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Today's Document
One Nice Bug Per Day
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the genesis of the end - s. riley x reader
zombie apocalypse au. - simon riley x pregnant!fem reader. inspired loosely by @drmonstersdungeon ! go check out their work :) zombies based on TLOU infection
~ 3k words
tw: blood, gore, death, weapon usage, zombie/body horror, injury, pregnancy, manipulation, stalking, british inaccuracies
The store had certainly been ransacked thoroughly long before you got to it. Coming into town was something you rarely liked to do. The fungus had taken over the cities and towns, crawling between floorboards in houses and weaving between cracks in the asphalt. It's difficult to navigate without triggering the hive of runners you know linger in the streets and decrepit buildings.
It also reeks.
The stench of decaying corpses and pungent fungi permeates the air in a permanent fog. Wet and thick, it sticks in the back of your throat. It used to trigger your nausea much quicker in the first trimester of your pregnancy, but you've learned new tricks in the last several months of apocalyptic living.
The old journalist in you wants to laugh. Apocalyptic Living, sold on shelves next to those catty rags about the royal family or the American HGTV booklets that are strewn haphazardly across the market floor now. It would've been a laugh. A fake doomsday guide that could never be useful, because zombies weren't real. Five months ago, you would've cackled with your boyfriend about it, teased him for purchasing it, had it been real.
It's real, now. As real as the babe in your womb, the fungus veins on the floor, and as real as the memory of Dorian's throat being ripped out by the mangled jaws of a young woman already rotting from the inside out.
Five months ago, you'd been picking out which brand of pickles he wanted, getting pads, and browsing the biscuit selection in this very store. Now it's as desolate and ransacked as the rest of England.
Toeing carefully through the aisles, you manage to find a lone pack of batteries, a couple non-perishables that had somehow missed earlier inspection, and a couple of medications still within date. They weigh your pack down a bit more, but you're used to the weight. Dorian had been a big camper, so the hiking bag on your back has held most of your possessions for months now.
A scarf is wrapped around the lower half of your face, mint leaves from your small stash of herbs shoved into your nostrils to help the stench. Your pack is accompanied by a rifle on your shoulder and a handgun at your thigh. You'd been fortunate that your mother kept your father's things when he died years ago. Your mum had been on holiday in Sicily when the outbreak happened. She hadn't come home, but you'd been able to get to her house out in the country.
One of the things you'd teased Dorian about was how similar he was to your father. Both of the men you'd loved dearly had been doomsday believers. You'd laughed then. You're grateful now. Thanks to them, you weren't left entirely exposed and vulnerable when the world went to shit.
Your father's hunting coat hides most of the bump at your belly. It serves to keep you warm in the December winter. You snag some hand warmers from the shelf and stuff them into your pockets.
An animalistic cry sounds through the shattered windows of the store. It comes from several blocks over, but it's enough to send a terrifying shiver down your spine. It's time to go. You hoist your pack onto your shoulders and make your way out through a hole in the wall. It's difficult to shift around the vehicle that had wrecked into it, your growing bump becoming more of a hindrance each day, but you squeeze out into the frigid street. A quick look both ways gives you a clear view, and you stick close to the wall, boots quiet as you make an efficient path back to your truck.
It's an electric thing Dorian had spent far too much money on, but, saved again by a man who loved you, your father's home had solar panels, and you could get enough charge to the vehicle if you limited your trips to once every two weeks. It was also quieter than the average truck, which made it less of an attraction.
There's a tremor in your limbs from the cold and an unsettling feeling in your stomach. Coming to town was always dangerous. It increased your risk of exposure exponentially, whether to infected or to ravagers. Some trash rustles down the block behind you, and your pace quickens.
The dread increases to a heart-lurching panic when you round the corner to find the truck sitting on the hubcaps. Tires slashed, all four of them. Your feet stop quickly, and you drop behind an old dumpster, pressing your hand to your mouth. Now was not the time to throw up. The truck had been covered up, half tucked behind another wrecked vehicle, and you had even tossed some trash about for good measure. You'd had an odd feeling in your gut this morning before leaving the farmhouse. You'd even considered staying home. You should've.
Focus, you tell yourself, pinching your leg. It has less of an effect with the gloves you're wearing. But you manage to pull it together enough to grab your pistol with shaking fingers. You're no soldier, no hunter. You're just a girl, scared and alone, vulnerable and cold. Slowly, you push yourself into a crouch, gun tucked to your chest like you'd seen in the cop shows. The wind bites. Another shriek sounds, closer now than before. But you know it wasn't the infected who slashed your tires. Their instinct is far more primal and far less sinister.
