Bateman would chase you, even as you left the office, on your shaky legs that threatened to give way. Panting, you didn't even look where you were going, because you were so panicked about lying to Patrick, and you hated that. But how could you tell him that his lawyer really told all the women around him to wear skirts and high heels?

As if he didn't say the same thing to his secretary.

You cringed at your own thoughts as you walked down the hallway, ignoring the staring eyes of your co-workers and unfamiliar clients—you wanted to escape this place the day you started working here, but now that desire had taken on a new dimension. And then the worst thing happened—your boss walked right up to you, smoking a cigar and holding his briefcase. And of course, he spotted you faster than you could actually change your route.

Damn it!

#american psycho #patrick bateman x reader #patrick bateman imagine #patrick bateman #patrick bateman x female reader #patrick bateman x you #slasher x reader #slashers x reader #slasher x you #slasher smut #patrick bateman smut #patrick bateman headcanon #christian bale smut #christian bale x reader #patrick bateman reader #christian bale #patrick bateman imagines

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hungharrington · 1 year ago

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i’m almost 22 and have never even kissed a boy (which i’m chronically insecure about). it’s made me feel very nervous regarding intimacy or “doing it wrong”. i feel like steve would be great coach and reassure the reader it’s okay and that they’re doing great. nothing to embarrassed about. (my soul needs this so bad)

hi honey !! i think you r so right & steve would be the perfect guy to give all the assurances <3 i hope u know that kisses don’t matter too much til they’re with someone you’re rlly sweet on so i wouldn’t sweat it angel x this one is sfw! wowzer!

You’re on your couch and in Steve’s lap and worried about just about everything.

Steve’s being sweet about it, his hands resting gently on either side of your waist, his thumbs swiping up and down to comfort you. He’s watching you closely, unaware he’s just taken your first, second, and third ever kisses. How could he know? you think, on the side of insecurity— it seems everybody else your age has already kissed someone.

“You okay?” He asks, hazel eyes tracing over the soft features of your face. He loves your nose and the shape of your bottom lip— strange things to like perhaps, but Steve doesn’t care.

You nod but don’t say anything. The motion is a bit jerky. Your hands are planted on his shoulders, holding them probably a bit too tight. Exhaling a breath, you nod again and pretend the fondness in his gaze isn’t making you shy.

“Yeah,” you finally speak, voice smaller than you intend. “Just- just wanna like—“ you swallow, eyes darting to the ceiling for a moment, if only to avoid his intense eyes. “I wanna get this right.”

A car engine drones by outside in the dusky evening. Steve gives a little chuckle and his hands on your waist tug forward, pulling your attention down and your body an inch closer to his. It’s warm— every part of him is glowing warm.

“I don’t think there’s any way you can get this wrong,” He admits, awfully sincere about it.

It’s the truth. Steve likes you a lot. You could probably bite his lip too hard and make it bleed and he’d still find it pleasant. You have that effect on him.

You don’t know that though. So, every stress seems very, very real. Are you kissing firm enough? Too firm? God, are your lips too dry?

Your tongue flicks out to wet them, your hands giving his shoulders a nervous, minuscule squeeze. In your chest, your heart is torn between rabbiting in its anxiety or shrivelling in insecurity.

“I mean,” you laugh a little, if only to cover your embarrassment. You duck your head to avoid his face, murmuring, “If there is, I’m sure I’ll find it. I haven’t, uh, exactly done this… too much.”

“That’s fine,” Steve says instantly. His warm, large hands give a tender squish on your waist, before sliding up and around to curl snugly around your body. He sits up a little straighter, his nose nudging against yours.

“No, Steve,” you say, cheeks a touch heated. You count his eyelashes so you can avoid his eyes, you voice dropping volume towards the end of your sentence. “I mean, like… like ever.”

Surprise flashes in his eyes for only a moment. His gaze darts down to your lips quickly but then he’s smiling, nudging closer, and stealing a quick kiss off your lips. Now he’s taken your fourth kiss too.

You flush, something warm pinging its way up your spine.

“That’s okay,” He murmurs, sounding like he really means it.

“It is?”

“It’s great. You’re great.” He kisses you again—your fifth— so sweet it tastes like sugar on your lips, his arms around you pulling you in closer. You drown in it, enamoured by how it feels to have his lips against yours. God, he makes you dizzy.

Steve breaks the kiss but stays close, his arms pulling you closer still so you’re straddling him properly. He’s warm, so warm— and so freakin’ nice to you.

“You don’t find it weird?” You can’t help but whisper. Your eyes crush closed, unable to face him.

“Weird?” Steve echoes. “Are you kidding me? It’ll take more than that to freak me out.”

One of his hands shifts up, moving up off your waist to cradle your jaw gently in his large palm. He peppers a string of kisses along your cheek and jaw, beginning to suck a sweet spot beneath your ear. Your hips shift before you realising, subtly grinding down into his. Flames begin to burn in your stomach.

“It’s—I mean it’s kind of, like, a little embarrassing, don’t you think?” You continue, voice a little breathier than before. You’re not sure what you’re trying to convince of him of— you certainly don’t want him to stop.

Steve’s lips brush over the barely forming bruise on your skin and your breath hitches.

“Are you feeling embarrassed?”

One slow kiss against your neck, his plush lips accompanied by the heat of his tongue. You squirm in his lap but don’t answer, fearful of being too truthful. You are and you aren’t. He isn’t making you embarrassed but you are, just a little.

Your silence makes Steve pause, digging his face out of your neck to meet your eyes. “Hey. You shouldn’t be embarrassed- if you are for some other reason, we can— we can like stop—“

“No.” You cut in, God, now you’re seriously giving him the wrong idea. “No, oh my god, I sound so stupid- it’s not you— Steve—“

He cuts you off with another kiss, your sixth, and steals your runaway thoughts. It blissfully chases away your nerves for just a moment.

“Great.” He smiles against your mouth, giving another squeeze of your waist. “Cos you don’t need to be.” He kisses your mouth again, seven. “All you need to be is enjoying yourself, okay?

You like the sound of that— adore the way he’s so seamlessly finds the thing that sets your nerves alight and soothes it so easily. You whisper back, “Okay,” and gift him your eighth kiss, sweet and fierce.

#ehehehe loverboy steve! he’s here!#🫶🫶🫶 hope this is ok nonnie #sincerely i KNOW it feels balls to not have done it but genuinely like all in its own time!#when u do kiss ur lucky person they will count themselves lucky for getting such a vulnerable & raw piece of urself #u only don��t know how to kiss once !#i wouldn’t worry and it’s certainly nothing to be insecure about 🫶 mwah ily #steve harrington #jay writes #steve x reader #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fluff #steve x you #steve harrington x you

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dixons-sunshine · 1 year ago

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The Importance Of Secret Keeping | Daryl Dixon x Fem! Reader

Summary: When Rick brought in the former Woodbury residents, Daryl tried to stay away from them. However, a little girl had made him her unofficial best friend, and she revealed some pretty interesting things to him about you.

Genre: Fluff.

Era: Prison, pre season 4.

Warnings: Swearing.

Word count: 1.3k.

A/n: This isn't the best because I couldn't really focus while writing this, but I wanted to get this done. I hope you like this nonetheless!

“Daryl, are you a tree?” Hazel asked innocently, skipping alongside the archer who had just returned from his run.

Daryl raised his eyebrows in surprise at the six year old's question. He sent a nod in Rick's direction, before extending his hand to the little girl to help her bound up the stairs that lead to the cell blocks.

“No, I ain't a tree,” Daryl replied to Hazel's question, pushing open the door that lead into the cell blocks.

“I didn't think so,” Hazel responded instantly, using her hand that held Daryl's to swing their arms in a childlike manner.

Daryl's lips twitched up into a small smile at the girl's antics, allowing her to swing his arm as they walked. “Then why'd ya ask, kiddo?”

“Because Mama said you have arms like tree trunks,” Hazel replied, before giggling and shaking her head. “Silly Mama. She thinks you're a tree. You should tell her you're not.”

