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divine-donna · 11 days

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all you need is more radaway

save a horse. ride a cowboy. ;)

anyways i really loved the tv show and i love the game. and ghouls are just chef's kiss. or maybe that's because i love monsters. sad that i finished it so quickly. :(

perhaps i can put what i learned in my western class to good use lol

character: cooper howard aka. the ghoul

it's never easy surviving the wasteland. you don't know how you managed to survive for this long. perhaps because you seemed to have been blessed with incredible luck.

and building up endurance, of course.

you felt little to no side effects from the radiation of the food you were eating. which just meant you had a lot of radaway and rad-x stocked up.

to make ends meet, though, you had to start hunting. scavenging and scrapping by wasn't enough. you needed the extra caps.

thus your rivalry with another bounty hunter was born.

"well, well. aren't you far from home, sweetheart?"

you were used to comments about your outfit. a vault suit. yes, you came from one. you had been exiled after your father was revealed to be managing the experiment behind it. the child pays for the sins of the father always.

"you're not the first and you won't be the last." you pull the head off the body as clean as possible.

"now i don't know if you should do that."

"and why not?"

a bullet flies past you and burrows itself into the ground. you finally look up. a cowboy hat. the face of a ghoul. his gun pointing right at you.

but you weren't afraid.

"because he's my target." he pulls out a piece of paper. "and he's mine."

"seems unfair if i did all the work. and you just collect his head and the prize." you pull out the same piece of paper. yours is a little more worn out though. and covered in dried blood.

"that's the way of the wasteland sweetheart."

"if you believe so."

your hands were fast. two bullets lodged into his right left and when he looks up, you're gone.

of course, you learned from the best: western holotapes. you really liked them when you were growing up. claimed to want to be a lone hero.

in some ways, you were. the wasteland was just a new version of the wild west, wasn't it?

"spaghetti? like...the pasta?"

more like spaghetti western. he knew that, of course. but no one in the wasteland knew what a spaghetti western was. they were remnants of a past long gone and one only accessible by holotapes in the vaults.

"that's their name." the person says. "why? you have business with them?"

"perhaps." the ghoul was looking to return a favor.

"don't even try. they're far more formidable than you think."

"we'll see about that."

your rivalry was an exchange of bullets, more often than not. thankfully, you always stocked up on bloodbags and could make a stimpack from your heavy (but useful) travel chemistry kit. you were smart like that.

surprisingly, it became something to look forward. mostly because the ghoul preferred if he tried killing you, so he managed to get you out of a tough situation by killing the other people trying to kill you.

and you returned the favor. there was something satisfying about lodging a bullet into him again.

unfortunately, this left you two stuck on a job once. captured by raiders. you had been knocked out with a drug. and he had collapsed from...something.

"fuck." you mutter, pulling at the ropes binding you. your luck had run out for the day it seems, because your arms were tied to the ghoul's around this godforsaken pole. the metal was also uncomfortably rubbing up against your skin.

"you got a knife or anything sharp?" he looks over at you. it's rare to see him without his cowboy hat. his head was rather smooth.

you chuckle a little.

"something funny?" the ghoul asks.

"nothing. you're just...shaped like an egg."

"very funny."

"let me guess. your answer is no?"

"i don't have a knife up my sleeve, sadly. think they took it."

"shame." the ghoul shimmies something out of his own sleeve. he flicks the blade out and begins sawing at the rope. "watch your fingers."

you keep your fingers tucked in. eventually, the rope on your wrists comes undone and one arm soon after. the rest comes off and you rub your skin. "fuck these guys. always hated raiders."

"well, we both got sold out. we need to find that thing now. or else we'll be dead by sunrise." he tugs on the door of the jail cell and clicks his tongue.

"i don't have sharp objects. but i do have these." you pull out the bobby pin taped on the inside of your sleeve, alongside a mini screwdriver.

the lock wasn't very complicated, so you picked it with ease.

as you both are grabbing your equipment, you hear footsteps up above. light ones and heavier ones. and the sound of a muffled, altered, robotic voice.

the brotherhood of steel was worse than raiders, honestly.

"you go left, i go right. how does that sound?"

"i don't usually like taking orders from my rivals." he reloads his gun. "but for you? sure."

the event left the both of you soaked in the blood of your enemies. on the other hand, you guys left with plenty of loot and an idea of where your target was: dead. at the bottom of a lake.

it was a journey to get there, wherein you learned the details of each other's lives. you didn't think he was paying much attention to your sentences. after all, you came from a vault.

and yet, you saw a hint of sympathy in his eyes.

he seemed less keen on sharing details about his life, aside from his former name. cooper howard.

undeniably, as a fan of westerns, you recognized his names. from the holotapes.

"they had those?" cooper shakes his head, taking sips of water. "no way."

"yes way! it's where i learned to shoot."

"from watching my movies?"

"yes!"

"that is...a pleasant surprise." cooper leans back.

"that also makes you over 200 years old."

"that it does. something wrong with that?"

"no. the wasteland changes people." you maintain your attention to your suit, sewing a tear up. "just...you're looking for something, aren't you? everyone's always looking for something up here."

"are you looking for something?" his voice hardens and he sits up straight.

"i was. and then i found it. and i stopped." you tie the thread to seal the stitch and then tear the thread with your teeth. "i hope you find what you're looking for though."

"well, that's awfully kind of you, sweetheart."

"i have a name, you know."

"what is it?"

"(y/n)."

getting personal in the wasteland was something cooper wasn't adamant about. but the circumstances seems to call for it.

"guess we're even now."

the body of water was daunting. it was murky and dark. you pursed your lips and dumped your bag. "well. guess we have no choice."

cooper looks over at you then quickly turns around when he sees what you're doing: taking off your suit and going down to your underwear. "what are you doing?"

"i'm going to go get that head. that's how we get paid, right? easy three thousand caps. 15 hundred split evenly." you stretch.

"i think you might die."

"i'll be fine. i've done it before." Aquaperson perk.

"i can also swim, you know."

"i'll be fine cooper." you pop a rad-x pill just in case. "be back in a bit."

you dive like a swan, making minimal splash into the water. your form disappears beneath the darkness.

you're gone beneath the water for over an hour. cooper's heart was beating against his rib cage. you should be out by now. it should not be that hard. did something get you? things lurked beneath the murky waters always.

"fuck!"

he drops his equipment and begins stripping down, until he is just in his pants. he would need to dive after you. if you were dead, then so be it. it was fun while it lasted.

suddenly, you emerge. you take in the oxygen of the surface and hold the head up high. "got 'em." you swim over to the shore and walk out of the water.

there was something about how...wet you were that got him feeling hot and bothered.

"something happen down there?"

"couple of mirelurks. no big deal. which reminds me." you set the head on the ground and go back into the water. within minutes, you're pulling out the bodies of the mirelurks you had killed. "dinner."

while cutting the mirelurks open, you observe the way he walks around you. his muscles bulging a little as he cuts a mirelurk open and takes the meat. he was kind of...attractive?

"were you going to come after me?" he stops cutting hearing your question. "in the water, i mean."

"so what if i did?" cooper averts his eyes.

"that's sweet of you. i didn't know you had a soft spot for me."

"i don't."

"sure." you can tell he was lying through his teeth.

dinner was a nice, cozy meal. it was delicious. a nice surprise considering the nature of the wasteland.

cooper notices the way you're looking at him. and he looks at you the same way.

though how does this work exactly?

"do you want to..." you try to find a decent way to say this. fuck is a good term. but it felt a little vulgar in the moment.

cooper already knows what you're asking. "absolutely. if you can handle it." he smirks.

it's so cute when he smirks.

you glance over at your bag, looking at your stash of radaway. you had plenty. plus your stash of rad-x too.

"i absolutely can."

#def not my best work #fallout #fallout tv series #fallout prime #the ghoul #cooper howard #the ghoul x reader #cooper howard x reader #x reader #male reader #female reader #gender neutral reader

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theonlybreeze · 1 year

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Sometimes you just gotta let the baby be upsetti spaghetti

#I’m baby #upsetti spaghetti #shibari #sapphicshibari #sapphic rope

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nouearth · 9 months

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12 Months

peter parker x male reader.

series: 12 Months. part i.

summary: where you couldn't possibly imagine to find love and sanctuary anywhere else, you somehow find it in the presence of a boy named peter.

wc: 4.3k. genre: angst. warnings: loner!reader, sad!reader, implied abuse, implied bullying, high school senior year, slow-burn.

a/n: i'm trying something new with my writing! mostly not using all lowercase because it became a pain to type on my phone, LOL. but i welcome you guys to my fully planned series! it's exciting, but especially kind of scary since school is coming up. i might put off requests to focus on this, if it does well, but if not, i'll slowly update. i guess the reader kind of hits close to home, a little too close, since i've been feeling some type of way recently. nonetheless, i hope you enjoy the first part!

SEPTEMBER.

The big hand of the clock flicked closer to the end of the day, the small hand circling around the circumference to pass time.

Conversations of peers were usually drowned out with the help of your earbuds. The gentle strum of acoustics would counter the excitement of the students’ well-being; friends opinionated in after-school activities, athletes talked about the upcoming game with your rival school, artists boasted over the amount of commissions they’ve received overnight.

For the first time, you heard it all, and took it all in with an inhale, then silence as you stared at Peter Parker. The earbuds were slotted into your ear canals, but today, the wired nubs were worn to merely dull your surroundings as you awaited the intercom to bid the occupants of the building farewell for the day. Your leg shook, bouncing your book bag atop of it, and you held it steady when you hugged it close to your chest, chin resting at the strap. It appeased the throttle in your chest, but every time the classmate opened his mouth for a laugh, it swelled painfully larger. A pump to the husk of a balloon, a breath to the bubble of blue raspberry bubblegum, a vapor to the particles of billowed smoke, it continued swelling and roped your anxiety along for the journey. A part of you needed to talk to him, but the other part begged for reconsideration.

At some point, you forgot to breathe. Feeling blue in the cheeks, you finally exhaled the caught nerves. They drew out of you in shivers, spaghetti boiling in bubbling water if the warmth of your breath could change matter. While the man listened, then talked within his small group of friends, chairs and desks were gathered around to form a circle, you examined him cautiously. If Peter was to turn his head and meet the affection in your gaze, you were lucky to have the window by your side to turn back to, feigning interest in the clouds, the sky, the breeze in the trees. Until then, his smile unmasked pearly whites that rivaled the lights that illuminated the classroom. His russet hair was pushed back, wavy locks that were brushed simply so people could easily follow the pattern with one glance.

“Gooooood Afternoon, Midtown!” The intercom blared, and a warning from your teacher hushed your classmates into a sea of scatters. “Before we send you kiddos off, we would like to remind all of you that the Midtown Tigers will be playing against Weston’s Sea Hawks tonight! Show your support by attending the game and cheering for our team. Let’s show those dirty hawks that tonight will be the night that we can bounce back from our 18th consecutive loss!” It continued with its usual announcements of bus delays and afternoon activities before finally blaring that cathartic bell.

Footsteps crowded the halls, and your classmates joined its symphony in heavy to light strides. While you watched, your pace slowed deliberately as Peter’s friends bid him farewell. You overheard them asking him if he was going to join them in the mall, but he declined, blaming his absence on his aunt. They left one by one, until the only occupants were you, your teacher, and Peter.

“Peter?” You were up on your feet, approaching him from the back of the classroom as you slung the bag over your shoulder. Your voice cracked from the parched of your throat, mousy in performance, and you were unsure if Peter heard you. Your mouth opened again to call to him again, but he turned with a friendly smile, raising his brows in interest, and they closed.

“Oh, hey!” His face lit up when he saw you, or maybe you were convincing yourself. Not even your reflection looked at you the way Peter did. You were even surprised he recognized you. Cared to remember you. He hurriedly threw his books into his backpack before swinging it over his shoulder, meeting you in the middle of the row of desks. “What’s up?”

“I…” You’ve only spoken to him twice. The first was a mere greeting, and the second was a painful answer to his worry.

Are you okay? Yes.

The beating in your chest hiked in rhythms, compelled gravity to rob your voice, but you were conscious enough to steal it back, softly speaking. “I just want to thank you for… last year. I never got to… properly thank you. So, thank you…” You were intoxicated by the amount of times you said those appreciative words, but gratitude sobered you up, offering the latter a small, grateful smile.

“Oh…” The smile on Peter’s face simmered into a relieved line. He then nodded towards the door for you to follow him, and you did, silently by his side. “You don’t have to thank me, (M/N). I did what anyone would do.”

Everyone let it happened, except for you.

The hallway was quick to clear as students rushed to spend the remaining hours of their Friday without any regrets. The silence was deafening except for the squeak of your shoes and the whispered gossip between faculty members, and for a place you often labeled as your personal hell, it wasn’t so bad when it was purged of those that spawned that definition in your life.

Maybe you were walking slower, or you were keeping with Peter’s pace, or the hallways had undergone construction to stretch the floors, or the awkward silence between the both of you that blurred your perception, but the travel from your classroom to the exit of the building was a journey.