You think of the baby inside you, your only friend or family left. You think of the chickens at home in the shed and your dog, Alfie, waiting for you to come back. You can't fail them. You can't fail yourself.
You won't.
Your hands tremble as you pad forward, using the dumpster for cover. You could go around, go through another building. It would be better than heading out into the open. Avoiding the fungus veins on the ground and keeping a semi-steady eye on your surroundings, you duck into a nearby building. It used to be an accounting firm, you think. It smells like old paper, and the office looks decently expensive as you crouch through it. The muscles in your thighs begin to ache from moving in such a position. You force yourself through it. Better achy thighs than a bullet in your head.
Or worse. The thought comes unbidden.
As if the thought had been a premonition, you look up to make eye contact with one rotting, yellow. It moves before you can scream, the creature mutated with fungal mushroom caps growing out of its head and neck. You throw yourself backwards, raising your gun, but the creature swipes it out of your hands, shoving you to the ground.
Your voice is caught in your throat. Nothing comes out. Your eyes squeeze shut.
I'm sorry, you think to your baby, to your little Bug. Forgive me.
The impact doesn't come. A boot plants by your head, sounds of impact filling your ears. The creature groans and roars, but the sound cuts off with a quick, sickening squelch.
Forcing your eyes open, you scramble, shaking terribly, to grab your handgun from the floor. The same boot steps on your hand and you yelp.
"Don't," says a deep voice. You look up as a gloved hand swoops down to snatch your gun, freezing in terror at the sheer size of the man. He's huge, decked out in military grade gear, with a skeleton balaclava covering everything but his eyes. He cleans his knife on his pant leg, then holds the gun, your gun, at you.
"Please don't-" You start, but he cuts you off with a shushing motion. Your mouth snaps shut. What else can you do at gunpoint with a man standing on your hand?
You watch as the man checks the gun with an efficiency you've never before seen. He looks down at you for a moment before nudging your shoulder with his boot to make you roll over. You grunt, but the action twists your arm, and you wince.
His eyes catch on your belly, and you instinctively curl around it as best as you can. His eyes are cold, dark beneath that mask and his strong brow. You watch as his eyes search the rest of you.
"Did it get you?" He asks, voice low. It's almost low and quiet enough that it slips past your ears. You shake your head quickly. You don't think so, anyway. Everything just hurts from hitting the ground. He grunts before lifting his boot off your hand. "Get up. Ravagers found your truck. We need to move."
Your bones ache as you slowly make your way to your feet. The... infected that had attacked you lies on the ground, throat sliced open enough to see the esophagus and trachea. Some sort of fluid that's no longer sanguine leaks from its cut flesh. The sight of it makes bile rise in your throat, so you clamp your hand over your mouth. You're still shaking, still terrified.
He grabs your chin with rough, gloved fingers, making you focus on him. "You gonna be a good girl if I give this back to you?"
Something tingles under your skin. Fear, maybe a flicker of hope. You nod.
He turns it around and places it in the holster at your thigh. "Gonna shoot your own foot off with how you were holdin' it. Stay behind me. Don't talk."
Your face burns beneath the scarf, and your head tilts in a jerky nod. He wouldn't give you your gun back if he wanted to hurt you, right?He'd saved you from the infected. Surely that meant something. He could've let it kill you, then ransack your pack for supplies.
He gives you one lingering look-over to check you again, then turns on his boot, getting out his own gun. You stick close as he leaves the building, eyes wide and frightened, temporarily blinded by the cold light of the December morning. The veins are mostly what you focus on. You don't want to trip and embarrass yourself further.
He moves with the efficiency of a serpent. Smooth movements, quick, steady, sure. Based on the decisiveness of his mobility, you're sure he was a soldier before the outbreak. The gear, the competence with the firearms, and his execution of the infected. It all adds up. You'd done a few interviews and on-site journalism pieces involving the Met-Police, analysing response teams for your articles and local news pieces. He seems... deadlier. Yet, something about having him with you feels safer, even though he's brutish and off-putting.
The mint and cold air burn in your airways, but it keeps you focused, keeps you here. He leads you through alleys, cuts through buildings, and you follow like a loyal, scared dog. Once or twice, he stops and listens. Your lungs tighten around your held breath.
"What is it?" you whisper.
His cold eyes cut to you, dark and calculating. His gaze could cut in its frigidity if your skin wasn't already so cold. "Bein' watched," he mutters in response.
Your stomach squeezes and you think you lose a bit of color. "Ravagers?"
He nods once. "Stay close."
You do as you're told. He's capable, he's better at this than you are, and you're still fucking scared.