Daryl's eyes widened in shock at Hazel's confession. He stopped in his tracks and withdrew his hand from the small girl's grip, making her turn around and look at Daryl in confusion.

“Daryl?”

“Yer mama really said tha'?” the archer questioned in surprise.

“Yeah! Mama says a lot of things about you. She talks about you with Michonne all the time,” Hazel happily told him. “Her thinking you're a tree is silly, though.”

Daryl hummed in acknowledgement, willing the blush spreading across his face to go away. He started walking again and Hazel bounded next to him. “Wha' else does yer mama say 'bout me?”

“She says you have a cute butt,” Hazel began, before making an over exaggerated disgusted face. “Butts are gross.”

“Yeah, butts are gross,” Daryl chuckled, leading the six year old into the cellblock and up into his own cell. “Dun' know why yer mama would think mine s'cute.” He allowed Hazel to rush into his cell, her attention instantly going to the boardgame they had been playing the day before.

“Are you going to be my new daddy, Daryl?” Hazel asked suddenly, eliciting a confused scoff from the man.

“Why ya askin' tha'?” he inquired, sitting down on his bed. He toed off his boots and grabbed some jerky he had made, before flopping down onto his back, the thin mattress offering some form of relief for the tired archer. He began chewing on the dry meat, turning his attention back to the young girl.

Hazel climbed onto the bed, making herself comfortable by his feet. “Because Mama said that you have daddy vibes.”

That caught Daryl off guard. He choked on the jerky, his airway cut off. He sat up and hit himself against his chest, soon successfully ridding his airway of the thing that almost killed him. He looked at Hazel in shock, the little girl looking back at him in confusion.

Catching his breath, Daryl shook his head at Hazel. “Nah, I ain't gon' be yer new daddy. Yer mama must've been talkin' 'bout someone else.”

Hazel shook her head in disagreement. “No, Mama was talking about you, Daryl. She said your name when she said that.”

Daryl looked at Hazel in shock and slowly nodded. He had a hard time believing that you, the no-nonsense lady who was one of the very few Woodbury residents who actually knew how to handle herself against the dead, had taken an interest like that in him. There was no way that the woman he had taken an unexpected liking to, a liking that had soon morphed into something that wasn't platonic, liked him like that. He just couldn't believe it.

“Mama also said she'd look better in your shirt,” Hazel said, interrupting his train of thought.

Daryl inhaled sharply. He thought about her words for a moment before nodding to himself, picturing you in his shirt. “Yeah, she would,” he mumbled to himself.

“What?” Hazel asked, tilting her head in confusion.

Daryl quickly shook his head. “Nothin'. S'nothin'.”

As if appearing out of thin air, you showed up at his cell, quietly knocking on the doorframe. Hazel's attention shifted towards the door and she quickly clambered off the bed. She excitedly sprinted towards you and you caught her in a big hug, placing a small kiss on top of her head.

“Hey, Baby,” you greeted her, looking up at Daryl and sending him a shy smile. “Hey, Daryl.”

Daryl, now cursed with knowledge about what you thought of him, could feel his cheeks heating up. He sent you a small nod. “Hey.”

You looked down at your daughter again, about to usher her out of the cell with you, but she saw someone walking outside, and she wiggled herself out of your arms to run to that person. “Michonne!”

“Hazel!” you called out to her, peeping out of the cell just in time to see Michonne embrace the girl in a hug.

Michonne looked up at you and waved you off. “I got her. I'll get her settled down for the night. You say goodnight to your crush.”

You ducked your head in embarrassment and sent her a crude gesture with your middle finger, eliciting a laugh from her. “Fuck you, Michonne,” you mouthed to her, watching her leave with Hazel.

Shaking your head, you turned back around and almost ran into the archer. Daryl steadied you, and you could feel the heat seeping from his hands to your arms.

“Ya alrigh'?” he asked you, his blue eyes gazing deeply into yours.

You nodded, your breath leaving you due to the close proximity you had with the man. “I'm good,” you whispered in confirmation, your heart speeding up.

Daryl, overcome by a rare sense of confidence, hummed and smirked slightly. “Ya sure? My tree trunk arms didn't chaffe yer shirt or anythin'?”

Your eyes widened in surprise, and you took a step back. “What?”

“Ya need my shirt instead? I bet ya will look better in it than any of yer own shirts.”

Realization dawned on you. “Hazel—”

“Yeah,” Daryl cut you off, smiling slightly at the way your eyes widened. “Said ya think my butt looks real cute, too. She said other things too, but m'not gon' embarrass ya any more.”

“God, she really exposed me, huh?” you laughed shyly, ducking your head to avoid the archer's eyes.

Daryl moved forward and cupped your chin, lifting your head to look at him. The air between the two of you shifted, an unexplainable electricity forming. His eyes flickered between your eyes and your lips, silently asking for permission.

However, before anything could happen, Hazel came bounding into Daryl's cell again, Michonne hot on her tail. Daryl quickly pulled away and took a step back, and you straightened yourself.

Michonne looked between you and Daryl with a knowing smirk. Daryl blushed and ducked his head, while you pursed your lips and sent her a warning glare. “Don't even think about it,” you mouthed to her, moving away from Daryl to pick up your daughter. “What are you doing here, Baby? I thought auntie Michonne was putting you to bed.”

“I want you to do it, Mama,” Hazel explained, lowering her head to rest on your shoulder. She waved at Daryl, giggling into your shoulder. “Goodnight, Daryl.”

“Nigh',” Daryl greeted her, sharing a shy nod with you. “I'll, uh, see ya tomorrow, righ'?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, casting your eyes away from him. “Goodnight, Daryl.”

With that, you turned and walked out of the cell with Michonne, leaving Daryl alone in his cell. The archer, confused by everything that happened, sat himself down on the bed. However, he chuckled to himself when he heard your voice from down the hall.

“Hazel, how about for tonight's bedtime story, I teach you about the importance of keeping secrets?”

Yeah, Daryl thought, Hazel definitely wasn't lying. And he took that as an invitation to finally confess to you.

Which he did, that very next day, while you were on watch duty.

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olenvasynyt · 11 months ago

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Random Eris Vanserra headcanons!

Has insomnia. He thinks it runs in the family because Lucien also has the same problem.

Gets chronic migraines. Gets bad after smoking, drinking (but he still drinks) inhaling too much smoke (so bad for being the Autumn Court), and winnowing.

Snores, but only after he drinks a lot. His brothers used to put noise-canceling wards around his room after parties.

Was a virgin for a long time (maybe until he was in his 30s? but I also still don't know how the High Fae age). Claimed he was "focusing on his studies" but he was actually just anxious and suppressing gay thoughts.

Loves music: he learned to play the piano and the harp. He rarely plays either now due to being too busy

Has been taking dance lessons since he was little as another way to train his body for melee and sword training. Good for balance, foot work, strengthing muscles, and posture. Also another way for him to enjoy music and to enjoy the political intrigue of the court

Has a very high spice tolerance (I feel like you have to as a fire-wielder in Autumn lmao)

Keeps a diary and uses it for everything: jotting down notes, memories, etc. Writes it in the ancient High fae language

Grew up with a friend who had daemati powers, and the friend trained him how to shut his mind and resist daemati intruders

Loves to wear jewelry. Has a huge collection of rings, and he usually wears at least three rings on each hand.

Eris makes premium rabbit jerky for his dogs by hunting and drying the rabbit himself, and always keeps a bag of it on hand. Makes use of the entire rabbit by giving the scraps to his dogs and gives the pelt to the Forest House seamstress. He commissioned a rabbit fur coat for his mother, along with a matching hat and gloves.

He carries his sword around with him at all times. At night, he keeps it above his bed.