“Is he still bothering you? I don’t know if he’s in your other classes, but he’s not in mine, so…” Peter spoke up, alluding to the classmate who called you disgusting names, shoved your books to the floor, stole the change of your clothes during gym. And you wished it would stop there, at the actions of the cliché bully trope, but it never did. He pushed the door open, politely letting you out first, and you stepped into the warmth with a small thank you,’ and continued walking with him. Summer cicadas harmonized in their greeting.

“No, not anymore.” You lied, dropping that hand that once held onto the padded straps of your backpack to your side. The dark color of your pants masked the bruise on your wrist when you shoved it deep into your pocket. “I have him in a few of my classes, but luckily he’s preoccupied with his friends.”

“Geez, you got his friends too? That’s… gotta be a loud classroom.” He laughed, and you joined in to delude yourself, and Peter, into thinking everything was okay.

The sound of multiple engines running within the yellow busses reminded you how incredibly enamored you were with Peter. By now, motors would’ve been buried by earbuds, and the walk wouldn’t have been so deafening to your ear canals. But hearing Peter’s voice soothed the damage, and you wished you had a playlist of him saying your favorite words, reading your favorite novels, rescuing you with worried comfort. You wanted to continue the conversation, change the subject, but you never knew how, so it fell to silence. Again.

“I’ll see you around, Peter.” You spoke softly again, paused when you and Peter reached the end of the sidewalk. You were familiar with Peter’s route. He lived in the opposite side of your street, and the curved path to the right practically led him back to his apartment. All he had to do was follow the beige pavement. “…and thank you, again. It means a lot.” A genuine smile, one that you haven’t been able to sprout for weeks, months you could argue, and Peter’s breath hiked.

“Of course…” It took his breath away. The cloudy day was drawing in the last of its colors, but the rare hint of your teeth, the curve of your lips, made the sky above him, behind you, bloom in the softest blues, yellows, and whites. Selfishly, he wished you smiled more, because the release that was pulled from him evened the astonishment of a child seeing stars for the very first time.

“I’ll see you around, (M/N).”

OCTOBER.

The workload in your classes had picked up, and with the part-time job at the local bookstore, you were envious of customers who had finished their backlog of novels. Mainly working adults. Still, there was never enough hours in the day to immerse yourself in the world of a brave protagonist, slaying off demons and dragons in the pursuit of love. You never got to finish the fantasy novel you were reading, but you’d imagine it ended with the hero beheading the fire-breathing behemoth, and its head would be pridefully worn on a stick like cotton candy. Cheers erupted when the character returned, then roared when their love blessed them with one thankful kiss.

The ladder was anchored to the wooden, though creaky, floors as you held your breath from inhaling dust. When the door was pushed open by curious passersby, particles of dust sailed with the draft that was invited in, and you coughed into the crook of your arm whenever one floated into your throat. Though, you couldn’t be too annoyed. It also provided a test to see if the Halloween decorations could withstand the wind as they sat on hooks that were nailed into the ceilings. Spirals of orange and black ribbons roped cartoonish gravestones, black cats, pumpkins, skulls, ghouls, all the mascots of the holiday, from above. The draft animated them in gentle swings, delicate arcs that cooled the confined space of the bookstore, but as far as you could tell, none of them had landed on the ground.

“Looks great, (M/N)! I think we’re good on the hanging decorations!” Your manager, Anna, gave the metal ladder a strong pat before tending to the fallen dust. It shook in fear, and you did too, immediately clutching to the fly to stabilize it.

“Any else? We still haven’t decorated the windows.” You climbed down cautiously, making sure she was in your line of sight because for all you could know, she could be an omen.

“The stick on the ones I got suck, so I was thinking that we’ll decorate it on Halloween? Before opening?” She said, opening the door after to sweep out the culprits of your coughing fits.

“Sounds good.” You collapsed the extension of the ladder once you stepped off, folding it into a thicker shape, and nodded before returning the ladder to its rightful place in the storage room.

“Doing anything fun for Halloween?! Parties?!” Anna’s voice boomed despite the door muffling it. The natural luminous of her voice was something you usually cowered away from, especially when she called for you in front of customers. Luckily, the store was closed, vacant of any witnesses to the flare of your cheeks. Cardboard boxes stacked atop of one another, and for some reason, you were suddenly determined to face your procrastination head-on. “Horror movies?!”

“Uh…” The volume of your voice was still muted despite forcing yourself to make it sonorous. It came out in staggered breaths as you flattened the boxes with your weight, stepping on them at the crease and fold, until you were able to fold them into neat, flat shapes. “Not really! I usually don’t do anything for celebrations.”

“Seriously?” The sound of sweeps came closer to you. They sounded like laughs, almost as if they were mocking you. When you looked up, it was Anna’s fretted expression that reminded you that they were just sounds. No one was here to hurt you. Laugh at you.

It was just you and Anna. And sounds.

“Mm-hmm.” You simply answered, packing the flattened boxes into a trash bag before storing it back to where the stack previously harbored. The room felt bigger now. You exited after switching off the lights, and took Anna’s broom to sweep up the fuzzy stray materials of cardboard.

“How come?” Her shoulder supported her leaning stance as she pressed to the wall, watching you diligently work with crossed arms. She gasped out of realization. “Oh no—did something horrible happen on Halloween? Is that why you don’t celebrate?!”

“No, nothing like that!” You laughed. It was always genuine with her. Anna was at least twenty years older than you, but she still kept the youthfulness of a child. You were envious of it.

“I just…” Big sweeps to walnut flooring kept your mind at ease. The thick hairs brushed evenly, catching lint in the hay. They clung protectively onto the strands the more you brushed, the harder as well. It reminded you of nights, lonesome in your bed. No matter how hard you tried to remove those pesky lints, they always stayed. Always found a way to intrude. “—don’t have parties to go to.”

Nor did you have friends to watch movies with, or a willing family to celebrate with if all plans fell through. It’s been you since you can remember, and you’ve gotten used to it. Though, you’d never admit that to her.

The trail of your voice and the mindless polishing of walnut immediately foiled your discreet speech, but Anna knew better than to prod. From the day you came in for the interview, she remembered the timidness of your slouch, your pattern of speech, your orbs. One could argue that they were nerves, universal tremors one every eighteen year old got when applying for their first job. Then, she trained you. It was just you and her, and the shelves of delicate books. Over the next few weeks, Anna learned that you were as frail as the old spine of donated hardbacks.

Her knowledge of you only sank surface-deep, barely a scratch or a wound. At one point, she thought it was because of her personality: chipper as a mourning dove, loud as her neighbor’s lawnmower on Sundays, but compared to how she met you five months ago, it delighted her to see progress. Slowly but surely, you opened up to her. She knew your favorite color, your favorite meal, your favorite novel, and she was no longer insecure. There will be a time when she’d meet the root of your soul, and if it took a month, a year, or another, she’d wait.

“Everything okay at school?” She’s been meaning to ask. It was an exciting time for a new business, but incredibly stressful as well. Most never made it after six months, especially within an industry where independent bookstores have become increasingly difficult to sustain with the presence of technology. Anna was just fortunate enough to have seen such quick growth.

Anna took the broom from your hand, stashed it back in the storage room, then guided you to a table for two near the entrance of the store. It was her favorite spot because she loved seeing the wonderment of her customers when they left with the book they couldn’t find anywhere else.

“Yeah,” You quickly answered and offered her a simple smile, devoid of any purpose but to pacify her worries. It worked on your parents, and you liked to think that it worked on Anna as well. “Well, they’re doing some construction in the school gym. I heard that they’re planning to add a room for—“

“That’s great, (M/N), but…” Her arms remained crossed, below her chest, and she nodded to the bruise on your cheek. Purple bloomed high on your cheekbone. Occasionally, it throbbed whenever a draft hit your frail skin. You assumed it was its way to kiss it better, and so you would let it in seek of sating the empty feeling in your stomach. “That. I meant the bruise…”

“Oh—“ Out of instinct, your hand reached up to dab at the purpling skin. Numbed at the first layer, but you pressed deeper, and you hid a jolt with a sudden clear of your throat. “Uh… cat— got me. My mom always said to never play with strays.”

It was a lame excuse and you knew it. Anna did too. Before you could see her face scrunch into a stew of concern, you turned the bruised cheek away and looked to the heights of the sky, out the window, and wished you could fly into the night.

On Halloween, the promotion regarding a sale on donated books, though only paperbacks, if you wore a costume propelled the place to a considerable height. The small size of the store felt even smaller, even more so as Anna’s playlist Halloween music blared in the wall stereo. The sound waves and chatters of excited customers confined you, and you shrunk yourself in corners where it would be coldest. Anna took care of the crowd of patrons, while you assembled the paperbacks in a neatly order within the shelves.

Anna didn’t expect you to comply in participating in the event of Halloween, so the elation in her face was immediately framed in your mind when she hugged you tight, bruising enough to beckon the former bruise on your cheek to reappear, in your Where’s Waldo outfit. Simple, but you were a simple man.

“Excuse me?” An inquisitive voice tore your focus from arranging the novels in alphabetical order. You were kneeling to fill the lower shelf that was too low for anyone to comfortable browse through, but maintained the position as the crowd seemed to have closed in on you. “Do you know if this book qualifies for the sale, or is it paperback only?”

You looked up through your artificial glasses, and the size of your eyes matched the roundness of your frames when it embarrassingly didn’t take you very long to uncover who was under the layer of green face paint. “Peter?”

“O-oh! (M/N), you work here?” His eyes also widened, but he was sober enough to reach his hand out for you to grab onto. “That’s fitting, I guess. You always went to the library during lunch—I-I mean, not that I watch you or anything. I just— happened to notice…” The heat from your palm jumped onto Peter’s when you held on and pulled yourself to your feet. You weren’t sure what to respond to first, but the closed distance between you and Peter was distracting. A fleeting feeling in your chest, and it still overstays it welcome when you backed a step away.

Peter’s never been so close to you. He could smell the scent of ocean mist that he likened to previous shopping trips ago. His aunt may would drag him to the nearest retail store and he’d spend every second of the agonizing trip smelling laundry scent boosters while she stocked up on the pantry. He laughed to himself. You seemed like the type to use those.

“Thanks, uh…” You carefully took the hardback in your hand, examining it with several cycles of flips. It was in mint condition. Usually, a poorer state allowed an extra discount. “The sale is only for paperbacks, but…” Your eyes scanned the room. Fewer people now. Anna was still busy entertaining those that came to participate in the costume contest, a sudden endeavor to drive engagement.

“I can make an exception.” There was a swell in Peter’s heart when you gave him a smile, an uncertain small one, but nonetheless, a smile that warmed his insides. He wouldn’t have minded if he had paid full price anyhow, but he also wouldn’t reject the opportunity to save money.

He followed your steps to the back, away from the engaged crowd, and stilled as you began checking him out. “Just one book?” You looked up, and his lips were already parted as if he was about to say something, but he nodded instead.

Another moment of silence as you took his card after applying the sale to his book, and your fingers drummed to the beat of the music to fill it out, awaiting the receipt to print out. Whenever you had the courage to look at him, he was immersed in the ambiance of the bookstore. Smiling to himself, to Anna, to the laughter of the crowd, and you couldn’t help but hide one yourself, to the ground. When Peter faced you again, you quickly looked away in time, and the receipt rolled out in one smooth motion.

“How are you? Is it always this busy? I’ve never heard of this place.” Peter had a habit of stacking multiple questions with his own observations, with statements, with more questions. Rambles, people would call it. He was attentive, curious, and it all made him the more endearing.

“I’ve been doing okay. Tired, mostly. Miss Wilson’s been keeping me up though.” It was your attempt at a joke, and luckily, it landed when Peter laughed in agreement, elated as if he’d been waiting for the culprit of all-nighters to be of subject.

“Right?!” Peter shook his head when you asked if he wanted a bag, and continued, tucking the book in his armpit when you returned it to him. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. I love her—she’s awesome. But chill out on the essays! An essay about our essays is a task sent from the devil himself.”

A chuckle escaped from your lips, and a wider smile brimmed your face in support. For the first time, you felt compelled to talk, to engage into conversation. “Yeah, I missed a few deadlines, but she’s pretty lenient with late work, thankfully.”

“Really? I have a feeling it’s because it’s you! You’re probably her favorite student since you always get the right answers when she calls on you.” He laughed again to escape the awkwardness of his compliment. Subtle, but he hoped you took it pridefully.

Peter looked to the side to see if anyone was coming to conclude their purchase for the night, and was delighted to see the hardwood floor left unattended. “Are you doing anything after this? It’s Halloween, so I imagine people are probably out partying or something.”

“I’m not really a party person.” You nodded to assure yourself, mindlessly rearranging the supplies around the desk to avoid the gaze of his eyes. It sucked you in once, couldn’t look back even if you tried. It was only when Peter turned himself away that you were no longer staring into warm chestnuts. “I only dressed like this since I’d probably look a little out of place if I showed up in my usual uniform, haha.”