He weaves both of you through town, needle and thread through cloth. The man heads north, toward the countryside, where your home sits about an hour north by dirt road. He brings you to an older cottage on the outskirts of town, one long abandoned. Sure feet head through the door as he clears the small home.
You stay in the living room, transfixed by the sight of what was once the abode of a little family. A mum, dad, and little boy. Baby toys litter the floor, pictures lining the walls. There's a mug of tea on the coffee table, long-dry and slightly molded. You wonder if this would've been your life had the outbreak not happened. Led by seemingly mother’s intuition, your feet lead you. You wonder if you're even allowed to call it that, yet. Being a mother doesn't feel quite real.
The nursery is quaint. Warm browns and gentle greens greet you. It's beautiful, genuinely. An uncomfortable knot forms in the middle of your throat. This could've been yours. It should have been yours. Your gloved hand settles over your rounded belly, and you sink into the rocking chair in the corner, feeling your eyes well and spill. Thick, hot tears roll down your cheeks into your scarf. You bury your face into your gloved hands.
You hadn't known you were pregnant when the outbreak hit. You hadn't known when Dorian died. You didn't even know until two months ago. You'd figured the nausea and difference in your period were due to the stress of the world burning down. It hadn't occurred to you in the slightest that you were with child. You were scared shitless upon finding out. You still are. And if it weren't for the fact that you would need medical assistance now with terminating the pregnancy, you probably would've done it.
Somewhere along the line, the little bug had become a friend instead of a parasitic reminder of everything you lost. The it became your baby, your companion. Bug is who you talk to, who you read, and sing to.
A floorboard creaks, and you look up, startled. It's him, the man who saved you. He stares at you. It's so hard to read him with that mask on, but you're starting to think he might just be expressionless.
"Sorry," you sniffle, pulling your scarf down from your face and taking the mint from your nostrils. His eyes immediately catch on the exposed features.
He doesn't respond to your apologies. His dark eyes move about the nursery, taking it all in in that calculating way that he does. The man goes to the closet and grabs a bag, beginning to stuff some baby clothes, wipes, diaper creams, diapers, and anything else he can grab into it.
"What're you doing?" You ask, sniffling again.
He gives you a look that says What do you think I'm doing? You shrink a little.
"You'll need it," he says shortly. "They don't anymore." It's cold. It's cruel. It's true. This family, whoever they are, is clearly not using this home anymore. Maybe they found somewhere safe, you think. You don't allow yourself to muse over other possibilities.
He straightens, hooking the bag over his shoulder. "Ravagers lost us. Let's get going."
You stand, aching, tired, and upset.
"You got somewhere you're staying?" He asks.
You shouldn't tell him. You don't know him. But you're so tired, and you just want to go home. "It's 32 kilometers north. S'why I used the truck," you say solemnly. It would take anywhere between six to nine hours to walk there, probably closer to nine in your condition.
He seems to calculate the same thing. His eyes narrow, and he sighs. "We'll stay here, then, tonight. Leave at first light when you've got some rest."
You don't fight it like you should. Alfie and the chickens will be fine. They've got automatic feeders. So many things have happened this morning, and you're exhausted despite the hour.
"Stay here. I'll be back by 1300. You got a watch?"
You nod, raising your wrist to show him. He nods, then points at your gun. "Get it out."
Frowning, you do as you're told.
He comes over, towering over you in shadow. You compare him in your mind to the god of death. A spectre, maybe. He fixes your grip. "Two hands, like this. Understood?"
You nod, your throat feeling too raw to speak anymore.
"Hang onto it. I'll announce myself when I get back. Shoot anyone else. Understood?" He repeats, voice low and firm.
You nod once again.
"Good girl," he says before placing the baby bag at your feet and disappearing from the cottage.
He walks with an extra pep in his step on his way back to the truck. There were no ravagers. They were easy to pick off, and he's been keeping this town cleaned up for months. He couldn't have it be unsafe for the little rabbit that comes in to forage. The stalker had been a one-off that he'd missed. He'd barely contained his rage when the infected fucker almost got his prey before he did.
Oh, no, he wouldn't have that.
He goes straight to the stack of new tires he'd stashed earlier today. It was easy to set the snare. The little rabbit always parked her truck in the same spot. He knew she was skittish, knew she needed someone to catch her, pet her, keep her safe.
Slashing the tires had been quick work. Putting the new ones on, just the same.
He caught the rabbit; now it was time to take her home.
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 0 · the genesis of the end - s. riley x reader · part two! part one. zombie apocalypse au - simon riley x pregnant!fem reader.