Has a secret cabin to get away from the Forest House (I swear every Eris stan I've talked to has this headcanon)

Beron berates anyone who lets dogs into Forest House bed chambers because "dogs aren't allowed to sleep in beds", so Eris keeps all of his hounds in the kennels but lets all of them go wild and cuddle pile in the bed at the secret cabin

#It was really hard to not include sad headcanons #I have a lot of sad headcanons #eris vanserra #pro eris vanserra #eris headcanons #autumn court #beron vanserra

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naffeclipse · 11 months ago

Text

Desert Light

Cryptid Sightings/Signs of Life Crossover

Commission Info

My dear friend @jackofallrabbits commissioned me for a darling little crossover of Cryptid Sightings and their fic, Signs of Life, with @maudiemoods's permission, of course. If you haven't read Signs of Life, you really should and you can find it right here! I had so much fun writing both the cryptid hunter and the scientist interacting, and both monster boys are delightful here! I hope you enjoy <3

———

At nightfall, the desert is dipped in inky blues under a starry sky spilling over the entire expansion over your head. You forget how big the desert feels without trees or mountains to cut into its horizon as if the very heavens are staring down at you with twinkling eyes. The dry ground becomes darkness littered with muted sagebrush. The road is cracked and sunbleached, rocking your dark green truck and airstream. Along the lonely stretch of road, a convenience store with fluorescent lights cuts through emptiness like an oasis of gasoline, candy bars, and potato chips.

Moon hunches low in the passenger seat. Pale eyes gaze at you through the dimness within the truck's cabin. Patches along his nightcap catch on stray starlight, winking on the stitches you sewed by hand.

“It’s late,” he rasps in a low voice.

“I know, sweetie,” you sigh and rub your eyes while keeping one hand on the wheel. “We’re almost there.”

“You’re tired.” His hand strays across the seat to rest on your leg. His cool digits jolt you gently back to alertness.

“It’s only half an hour more,” you give ruefully. “Let’s stop here. I’ll grab a soda then we’ll be on our way.”

He grumbles, vibrating his animatronic vessel with displeasure. A word against caffeine is surely on his tongue, but the jostling from pulling the truck and airstream onto the cracked pavement underneath the almost neon-white light of the gas pumps cuts him short.

The desert hosts paranormal encounters ranging from the chupacabra to aliens. The latter is why you ventured here. Without F.E.I. providing you exact intel and evidence, it’s up to you to conduct your research and discover possible sightings but what you’ve unearthed so far has been solid.

This one in particular speaks of an alien. A towering but thin, long-limbed being spotted around a motel just as remote and lonely as this convenience store. You throw the truck in park and hop out. A lone car is parked alongside the building and another is parked further away, as if trying to hide away from the lights.

Soundlessly behind you, despite the bells tied around his wrists with ribbons, Moon appears like a metallic shadow. Hopefully, the convenience store attendant isn’t against animatronics in their store. He tilts his head for a moment towards the outermost vehicle, his pale optics narrowing before he follows after you.

If he sensed a heartbeat hiding in the darkness, he would have told you.

You pull open the door with a quiet jingle announcing your entrance. A small sign, old and worn, on the checkout counter promises the attendant will be back in a few. You deflate slightly. You had hoped to ask someone in this area about the sightings.

“There’s someone here,” Moon murmurs close to your ear like a breath from a ghost.

Quiet footsteps echo back beside the fridge section of drinks, concealed by shelves of beef jerky, peanut butter cookies, and chocolate bars. Curious, you strive forward. You might still have a chance to speak to the lone employee who may be restocking the cases of beer or soda, but when you round the corner with a cool presence at your back, you stop still.

A person straightens, clutching a few water bottles to their chest, their eyes immediately landing on you, framed in glasses. You look down to the hoodie they wear: dark fabric with a green alien face; a charming, stereotypical depiction of extraterrestrials. Do they sell those here?

“I like your hoodie.” You smile. “Do you work here?”

The person immediately fixes their glasses and beams. “Thank you. It’s a bit too warm for this climate but it’s cute. No, I don’t work here. Is that an animatronic with you?”

You blink but turn back to allow Moon more of an audience with the curious stranger. He regards them with a coolness but no malice. You give a slow nod.

“This is my friend, Moon.”

The stranger steps closer, studying him with vim and vigor before adjusting the many water bottles in their arms. Underneath their arm, tucked into their armpit is a notebook. They lift a hand towards Moon.

“What model are you?” they ask, eager. “How long have you gone without maintenance? Your wires are exposed and your endoskeleton could use a polish.”

Moon stares. A slight twitch runs through his limbs. You step back between Moon and the stranger, your pulse jumping slightly at the spew of questions—many that have no good answers. Could they be familiar with where Eclipse found their half-burned, abandoned vessel?

You introduce yourself quickly, keeping Moon behind you and out of reach of the stranger. “What’s your name?”

They slowly lower their hand, disappointed. “Ah.” They’re silent for a moment, and you can see the gears working in their mind before decidedly saying, “You can call me Doc.”

That’s funny. Surely it must be a nickname though you have no qualms with a stranger giving you whatever moniker they please, but Moon’s hand falls to your shoulder. His digits curl slightly over your collarbone, as if in warning. Right.

“Alright. Doc,” you smile.

They smile back. “Is your animatronic—”

“I’m sorry,” you say, very apologetically but firmly, “but I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about happenings in this area.”

Doc grows still, their expression guarded. You catch their eyes flickering towards the door and then landing back on you.

“What are you referring to exactly?” they ask tentatively, almost nervously.

“There have been reports of unusual occurrences in this part of Nevada.” You wish you bought your book of cryptid information with you. If they’ve seen anything, you will need to write it down. Instead, you focus on slowly bringing them into your question. If you went around asking any person if they saw aliens right off the bat, no one would take you seriously. “Have you seen anything strange or simply unexplainable?”

“UFO sightings in Nevada are very common,” they say so bluntly, it causes you to blink. They set the water bottles down on a shelf occupied with chip bags and shift the notebook closer to their chest, holding it like a shield. “Did you know that Nevada has the highest rate of UFO sightings per capita in the U.S.?”

“I did know that,” you say, impressed that they know it as well. You lean closer in your curiosity. Do they believe in cryptids? “Have you researched such things before?”

They fix their glasses and lower their hand back to their book only to lift it again and fidget.

“Recently I have,” they admit.

A coolness radiates behind you. In the corner of your vision, Moon tilts his head. The bell on the end of his nightcap falls over his shoulder. What doesn’t he like? Surely they can’t be a rulebreaker. Moon would have reacted much less pleasantly to such a person.

They touch their glasses again, and the frames fall slightly askew on their face. “Have you heard anything about an alien?”

You brighten with the question. At last.

“Yes. That’s why I’m here,” you hold a hand to your chest, “to locate any confirmation or evidence about an alien sighting near a motel a little ways from here. Nothing has been reported as violent, but it’s most likely an incident will occur soon unless properly dealt with.”

Their hands furl and unfurl, anxiously touching their glasses, pushing them up the bridge of their nose, and shifting. Are they alright?

“Most of the time sightings of cryptids, including aliens, are just everyday objects seen from a weird angle,” they ramble slightly.

You pause, watching them. Are they afraid to tell you what they saw? You’ve encountered poor, terrified people who fear even speaking a word of what they’ve experienced will mark them as unstable and insane. Even worse, it might somehow lure the presence that frightened them in the first place back.

“Yes, that’s true,” you admit, but only half of the time. There have been a plethora of hoaxes, pranks, misunderstandings, and of course, misidentifications of objects that have been spun into debunking the cryptic world, but you carry the scars from a true encounter at the base of your thumb. “But have you witnessed anything you would consider to be unearthly?”

Do they know something they can’t seem to tell you about?

Doc shifts again. Their hand strays to the notebook they carry, and touch the well-worn spine. Is it as important to them as your cryptid book is to you?

“No,” they fidget a few times anxiously, “Is there anything I can do to help you with your animatronic? I am an engineer.”

Moon twitches behind you. Their eyes immediately fall to the movement and frown.

“Are you experiencing a malfunction?” they ask, and start to reach out again. Moon clenches your shoulder tighter.

“No, no!” You hold up your hands defensively. “That’s very generous to offer, but Moon is fine, thank you.”

They frown. Unconvinced, they continue to pry around your person to stare at the cryptid possessing a vessel. You’ve never had this problem before. So many people are put off by the strange, inexplicable presence of a demonic cryptid—a sixth sense warning of danger, but Doc heeds no such deterrents.