“You look cu—“ Peter hurriedly cut himself off, frantic before smiling again. “Nice. You look nice.”

“Thank you,” You returned his smile, soft in form. “What about you? Are you doing anything?”

“Well, I’m not a party person either—oh! There’s this new horror movie that came out a week ago! I’ve been dying to see it,” Peter sparked, gently bouncing on his toes as hope frayed within his words. “If you’re free, would you want to watch it with me?”

“Oh—“ For the first time, you had the option to say ‘yes’ or ‘no,’ and for some reason, Peter was always at the crime of your firsts. “W-what time? I’ll have to see if it’s okay with Anna if—“

“Let me see…” Light reflected off of Peter’s faced as he searched on his phone, but a buoyant smile that revealed his teeth shined brighter. “One showing at eight, another at ten, and one final one at midnight!”

“Is… midnight okay?” You hesitantly asked, and Peter brightened.

“Midnight is perfect.”

When you left from work, you didn’t bother to call for your parents. It would’ve gone to voicemail anyhow. Instead, Anna took the excited initiative to drive you to the theater despite your assurance that walking would’ve sufficed.

Nonsense! I’m getting my coat. Hold on! Stay right there!

The mystery of what held the rest of the night for you frightened you to the core. What if everything went downhill from here? What if Peter never showed up? What if this had been a prank all along? During the car ride, you breathed, and breathed, and breathed.

And then, breathed.

Inhaled.

Blew in one continuous breath.

Inhaled.

Your chest ran steady again.

That night, Peter made you feel normal. As normal as someone like you could be.

You didn’t plan on getting your fingers buttery, but Peter assured you that his popcorn wasn’t going to finish itself. You shared your sour gummies in return. Peter jumped when a ghost flew to the screen, and you did the same from his own erratic movements. You watched the film through half-closed eyes, peeking between the cracks of your greasy fingers, prepared to be startled by the sound of a door closing, and you laughed silently to yourself because it was silly when you flinched to a cat scurrying away.

While you focused, the structure of your nose and lips, your entire side profile, were handsomely illuminated by the flickers of the screen and Peter took in the animation of your presence, a behemoth contrast of the you he’d known silently for years; the you that kept to himself, ate at lunch by himself, did group projects by himself, studied in the library by himself, walked home by himself. It was pathetic, many would heckle to their circle of friends. Peter overheard the tease and taunts, and he wanted to defend you in those moments. But he couldn’t, not until he knew you.

When you felt the air thicken, you turned to Peter and his gaze unfurled the heavy cloud between the two of you until it vanished into smoke. It sucked you in; his eyes. And you stared wide-eyed, bewildered and lost in the sea of broken stars the screen illustrated in Peter’s orbs. They twinkled with every cut of the scene, sparkling under the terror of the performer’s haunting, until they no longer didn’t when he turned away.

Crimson blanched and wilted into his face, radiated even in the dark when you followed and turned back to the screen. You felt your cheeks rivaling in swatch.

For the first time, you weren’t scared.

nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. and if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!

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george-weasleys-girl · 10 months

Note

Heyy, could you write something where the reader is jealous? You can choose if you want to write about Fred or George

Thank you for your request! This is a long one. It really took on a life of its own. I hope you like it.

~•~

George x Fem Reader

~•~

George’s laughter carried across the store, bringing a smile to your face. You turned to see what had delighted him so much and immediately regretted it. Your heart plummeted, and sullen glower replaced your smile as you watched him chat with the bouncy, vapid woman who'd started coming into the shop at least once a week, making a beeline straight to George every time. She obviously had a thing for him, and from the looks of it, he was developing a thing for her.

You just couldn't understand why George would be even remotely attracted to her. Sure, she was pretty, but she was also dumb as a stump. You'd talked to her a few times and were convinced she had a maximum of two brain cells bouncing around in her skull, one of which was solely responsible for keeping her alive.

You looked back up to see George, smiling wide, enraptured by whatever nonsense she was babbling as she twirled her precious little curls around her index finger.

Wiping away the tears from your eyes, you went back to stocking the Canary Creams, slamming them down on the display, startling the elderly lady perusing the shelf next to you.

"Sorry, ma'am," you apologized. "Rough day." The woman huffed and shook her head before scurrying off to the other side of the store.

You sighed, your shoulders sagging in defeat. You knew you had no right to be jealous. George was your boss, not your boyfriend. He could flirt with whoever the hell he wants. If your heart got broken in the process, it was your own damn fault for falling for him.

~•~

George watched as you tidied up a display of Fainting Fancies. When he hired you two years ago, he was exhausted and frazzled and was looking for people who could learn the ropes quickly and help out in the newly reopened shop until Fred recovered from the spinal injury he'd gotten during the Battle of Hogwarts.

In no time, you were all but running the store, allowing him to spend more time with his twin. He was eternally grateful, but it wasn't until around six months later that he saw you as anything more than a valued employee.

At that point, Fred had started working for a couple of hours a day. But he was still fragile, and one afternoon, he lost his balance and fell. You did two things that day that endeared you to George forever. While he ran to help Fred, you somehow managed to keep both the customers and other employees away from the area, saving Fred from the embarrassment of being seen sprawled out on the floor.

Then, after spending several hours at the hospital, followed by the difficult task of getting a very stubborn and very grumpy Fred settled into bed, George wanted nothing more than to just fall flat on his face in bed, or on the couch or even the floor. All three sounded equally appealing. But he couldn't. Fred needed to eat, and he probably should, too.

He'd just decided to use magic to whip up some chicken fingers and french fries when someone knocked on the door, causing a confused look to cross his face. It couldn't be one of the employees. The shop had long since closed, and everybody had gone home. And he knew it wouldn't be his mum. Fred had made him promise not to tell the family he'd fallen. He didn't want them "worrying over nothing."

George opened up the door to find you standing there with a huge bowl of spaghetti and some freshly baked garlic bread. "Hey," you said a little shyly. "I figured you'd probably be exhausted when you got home, so I thought I'd make dinner for you and Fred. I hope you don't mind."

"Mind?" A massive smile replaced the confusion on George's face. "No, I don't mind at all, come in!" He opened the door wider. "You are an absolute angel for doing this. How did you know we were home?"

"I didn't," you replied. "But I still have the flat key you gave me, so I could check in on Fred when you got wrapped up with customers. I thought I'd just leave it on the counter with a spell cast to keep it nice and hot."

For a moment, George looked like he might cry, but then he smiled again. "Would you like to join us for dinner? Well, really me. Fred will take his dinner in bed."

"Well, I've already eaten," you said, watching his face fall. "But I can never turn down a slice of garlic bread."

"Ok, great!" He replied. "Just let me get Fred set up."

You smiled. "Shall I get him a plate together?"

"Thank you! That would be wonderful," George said as he hurried into Fred's bedroom.

That was the night George Weasley fell in love with you.

~•~

You managed to make it through the rest of the morning without breaking down. By the time your lunch break rolled around, you had reigned your emotions back under control.

You sat outside on the little patio behind the shop, nibbling on your sandwich and mulling over the situation. You'd never intended to fall in love with George. In fact, you'd never intended to work at the joke shop at all. You'd taken the job out of sheer desperation.

While at Hogwarts, you discovered you had a knack for healing, and since you didn't have a clue what you wanted to do after graduation, training as a healer seemed just as good as anything else. As it turned out, you grew to love the work, and for a while, you couldn't imagine doing anything else.

And then the war happened.

You didn't know if it was because you weren't cut out for the raw intensity of being a healer or if it was watching helplessly as people you knew and loved died all around you. Either way, the war broke you.

The very thought of continuing on as healer sent you into paralyzing panic attacks. So, you packed up and moved in with your muggle sister. For the first few months, you carried your weight by doing all the cleaning and cooking and taking on any other chores that needed doing.

It worked well for a while, but your sister didn't have a great paying job, and it soon became evident that you'd need to pitch in financially. You'd hoped to find something in the magical world, but the prospects weren't promising. Most of the business owners had taken to the hills after the return of Voldemort. And, though they were now returning, many of them barely had the means left to restart their business, never mind hiring on help.

The outlook was so bleak that you were beginning to think that working in the muggle world was your only option. Then, one morning, you spied a Help Wanted ad in the Daily Prophet. Within a week, you were working at the infamous Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes. Then, within a couple of months, you'd become George's right-hand woman, taking on the lion's share of running the shop so he could take care of Fred.

Soon after, George found out you had healing experience and started asking you for advice. Eventually, you were going upstairs to help. More often than not, it was to convince Fred to do something. Or not do something.

"He won't listen to me," George would say. "Maybe he'll listen to you."

That's when your feelings for George began to develop. During those early days, watching him care for his brother with such patience and gentleness, even when Fred was at his worst, won you over.

"I don't need your fucking help!" Fred would yell.

"I know," George would calmly say, "but the healers said you could reverse some of your progress if you try to stand on your own right now. You don't want to end up back in the hospital, do you?"

"No," Fred would huff.

"Good. Now, put your arm around my shoulders so we can get you in your wheelchair."

And now, here you were. Madly in love with a man who'd never feel the same. Who was now falling in love with someone you were certain didn't deserve him or could make him happy. You rolled your eyes. So much for keeping your emotions in check. You balled up what was left of your sandwich and hurled it into the nearby waste bin and then preceded to stomp from one end of the patio to the other, your hands balled into tight fists, until your break was over.

~•~

"Mate, I know you like her," Fred spoke as he and George finished up some paperwork in the office.

"I more than like her, Freddie, but I'm her boss for Godric's sake. I can't just start dating an employee."

"Why not?"

"What do you mean, why not?" George stared at his twin. "For one, it's unprofessional, and two, what if it doesn't work out? It would make everything weird."

Fred sighed. "You have a limited time to ask her out. She might quit or meet someone else, and then where will you be?"

George remained silent for a long while, chewing on his thumbnail. "Maybe you're right," he said finally.

"Of course I'm right," Fred smirked. "So, are you going to do it?"

"Yeah," George half-grinned. "I'm gonna ask her out."

~•~

You'd finished up with your closing duties and headed upstairs to see if George or Fred needed you to do anything else before you left.

Their office door was open, just a crack. You lifted your hand to knock when you heard Fred's cheeky voice. "Of course I'm right. So are you gonna do it?"

"Yeah," George answered. "I'm gonna ask her out."

It was if someone had punched you in the gut. George was going to ask Miss Vapid out. You clamped your mouth over your hand to cover the sob that fell from your lips unbidden and backed away from the door as quietly as possible. As soon as you were out of earshot, you turned and fled the shop.

~•~

"Did she just leave?" George made one more turn around the store. "Without saying anything?"

"That's not like her," Fred said.

"No. It isn't," George raked his fingers through his hair. "I hope everything's alright."

~•~

You barely slept that night, and when you did, your dreams were plagued with images of George laughing with his soon to be girlfriend, holding her hand, kissing her. You'd wake up in tears, followed by another hour of tossing and turning, before dozing back off and starting the whole vicious cycle over again.

When the sun finally crested the horizon, you drug yourself out of bed and headed to the kitchen. Luckily, today was your day off, and you fully intended to start it off right. With a glass of wine or two or maybe ten. You were exhausted, sore, and heartsick, and you just didn't want to feel anymore.

You'd just finished off your second glass when someone knocked on the door. You rolled your eyes. Who the hell is here, ruining my perfectly good pity party at... you looked down at your watch, the fucking ass-crack of dawn?

~•~

George spent the night pacing from one end of the apartment to the other.

Why would you just leave like that?

Were you feeling ill?

Or did something happen yesterday?

Did he or Fred say something stupid and hurt your feelings?

Why didn't you just come and talk to him if that was the case?

He'd almost sent you an owl at least 782 times last night, but chickened out every time. And of course, today was your day off. So that meant he'd spend the next twenty-four hours worrying himself sick over you.

"George, have you slept at all?" Fred shuffled out of his bedroom, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"No."

Fred sighed and went to put on a pot of coffee. "Why don't you just go and talk to her?"

"Don't you think that'd be a bit weird. Me, her boss, showing up on her doorstep at 7am, wondering why she left work without saying goodbye."

"At this point, Georgie, who the fuck cares? You're going to make yourself physically ill if you don't find out what's going on."

George rubbed a hand over his face. "Ok. Yeah. You're right. But I need about a gallon of coffee first."

Fred opened up one of the kitchen cabinets and pulled out a thermos. "Take it with you, mate."

~•~

You swung the door open, ready to give whoever it was a piece of your mind, and froze when you saw George standing there. He looked exactly like you felt. Good thing he's not flying anywhere, your tipsy self thought briefly. He'd have to check in the bags under his eyes before they'd let him on the plane.

"Why are you here?" The words came out sharper than you intended it, causing George to take a step back.

"I, um, I was worried about you," he fumbled. "You left without saying goodbye yesterday."

"You're here at seven in the morning because I didn't say goodbye?"

"Well, yeah... that's not like you. At all. I was worried something had happened yesterday."

Worried something had happened yesterday? You almost laughed in his face. "Come on in," you said. "I'm gonna need another glass of wine for this one. Want one?"