PART TWO IS OUT MY LOVES THANK UUU
the genesis of the end - s. riley x reader
part two! part one.
zombie apocalypse au - simon riley x pregnant!fem reader. inspired loosely by @drmonstersdungeon, thanks for the idea, baby. zombies based on TLOU infection
~2.4k words
tw: suicidal ideation (brief, non-descriptive), character death offscreen and onscreen, british inaccuracies, sadism, stalking
Simon never believed in happy endings. At least, not for men like him. He considered himself lucky to make it to the end of each mission without a bullet in his head or a trip into a two-meter hole in the ground.
He considered himself lucky that he'd at least been home when the outbreak hit England. Getting out of Manchester without getting bitten or killed had been difficult enough. Getting around and surviving in a foreign country or city would've been worse. It hadn't been luck that had him home. It was Johnny's death that had him and his team homebound. The idealist with bright blue eyes and horrible taste in beer, gone from his life in a blink. He'd been unable to stop Johnny's death or the thoughts that plagued him following. Simon considered following him, thinking that maybe the God Johnny believed in would let him in through those gates. But he knew better. Men like Johnny went to heaven.
Men like Simon would not.
The scarred man had headed to the coast, in that general direction, at least. Price had a cabin out on the cliffs, one he let the men use from time to time. It was lovely. Simon remembered going, when the team was still whole, and Price's lovely missus was expecting their third. He remembered watching the eldest two run underfoot, Price's laughter, the missus' doting smile, and the swell of her belly. Johnny had always wanted kids. He wanted a lass that'd give him an entire football team, though Simon knew that Johnny would kiss the very ground she walked on, and she'd have him on a leash.
Simon had felt a... hunger. Deep, low in his gut, and dangerous. He watched Price and his wife. He watched the children play and dote on their mother's growing womb. He knew the captain knew it, just the same way a handler knew his loyal dog. It wasn't that he wanted her or Price's life as his own. He wanted a lass of his own. Some delicate bird to rely on him. He didn't care about looks (though he'd prefer one with a bit of meat on her bones). Simon wanted someone to need him.
The way that Johnny had.
But he knew he'd never feel for another man the way he had about Johnny, and he'd put his foolish dreams to rest. A bird like that didn't exist.
And a man like Simon didn't get happy endings.
He'd made it as far as Bury before traffic became... strange. People were beginning to crash along the highways, getting out of their cars, bloodied, mangled from accidents, and wild-eyed. He'd been none too keen on getting out of his truck when he saw people beginning to tear each other apart, overcome by madness or sickness. He turned his vehicle to the shoulder of the road, roaring past until he was forced to get out in Ingleton, near the national parks.
His phone had quit working, and the cell towers shut down. Simon was only able to get hold of Gaz, though he hadn't heard from him after the younger man had gone south to find his parents.
Grief consumed him in waves as he trekked through the hills of Yorkshire Dales. He steered toward the ledges, eyes constantly on his surroundings.
He counted himself lucky once more that he'd thought to bring his gear. Just in case Price found Makarov and needed him to take revenge for their fallen boy.
Months passed in the parks. He continued his trek north, avoiding towns until he needed food or supplies, avoiding roads until they needed to be crossed. The world changed before him, and he became a ghost. A hollowed-out husk only meant to survive. For what, he did not know. Something nagged at him. The back of his mind itched as he lay in his camp spot. He'd found a good spot hollowed out in the ledges. Enough game traveled through that he'd been able to eat, and a fresh spring ran nearby. He'd survived worse at the hands of Roba. At least now, his solitude was determined by his own means.
For weeks, he lay awake, staring at the ceiling of the cave, wondering about his brothers, wondering about his captain, and wondering if all of this effort to stay alive was worth it.
But Johnny nagged at him. Stubborn bastard, even beyond the grave.
C'mon, L.T., I'm tellin' ye, ye've got ta keep movin'. We're almost there. Keep movin'. We're goin' home.
Simon and Johnny had been pinned down in a gnarly fight in Mexico. Simon had taken a sniper round to the thigh, bleeding through the bandage. Johnny's tourniquet couldn't even seem to work. Simon was convinced he was going to lose his leg or die before it came off. But Johnny, the insufferable optimist, ignored his orders to leave him behind and forced them all the way to safety.
And it was Johnny who led him to you.
Simon continued north after maintaining his territory in the hills for nearly three months. Four months had passed since the outbreak. Four and a half since Johnny died. Four since he lost everything else that ever meant anything to him.