“He is experiencing micro spasms which may be a symptom of a conduction failure in his wires or a deeper issue within his processor.” They face Moon entirely, and he stares back unblinkingly. “When was the last time you went in for routine maintenance?”

“We don’t need maintenance,” he rasps. You cover his hand as it clenches you tighter still. A coolness swells around him and you hope Doc mistakes it for the coolness of the fridges.

Confusion twists their brow. Doc parts their lips to offer a rebuttal to a clear inconsistency with their framework and the fact of the matter, but Moon twists behind you. His grip never leaves your shoulder, his fingers digging into your collarbone as the jingle of the bell at the front of the store rings.

Then the lights flicker. A sharp fade of every light bulb overhead and even the light within the fridges drops the convenience store into darkness. Your heart tumbles in your chest. You didn’t bring your crossbow or your detector. Only a knife sits strapped to your hip, hidden by your patched, green jacket.

Your eyes flash to Doc. You take them by the arm and their expression shifts to alarm behind their glasses.

“Move,” you whisper sharply. “Stay with me and be quiet.”

“I need to leave,” they say, strangely focused, but they don’t struggle when you guide them down the row of fridges to the last column of shelves in the back of the store. They don’t understand. Something else is here. Something not of this world. You must protect them from it.

Moon follows quietly behind you, his fingers spasming as they curl like claws. His pale eyes dip into crimson, alert and vicious.

“Not a heart,” he mutters, and you glance at him. “Something else… Something strange.”

He stands between you, and your entire body clenches. A towering being begins to prowl under the flicker lights, slipping in through the door. You used to fear your dear friend placing themselves between you and the threat, but they are far more terrifying than any cryptid you have hunted.

The sharp contrast of the fluorescent light bulbs and the sudden darkness spears a sharp ache into your eyes. Carefully, you place Doc behind you, but they offer another protest again.

“Be quiet,” you murmur firmly, “It’s going to be okay.”

“Ah, you don’t understand.” Doc’s eyes fall past you, towards the frosty doors of the fridges. “He’s—”

A sharp scratch of nails cutting over glass causes your shoulders to hunch up and a grimace to twist your face. You free the knife from your hip. It is the only defense you have for you and Doc. You should have been prepared for the alien to strike here, so close to the original sighting site, now creeping in close to find more precious victims to devour.

Doc reaches out, past you.

“You have to let me pass,” they say calmly. “He wants me.”

You turn to look over your shoulder, confusion painting you in flickering lights.

“Who does?” you ask.

The glass scratching stops. You stiffen, reading your knife as Moon tenses. Creeping from the row of fridges, a figure straightens. Tall and spindly, but with an unnerving aura of strength to his long limbs, an alien stands before you. Deep red and galaxy-speckled skin coats him, and you catch a strange symbol on one of his hands, like the moon eclipsing the sun. A dark hoodie with an alien ship covers his lanky form poorly—not unlike Doc’s. A sharp crown of jutting adornments sits upon his head. A waving veil of starlight falls behind his skull.

His three eyes, bright and glinting, like a predator about to bounce, immediately find the person behind you. One eye is dark. His grin splits into a wide, hungry thing with razor-sharp teeth.

“My light,” his voice is low and dangerous, “I have been waiting for you.”

Behind you, Doc looks up at the towering, otherworldly beast, but there is no fear in their eyes.

“Stay back,” you immediately brandish your knife. Moon spreads his arm, ensuring that there is no passing him without going through him.

A dark chuckle falls from the creature.

“You dare think you can keep my light from me?” He spreads his arms, four limbs of sinew and bone, claws flashing with a desire to rip flesh from a body. “I will give you one chance to let my light go.”

Moon stands tall between him, silently gauging him like a proper opponent. Is the alien taller than your sweetie in their true form? You’re afraid he is.

“No,” you breathe, “You’re not taking them.”

A soft sound arises behind you, distress mingling with breath. Doc must be terrified of the abrupt encounter. How could they have ever known an alien would mark them as his quarry?

A snarl rips through his chest, deep and vicious. His hands grope the surrounding shelves, fitting between cookies and candy bars. His hand swipes a few basic camping supplies, spilling ropes and canisters onto the ground. He catches a stainless steel one in his lower set of hands. In effortless brutality, the alien concaves the metal before his claws pierce the container entirely, crumpling it as if it were a soda can. Your gut clenches.

“I will paint this tasteless floor in your blood,” the extraterrestrial growls, gnashing his teeth.

In response, a sharpness erupts from the sides of Moon’s chassis. Shadowy appendages, seeping black ooze over bony limbs with hands and claws of crimson, stand at the ready. You suck in a sharp breath.

“You will not touch a hair on our heart’s head,” an abysmal sound leaves the animatronic, layered and demonic.

The alien tilts his head, eyes widening at the challenge.

“My, my, and what are you? No matter, I will tear you apart.” He laughs again, echoing with chilling amusement. Dread hooks deep into your belly.

“Eclipse, it’s okay.” Doc moves underneath your arm.

Your knee-jerk reaction is fierce. You catch them by the back of their hoodie, scrunching fabric in your fist to keep them tethered close to you. They stop and look back at you. When they smile, it’s heavy. Guilt touches their edges, anchored by worry.

“Ah. I know he’s frightening, but he’s not going to hurt anyone.” They tug on their hoodie, trying to loosen your grip. ��You can let me go.”

“Yes, let them go,” the alien licks a dark tongue over his teeth, “and I might spare you all.”

“What—no, he’s…” you stumble over your tongue then stop, confused. “Do you know this cryptid?”

“Ah. Alien,” they correct you. “Yes. Eclipse would like me back now, please.”

Moon glances at Doc. Confusion pulses in his crimson gaze. The end of his nightcap falls over his shoulder.

“They’re not afraid,” he rasps. He stares down at Doc’s chest. He can sense a heartbeat, the rhythm of it, and how fast it gallops in a person’s chest.

Your lips part wordlessly.

There was a time when you believed cryptids were only monsters. Machines capable of great destruction and horror. You never dreamed a demonic cryptid would be capable of kindness and goodness, and care so much for little ones.

Your fingers slip from the fabric. Moon allows Doc to sweep underneath his arms. Their eyes fall to their shadowy limbs, and their hands shift to their notebook. Your heart clenches, caught in the camaraderie urge to take notes of your sweetie’s true form and fearing what Doc would do with such information. F.E.I. is still out there. There are other cryptid hunters.

But they stop themselves. Fixing their glasses, they quickly step back into the alien’s reach. You clench the knife tighter, afraid as four pairs of hands descend upon them.

“We need to leave quickly,” Doc says as the alien kneels and hunches lower to look over the human, combing for harm or mistreatment. “We’ve already made a mess and stayed here for too long.”

“This isn’t a mess. Yet,” the alien answers, his voice murmuring like a lover in the night. The threat is not lost on you as Moon growls a warning. The alien flashes a smug smile, all teeth, and arrogance before he concludes his checkup on Doc. “Let’s go, my light.”

Doc nervously looks back at you, almost as if they would look to say more, explain, or even ask you about Moon’s extra, shadowy arms. Instead, they weakly wave, like this is a goodbye they wish didn’t have to happen.

The alien lifts them into his arms as if they weighed as much as a feather.

“Wait,” you step closer. Two arms, one metallic and blue, one shadowy and crimson, stop you. He keeps you back from the otherworldly being. “Are you safe?”

The alien scowls at you. Doc only smiles softly.

“Yes, friend.” Their eyes linger on Moon. “You’re so impressive. I would love to know more about you.”

A ripple of what you think is jealousy takes over the alien. He turns away with a flash of teeth, and steps quickly, sweeping through the store and out the door with a sharp jingle. In moments, the alien carries the small human out into the night. You stand there, stunned.

Moon straightens. “Their heart is still steady. They feel safe with him.”

Oh.

Moon slowly faces you, two arms touching your sides and holding you close. You lean into his embrace.