George followed you into the living room. "Love...why are you drinking? How much have you had?"

You shrugged and upended your glass and then wiped your mouth on your sleeve. "Why do you care? I can do what I want in my free time. You're just my boss. It's not like you're my boyfriend or anything."

He visibly flinched at the last comment, but at this point, you didn't care.

"I really am worried. Something happened yesterday. Please tell me what it was. I want to help."

This time, you did laugh. "You really wanna know what happened yesterday? I realized that I'm a fucking idiot. That's what happened yesterday."

"I - I don't understand," George searched her eyes for any clues.

"No, of course you wouldn't. And it's not your fault. Not really. And I shouldn't be angry with you, but I am," you rambled. "It's my own fault for being stupid. And I'm gonna keep being stupid as long as I'm working there. So, yeah, I'm giving you my two week notice."

"What?! How we go from you saying you're stupid to you quitting?"

"It doesn't matter." You reached for the wine bottle, but George grabbed it first and moved it out of your reach.

"Hey!" You tried to grab it back, but he stood, took it to the kitchen, and emptied the rest of it into the sink.

"Why the fuck did you do that?"

"Because you're done with it," George tossed the empty bottle in the trash. "And we're going to work through whatever the fuck this is."

You sighed. "There's nothing to work through. I'm quitting, and that's that."

"No." George said simply.

"No? What do you mean, no?"

"I'm not letting you quit."

"As if you have a choice in the matter," you said. "Why do you care anyway? You'll find someone to replace me easily enough. Probably someone who's better than me."

"No," George repeated. "No one can replace you. There's no one better than you."

You shook your head and stood, turning away from him. "Not even your new girlfriend," you muttered under your breath.

"My new girl - what are you talking about?"

Shit. You didn't mean for him to hear that.

"What new girlfriend?" He asked again.

Something about the way he said it, with such shock and indignation, as if he had no idea what you were talking about, set you off, and you rounded on him. "Mindy or Wendy or whatever the fuck her name is!"

He looked genuinely confused for a moment, and then realization hit. "You mean Cindy? Cindy Fletcher? Why in Godric's name would I want to date her?"

"I don't know," you threw your hands in the air. "You tell me. You were all up in her face yesterday, hanging on to her every word."

"She was telling me about her muggle cousins new invention, and it sounded really cool and - " George paused. "Wait, why do you care so much who I talk to?"

"I - I don't," you stammered. "Just forget it. Just forget I said anything at all."

"Are you - jealous?"

You turned your back to him again. "Don't be ridiculous."

"You are, aren't you?" There was surprise in his voice and something else you couldn't quite place.

He moved to stand before you. "Do you," he hesitated for a moment. "Like me? Like as more than just your boss or your friend?"

The tears you'd been fighting to hold back poured down your cheeks. There was no denying it now. "Yes, I like you! Ok? I more than like you. But you're my boss - "

George pulled you into his arms, silencing you with a kiss. Your first instinct to anyone kissing you unexpectedly was to push them away. But then it dawned on you what was happening. Did George like you back? Apparently so, otherwise he wouldn't be kissing you right now. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer, deepening the kiss.

~•~

"I've been wanting to do that for ages," George confessed. You were cuddled on the sofa, refusing to let go of one another.

"Me too," you smiled. "Why did you never say anything?"

George shrugged. "I'm your boss. It would've been inappropriate. And what if things didn't work out? Talk about awkward. Us trying to work together."

"Hm," you nodded. "So does that mean I should still quit?"

"If it means I can keep kissing you like that, I'll fire you right now."

You giggled. "I don't think that will be necessary."

"Good," he said. "The place would fall apart without you."

"Pfft, don't be silly," you scoffed.

George pulled back a little so he could look at your face. "I'm not. I'm being dead serious. The shop would fall apart without you. And so would I."

You opened your mouth to respond, but the only thing that came out were the words you'd been holding back for so long. "I love you, George Weasley."

His smile melted your heart. "I love you, too," he said and pulled you in for another kiss.

~•~

@milivanili99 @fancy-pantaloons @turvi @zvummyummy @xmjthewitchx @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @georgie-weasley @samberriejams @nighttimemoonlover @jsjcue @wzrd-wheezes @mrsgweasley @hufflepuffie @morally-grey-obsessed @fredweasleyyyyy @anvaaryn @lastwandastan @samshifts @asuperconfusedgirl @hmisa11 @superduckmilkshake @mysticsheepsoul @gemofthenight @1lellykins @junerprsh @sierraluvz @wolfkill16 @kaysau2510 @qmylovexoxo @planetkt @costheticbabe @drama-queen-fromthevault @thatonepersonwhocantwrite @smallsweetvanillabean @themaraudersslut @hanne-montana

#george weasley #george weasley x reader #george weasley x you #george weasley x fem!reader #george weasley headcannon #george weasley angst #george weasley fluff #hp universe #hp fandom

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yourplayersaidwhat · 8 months

Text

Funky thing somebody in my group said

Context: spaghetti western homebrew

Player: I'm not just going to "give" you my hanging rope. It has tremendous sentimental value!

DM: you've been using the same rope for 20 years?

Player: of course not, I replace it after every gig.

#shit my players say #submission #shareable #dnd

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theteasetwrites · 8 months

Text

Begin Again

Chapter 1: Aux Portes de la Mort

❧ Media: The Walking Dead: Daryl Dixon ❧ Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Female Reader ❧ Era: Season 1 ❧ Pronouns: she/her ❧ Warnings: violence, blood & gore, scary situations, mentions of death ❧ Word Count: 7.6k

❧ In This Chapter: When you and Daryl awaken in an unknown land, far away from home, the world becomes twice as dangerous as it once was, with a whole new breed of dangers lurking around every corner. You have no choice but to begin again on a new mission: Get. Back. Home.

❧ A/N: IT'S HERE. I'm so excited to be writing for them again ugh it's been too long. I love this reader because she has all that history with Daryl from the first series so it's a real treat to keep all that in mind when I'm writing their scenes together. Also I am posting this before the premiere of the show. This chapter is based on the events of the sneak peek that was released on AMC+! So here ya go, the first chapter! Shoutout to Dahlia (@simpbyday) for helping me with the French translation for the title. She will be my official French language correspondent throughout this process. And if anyone else also knows French, I would love to get feedback on my usage of French throughout the series as well! <3

“Near death” did not mean much to you anymore.

You were either dead or alive, nothing in between. That’s how you felt about it now. There were few areas in life that were black and white to you, and that was one of them. If you were alive, you were alive. Maybe you’d be a little worse for wear, but you were alive. That was the important thing.

That’s what you told yourself, anyway. As a way to condition yourself, to be stronger. For Daryl. For Robin. For Wes. You had to be strong for them. Maybe that’s what got you into this mess.

No, Daryl did. Daryl got you into this: tied loosely to the back of a lifeboat, one foot missing a boot and hanging off the edge, dangling pitifully in the ocean as the small vessel drew you closer to the shore.

You might’ve stayed asleep if it weren’t for the splashing sound, followed by the familiar grunts and wheezes of gasping breath. You felt the rope across your hips pull in the other direction, where Daryl fought with the current to come back to the air. Through heavy eyes, crusted by a long sleep and sensitive to the bright light of what must’ve been mid-afternoon, you saw him struggle to lift the rope from his body as a wave pummeled him back down below the water.

Your throat burning, rendering you unable to so much as cry out his name, you freed yourself from the rope, sliding into the water. What happened next would fade into the obscurity of rumbling waves carrying your weak bodies closer to shore, until the feeling of ground underfoot welcomed you.

But that feeling was short-lived. As soon as your feet felt the sand, you were knocked down by another wave. Now you could only crawl, with what little strength you had left. Even Daryl, so very hearty and always physically stronger and more durable than yourself, began to stagger, falling less than gracefully to his knees just a few feet from you. There was no need for verbal recognition or even touch—you felt him there, crawling beside you, alive.

Now with only your feet still clinging to the sea, your arms gave out underneath you, like two pieces of boiled spaghetti, limp and sprawled out not far from Daryl, who lied with his face pressed against the sand, his wet hair shrouding any semblance of his visage.

Though you could hear his sharp breaths, his heavy pants that withdrew with high-pitched whimpers that sent a shiver down your spine, you could hardly tell if he was moving.

Momentarily frozen, you gathered all your strength to extend your arm across the sand. Your fingers stretched out to the fullest extent, crawling like a spider until finally you gripped his hand, entwining your fingers with his and shaking it roughly, urging him to move.

You had been near death enough to know that the worst thing to do was to stop moving. That was like accepting death, and wherever you were now, you weren’t going to face it without him.

Your movement brought him to life as he lifted his head, his sight first taking in his surroundings—a beach.

And not far in the distance, a small blue bucket.

You followed his gaze, which seemed transfixed on the object, partly buried by the wet sand that must’ve remained untouched for God only knows how long.

Having a near encyclopedic understanding of Daryl’s mind, you knew what he was thinking of—survival. There was water in that bucket. Sandy ocean water, but water nevertheless.

All you could think of, though, was how familiar that little bucket was. Robin had one just like it. Last time you’d taken her and Wes to Oceanside, they played on the beach for hours, making sandcastles with her little bucket and shovel that she’d gotten for her seventh birthday last May. Somehow she’d convinced Daryl to let her bury him under the sand. You had the Polaroids to prove it somewhere in one of the pockets of your vest, if they hadn’t been lost to sea.

The memory faded quickly, as he pulled you up, still holding your hand. At least now he was moving, dragging you and himself towards the bucket.

He’d let go of your hand to pick it up, digging out as much sand as he could before handing it to you. Without a word, you brought the rim of the bucket to your lips, taking just a few sips, despite the painful drought in your throat.

Daryl took the rest, downing the sandy saltwater like it was the nectar of life, and here, at the gates of death, it was.

When the water was gone, he let the pail fall back to its final resting place. You couldn’t bring yourself to even raise your head. You could only watch it fall, the bright blue plastic taking you back to a time that seemed so far away now, to a world you wished you’d never left.

But Daryl, ever the pragmatist, always planning the next move, was already narrowing his eyes, looking around for the answer to that burning question that lingered between the two of you—where the hell are we?

You could’ve looked at that little bucket forever, if he hadn’t tugged on your hand, not unlike how you’d done so to his just minutes ago.

“C’mon.”

The further the two of you walked, slowly, limping, the more you began to take note of your surroundings, without too much thought of the complete and utter shit you two were both in. For all the differences between you, you both knew one thing was true—there was no point in dwelling on how you got here, the only thing that mattered was getting back home. That was the unspoken truth.

As you walked further, the sand beneath your feet turned into concrete. Some kind of parking structure, or what once was. You passed the rotting, rusted shells of cars, their windows smashed and their hoods lifted, no doubt due to survivors looking for parts to salvage. A clump of neglected bicycles leaned against a graffitied pole. Like most graffiti, you couldn’t make out what it said.

Passing a small overgrown boat, you spotted a signpost not too far away. You walked ahead of Daryl, all too eager to see what it said. The letters were faded, but you could make out the arrows, meaning it would point you in whatever direction you needed to go in. That was all you needed now: direction. Some delusionally hopeful part of you, deep down, wanted to believe the sign would display the word “HOME” with an arrow accompanying it, leading the way without confusion or ambiguity.

But of course, you knew that was impossible. Still, you did not anticipate what you saw.

Squinting your tired eyes, your weakened legs slowed to a halt as the sign’s lettering came into view. Your heart sank as you stepped back, almost terrified of what you read. But you backed against Daryl’s chest, which caught you before you could lose your balance from the shock of the realization.

You could not read the sign.

Pla… place de… ste?

Port de… Martegues?

… Cimetiere?

Shit.

Some kind of port city, somewhere in France.

That’s what you decided upon, in the silence of your heavy thoughts as you walked together aimlessly, still not speaking. How could you speak to him? What was there to say? You had no hope now. It was gone, and usually, that was the only thing that kept you talking in times like these.

And Daryl, he could go hours without speaking, if he had nothing to say.

He, too, was at a loss for words. After all, he knew he’d gotten you into this. He knew none of this would’ve happened if he’d just… It didn’t matter now, though. What mattered was getting home.

But you weren’t safe here.

You always knew that the whole world must’ve fallen, of course. When everything happened, the world went dark. France was no exception. The state of the place was proof enough. In this old city, with cobblestone streets littered in the abandoned remnants of a once prosperous civilization, every corner you turned was the same—empty, ruined, overgrown.

By some instinct, you both walked along a path just on the edge of a canal that seemed to run through the city. Perhaps it was just a gut feeling, or perhaps the both of you knew to stay close to the water, on the off chance that you’d find some kind of seafaring vessel. Though you still couldn’t shake the taste of saltwater, you knew that the only way you could get back home was to get back on the water. That was your priority.

Sure enough, you came upon a boat, moored at the edge of the path, floating upon the water, and looking as though it had been there for centuries.