The town was small, overrun by veins and corpses. Time in the hills had cleared his lungs apart from the cigarette usage, so the smell hits a spot in the back of his throat. The scarred, crooked nose beneath his balaclava crinkled in disgust as he weaved through the narrow streets. It was clear to Simon that there were ravagers here, though he didn't know them by that name. Recognizing the traps was easy. He'd count himself lucky for his experience in the military once again. His booted feet moved nimbly, cold eyes calculating. Every flutter of trash, shifting of curtains through broken windows, he saw it all.
A quiet hum filled the air, followed by the crunch of tires on stone. Simon plastered himself against a wall, crouching as a truck coasted slowly into town. He saw the woman immediately through the windshield. Your eyes were shifty, terrified even, as you pulled the truck into a side street. Smart thing, you tried your best to hide it. An amused smirk twitched at his lips as the bird covered the truck in trash and a dirty sheet.
His eyes took in your gear. The hiking pack, the boots, the shaking hands holding a small pistol. His amused smirk disappeared. You were holding it wrong, and your gloves were too big. You'd hurt yourself.
A scratching tickled the base of his cerebellum, as though someone with long nails was trailing them over a primal instinct in his brain. So, naturally, he followed you. The woman knew better than to step on the veins. That was good, he decided. You weren't entirely helpless. You couldn't have been if you had survived this long. He watched you squeeze into the old market. Through the window, he observed as you shoved item after item into your pack. You reminded him of a squirrel or a rabbit: shifty eyes, quick movements.
Then, your hand graced your stomach. Just once, just a caress. His eyes zeroed in on the movement. Heat seeped from his chest through the rest of his limbs.
So the lass was pregnant.
Any man of worth wouldn't let you come here on your own. Any man of worth wouldn't let you out of his sight. So whatever man had you, if there was any, would be dealt with. You needed someone to care for you properly.
You eventually wormed your way back to your truck. Driving away quickly, you didn't notice your following. More than one predator had eyes on you as you made your escape.
The plotting ravagers, a group of three, died quickly. Simon didn't need to waste bullets on the spineless men. It felt good to deal with them by his own hands. The rush of warm blood soaking his gloves was a carnal pleasure that he hadn't felt in months. He fed the bodies to the local infected before clearing them out, too. If you came back, the town needed to be safe for you.
So he watched. Simon waited. He wouldn't be able to keep up with your truck, but rabbits like you were creatures of habit. Every two weeks, you came back, ransacked your little store, and left again. He liked watching you. Your movements and mannerisms endeared you to him rather swiftly. You were always so timid and frightened, easily startled into full fear.
I will protect you, he thought, and you won't need to be scared.
Slashing your tires had been easy that December morning. He was almost furious at you for how trusting you were. But it didn't matter. Simon would keep you safe, far away from anyone who would hurt you.
The truck rolls easily in front of the cottage he'd left you in. Before the outbreak, he'd have said something smart about electric drivers being pussies, but now, he keeps his mouth shut. It's quiet, and obviously, his rabbit has some way to charge it.
His boots hit stone before he heads inside. He's wordless as he heads to the nursery, finding you curled around a small stuffy, still clutching the gun like he showed you. A bunny, he realizes. Fitting.
"Found some new tires," he says gruffly, taking the baby bag and hoisting it over his shoulder. "Let's go. Wanna get back before sundown."
You sniffle, nose reddened and cheeks drying. He likes the sight of your tears a bit too much. "Back?" You ask as you get up. "I thought we were leaving in the morning?"
His cold eyes level at you, the only feature you can see. He can't decide whether stupidity lies in you for your lack of fear in him, or if it's intelligence that recognizes the protective beast inside him. There's very little good left in him, but he could give every drying drop to you.
"Your place. I'm assuming you've got somewhere to charge that truck of yours," Simon responds plainly, already walking through the cottage, back out to the truck. He knows that you have a farmhouse. He saw the mud on the tires. He doesn't bother explaining why he changed his mind. You wouldn't sleep well here. That wouldn't do.
You follow, wiping your nose with your sleeve and giving a quiet, "Okay."
It pleases him greatly that he doesn't have to domesticate you in this moment. He hopes that you'll have some bite later, but right now, he knows that his little rabbit needs coddling. A warm blanket, fire, perhaps some soup, and for him to hold you. His chest puffs slightly as he takes your bag, hoisting it into the cab, before rounding the truck to open the door for you.
You pause momentarily. It's been a while since you've had true human interaction. His action throws you, but the grunt he gives and a hand on your back force you to push through it.
He comes back to the driver's side, allowing you to quietly direct him out of the town and to your home. The countryside passes your tired gaze, your head leaning against the cold glass of the window. Snow drifts cause slight pain behind your eyes as the winter sun reflects light from the ivory blanket, so you let them slip closed.