“I hope they are,” you murmur. The lights stop flickering in the gas station and the stars outside shine brighter in the darkness. A car speeds away, down the desert road.

#naff's writing commissions #cryptid sightings #signs of life #cryptid!eclipse #alien!eclipse #these two y/ns are friends btw #sources: dude trust me #naff writing

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yandere-daydreams · 2 years ago

Text

Title: The Housepet.

Continuation of The Houseguest.

Written for a very lovely anonymous commissioner.

Pairing: Yandere!Kaveh x Reader x Yandere!Alhaitham (Genshin).

Word Count: 2.0k.

TW: Implied/Referenced Non-Con, Prolonged Imprisonment, Mind Break, Physical Abuse, Dehumization, Obsessive Behavior, and Delusional Thoughts.

You’d been shaking for the past two hours.

Violently enough for the tremor to be visible in your shoulders, in the jerkiness of your rare movements, but not so aggressively as to disrupt the path of the tears Kaveh would occasionally catch running down your cheeks. It’d started halfway through your tryst, while his head was still buried between the thighs he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about for weeks, and the warm bath he’d run hadn’t comforted you the way he’d hoped it would. He thought that getting you out of Alhaitham’s clothes, Alhaitham’s colors might help, but even dressed in one of his shirts, your hair pulled out of your face by one of his jewel-studded clips, you shook like a leaf caught in the morning gale. When he tried taking your collar away, hoping that it’s absence would let you (however momentarily) forget Alhaitham, you broke your silence to beg him not to, and his bleeding heart won over his better judgement. You got to keep your collar, even if the sight of it around your throat sent a bolt of discomfort straight to the pit of his stomach.

Currently, he had you on his bed, curled up in a nest of his sheets and wrapped in his arms as he tried to tempt your permanently downcast gaze back onto him. It hurt him to see you in such obvious distress, as little as you seemed to care what he thought. He could only imagine what you were like when Alhaitham had his way with you, that brute. At least Kaveh had made an effort to be gentle with you. He was sure that, behind closed doors, Alhaitham wouldn’t so much as—

Speak of the archons and they will appear. As he rubbed shallow circles into your bruised hip, Kaveh heard the door to Alhaitham’s flat creak open, a series of familiar footsteps following shortly after. There was no pretense of a search – Kaveh could’ve counted the seconds it took Alhaitham to arrive at his door, to let himself into Kaveh’s room with the same irritatingly neutral, ‘I already know this will be a waste of my time’ expression he always seemed to wear. He didn’t even attempt to knock, but Kaveh supposed that was just karma. He supposed he wouldn’t be in this mess at all if he just tread a little more carefully around Alhaitham, around you.

Despite his brazenness, Alhaitham chose to linger in the doorway, his gaze flickering from Kaveh to you to the love bites littered down the length of your neck. Kaveh was the one to break the silence, eventually. “You’re supposed to be working.”

“And you’re supposed to be paying rent.” Then, resting his shoulder against the doorframe, “I left early. I wanted to see how you two were faring.”

Kaveh scoffed. “Don’t pretend you’re clairvoyant.” Alhaitham paid him a look, and he threw his head to the side, pulling you closer. “I’m only trying to some love to someone you’ve been neglecting for months. The poor thing’s so traumatized by your company, a little affection’s rendered them nearly catatonic.”

Alhaitham let out a dry laugh, his expression remaining completely unchanged. “That is not what they look like when they’re catatonic.”

Kaveh moved to spit out something accusatory and defensive, but Alhaitham only held up a hand. When Kaveh begrudgingly went quiet, Alhaitham took a step closer, positioning himself at the foot of Kaveh’s bed. He clicked his tongue and, with only the slightest amount of hesitation, you broke away from Kaveh and crawled to your keeper, head bowed and hands pawed. You came to kneel in front of him, your gaze never rising higher than Kaveh’s sheets. “I’m sorry, I tried to…” You trailed off, clenched your eyes shut. A flower, so meek and so delicate, it couldn’t help but close its petals for fear of being burnt by the sun. ��I’m sorry.”

Alhaitham took on a look of pleased exasperation. “That won’t be necessary. You remember what I told you before I left, right?”

You nodded. “That it wouldn’t be my fault.”

“Close, but not quite.” He smiled, resting his hand on top of your head. You melted into his palm, although the sigh that slipped past your lips betrayed more relief than solace. “I said he wouldn’t be able to control himself. That’s the thing about Kaveh – no matter what I put in front of him, he’d be able to justify taking it for himself.”

Again, Kaveh tried to protest, to reiterate that he hadn’t ‘taken’ anything, but Alhaitham already going on, his hand drifting to your cheek, then your chin, tilting your head back to better take in the hickey bruised into the corner of your jaw, the evidence of Kaveh’s teeth still embedded in your shoulder. “You should’ve seen what I had to deal with a few months ago. Fighting, scratching, and such a mouth – I’m glad we found a better use for it.” A pause, a glance toward Kaveh. “I’m sure even you can admit that this is an improvement. A little training goes a far way, when you’ve got the right handler.”

He felt something sharp and heavy fall into the pit of his stomach. “It sounds like you’re talking about an animal.”

Kaveh didn’t want to be strict with you. He didn’t want to be like Alhaitham; endlessly cruel, endlessly demanding, a void where all emotions more sentimental than lukewarm indifference were eradicated with the utmost efficiency. He wanted to be soft with you, a reprieve you could run to when Alhaitham proved unyielding. He wanted to love you, if only because of how much it hurt him to see Alhaitham failing to do the same.

“It’s not completely different. Give a subject the right incentive, and it doesn’t matter whether you’re trying to tame a student or a sumpter beast. This subject just happens to do well with direct instruction. I found that out early on, after a softer approach proved ineffective.” He snapped his fingers, and as if guided by a string, you straightened your back, your formerly divided attention now focused solely on Alhaitham. “I could teach you a few of their commands, if you think you could be strict enough not to undo all of my hard work.”

But, seeing you kneel in front of Alhaitham, staring up at him like he’d hung the stars in the sky – he couldn’t help but feel his heart ache at the memory of the state you’d been in only a few minutes ago, of the trembling doll who needed to be posed by hand. At least, under the weight of Alhaitham’s commands, you were more of a house pet than a toy, more of a flower than a block of crumbling stone.

The thought alone should’ve made him feel sick.

Should’ve.

He straightened, swung his legs over the side of his mattress. He looked at you as he spoke, only letting Alhaitham take up a fraction of his peripheral. “What do you mean by ‘commands’?”

Kaveh wasn’t looking at him, but he didn’t have to be.

He could hear Alhaitham’s grin in his voice. “Come here.”

He took long seconds to push himself onto his feet, to find his way to Alhaitham’s side. With a soft hum, Alhaitham stepped back and brought a hand to Kaveh’s waist, another to his shoulder, drawing him forward until he was standing in front of you. He could see something spark in your eyes – not quite distress, but confusion. There’d been a change in the routine that you and Alhaitham had perfected, and you clearly weren’t sure how to react. To his credit, he wasn’t either.

“You already saw how to get their attention,” Alhaitham started, his hand coming to rest on your shoulder. “Names haven’t had much affect since our time with the cellar, but most verbal commands are fairly straightforward. Kneel, sit, and stand all do exactly what you’d assume, and while they usually ask for approval to speak, they’re good at responding to direct questions. Aren’t you, love?”

Kaveh watched you perk up, looking towards Alhaitham for approval. He offered a curt nod, and with a few seconds of deliberation, you managed a small “…I am.”

“See? There’s still a brain in there after all.” Alhaitham flashed that awful smile toward Kaveh. Kaveh didn’t return the gesture. “We’re making progress, but due to prior incidents—” Alhaitham’s tone didn’t change, but you flinched. “—our outdoor privileges are still restricted. Kitchen access is limited, too, until someone proves that they know how to handle knives responsibly.”

You bowed your head, a scolded dog who knew better than to pretend it hadn’t learned its lesson. Kaveh interjected before Alhaitham could forget the point of his lecture. “That’s not what I care about.”

He could practically taste the smugness radiating off of Alhaitham. “And what do you care about, Kaveh?”