Just outside the boat on the cobblestone path, it looked as though someone had set up camp, once upon a time. Whoever had been there, though, they were long gone. As you passed a desiccated corpse, completely barren of flesh with a long fisherman’s spear skewered through its head, you wondered if this body had once held the poor soul of the boat’s former occupant. You didn’t wonder for long, though, as these days, you’d seen enough dead bodies to almost completely desensitize you from any human curiosity. Now, it was just a bag of bones.

Approaching the stern of the vessel, Daryl went into the cabin first, his sights set on the wine bottles perched on a wooden shelf, in the hopes that maybe they’d contain some water. He picked them up one by one, shaking them. Nothing at all.

You busied yourself, rummaging through a bag you found hanging from a nail near the door. Your hand gripped on some long, cylindrical plastic, ribbed and seemingly filled with liquid.

“Daryl.”

You held the water bottle out towards him as he turned around. You hadn’t caught a good glimpse of his face yet, until now.

The skin of his face and neck were reddened terribly by the sun, but that didn’t worry you as much. It was the scarlet red cut stretching diagonally over his forehead, and the paleness of his lips, dry and dehydrated. The saltwater you both drank earlier only made the thirst more potent.

Deciding he needed the water more than you, you pressed the bottle to his chest, despite his brief protest that he gave with only a knowing look on his face, as if to say: You drink first.

You returned the look, but with more conviction as you shoved the bottle harder now, as if to say: No. Drink.

Reluctantly, he did, drinking less than half before handing it back to you, with the same force you applied when giving it to him, and the same stern, protective look: Drink.

You took the rest of the water, wincing at the aged taste. But you drank it down slowly, steadily, the cooling liquid coating your barren throat.

Lost in the brief relief it gave you, you hadn’t noticed Daryl’s continued russling as he pillaged the tiny boat cabin, looking for anything and everything that could somehow be useful.

As you used your long, torn sleeve to wipe away the dripping water from your chin, you were startled by the sudden sound of a man’s voice, not Daryl’s.

With a flinch, you turned around to see Daryl, sitting at the small dining table, holding a tape recorder.

“Nineteen months at sea,” said the man’s garbled voice, with an accent you deemed to be Irish. “Hoping to stay ahead of this thing.”

On the table before him was a map of Europe, and a photo of a family. There was a man that must’ve been the owner of the voice you listened to now. Beside him was a woman, his wife, Daryl assumed, because on her lap was a little girl, holding a large stuffed penguin, about half the size of her. She couldn’t have been older than Robin, he thought.

They looked happy, all smiles. Somewhere in one of his pockets, he was sure he had a picture that looked almost exactly the same, only with his family—Robin, Wes, Dog, you. He quickly willed the thought away, though. If he kept thinking about it, he was sure he’d break down, when at this point, what he needed to be the most was strong.

“Circled Spain,” the voice continued. “Nowhere safe… We’ll try Marseille next. Maybe the south of France is good… There’s got to be a safe place somewhere.”

You were sure you’d uttered that phrase once. Maybe around the same time he did. Just goes to show how much this world changes you, which was saying something—you always believed the world hadn’t changed you nearly as much as it changed everyone else. But you knew now that there was no safe place in this world, except in the arms of the ones you loved. And even then, that was only a metaphor. But you had to believe it, to convince yourself it was true. Otherwise, you were no different than the dead.

Night was closing in. There was no more time to waste.

Still without hardly more than a one-word sentence exchanged between you, you got to work setting up a night’s worth of camp, while Daryl speared a fish in the canal. Just one was all the energy he had, but it was more than enough for the both of you. A white fish of decent size, which Daryl cooked over the makeshift barbecue near the boat.

Sitting on the boat, you got a lantern working, providing just enough light to see what you were doing as you tried to filter the muddy canal water through the mesh lining of a jacket you’d found inside the boat. Across the way, you’d glimpse at Daryl, now draped in a tarp he’d fashioned into a poncho, in only the way Daryl could even think of doing.

His tired face was illuminated by the fire over which he cooked the fish, turning it over with a small knife until it was cooked through. You wondered what on Earth was going on in his head, if he was as frightened as you were, if he had any hope left.

You didn’t have much hope anymore. Not now.

In this world, you’d found that your hope had been tested constantly, but only a handful of times did it try you like this. When the farm fell, when you lost the prison, when the Saviors took Daryl…

But you always got it back. You always found your strength again.

You weren’t sure if you could get it back this time.

Still, you had Daryl. If you were alone, in a strange place, thousands of miles from home, you were sure you would’ve given up by now. But he was here.

The silence between you persisted into the night, as you sat across from each other, under the dark blanket of the night sky, eating the charred fish straight off the bone, with only the dim flickering light of the lantern just barely lighting your faces.

When the silence became unbearable, Daryl had pulled the tape recorder from his pocket, playing it again, as if he found comfort in the man’s voice, despite the ultimate tragedy that must’ve occurred.

“Sue had a heart attack.” You could only assume that was the name of his wife, the woman in the photograph. “I had to… take care of it.”

You’d heard stories like that before, of someone having to put down their loved one before or, God forbid, after they turned, but it would never cease to send a shiver down your spine. The thought of having to do that to Daryl… It was a nightmare you’d had more than once.

“Our tenth anniversary would’ve been in June… Holly keeps crying. She wants her mum back.”

That was when you stopped eating, a sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach.

“She wants things the way they were.”

You swallowed hard in an attempt to suck down the lump forming in your throat.

“She wants to go home.”

“Turn it off.”

The sudden sternness in your voice nearly surprised him, or maybe it was just how many words you spoke at once.

He grabbed the recorder and turned it off with a sharp click, restoring the heavy silence that lingered like a thick fog between you.

Daryl watched intently as you hugged your legs against your chest, your eyes downcast and glued to the worn and torn stuffed penguin, buried underneath some ropes and an empty old fuel tank. You recognized it from the photo.

He could read the look on your face, and the thoughts that he knew were flying through your head at a thousand miles an hour. He knew that you were thinking about home, about your family. Still, he couldn’t shake this discomfort. This quiet.

For all the years he’d known you, he’d never gone this long with such silence between the two of you. Of course, he’d been separated from you before for much longer, but together? You were hardly ever at a loss for words. He couldn’t remember the last time you were like this, but he didn’t like it. Funny, Daryl was always the quieter one, the one who more often than not needed to be coaxed into talking. He always preferred the quiet, but this was unbearable.

He needed to hear your voice, now more than ever. He needed your hope.

“You haven’t said more than three words since we got here.”

Washed up here, your mind corrected.

He leaned forward stiffly, still eying you, despite your gaze still transfixed on the once pristine stuffed animal.

Several painful moments passed. Daryl couldn’t take it anymore. He’d beg for you to speak, to say anything to him. All he wanted was to hear you.

“Please.” His voice was low, soft. It was always like that with you, but something about it now seemed more desperate. “Please say somethin’.”

Finally, you raised your head slowly, meeting his silvery blue eyes, visible through several loose strands of hair that framed his face. If you were in better spirits, you might’ve smiled, just seeing his face, despite how badly he was in need of a good shower. You were sure you looked rather filthy yourself.

But you couldn’t smile. You couldn’t even imagine such a thing. The last time you smiled seemed so far away, you could hardly even remember it.

“What do you want me to say?” Your voice was shaky, hoarse, tired. He’d been with you through Hell and back, and back again, and yet he’d never heard your voice so defeated, so… lost.

“I don’t know,” he replied simply, still holding your gaze. Now, you both stared intently, as if battling to see who could dare to look away first. “I just…” As he trailed off, his eyes sank in defeat. He’d lost the battle. “I’m sorry.”

With a sniffle, you replied. “What are you sorry for?”

It took him several moments to speak, as he tried to compose himself. If he opened his mouth too soon, he might start crying, and despite how much you encouraged him to be vulnerable, to not neglect his emotions around you, he could never fully let himself cry in front of you without feeling that ingrained sense of failure and inadequacy, like he wasn’t the strong man you needed, no matter how many times you reminded him of how strong he was.

“For gettin’ you into this.”

Your lip quivered, your eyes softened.

He continued, “If I hadn’t asked you to go with me—”

“Then you’d be sitting here, across the world, alone, and I’d be in Alexandria worried sick about you.”

“But you’d be safe,” he said, an almost imperceptible shake in his voice as he was reminded of the danger you were now mired in, all thanks to him.

“How many times have I told you… I’m safest when I’m with you.”

That thought was nice, but it still could never completely alleviate Daryl’s worries.

And there was another reason he wished he hadn’t asked you to come along.

“But you’d be with the kids.”

Your eyes sank as though they were anchored to the floor of this decrepit old boat. He knew that would get you, you were sure. He knew that, besides him, you loved your children more than anything else, and being so far away from them, lost with no immediate hope of seeing them again, was crushing you.

A silence befell you, and Daryl felt like he lost you again. God, all he wanted was to hear you. Your voice was the most comfort he could have right now, just to know you were near.

Now Daryl looked down, focused on the mud caked around his brown boots. He raised his hands to his face as he huffed.

“Shit,” he mumbled. “I’m sorry.”

You weren’t angry. Just sad.

With a sniffle, you looked back up. He still sat with his head in his hands, until he lifted his eyes above his fingers just enough to see you.

“It’s okay,” you said, your voice a cracking whisper.

“Nah,” he said abruptly. “Nothin’s okay.”

Daryl always had that bad habit of blaming everything on himself. You knew it well. It frustrated you—his inability to give himself any credit and his tendency to dwell on his flaws instead of celebrating his accomplishments. Granted, one of the many traits you admired about your husband was his humility, but sometimes, you wished he would consider the things he’d done right instead of all the things he did wrong.

You raised yourself to your feet, crossing the boat to sit beside him. He did not look your way or pay you much attention, still lost in his thoughts. Still, you carefully, slowly, wrapped your arm around his waist and his shoulders, holding him.

He was stiff, but under your touch, he slowly began to soften, as he always did. It was then he had realized how long it seemed he’d gone without your touch like this. You’d been with him the whole time, but survival did not allow for many moments of pure, gentle intimacy between two lovers.

“We’re alive,” you whispered. As you leaned against him, you pressed a small, but firm, kiss to his cheek. “We’re together.”

Without a word, he gave you a knowing glance. He narrowed his eyes almost suspiciously, while he chewed his bottom lip in deep thought. He didn’t need to say anything for you to know what he was thinking.

You smiled. “One of us has to be the positive one. We can’t get anything done if we’re both sitting around feeling sorry for ourselves.”

“Yeah… I know.”

“It’s shitty,” you said. “This is a shitty situation… Maybe the worst situation we’ve been in, but we’re going to get back home.”

Though you spoke with conviction, you weren’t entirely sure that you really believed the words you spoke. It was hard to believe. It was hard to believe you were here in the first place. Nevertheless, you’d die trying to get back home, to see your children again, to watch them grow.

There was no way in Hell you were going to sit back and do nothing.

To your relief, Daryl’s hand found yours, curling around it and squeezing it tight. He nodded, then raised your hand to his lips.

“Yeah. We will.”

You smiled as you roamed his face, finding comfort in the familiarity. In this world of uncertainty, this new world where neither of you belonged, you found safety in each other—you saw Alexandria in his face. All the memories. It was like a photo album, everything flashed before your eyes. You saw Robin, Wes, Aaron, Lydia, Maggie, Michonne, Rick… everyone. Everyone you loved, alive or dead, all in him.

And in you, he felt the same, but not only that. He saw everything beautiful and pure in this world, everything worth protecting and keeping alive. As you held him, he held your face, his thumbs moving gently over the apples of your cheeks.

Your face was worn, tired, with a few knicks and scratches scattered about over your usually smooth and unblemished skin, but nothing could distract from the perfection of your features that he knew and adored so well.

And you, you couldn’t help but eye that nasty cut on his forehead. You swept away the stray pieces of hair that obscured the cut, then huffed. Though you had already washed the cut with water, you were itching to find a real first aid kit to prevent infection. The one on the boat was cleaned out, and whatever first aid kit you had brought with you was in a bag lost at sea.

“S’fine,” he said, knowing full well what you were thinking. “M’fine.”

“It’s just… I don’t like it.”

He smiled. “I know.”

“We’ll find something to help it. If I could get my hands on some calendula or even some marshmallow…”

That thought prompted you to look around, the darkness of the empty waterway in the desolate, ruined city. Even if you could find some herbs with healing properties here, you wouldn’t know where to start looking.

The south of France wasn’t exactly the same as Virginia in terms of flora and fauna.

“First thing we gotta find is a way back,” he replied.

“We could fix up this boat.” Daryl’s mechanic expertise started and stopped with cars and motorcycles, but you figured a boat couldn’t be much different.

“Nah. Engine’s shot, and I dunno the first thing ‘bout how boats work, anyway.”

“Well… We’ll just have to find another way. There have to be people somewhere.”

He looked at you with a raised eyebrow as he chewed the last of his fish. “You remember what happened the last time we asked a bunch of strangers for help?”

Ah, yes—the Commonwealth.