Simon is pleased by this, he thinks. He makes sure the heat is blowing, fixing your vent. "When's it due?" He asks, eyes flicking once to your bump. His tone is nonchalant, uninterested, like he's speaking to a coworker only to be polite.
"Uhm, April or May, I think," you murmur quietly, shifting your head to look at him.
"Y'think?" He repeats. The tone is only slightly condescending.
Your cheeks puff, and you blow out a long breath. "I didn't know before the outbreak. I didn't get to go to the doctor."
An organ in his chest tightens at the thought of his poor girl finding out such a big thing on her own. His eyes stay on the road ahead. "And the father?"
There's a long moment of silence. Only crunching snow beneath tires and the air pulling through the vents greet him until he looks at you. Your eyes are misty.
"He died," you answer, voice weak. You clear your throat, and he wishes for a moment that he could hold your hand without weirding you out. He'd have to work you a bit before sinking his teeth in. "The third day of the outbreak."
There's a sick feeling of glee and rage, a sanguine combination that cases his bones with lead. Glee that he didn't have to dispatch your partner and scare you. Rage that he hadn't been able to watch the light fade from your partner's eyes while he stole you from him. "Shit luck," he says instead of the sadistic commentary in his mind. "On your own, then?"
You give another nod, wiping at your eyes. "Well, Bug and I. And Alfie. And the hens."
His gaze turns to you. "Alfie?"
You nod. "My dog. An Irish setter."
Simon grunted. That breed wasn't ideal for protection, but he gathered that he could train the beast all the same. Hens meant eggs, which were good, and meat, which was also good. "You've kept the place running, then?"
Your thumbs play with the edge of your coat, and you give a half-shrug. "My parents were doomsday preppers. There's solar panels and such. A greenhouse for vegetables and herbs. My dad built a system that recycles the snow into water for it."
His giant hand settles atop your head, giving you a rough ruffle just once before it returns to the wheel. "Good girl, sweetheart. It was very smart to go there."
The praise warms you, while a bit startling, and you relax further into the leather.
With the skin of your cheeks darkening just a bit, you gesture to a driveway that splits a row of trees. "There."
He turns, gloved hands deft and capable. The driveway winds through a pasture and into the hills a bit before he sees your home. Victory wells in his chest, a wolf pissing on a new tree to claim his territory. He turns to face you, dangerous light gleaming in his eyes. "Let's get you inside, rabbit."
Honey, I'm home.
a/n: hey!!! ik this was delayed and i didn't proofread so if there's anything crazy let me know, lol. this is mostly more story-building i suppose. also, bisexual!simon is real to me, so keep it to yourself if you disagree.
listening to "crying during sex" and "crush" by ethel cain while writing this
i love you. thank you for everything.
okay guys I have an original idea that I’m gonna turn into a fic so I need opinions on what you guys want first so fill out this poll for me 🫶🏻 happy holidays!!
which do you want first?
the genesis of the end pt 2 (zombie au simon riley x reader)
fall of the phoenix king (rebel!simon x princess!reader)
the genesis of the end - s. riley x reader
zombie apocalypse au. - simon riley x pregnant!fem reader. inspired loosely by @drmonstersdungeon ! go check out their work :) zombies based on TLOU infection
~ 3k words
tw: blood, gore, death, weapon usage, zombie/body horror, injury, pregnancy, manipulation, stalking, british inaccuracies
The store had certainly been ransacked thoroughly long before you got to it. Coming into town was something you rarely liked to do. The fungus had taken over the cities and towns, crawling between floorboards in houses and weaving between cracks in the asphalt. It's difficult to navigate without triggering the hive of runners you know linger in the streets and decrepit buildings.
It also reeks.
The stench of decaying corpses and pungent fungi permeates the air in a permanent fog. Wet and thick, it sticks in the back of your throat. It used to trigger your nausea much quicker in the first trimester of your pregnancy, but you've learned new tricks in the last several months of apocalyptic living.
The old journalist in you wants to laugh. Apocalyptic Living, sold on shelves next to those catty rags about the royal family or the American HGTV booklets that are strewn haphazardly across the market floor now. It would've been a laugh. A fake doomsday guide that could never be useful, because zombies weren't real. Five months ago, you would've cackled with your boyfriend about it, teased him for purchasing it, had it been real.
It's real, now. As real as the babe in your womb, the fungus veins on the floor, and as real as the memory of Dorian's throat being ripped out by the mangled jaws of a young woman already rotting from the inside out.
Five months ago, you'd been picking out which brand of pickles he wanted, getting pads, and browsing the biscuit selection in this very store. Now it's as desolate and ransacked as the rest of England.