“I can’t believe you’d hold this over my—”

“Answer the question,” Alhaitham cut in. “If you want to use something that belongs to me, you’re going to have to tell me what you plan to do with it.”

It felt like something was attempting to crawl up his throat, one spiny leg at a time. It felt like his chest was about to split open. “I want to be…”

His eyes met yours. For a moment, he thought he saw something other than the dull acknowledgment of an unpleasant reality, other than the fear of punishment and the anticipation of reward. Something more visceral, more conscious than what could be ingrained into you by someone else’s hands.

“I’d like to be loving with them.” He saw it for a moment and then, that visceral something fell apart and disappeared. “I’d like for them to love me. Or, to act like they do, at least.”

Alhaitham let out a breath of a laugh. It sounded like nails against porcelain. You seemed to think so too. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Your voice sounded so painstakingly delicate. If he had a little less self-control, he might’ve taken you in his arms and whisked you away, taken you somewhere Alhaitham couldn’t follow. If he was a little less selfish, he would’ve. “It wasn’t.”

If Alhaitham heard you speak out of turn, he was willing to overlook the infraction. “Use the collar. Just make sure not to pull too hard – you won’t like what that means.”

It was Kaveh’s turn to shake, now. He tried to keep his hands steady, to touch you as carefully as he had when you were alone together, but his limbs felt disconnected from his body, his mind buzzing numbly with a static haze. The material was softer than he thought it would – not quite the silk he’d taken it for, but rather, a fine velvet, soft to the touch and bound by a small, metallic ring that rested over your throat. Two fingers slipped under the thin fabric, and as if you’d only just noticed what was happening, you looked toward Alhaitham, your lips parting and—

There was a blur of movement in the corner of his eye, a resounding crack that seemed to ring in Kaveh’s ears for seconds. It took him a moment to piece together what had happened, to associate your reddened cheek with Alhaitham’s raised hand, and another to realize Alhaitham was talking, to hear something other than the sound of his own heart racing in his chest. “Do not question the orders you’re given,” he said, his tone flat, unaffected. “If you act out again, there will be consequences. Do you understand?”

There was no hesitation, no trepidation. Just a deep breath, a new slackness to your posture, and a smile terrible enough to match Alhaitham’s own. “I do. Thank you for correcting me.”

Kaveh couldn’t take it. He didn’t think, didn’t wait, didn’t give himself time to think better of being so rough with you – just took your collar in his fist and dragged you upward, forcing his mouth against yours. It was messy, clumsy, near violent. His teeth cut into your lips, your blood spreading over his tongue, but you didn’t pull away. Rather, you leaned into him, resting hands on his chest and doing your best not to jolt when he hauled you closer. He’d be gentle with you later on. He’d treat you like the delicate, precious thing you were later on.

For now, he just wanted to pretend he was telling himself the truth, when he said that.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere genshin impact #genshin impact #genshin x reader #genshin imagines #yandere genshin x reader #yandere genshin imagines #alhaitham x reader #yandere alhaitham #yandere kaveh #kaveh x reader #yanderecore #yancore

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janicekao · 2 months ago

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Pairing: Shane Walsh x reader POV: Shane has finally gotten over Lori and it's all thanks to you, his newest love interest for the past year who his world revolves around. He won't let you out of his sight and seeing you socialize with Rick and sharing a laugh, runs him absolutely red hot. Warnings: #Black!Reader #AgeGapLove #Your/Name #ZombieApocalypse #TheWalkingDead #BrainRot #Toxic #ShaneCrazyAF #CNC?? #Possessive #AngryS3x #OutsideS3x #BabyTrapping #Org@smDenial #HumiliationK1nk #S@dism #Cr3amPi3 #Roughs3x #FanFiction #MostlySmut #NotMuchPlot #18+ etc. 4078 words Wattpad link Enjoy my babies<3 ---------------------

"Did you eat?" Always lurking close by, Shane makes sure none of the group members were greedy enough to get seconds of the scarce food before you had gotten first.

You nod, still chewing on lasting remnants of beef from Hershel's cow that was slaughtered and salted last week— the meat still somehow manages to feed the large group of people who are now living on his farm.

"Good, still hungry?" He offers the food right from off of his own plate. One thing Shane will always do, is make sure that you need or want for nothing at all.

"No baby." You smile, natural blush from Georgia's heatwave making your gorgeous melanin glow a bit more than usual. "I'm okay."

You accept his possessive caress, fingers gracing your neck and collarbone as you sweetly squeeze his wrist. "I'll be back, gonna skin some squirrels with Daryl and hang 'em out to dry."

Your face scrunches up in disgust.

"That's alright." Shane chuckles.

"Act like that now but don't be coming for my stash of squirrel jerky when it's midnight and you're looking for a snack."

"The only midnight snack I'll be looking for is you." Always so quick on your feet, you love to watch the brawny man crack into a flushing grin.

"Come're." He commands, "gimme a kiss."

You do, standing from the porch's rocking chair you press your hands to Shane's strong shoulders as you're pulled in closely to him with a callused grip on your ass, feeling every bit of his touch through a short sundress that is made out of the same material as a handkerchief.

You can taste the pride on his silky lips, he enjoys feeling the thickness of your body never slimming in his favorite places during these recent times where sustenance is more than scarce, it means that he's doing his job— proud of himself for being the best provider he can be for you.

You finish your dinner, waving to Shane as he throws his hunting gear over his back, heading into the woods with Darryl as you place your plate in the wash bucket.

As the evening's setting sun still continues to beat down on the farmhouse, you look for something to quench your thirst. You become enticed by the cold condensation dripping down a fresh pitcher of lemonade, kindly brought out to you all by the courtesy of Hershel's daughters, Maggie and Beth. You fold your legs neatly inside the picnic table and pour yourself a nice tall glass of the refreshment. You're met at the table by an overheated Rick Grimes who is having the very same idea of cooling down. Conversation between the two of you is little to none, a few laughs here and there as Rick jokes about the heatwave and dreading to make a supply-run in this treacherous heat tomorrow, but as you sit there, you are unaware to the wind blowing your dress in a way that exposes just the color of your pink panties every now and again. Although the simple mistake goes unnoticed to you, as Shane looks back at the porch once more, he takes an immediate double-take, noticing the unveiling gusts of wind and Rick's slithering gaze that catches a glimpse of your unmentionables each time that he can.

Rage fills him. His body temp now nearly double the scorching degree of Georgia's heat index. Shane drops his backpack and his stride becomes long furious steps back to the house, climbing the porch's four steps in just one big leap. "Get up." His southern drawl deepens when he is angered and suddenly you feel it rain down on you.

His body casts a shadow over you and suddenly you look up wondering where the sun went. Moving far too slow for his liking, Shane's thick grip grabs hold of your bicep, paining your thin muscle as he hauls you up by the arm, spilling your lemonade, and taking you away in front of everyone "Ow Shane! What are you doing?"

The flopping of your sandals don't even make sound as you're taken down the steps, he pulls you so hard you're not even sure if your feet even touched the steps.

At least ten pairs of eyes drill holes into you. You haven't felt this much embarrassment since being scolded by a teacher in grade school. Tears well into your eyes as Shane pulls you far from the house, you're heading for the campground where your tent is to be disciplined, but you yank away from the pain of his grasp before he can take you there.

His eyes widen in disbelief, now misbehaving twice in a row, Shane hasn't the time or patience to take you in further. "Move." He nudges you with a fierce poke towards the closest thing, the tractor shed. "MOVE!"

Finding silence and privacy in the tractor shed, your chest rises with shattered angry breaths, keeping yourself from crashing out or crying.

His stare is uninterrupted without a blink, muscles pulsing as his unbuttoned blue shirt darkens in sweat. Shane has been chewing gum to help him quit cigarettes, but you stress him out to the point of wishing he had a smoke on him every damn day. "You sweet on him now?"

Who? Rick Grimes?

"No!" You scoff, you would never. Shane had just started opening up to you, and you finally learned all that transpired between him and Rick's wife Lori while Rick was thought to be dead. You could see how much it all had hurt him, now being able to see the relaxed-content in his eyes knowing that he had you.