At least that turned out in your favor, eventually. It took almost a year of turmoil, but in the end, it was worth it.

“Daryl, I don’t see any way out of this without some help. Besides, we haven’t seen any walkers yet… Maybe France is faring better?”

“Or maybe they’re all dead.”

“Stop it. That’s not true.” You held his cheek and turned his face towards you. “You know it’s not true… It can’t be.”

The rest of that night passed slowly, quietly. Maybe it was out of habit, or just his need to be aware of his and your surroundings at all times, but Daryl spent a good fifteen minutes checking out the general vicinity, scanning the perimeter around the little boat on which you busied yourself by fashioning a bed of sorts out of pieces of seats and blankets.

Daryl returned not long after he left, with a curious trinket in his hands: a Barbie doll.

You looked up at him from the makeshift bed. He took the liberty of posing the little blonde doll, sitting her atop the small dining table with her arm raised as if she were waving. Her hair was only slightly mangled, but you knew many tricks when it came to freshening up Barbie dolls and making them good as new for Robin, and sometimes Wes, to play with.

“Only you could find a Barbie doll in France,” you said.

“It’s not just any Barbie doll,” he said, sitting himself down beside you with a huff. Gravity forced his body to the bed. Well, bed was a generous term for the dismantled chair covered with blankets. “It’s a veterinarian.”

You studied the doll closer from a distance. Indeed, she had a little white doctor’s coat and a pink stethoscope. You would’ve thought she was actually a doctor Barbie, but only a trained, professional eye like Daryl’s would spy the light pink paw print pattern on her lab coat. Thus, she was distinctly a veterinarian, to be sure.

A smile spread across your face as you laid back, snuggling close to his side. He smelled faintly like fish, but you were certain that you didn’t smell so great either.

“She’ll love it,” you whispered. There was no question who you could possibly be talking about. “I’ll keep it in my bag until we get home.”

Daryl couldn’t respond verbally. He could only chew his bottom lip as his arm snaked underneath your side and wrapped around to stroke your shoulder with his hand. Perhaps that was the ultimate reason he took the doll—as a way to further motivate both of you to live long enough to see your family again. And you would. He’d make sure of it. He knew it. He had to.

At length, you spoke again.

“It’s clear?”

He nodded. “Yeah. No walkers, no people… No nothin’.”

That was good. If Daryl felt it was safe enough for the both of you to sleep tonight, that was a victory in your book.

“Tomorrow,” you began, “we should start heading north, towards Paris.”

Daryl’s lip twitched into a slight smile as he began to close his eyes, still holding you. Sometimes, you hardly noticed he was holding you. A long time ago, it had become second nature, so habitual that him holding you in bed at night was a feeling you couldn’t quite sleep without.

“Paris?”

“Yeah… There could be people there. Biggest city, biggest population.”

“Yeah, biggest population of walkers.”

You sighed. “Well, I don’t know then. You got any bright ideas, Einstein?”

He raised his eyebrow as he looked at you, with only one eye open, the other squeezed shut as his nose scrunched up and he made a faux scowl. It was almost enough to make you laugh.

He chewed his bottom lip, deep in thought. “How about west?” he asked. “Least we can head that way first, see if we find anyone or anything. Best to stay as far away from the city as possible.”

“You're right,” you replied, resting your head upon his chest. Somehow, it was always much more comfortable than a pillow, despite its relative firmness. “You're always right.”

“Not always,” he said lowly, his fingers finding the ends of your hair and twirling around them as if by instinct.

“Yeah… Not always.”

“Pfft…”

“What?”

“Jus’... Can’t believe where we are right now.”

You nodded in agreement, but you could tell where this line of thinking was going—this negativity that sometimes clouded Daryl’s almost unwavering hope. That was where you came in, though your hope was in serious question, too.

“Well, you did promise you’d take me on a vacation.”

He scoffed again, but it was almost a laugh. Almost.

“France wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.”

“Me neither,” you said. A few beats of silence, then you added, “I would’ve preferred Italy.”

Three days had passed, all of which were spent hiking through ruins and desolate hills. Daryl used the long fishing spear from the boat as a kind of walking stick, and a weapon, along with whatever else he scavenged from Marseille. You’d found a few good knives, but nothing to quite balance out the slight limp you’d woken up with when you washed ashore.

No encounters with walkers, you’d noted, though you’d seen some wandering in the distance, ambling aimlessly through deserted stretches of wilderness. At certain points, you feared you might’ve been walking at the same pace as the rotting corpses, but they were far enough, and none of them seemed as fast as some of the climbers you’d seen.

Wilderness eventually faded into a somewhat industrialized town, much further away from the coast you’d started from.

It was small, but a good place to stop off for the night, you’d hoped.

Wandering through the small alleyways, littered with debris and overgrown vegetation, you came upon a large building, something like a warehouse turned into what appeared to be a supermarket. At least, that’s what you gathered from the signage, despite its unknown language.

Oh, how you wished you’d taken French instead of Spanish in high school now.

Daryl entered first, quietly opening the creaking door. The general protocol when entering new, unknown buildings had always been the same: be quiet (silent if possible). Although, if there were any walkers in there, odds are, they could smell you before you’d even say a word.

Still, you felt Daryl’s hand tap your shoulder lightly. He signaled to you, signing the phrase, “Me left, you right,” as he mouthed the words.

You always hated splitting up, but you signed back, “Be careful.”

Connie and Kelly would’ve been proud, you were sure.

The two of you split up, Daryl searching the leftmost side of the building, you the right.

As you examined the place, you took note of its state. It was abandoned, of course, but it was one of those places that had been left alone since the very beginning. It looked as though there had been a farmer’s market here, with long tables and booths with once meticulously laid out displays of crafts and homemade wares. Surely, whatever fresh produce had been here had long since deteriorated into nothingness, but there was always the chance of coming across dry foods. Grains and legumes and the like. Those were the ideals.

If fortune favored you, you could even find some dried herbs or medicinal plants to use on Daryl’s cut, but that was a longshot.

Still, you kept a lookout, your mind, and your stomach, much more focused on finding food than on scoping the place out for walkers. From across the way, you heard a small thud that made you flinch. Your eyes followed the sound—Daryl had set down his bag rather carelessly.

Eyes wide, you looked at him. He seemed entranced by a jar he was in the process of opening, only to smell its contents and put it back. Feeling your gaze on him, he looked up at you.

“You OK?” he signed, mouthing the words.

You sighed quietly, recovering from the startle. “Yeah.” With much more emphasis, exacerbated by the firmness with which you moved your hands, you once again signed, “BE CAREFUL.”

“OK,” he signed back, his face bordering on slightly annoyed with your protectiveness.

But another thud quickly drew your attention, though this one was not from Daryl, who also turned to locate the source of the ruckus.

You could only see a faint movement that was rather close to the ground, as though an animal was stirring, but as the familiar groans and wheezes started, you knew what it was.

Much to your surprise, Daryl seemed stunned for a moment, standing rather still as he simply watched the walker crawl out from underneath a pile of rubbish. As for you, you gripped the handle of your knife, removing it from its holder on your belt. But you were much further from him, and where there was one walker, there were, more often not, much more.

Suddenly, more walkers seemed to awaken from their slumber. Sleepers, you’d grown to call them. In your fascination with the habits of walkers, you’d begun taking note of how they seemed to have their own mode of hibernation during times of inactivity.

From what you could see, about eight or so of them had emerged from the far left, somewhere behind the produce stands, and were heading towards Daryl. You had the luckier draw, with only three or four setting their sights, and their gnashing, rotten teeth, on you.

No need for signing anymore. Dinner was officially served, and tonight, fresh American meat was on the menu.

“You got it?!” you called out to Daryl, raising your knife as the nearest walker limped towards you, its skull just barely clinging to the remainder of petrified flesh that hung loosely from its face.

He hesitated for a moment, worrying you. Daryl seemed off his game when it came to fighting walkers. Perhaps it was because he was still frazzled by the strangeness of your situation, or perhaps, God forbid, he was more worse for wear than he wanted you to know. After all, Daryl did have a tendency to downplay his injuries or his illnesses, a habit which frustrated you perhaps beyond any other quirk he had, because this was the most dangerous to his health.

But you couldn’t think of that now. Not when there were walkers snapping at you, and even more at your husband.

“Yeah!” he finally called back as he got a grip on his spear.

He set his focus on the first walker that had risen, which began slowly limping towards him. From behind him, though, was another walker, making quicker progress. He turned briefly, skewering the walker’s head with the sharpened point of the spear. He followed that with a kick to the walker’s abdomen, removing it quickly from the weapon.

On the other side of the place, you drove your knife into the nearest walker’s skull, but not without the usual splash of blood that came spurting out afterwards.

This spurt, though, was no ordinary one.

As you tugged the blade from its skull, you noticed a stinging sound, like that of a singe. It came as the blood spattered over the floor, and continued as it poured from the walker’s head. You stepped back, brows furrowed as you watched the trail of blood seem to evaporate, but it left behind a cloud of… smoke.

In a way, it reminded you of a branding, how the hot iron had been embedded into your skin and eaten away at the flesh with a horrendous burn until an X was forever scarred into your back. Whatever was going on with that walker, if its blood had gotten anywhere near your skin, you were sure it would have a similar effect—an agonizing, flesh dissolving burn.

But you hadn’t any more time to think about the strange walker, as there was another one coming behind you.

Meanwhile, had just skewered another walker through the face, then pulled the spear out to fling the walker backwards and tumbling back against another one.

Stepping backwards, just about to turn around and face another batch of walkers, one lunged forward, reaching its hand out to grip Daryl’s forearm, but this was not any ordinary death grip.

Most walkers’ touches were cold, lifeless, but this? This… searing, stinging, agonizing sharpness that made him scream.

With one last kill, you turned towards him, your eyes wide and your mouth agape with the fear of the most profound variety. Daryl never screamed like that. At least, not when you were around. Suddenly, every nightmare and intrusive thought of Daryl being bitten assaulted your mind all at once.

All you could see was him struggling against a walker, whose grip on his forearm must’ve been so strong that even Daryl couldn’t immediately pry himself away.

But the walker’s grip really wasn’t that strong. No, its hand was simply stuck, with Daryl’s burning, melting flesh acting as a kind of glue.

As he tugged and yelled in frustrated pain, you quickly bounded across the room, taking down another walker on the way.

The closer you got, the more you saw it—the small swirl of smoke emerging from Daryl’s flesh as the walker’s hand seared the flesh of his arm.

Just before you could get to it, Daryl managed to rip himself free, stepping back a moment to briefly scowl at the strange burn.

Immediately, you came forward, plunging your knife into the walker’s head.

Daryl’s eyes flashed to meet yours, a simple exchange of breathless nods between you enough to suffice until the rest of the walkers were taken care of.

You looked around swiftly, and Daryl did the same. Six more walkers. Between the two of you, it would be light work. That is, if there were no more SNAFUs.

Daryl took the high ground, situating himself on a large wooden table to better approach the threat.

You kept on the floor, using one hand to pull the walkers toward you, the other to strike with your knife.

Once again, Daryl found himself with the unlucky situation. Underneath the table he’d taken defense at was another walker.

Plunging the end of his spear through the wood, he successfully impaled the walker’s head, but not without his spear getting stuck.

He tugged on the spear with all his strength, but the thing wouldn’t budge—the spear was lodged too deep in the walker’s skull, causing it to bang on the underside of the table with each attempt to tug it back up. In perhaps a less serious setting, the image might’ve been quite comical.

Daryl’s grunts combined with the repeated banging sound alerted you to the situation, and to the other walker coming closest to him.

You quickly charged the walker, finally taking it out with a swift but jagged movement. Meanwhile, Daryl had just freed his spear, and now moved to kill two more walkers in his path.

He was fast this time, killing them within hardly a second between each other. It was just enough time for him to turn around and see the very last walker coming towards you.

Without another second to even hesitate, you raised your knife, only for another one to fly into the side of the walker’s head, sending it falling to the ground at your feet.

Sometimes, Daryl’s flying knives startled you more than the walkers.

With a huff, you reached down, pulling the knife from the walker’s head. Just as you’d seen from the other one—a splash of burning, corrosive blood, a hissing sound as it hit the floor, and a small plume of smoke.

What the hell are you? you asked the corpse in your head.

But that wasn’t important now. You quickly turned your attention to Daryl, who pulled up the sleeve of his poncho to reveal the raw flesh of his burn.

Within a moment’s time, you were at his side, holding his arm as your eyes frantically took in the wound. In your confusion, and your fear, you looked up at him, all the color drained from your face. From what you knew of burns, this looked to be second degree, oozing redness and blisters already starting to form.

“We’ll bandage it up,” you said, nodding to yourself, as if to reassure both him and you. “We’ll clean it first… Some water and—and if I find some aloe…”

He caught your gaze, holding it for a good several moments of heavy silence.

“You ever seen a walker do that?” he asked, knowing full well that the answer was no.

You turned to investigate the last walker you’d killed—on the surface, not unlike any other walker you’d seen before, except you supposed he had a certain… je ne sais quoi, if you will.