Toeing carefully through the aisles, you manage to find a lone pack of batteries, a couple non-perishables that had somehow missed earlier inspection, and a couple of medications still within date. They weigh your pack down a bit more, but you're used to the weight. Dorian had been a big camper, so the hiking bag on your back has held most of your possessions for months now.
A scarf is wrapped around the lower half of your face, mint leaves from your small stash of herbs shoved into your nostrils to help the stench. Your pack is accompanied by a rifle on your shoulder and a handgun at your thigh. You'd been fortunate that your mother kept your father's things when he died years ago. Your mum had been on holiday in Sicily when the outbreak happened. She hadn't come home, but you'd been able to get to her house out in the country.
One of the things you'd teased Dorian about was how similar he was to your father. Both of the men you'd loved dearly had been doomsday believers. You'd laughed then. You're grateful now. Thanks to them, you weren't left entirely exposed and vulnerable when the world went to shit.
Your father's hunting coat hides most of the bump at your belly. It serves to keep you warm in the December winter. You snag some hand warmers from the shelf and stuff them into your pockets.
An animalistic cry sounds through the shattered windows of the store. It comes from several blocks over, but it's enough to send a terrifying shiver down your spine. It's time to go. You hoist your pack onto your shoulders and make your way out through a hole in the wall. It's difficult to shift around the vehicle that had wrecked into it, your growing bump becoming more of a hindrance each day, but you squeeze out into the frigid street. A quick look both ways gives you a clear view, and you stick close to the wall, boots quiet as you make an efficient path back to your truck.
It's an electric thing Dorian had spent far too much money on, but, saved again by a man who loved you, your father's home had solar panels, and you could get enough charge to the vehicle if you limited your trips to once every two weeks. It was also quieter than the average truck, which made it less of an attraction.
There's a tremor in your limbs from the cold and an unsettling feeling in your stomach. Coming to town was always dangerous. It increased your risk of exposure exponentially, whether to infected or to ravagers. Some trash rustles down the block behind you, and your pace quickens.
The dread increases to a heart-lurching panic when you round the corner to find the truck sitting on the hubcaps. Tires slashed, all four of them. Your feet stop quickly, and you drop behind an old dumpster, pressing your hand to your mouth. Now was not the time to throw up. The truck had been covered up, half tucked behind another wrecked vehicle, and you had even tossed some trash about for good measure. You'd had an odd feeling in your gut this morning before leaving the farmhouse. You'd even considered staying home. You should've.
Focus, you tell yourself, pinching your leg. It has less of an effect with the gloves you're wearing. But you manage to pull it together enough to grab your pistol with shaking fingers. You're no soldier, no hunter. You're just a girl, scared and alone, vulnerable and cold. Slowly, you push yourself into a crouch, gun tucked to your chest like you'd seen in the cop shows. The wind bites. Another shriek sounds, closer now than before. But you know it wasn't the infected who slashed your tires. Their instinct is far more primal and far less sinister.
You think of the baby inside you, your only friend or family left. You think of the chickens at home in the shed and your dog, Alfie, waiting for you to come back. You can't fail them. You can't fail yourself.
You won't.
Your hands tremble as you pad forward, using the dumpster for cover. You could go around, go through another building. It would be better than heading out into the open. Avoiding the fungus veins on the ground and keeping a semi-steady eye on your surroundings, you duck into a nearby building. It used to be an accounting firm, you think. It smells like old paper, and the office looks decently expensive as you crouch through it. The muscles in your thighs begin to ache from moving in such a position. You force yourself through it. Better achy thighs than a bullet in your head.
Or worse. The thought comes unbidden.
As if the thought had been a premonition, you look up to make eye contact with one rotting, yellow. It moves before you can scream, the creature mutated with fungal mushroom caps growing out of its head and neck. You throw yourself backwards, raising your gun, but the creature swipes it out of your hands, shoving you to the ground.
Your voice is caught in your throat. Nothing comes out. Your eyes squeeze shut.
I'm sorry, you think to your baby, to your little Bug. Forgive me.
The impact doesn't come. A boot plants by your head, sounds of impact filling your ears. The creature groans and roars, but the sound cuts off with a quick, sickening squelch.
Forcing your eyes open, you scramble, shaking terribly, to grab your handgun from the floor. The same boot steps on your hand and you yelp.
"Don't," says a deep voice. You look up as a gloved hand swoops down to snatch your gun, freezing in terror at the sheer size of the man. He's huge, decked out in military grade gear, with a skeleton balaclava covering everything but his eyes. He cleans his knife on his pant leg, then holds the gun, your gun, at you.