"Then is he sweet on you?" His voice raises and you refuse it. "Shane, no."

He paces, unintentionally kicking dirt up underneath his boots.

"You're mine, say it." He'd be able to hear it in your voice if you were lying, you'd better say it like you mean it.

"Not when you're acting like that I'm not!" You don't even realize what you've said or why you said it, just still so embarrassed that everyone in the group seen you pulled away like a child.

He darts towards you with a stern finger in your face, your feet almost travel backwards but you'd hate to give him the satisfaction of knowing that you're startled. "Let me tell you somethin, you're mine when I'm mad, happy, or sad. You're mine and I don't give a fuck which way I'm acting!"

The disobedient roll to your eyes and crossed arms across your chest sends him into an immediate disarray.

Shane quickly lifts the front of your dress, driving his rough hand into your panties as he cups your sex. You release a surprised gasp and struggle at his forearm to retrieve his uninvited touch. The struggle only strengthens his hold on you, fingers now prying through the lips of your cunt and weakening your already pathetic fight even more. "I knew it, pussy wetter than a Louisiana swamp, wanting me angry on purpose. And you do it by talking with Rick? RICK OUT OF ALL PEOPLE?"

You weren't purposely aroused, but you have been ovulating, even the sound of Shane's breathing recently could turn you on. "He only joked about the weather!" You struggle to convince your deranged boyfriend of what really happened. "Rick— he just wanted to know if we needed anything on the next run!"

"THEN I'D GET IT FOR YOU!" His jaw ticks in jealousy of even hearing Rick's name pour off of your tongue. Shane's mind trails off and repeats himself, "I'd get it, for you." His ferocity comes back at full force. "Damn it, what did I say about Rick?"

"I don't— I don't know." Unfocused to his belligerent yelling, your hold on his wrist becomes more of a crutch to steady your grinding than to force him away.

"REPEAT IT Y/N." He bellows.

"He's a snake." Your eyes are half-lidded and full of lust as you say your lines as if they were memorized and practiced, still bucking your hips into the bed of his palm. "He's a snake in a sheriff's hat."

Shane emphasizes each profane word as he repeats it back to you. "He's a FUCKING snake in a FUCKING sheriff's hat, that's right, good girl."

So much of your nectar begins to prune his hand, enough slickness that he could install a tap in you. "Damn, baby. You're already like this so early in the evening?"

You cringe, face flushed in shame, and soaking his fingers even more from your body's response to an intimate touch.

"Lemme ask you somethin. You know what else is mine?" He spits out his gum. "This needy twat between your legs."

"It is, it is." You agree with haste as the petting becomes skilled circular rubbing.

"Yeah?" Shane taunts with a lifted smirk. "And what does she want right now?"

Your eyes glue to his heavy bottom lip, it glistens with spit from the way he licks it to tempt you. What you want is for him to be the munch you know he can be. You want to shut him and his jealousy up with the glide of your pussy across his face. "She wants to be kissed."

"Oh? Of course you would want some fucking head." His chuckle is belittling. "And why would I reward you for being such a fucking tease to every man around?" Pressure is taken from your sex as his fingers retreat from a full hand to gentle fingertips strumming against your clit.

Your knees buckle as the feeling sets a moan free from your lips, "Shane, I'll fall."

"So fall." He notices a slightly shattered mirror pressed against the raggedy old wood of the shed, its dusty reflection captures every second of your interaction. "Fall so I can fuck you right here into this dirt." Shane snatches the front of your dress, tearing the fabric from your body as if it were made of paper.

"My dress!" You notice the reflection too, watching your tits bounce out of the torn sundress, and now wondering how you'll make it out of this shed without the others seeing you a naked-tattered mess.

"Yeahhh, it's ripped now honey." Shane's voice holds no remorse and his movements don't stutter once as his fingers skillfully pry open his belt and the zipper of his pants. "Bout to be covered in cum too."

Pressing against you with his thick weight is enough to make your wobbling legs fail. You fall to the ground, skinning your knees as you land on them and the palms of your hands.

Your back is arched, humiliated and whining as you feel every bit of your privacy spread the further you arch. Your eyes widen as the feeling of cold metal lays against the flesh of your hot cunt. Whatever it is, the steel is in your panties... You jolt in fear as the steel slits the cotton bridge of your panties into two and leaving you wide open to his gaze. It's Shane's hunting knife, you recognize it now that the tip of the blade eases down your bare thigh and hits the dirt beside you. He doesn't threaten you with it, but he lets you know that it's there. "You're gonna take me— take every fucking inch." You would've thought that he would need a few pumps in his fist to get him started, but the heat of his swollen cockhead against the brim of your cunt shows that all the manhandling he's put on you has had him hard for a while now. The one inch that breaches your entry quickly becomes eight with a sturdy upward thrust.

The wind is knocked out of you, the sudden plow takes the stamina out of your elbows, falling face down-ass up into the tan Georgia dust. Your whole body would've collapsed if it weren't for the indented grip he has on your hips, directing your bottom half to meet his every pump as the shed reverberates the sound of your ass clapping against his steel thighs.

You catch another glimpse of the fuck through the mirror's reflection, seeing the side of your face against dirt and Shane's ferocity as he goes blow for blow with your pussy fills you with shame. The humiliation makes you cry... it also makes your pussy's grip vice-like being that shame is one of your least proudest kinks.

"That's right, watch yourself." He demands through tightly gritted teeth. "Watch how well you take it."

Shane huffs, working your body beneath him and entranced by the sight of your vulnerability and the crashing of your supple flesh against him. But, your tears get the best of him. Although he lives to hear your cries, they pain him too... A mental battle between a man who is sadistic and a lover boy at the same damn time. "Fuck, you're alright baby, let me see you."

He turns you over for deep missionary, wiping your tears with the beds of his fingertips and brushing the dust from your angelic face... Before beginning again, he pauses to take you all in. Pupils dilating on your beauty as he reminds himself that he's the luckiest man alive to see you like this. Slick and inviting, Shane hardly has to direct himself in to be pulled back into your heat.

Your pelvis spreads for the missionary sex that your body craves, your thighs are met around his waist, locking behind him at your ankles. The curve of his cock prods at the spot that seems to dot your vision, and as he comes to a slow stroke, you lose the ability to speak— mouth falling open without sound.

His thumb soothes the needy wrinkle between your brow, voice honeyed in baritoned southern charm. "I know baby, I know."

Shane continues slowly, making you feel every devastating inch drag against your walls as his 'lucky-22' chain dangles in your face. This is one reason why you chose him, he's bigger than you, older than you, stronger than you. No man your age could ever cherish your body the way that he does. He sets a brutal pace, slamming into you until your gushing cream coats his shaft and soaks the base of his cock. Each plunge is so very calculated and precise, his brown eyed-blown pupiled stare forces you to think about what you did to deserve such a brutal fuck, making you remember who you belong to until it's burnt into your cranium.

The shed is old, so broken down that the boards of the building closest to the ground have rotted and been chipped away to the point of seeing nature from inside. Shane's hand finds your mouth, silencing your moans as his heart beats out of his chest. He recognizes every shoe passing by the holes of the shed, it's the group, still worried about what they saw, they have come to check on you both. "Shit, get up, they're coming."

He pulls out, helping you to your feet and leaving you unsatisfied the moment your body feels the immense emptiness.

"I want everyone to spread out. They've been gone for a while now and we all know how pissy Shane can get. Find the girl, make sure she's alright, and let's bring her back to camp." You both should've known who would be conducting this search. Who else other than Rick Grimes has their nose in everyone's fucking business?

Shane's adrenaline kicks into overdrive, furious with Rick still running shit and making him out to be the bad guy, the last thing he'll ever let happen is to let Rick Grimes be the reason him and his lady lost out on a good nut. "Nah fuck that!" He rids his shirt as his body heat makes the entire shed even hotter. "Get over here."