“Maybe… it’s a French thing,” you replied. “I have no idea.”

Daryl let out a deep huff as he sat, still wincing at the unsightly burn on his arm.

You sat beside him, reaching into your satchel to procure a crinkly plastic bottle of water.

“Don’t,” he said lowly. “You need to drink that.”

Ignoring him, you dabbed several drops of water onto the clean rag you’d taken from the boat in Marseille. With Daryl always getting hurt somehow, you knew it was a good find.

He hissed between his teeth as you lightly cleaned the wound as best you could, but it still seemed to ooze.

It worried you, to say the least.

And Daryl… he only worried about what might happen to you if this thing was even more sinister than it looked.

“What if it’s—”

“It’s not,” you replied quickly. If you knew what he was going to say, you weren’t even going to let him speak the possibility into existence. “It’s not like a bite.”

“But what if it is.”

After all, what you knew of walkers was that their bites were deadly. What if their… burns were too?

But you refused to believe that.

“It’s not,” you said back. “We’ll patch it up. It’ll be fine.”

From the look on his face, he appeared not to believe that, his eyes clouded with fear and uncertainty the likes of which you’d almost never seen in him. Daryl didn’t fear death, though. He feared the thought of you being alone, in a world where the two of you needed each other more than anything.

Again, here you were, trying to lift his spirits despite the possibility of death lingering all around you, in this French supermarket that reeked of death and rotten flesh. But you weren’t just reassuring him, you were reassuring yourself.

“Hey.” Your hands cupped his cheeks, forcing his gaze to face yours. Your eyes were soft, but firm enough to remind him that, just as he would never let anything happen to you, you would never let anything happen to him. Your voice barely above a whisper, you spoke to him with the gentleness he knew and loved so well. The gentleness he’d needed all his life, and would need until the day he died, and after that, too. “Sweetheart… We’re alive.”

That was enough. It would have to be enough. Enough to begin again.

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#begin again series #begin again #the walking dead #the walking dead: daryl dixon #daryl dixon #daryl dixon spin-off #the walking dead fanfiction #the walking dead: daryl dixon fanfiction #the walking dead fanfic #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon fanfic #norman reedus #norman reedus fanfiction #norman reedus fanfic #twd fanfiction #twd fanfic #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl dixon x you

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fuckyeahgoodomens · 10 months

Text

#good omens #snakes #sneks #sorry it's too hot to think :D

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shotmrmiller · 2 months

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hi this is a really weird request but can you do a Drabble of like Simon going to planned parenthood with his situationship because she’s getting an abortion and she will need the comfort?? I’m not trying to be weird and just that when I got one my situationship told me he “didn’t want to go because he has to go to gym” 🤣

OH MY FUCKING GOD!!!

I would SKIN HIM!!'

I AM SO SORRY! He seriously make me sick to my stomach, i would

i would tear his little pride into pieces. going to the gym and for what? ego lift? spaghetti arms lifting weight too heavy for how weak they are? flat chest? small, ILS having back? legs so puny, wind would lead you astray? every day is chest day head ass yet somehow the chest is still missing? i have so many wild, angry thoughts i'm seriously fuming.

fucking hell.

Simon is with you when you take the test, and it's positive. He holds your hand while your emotions swirl in your head, your chest, your heart. He is a firm, FIRM believer in your body your choice. Whatever he might think doesn't matter because the one who's gotta stretch and grown a potential babe is you, not him. He suffers no consequences.

So he calmly asks you what is it that you want to do.

Maybe you take some time to think, maybe the answer is very obvious.

When you make the choice, he supports you 100% percent. There is no guilt tripping, no lamenting or anything. If you are not ready then you are not ready, if ever.

He's with you every step of the way, from the phone call to the appointment.

(forgive my ignorance i only know of the pill, so imma use that)

the pill goes down easily at home, the cold water you drank it with feels warm on your tongue. it takes a little, until the cramps start. Small twinges in your lower belly until they start to up in intensity. Something is twisting your insides with their hands, like someone would wring out a towel to hang on a rope outside.

it fucking hurts, it's a searing burn, stabbing in your uterus. Whether you prefer to sit on the toilet or curl up in the bathtub, Simon's there. He's rubbing your back, squeezing your arms and hands.

He's grounding, and he wishes to be the one in pain, not you. He'd take it all, if he could.

Blood flows down the drain, slow and steady, alongside some clots here and there.

He keeps his eyes on your face, watching it contort as pain takes hold.

Simon's a silent, comforting presence.

When the worst has passed, when your skin prunes and the sharp gasps of agony turn into small whimpers, he wraps a towel around you and takes you to bed. His hand is warm under your navel, where it rests in hopes of acting like those warming pads you wear during your menses.

He stays awake that night, watching you finally get some rest, his head lifting from the pillow whenever your brows furrow, a grimace on your lips.

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ultralightpoe · 1 year

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hi ultra:D can I please request a song for an Eddie Munson imagine? I was thinking maybe ‘Time’ by NF? if it’s not a song you are comfortable with or if you don’t write for his character - disregard this with no worries!:) glad to have you back and posting!! I hope you are well darling

Time - Eddie Munson

Authors Note: AN EDDIE REQUEST! YES! I HAVE NEVER HAD AN EDDIE REQUEST

Warnings: Angst, trauma, depression Eddie is a massive dickkkkkkkkkkk

Word Count: 2436

Description: Eddie can't ever seem to open up to you.

Enjoy!

Even if we both break down tonight

And you say you hate me, and we go to bed angry

I know everything will be alright

I'll be here waiting, I promise I'm changing

I just need

Eddie woke up on the rug of the apartment living room floor, eyes stinging from the crying and throat dry from the night of yelling that had taken place. It took him a moment to regain himself, picking himself up to look around the apartment, a hopeful feeling in his chest that you would be in the room and you hadn’t actually left.

No such luck, you were nowhere in sight.

A dull ache in his chest to match the one in his head caused by a hangover, the chest was due to heartbreak. He was sure of it.

Trudging through the hall to get to the kitchen and find the bottle of Advil you always restocked. A harsh curse escaped him when he stepped on a piece of glass, pulling his foot up to hop away from the shattered bottles on the tile of the floor.

“Jesus fuc-”

“Eddie?” Linda, your neighbor, calls before knocking on the door.

“Yeah! Just um- one sec!”

A little time to show you I'm worth it

I know that I can be a difficult person

I'm a stress case, drive you up the wall when I'm workin'

Actually, I'm probably worse when I'm not, you don't deserve it

Make you nervous 'cause you know I'ma break soon

Every time I do, I say somethin' that hurts you

Actin' like I'm gone, but we both in the same room

I don't like to be wrong, which I know you relate to

And I know I make you feel like you're at the end of your rope

—-------------------------

He had come home drunk, four hours after telling you he was going out for spaghetti noodles, and you were waiting by the front door with your arms crossed and lips sneered. There were frown lines forming on your face and your hair was all out of place.

“Please don’t star-” Eddie whines, using the wall to walk to the couch, woozy and halfway gone. “Always with the nagging.”

“Nagging?” You laugh dryly, following him to the living room. Watching as he lays on the couch and you stay standing. “Enough. Enough of this.”

“Enough of what?” He laughs, acting incredulous.

“Eds, you said you were going out to get spaghetti noodles for our dinner and you stumbled in four hours later drunk as a skunk.” You seethe, reaching a hand to snap at him back awake. “This is a problem-”

“You don’t understand-”

“And here we go with the ‘you don’t understand’ bullshit. ‘Y/n I’ve seen things you wouldn’t believe. I nearly lost my life. I can’t talk about it but it was so traumatic-’ I’m so sic”

“Are you mocking me right now?” He snaps, sitting up on the couch to glare at you. “Fuck you Y/n.”

“No FUCK YOU!” The first yell of the night, and you were expecting it to be the last as you stormed off down the hall. Normally he would give up and stay on the couch, but tonight seemed to be a good night to fight.

“HEY! GET BACK HERE!” He shouts, following you down the hall just in time to see you snatch a bag from the closet and start filling it with clothes. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m leaving.”

“Leaving?”

“LEAVING. Packing.” You reiterate, sparing him a side eye right as he lunges forward to try and snatch the bag. You keep a firm grasp on it and for a moment you both are wrestling over the bag. “I am tired. Eddie, I am so tired of this.”

“Tired of what?!” He snaps, finally pulling the bag from your grasp.

“I am wasting my life on you!” You sob, the tears you had been fighting all night finally releasing. “I get it, you went through something terrible, and I am sorry I mocked it tonight because that is completely fucked up. But Eds you can’t do this. You can’t do this to me.”

“Do what to you?” He sneers. “I’m sorry Y/n, is my pain hurting you?!”

“IT IS! YOU! THE SECRETS AND THE DRINKING!”

“WHAT FUCKING SECRETS?!”

“EDS I NEVER MEET YOUR FRIENDS! YOU NEVER LET ME MEET THEM AND YOU NEVER SPEAK ABOUT WHAT HAPPENED!”

“BECAUSE IT’S NONE. OF. YOUR. FUCKING. BUSINESS!” His face is beet red now, hair swinging wildly as you stare at him in shock. The silence of the room makes his heart start racing rapidly.

“Then why am I here?” You ask softly, shoulders slumping. He stares for a moment before walking out of the room, your bag still in hand.

That's when I look at you and tell you I'd be better alone

Just the pride talkin', isn't it? 'Cause both of us know

I'm the definition of "wreck" if you look into my soul

Comes out the most when I feel I'm in a vulnerable place

Made a lot of mistakes I wish I knew how to erase

When I'm afraid, might get distant and I push you away

But no matter the case, I'ma do whatever it takes even if

The older woman is smiling softly when he opens the door, the overly blushed cheeks round and puffy as her teeth flash. “Oh hello Edward dear.”

“Morning.” He nods, clearing his throat as he tries to stand straighter and seem normal. “What can I do for you?”

“Oh well, I- uhm, well while you usually…..sleep in in the mornings Y/n comes over and makes some breakfast with me and last night I heard some yelling and she didn’t come by this morning-”

“I have no clue where she is.” Eddie interrupts, a harsh wave of panic filling his body as he realizes he had no clue where you were. “But I will send her over when she comes back.”

“Oh….okay.” She nods, walking away before he can say anything else, leaving him standing there, finally coming to terms with it.

How long had you been going to breakfast with the neighbor when he slept in hungover? How had he not known you were that close with your neighbor? How much was he missing? How much did he not know about you? How much had he hurt you?

Even if we both break down tonight

And you say you hate me, and we go to bed angry

I know everything will be alright

I'll be here waiting, I promise I'm changing

I just need

—-----------

Although everything in you screams to just fall into bed and forget it you follow him down the hall anyways, watching as he throws your bag on the living room floor before marching into the kitchen and swinging the fridge door open.

Some of the magnets fall, a glass one snapping when it hits the floor, and you watch as Eddie reaches a ringed hand to snatch the pack of beer he had in the fridge.

“What are you doin-” You’re cut off, a scream tearing through you when he lifts his hand up and slams the bottle into the floor. Glass goes flying and beer spraying everywhere, and you cover your face so you don’t get hit.

“THIS WHAT YOU WANT? HUH?!” He shouts, snatching another bottle from the pack and repeating the action. This time you were not so lucky and a piece of the glass catches your arm, and then everything breaks.

Your world shatters to bits when the blood starts leaking from the wound, it wasn’t enough to actually hurt, but the idea of it hurt more. The illusion that broke finally left you broken.

This was not the Eddie you knew. And this was not the Eddie you would stay with.

Leaving him to have his fun breaking bottles you go and snatch your bag from where he threw it and watch from a safe distance as he breaks the last bottle.

When he is done he looks at you and your face is hot from the tears. “I hate you.”

“I hate you too.” He laughs.

“I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU I HATE YOU I HATE YOU!” You scream, a cracking feeling in your chest as you make your way to the door. “You’re better off alone-”

“I AM BETTER OFF ALONE! WITHOUT YOUR ANNOYING FUCKING SELF ALWAYS NEAR ME!” He screams, and you don’t waste your breath on a reply, slamming the door behind you.

Yeah, way before I bought you the ring

We were fighting back and forth like you were wearin' the thing

Two passionate people not afraid to say what they think

Lead to passionate conversation when it's hard to agree

You know me well, sittin' on the edge of my seat

Lookin' at life, overanalyzin' everything

Always depressed, tryna find a better version of me

Searching for somethin' I know's prolly right in front of my feet

The sickening feeling was not from the hangover, that he was sure, and throwing up would do nothing to fix it for you would still be gone and he would still be alone on the living room floor.

He had proposed, almost 4 months ago, and he doesn’t remember the last time you both talked about the wedding. Had you even talked about it at all? Or had you known not to waste time on him?

The phone rings around noon and Eddie launches up to answer, panting a bit as he puts the receiver against his ears. “Y/n?”

“No, Eddie, it’s Dustin.” The voice on the end answers, disappointment filling him at the sound, though he had never been disappointed by Dustin calling before. “Everything good?”