Wanting for more, you had never left. Shane pushes you against the tractor's grill, you hiss as your skin is met with the hot smoldering metal of the appliance, Shane lifts you, wrapping your thighs back around his hips as if you were a belt and continues to fuck you at a rhythm that is filled with nothing but rage. Held up by his strong arms with the help of being pushed against the tractor, you tightly shut your eyes and wrap your arms around his neck as you prepare for the rest of his assault.

So sensitive to now what is the third position in one fuck, it doesn't take long to feel your pressure build quickly as your cunt squeezes around him. Shane curses low and filthy as you tighten around his manhood, making his hips stutter and become sporadic as he hammers cock into you.

He feels you clench, taunting your need to climax by leaning into the sex, feeding it, fucking you harder. "You're gonna come aren't you? I shouldn't even fucking let you."

The ache of his denial burns so good, you know when he finally lets you, your squirt will be hydrant like. "Please let me—"

"Hold it." He tortures you with the withholding, still mad about what happened earlier or the search party out looking for you now. "I'll never touch you again if you don't." Shane pants a clear bluff, you know he couldn't go an hour without touching you somehow, but you are no match for his threats right now. "I said fucking hold it!"

You do, core aching as resistance is fucked out of you and the feeling of a need to pee makes your whole body weak. You gently bite into his shoulder to silence your own sobs, tasting the salt from his sweat against your tongue.

"Come."

His command sets off a hot white-burst of an orgasm through your entire pathetic existence, you cry out sounding more helpless than ever as the ecstasy that you waited so long for finally washes over you.

He's fucked you in many places before, your favorite memory being pummeled in the woods against a fallen log that scratched your soft flesh into light scars that you can still feel on the insides of your thighs to this day. But today you've found a new favorite location, being fucked so hard against Hershel's tractor that the John Deere logo is imprinted into the flesh of your ass.

You try to thank him without actually admitting to enjoying his punishment, without using your words you lean in for a kiss instead. "Don't." He stubbornly dodges it. "I don't even want to kiss you right now."

You call his bluff. "Yes you do."

...

"Alright— Come're." You were right, you're always right.

His lips find yours as Shane meets your moan with one of his own. As you add tongue into the French kiss, you whisper against his mouth all the little nothings that you know he likes to hear— that you're his, that your pussy is his, that you'll always be his good little wife.

You've always enjoyed being manhandled, letting Shane toss you around like his personal rag-doll, you never needed to do anything but look pretty and be held up... the orgasm would always come to you.

"Oh, shit—you take this dick so good baby." Your kiss eats away at his rugged exterior, weakening his stamina with romance. His curses are low and filthy as he slumps forward with finishing strokes that over-exert him. He praises. "Fucking perfect little pussy— and it's mine, it's all mine."

You nod, using the skill of your chocolate puppy-dog eyes to get whatever you want. Shane kisses your neck, bruising it with a hickie as he gives the same treatment to your tits that continue to bounce against his chin. After your climaxes you're usually numb to the sensation of your cunt, now mush in his palms, it's always best for him to chase his high when you're like this... Sure you'll be sore come morning, but as of now he can fuck you brutishly, use you as his perfect cocksleeve until he blasts off.

Watching his resistance unravel at the seams has always been a treat for you, reminding you of the power you have between your thighs. Shane's erection twitches, beginning to pulse through your core. "Yeah, Ive got something for you alright, got something to keep you behaving for good." You expect maybe a choking grip around your throat or perhaps a welting slap on the ass, but no, what he gives you is his hot shot of cum...

"Wait!" His tip is pressed against your cervix as he plants his seed in you. Shane grins as he swallows your reaction of the unexpected forced breeding, he knows it isn't what you were expecting. He knows you're stuck between a literal rock and a hard place. He smiles as he watches your panic, overwhelmed with the idea of his gorgeous young lover's breasts and belly swollen from growing his baby. He can't wait, he regrets nothing. "I know what I did. But don't you worry, I'll be here every step of the way sugar."

You cover your face with your hands wanting to sob or throw a tantrum, afraid to bring a baby in this world regardless of how many nights you and Shane fell asleep sharing the idea of it. Even if he's a perfect provider, good with kids, and a true survivor, his rage is something that has always needed to be worked on. "You fucking idiot."

He chuckles, making you gasp from another harsh pump and spew of his cum. "Yeah I know." He mocks, "but this fucking idiot is going to be your baby daddy now. We'll see how much you'll be a fucking flirt eight months pregnant with what's mine." Haters would call it trapping, and Shane would absolutely fucking agree. Known to the fact there is no birth control in the apocalyptic world, he waits until he's flaccid and out of baby-batter to pull out after filling you to your absolute brim with his seed, Ensuring a pregnant womb to come shortly after— ensuring that you won't be going absolutely anywhere without him around ever again.

He pulls out with a lewd mixture of his cum and your cream webbing between your bodies. He watches your shared mess spill down your thighs, grinning with pride about the decision he made for you both. "Put this on, come on."

His shirt is massive around your shoulders, he protects whatever's left of your virtue as much as he can as he buttons the shirt closed and tugs you out of the shed. Shane has you caught in a hand-hold of entangled fingers, nothing that you can pull out of.

Outside, you see the eyes of your friends turning towards you from shouting your name in the woods for last thirty-minutes and the search is finally called off.

"Don't look at her." Rick makes it his place to check on you and Shane both, but Shane won't have any of it. "Don't you FUCKING look at her!"

"Shane." Rick's tone of voice is belittling, still continuing to treat Shane as the deranged man that— well, he might just be...

"Don't look at her, don't talk to her, don't breathe in her fucking direction!!!!" Your lover continues to explode.

"Shane, brother, but she's part of the group!—" Rick chooses the wrong thing to say to Shane who has already punched him in the jaw before he can even finish his sentence.

They hear Shane's ex Lori. Rick's wife screams in horror as she comes to Rick's defense. Shane crumbles Rick's police uniform in the fist of his hand, pulling him into his fiery gaze as Rick still tries to recover from the punch that sent him to the ground. "Part of the group? Not anymore. Come morning, y/n, me, and the baby I just put in her are out of here."

You gulp, unsure if you want to leave knowing that moving in numbers is always safer than being out on your own— especially in a time like this where you may have conceived a child tonight.

Rick coughs, spitting up blood from his busted lip, "you wouldn't do something that stupid. You purposely got that girl pregnant? In the middle of the fucking end of the world??"

"Mad you can't take this one too?"

Lori drops her head, realizing that the comment was about her and the unsurety of who her baby girl's father actually is... Rick's jaw ticks, he becomes just as tested.

Shane continues. "Yeah I thought so you jealous son of a bitch."

Now that you realize it, you too have noticed the way that Rick stares at you...

Unhappy with his wife, unhappy with his new baby, maybe he does want everything that Shane has. Perhaps he is jealous— the kind of man who wants his cake and to eat it too.

Shane nudges you, making your feet travel towards the tents so you both can begin packing your belongings.

"You don't have to do this." Rick's sharp blue eyes are directed to you this time. "You don't have to leave with him if you don't want to, hun."

Hun?

Shane almost leaps at Rick for another altercation, but you stop him, holding him back with a gentle hand to his chiseled chest.

Although Shane can be insecure and is known to make stupid-rash decisions, one thing he's never done is steer you wrong. Since meeting him, you've never gone without his protection and he's a man who would risk his life if it meant keeping you safe from harm— and on an even heavier note, you actually do love him.

You look at Rick in a squinted stare of disgust. Now aware to his many tactics of ostracizing the people he's threatened by and persuading the ones that he wishes to follow him, you could spit at his feet in the heat of this very moment.

"Why don't we leave tonight Shane?" Your response widens Rick's eyes. Always believing that he knows everything and always knows best, what he never expected was for Shane Walsh to finally win today. "The sooner the better, right?"

...

Shane eases into his usual handsome, sly, half-assed grin, cuffing the back of your neck as he pulls you into a tongue kiss. Finally able to show off someone who is absolutely unequivocally his. "I love you woman."

You are his, and regardless of how stubborn you can be, you will always be his because it's exactly what you want to be. "I love you too."

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