“Oh yeah….yeah man-”

“Are you sure because last we talked you sounded pretty bad.”

“I…. just need time-”

“You say that a lot Eddie. Look, I know I’m just a freshman at Harvard…..one of the best schools EVER, but I think you really need help. Not that my opinion matters, just a straight A HARVARD student and all……”

“I don’t want to talk about-”

“How about therapy?”

“Dustin I really-”

“Steve is in therapy. And Nancy and robin, max, lucas, will,-”

“Got it. I got it. Thanks.” Before his friend could respond he hung up and lay back down, closing his eyes to stop the tears. Jesus, he had really messed things up.

Stubborn as me? Maybe not, but you're close to it

Got a lot of issues, I'm tryin' to work through 'em

Going to therapy for you's somethin' that's worth doin'

When I know you been there for me through all of my worst moments

And I know it hurts knowing that I carry this weight on my chest

Making it difficult for me to open up and connect

Lot of regrets, I apologize for all of the stress

That's not what I meant to do, you know I love you to death even if-

You didn’t come back for a few days, but Eddie was hopeful that you would considering you needed the rest of your things.

So he busied himself, cleaning and cleaning and more cleaning. Anytime he wanted a drink he went and laid down, or stared at the picture of you on his nightstand.

By the time you did come back he had the place completely spotless, and you stopped short when you saw it, and blinked at him where he sat on the couch.

He was terrified to move, terrified that if he moved you would leave and he would never see you again. So he sat still, muscles tense, as he blinked at you while you blink at him. “I…….”

Just as he expected, the peace broke. Within moments you were walking away, heading to the room and he was doomed to follow.

He stands in the doorway of the room, watching as you unpack the bag which he took as a really good sign. “I….. I don’t even know where to start.”

“Neither do I.” You mutter, rubbing your face as you move to sit on the bed. “I was way out of line for mocking you and-”

“You’re not the one that apologizes here. That’s me. You did nothing wrong-”

“I did-”

“No. I…… I have wasted so much of your time and…….I would like to tell you…..about- I want to talk about it.”

“About what?”

He takes three easy steps across the floor and sits on the bed with you, pulling his sleeve up to show some of the scars. You knew they were worse on his stomach and he seemed just fine with showing you the arm at the moment. “This is gonna sound absolutely insane……”

Even if we both break down tonight

And you say you hate me, and we go to bed angry

I know everything will be alright

I'll be here waiting, I promise I'm changing

I just need

Time (oh)

I, I need time (oh, oh)

I just need time (oh)

I, I need time (oh)

Time (oh), time (oh)

I just need time (oh)

I, I need time (oh, oh)

I just need time (oh)

I, I need time (oh)

Time (oh), time (oh)

You were waiting outside the therapist office, smacking your gum harshly in a slight attempt to amuse yourself as you waited for Eddie in his session.

You had packed a book and snacks, but the book ended up boring you and the snacks were long gone so you had taken to hanging your feet out the window to catch them in the sunlight as the radio played some crappy tune.

You hum, terribly since you had never heard the song, and closed your eyes. This was the new normal, once a week you would hang out in Eddie's van as he spent time with a therapist and after that you would go get dinner together. And you loved it.

A scream rips from you when something touches the bottom of your foot and you sit up quickly to reveal the face of Eddie. He laughs, leaning through the window to kiss you before slapping your calf lightly.

“Okay, let’s go.” He smiles, rushing around to his side and hopping in. You smile, lifting your head until he is comfortable then laying it on his lap. “Anyone ever told you how gorgeous you are?”

“Be serious.” You blush, reaching a hand up to flick him.

“I am serious, baby. Dead serious. Dead sober.”

“It just takes time.”

#eddie #munson #eddie munson #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson angst #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson love #stranger #things #stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things x reader

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flowersandbigteeth · 1 year

Text

Your shadowbeast boyfriend finds you emptying the dishwasher

Shadowbeast (Rafe) x Female reader

General Plot: Your shadowbeast boyfriend finds you emptying the dishwasher and decides to help in his own way

W: smut, bondage, restraints, noncon, anal, vaginal sex, yandere vibes

Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six, Part Seven

Headcannon

Word Count: 2K

Rafe watched you shuffling around the kitchen like the predator he was, tracking each movement. You bent to open the dishwasher and he smirked at your round bottom pressed against your crisp work pants.

“Do you want meatloaf for dinner or spaghetti?” you shouted into the machine as you stuck your head in to grab a fork that had fallen to the back.

He chuckled to himself. You were so trusting, flitting around the house as if he wasn’t stalking you, just waiting for you to put yourself in a compromising position.

He grabbed your ass and squeezed, eliciting a squeak from your lips and causing you to bump your head against the roof of the dishwasher.

“Rafe!” you squealed as he dragged you like a fresh kill over to your small dining table, throwing you on your back.

“What are you doing?” you fussed trying to push yourself back up.

His lips split into an eerie smile and he shoved you down by your throat, pinning you to the cool surface. You searched his face, indignant.

“I missed you, darling,” he cooed, a claw scraping your chin as he examined you.

His blue eyes sparkled with mischief.

“We’ve been together all day,” you said, frowning at him.

He twined his long fingers into your hair and jerked your head back so you were forced to meet his gaze.

“But you haven’t been looking at me,” he pouted, “your eyes were all over those roaches.”

He snarled the last word and his grip on your scalp got tighter.

“I was just passing out their assignments,” you huffed, “that’s my only job.”

“Hmm,” he grunted noncommittally, as his eyes raked over your neck and down your chest, “Since you won't let me kill them, I want you to make it up to me.”

You pouted, cocking your head to the side. You'd convinced him to slow down his murder spree and he used that to get all sorts of concessions out of you.

“But I didn’t do anything,” you pouted.

“Stand up,” he demanded, pulling you to your feet on the table.

You wobbled a little nervously, getting to your feet, as he circled you like a shark waiting for you to misstep. There was a whistle of air and you shrieked as his claws shred the front of the business casual outfit you were wearing, leaving the front half of you bare to him. You shuddered as your nipples hardened, suddenly exposed to the cool air. He made a slow loop around you, yanking the rest of your clothes from your body in pieces.

He looked up at you amused, knowing your own nakedness embarrassed you. He thought it was a pity, really, your body was so beautiful, but he didn’t mind leveraging that fact to torment you.

“Touch yourself for me,” he ordered next.

You shook your head, shy. He couldn’t expect you to play with yourself standing on a table in the middle of the kitchen, could he?

“Play with yourself or I’ll stuff your little ass so full you won't be able to remember your own name,” he growled, grabbing you by the back of your head and jerking you to his level.

You whimpered, the pinch of his claws on your skin bringing you dark pleasure you didn’t want to admit to yourself you enjoyed. Tears came to your eyes as you tried to force your fingers to work, but you couldn’t do it. It was too lewd to do that under the glaring fluorescent lights. He smirked at you.

“Fine,” he said, coolly, “It's more fun this way.”

He pulled you down on your back and materialized ropes out of who knows where. Deftly manipulating your limbs, he tied your knees to your elbows, forcing your legs open for him and looped a noose around your neck, attaching it to the table so you couldn’t move without it cutting off your air. Then he secured your knees to the table itself.

When he was done, he leaned back, admiring his handiwork. You wriggled testing the bonds, but he’d strapped you securely to the table so that your legs were spread wide for him.

“Beautiful,” he said, smiling at you, his fingers trailing between your breasts and down your stomach until his thumb found your clit.

He circled it, making your pussy leak. You blushed feeling your hot juices run out of you, exposed under the bright kitchen light.

“You’re going to wish you’d done what I said,” he crooned, scooping up a glob of your wetness with his fingers and smearing around your asshole.

He disappeared for a second and you heard the refrigerator open and close. When he appeared looking down at you, your eyes widened at the array of produce he had clutched in his hand.

“No! No! Rafe, please! I’m sorry! I’ll do it! I’ll touch myself! Just don’t!” you started begging, but he just clucked at you.

“Don’t beg now,” he jeered, “you had your chance.”

He pinched your cheeks between his thumb and forefinger.

“Do you know how hard my cock has been watching you skip around in those tight pants all day?” he growled, “I’m going to punish you for teasing me, as well.”

“Rafe! Don’t do this!” you sputtered, but he shut you up shoving an apple in your mouth.

When he was satisfied you'd been silenced, his head dipped between your legs and lapped at your pussy. You squeezed your eyes shut, unable to stop your greedy hips from grinding against Rafe’s mouth, begging for more. He hadn’t touched you since that morning and your body automatically responded with neediness.

You grunted into the apple between your teeth, the sweet juice running down your throat. His tongue danced over your clit, working it in spirals that pushed you closer and closer to your end. His fingers explored your entrance, his sharp claws prickling against your skin as he pulled your folds apart.

“You deserve this,” he assured you, “you deserve to have all of your little holes filled.”

His tongue laved your clit, drawing tears to your eyes as he tormented you. You were frightened for what he was going to do to your body, but you couldn’t help but surrender to his ministrations your whole form wracking in a desperate orgasm. He chuckled into your pussy as your fluids gushed into his mouth, forming a wet pool on the table under your ass.

Love drunk and heady, your body went limp and Rafe took the chance to spread your ass cheeks, probing your tight hole with a vegetable.

He watched in fascination as your body sucked the cucumber in, your little ring of muscles stretching admirably around its girth. He liked your muffled cry as it entered you. You felt a slight bite of a little pain at first, but then mind wrecking fullness. Drool slipped past the corner of your lips and made its way down your neck as he gave it a few experimental thrusts. He’d stretched you with toys before, but nothing this large. It stuck out of you obscenely and he grinned, leaning back and pulling his phone out of his pocket.

Your cheeks reddened as you heard the click of his camera app as he snapped a couple of pictures of you trussed up and stuffed for his amusement. Your brain was too broken to really consider how easily he’d turned you into his obscene playtoy. He had a million pictures of you on his phone, naked and tied up in a variety of pornographic poses. You would have been worried about such lewd images of you but you knew without a doubt that he would rip out anyone’s eyes before they ever saw them. You were his toy, alone. He liked to make that very clear to anyone nearbye.

When he was happy with his shots, he tossed his phone on the counter to return to torturing you with the cucumber.

You heard his pants unzip, while one hand was still pumping your ass with the vegetable.

“I should keep you like this all the time,” he considered, the smooth, round head of his cock slipping through the wetness clinging to your lips, “I can tie you to my desk at work and keep your holes stuffed.”

You whimpered, unconfident that he was just talking and worried over what the next day would look like. He slapped your clit a few times with his cock, teasing you and dragging your attention back to him. It was bigger than the cucumber and you could feel its weight as it smacked against you with wet noises.

“Don’t worry,” he cooed, “I’d never let anyone see you like this. You. Are. All. Mine.”

He slammed his cock into your pussy with each word, for emphasis. You squealed with each thrust, happy the apple was in your mouth to stifle your embarrassing screeches. You squeezed your eyes shut as he ravished you, feeling so full you couldn’t form coherent thoughts. His big balls rammed into you with every stroke, driving the cucumber even deeper. Tears streamed down your cheeks and you bit into the apple while he mercilessly had his way with your pussy.

His thumb strummed your clit while his other hand found your breast, kneading it with his palm.

“This is my little cunt,” he mused to himself, his claws biting into your flesh, “no one else is going to see or touch what belongs to me.”

He played you like his instrument, drawing the orgasm out of you. Your pussy grabbed onto his cock, sucking it deeper inside of you as your brain shattered to butterflies.

“Your body craves my come, doesn’t it, darling?” he hissed.

You nodded pathetically and whimpered into the apple in your mouth, you couldn’t deny it. You wanted him to ruin your pussy with his come. He gave you a feral grin, grabbing one breast in each hand and thrusting into you wildly.

“Fuck! Good girl!” he exclaimed, pleased with your feeble display of submission. He was happiest when you were a whining puddle of need underneath him. He shouted as he slammed into you the last time, emptying his balls into your tight channel and forcing a final orgasm out of you. Panting into your hair he held himself inside you for a moment, enjoying your heat and your scent surrounding him.

“Good girl, good girl,” he whispered at you, while he caught his breath. You practically purred under his praise. It was something you needed that only he could give you. He gently eased the cucumber out of your ass cooing about how perfect you were.

Untying you and pulling the apple from between your lips he finally kissed you, reveling in your taste mixed with the sweetness of the fruit. He scooped you up in his arms, carrying you to the living room and wrapping your naked body in a blanket before settling you on his lap.

“Do you want chicken or Thai for dinner?” he asked casually, turning a series on TV you had been watching together.

“Thai,” you murmured, sinking into his chest and breathing in his familiar scent. He ordered dinner and you dozed in his lap as he stroked your hair and scattered kisses over your face and cheeks. When it arrived, he put you down only to fetch it, returning to feed you noodles while you watched your show in his arms for the rest of the night.

#monster lover #monster x girl #monster boyfriend #monster romance #human x monster #monster x human #yandere male #male yandere #monster smut #yandere smut #smut

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