"Please don't-" You start, but he cuts you off with a shushing motion. Your mouth snaps shut. What else can you do at gunpoint with a man standing on your hand?
You watch as the man checks the gun with an efficiency you've never before seen. He looks down at you for a moment before nudging your shoulder with his boot to make you roll over. You grunt, but the action twists your arm, and you wince.
His eyes catch on your belly, and you instinctively curl around it as best as you can. His eyes are cold, dark beneath that mask and his strong brow. You watch as his eyes search the rest of you.
"Did it get you?" He asks, voice low. It's almost low and quiet enough that it slips past your ears. You shake your head quickly. You don't think so, anyway. Everything just hurts from hitting the ground. He grunts before lifting his boot off your hand. "Get up. Ravagers found your truck. We need to move."
Your bones ache as you slowly make your way to your feet. The... infected that had attacked you lies on the ground, throat sliced open enough to see the esophagus and trachea. Some sort of fluid that's no longer sanguine leaks from its cut flesh. The sight of it makes bile rise in your throat, so you clamp your hand over your mouth. You're still shaking, still terrified.
He grabs your chin with rough, gloved fingers, making you focus on him. "You gonna be a good girl if I give this back to you?"
Something tingles under your skin. Fear, maybe a flicker of hope. You nod.
He turns it around and places it in the holster at your thigh. "Gonna shoot your own foot off with how you were holdin' it. Stay behind me. Don't talk."
Your face burns beneath the scarf, and your head tilts in a jerky nod. He wouldn't give you your gun back if he wanted to hurt you, right?He'd saved you from the infected. Surely that meant something. He could've let it kill you, then ransack your pack for supplies.
He gives you one lingering look-over to check you again, then turns on his boot, getting out his own gun. You stick close as he leaves the building, eyes wide and frightened, temporarily blinded by the cold light of the December morning. The veins are mostly what you focus on. You don't want to trip and embarrass yourself further.
He moves with the efficiency of a serpent. Smooth movements, quick, steady, sure. Based on the decisiveness of his mobility, you're sure he was a soldier before the outbreak. The gear, the competence with the firearms, and his execution of the infected. It all adds up. You'd done a few interviews and on-site journalism pieces involving the Met-Police, analysing response teams for your articles and local news pieces. He seems... deadlier. Yet, something about having him with you feels safer, even though he's brutish and off-putting.
The mint and cold air burn in your airways, but it keeps you focused, keeps you here. He leads you through alleys, cuts through buildings, and you follow like a loyal, scared dog. Once or twice, he stops and listens. Your lungs tighten around your held breath.
"What is it?" you whisper.
His cold eyes cut to you, dark and calculating. His gaze could cut in its frigidity if your skin wasn't already so cold. "Bein' watched," he mutters in response.
Your stomach squeezes and you think you lose a bit of color. "Ravagers?"
He nods once. "Stay close."
You do as you're told. He's capable, he's better at this than you are, and you're still fucking scared.
He weaves both of you through town, needle and thread through cloth. The man heads north, toward the countryside, where your home sits about an hour north by dirt road. He brings you to an older cottage on the outskirts of town, one long abandoned. Sure feet head through the door as he clears the small home.
You stay in the living room, transfixed by the sight of what was once the abode of a little family. A mum, dad, and little boy. Baby toys litter the floor, pictures lining the walls. There's a mug of tea on the coffee table, long-dry and slightly molded. You wonder if this would've been your life had the outbreak not happened. Led by seemingly mother’s intuition, your feet lead you. You wonder if you're even allowed to call it that, yet. Being a mother doesn't feel quite real.
The nursery is quaint. Warm browns and gentle greens greet you. It's beautiful, genuinely. An uncomfortable knot forms in the middle of your throat. This could've been yours. It should have been yours. Your gloved hand settles over your rounded belly, and you sink into the rocking chair in the corner, feeling your eyes well and spill. Thick, hot tears roll down your cheeks into your scarf. You bury your face into your gloved hands.
You hadn't known you were pregnant when the outbreak hit. You hadn't known when Dorian died. You didn't even know until two months ago. You'd figured the nausea and difference in your period were due to the stress of the world burning down. It hadn't occurred to you in the slightest that you were with child. You were scared shitless upon finding out. You still are. And if it weren't for the fact that you would need medical assistance now with terminating the pregnancy, you probably would've done it.
Somewhere along the line, the little bug had become a friend instead of a parasitic reminder of everything you lost. The it became your baby, your companion. Bug is who you talk to, who you read, and sing to.
A floorboard creaks, and you look up, startled. It's him, the man who saved you. He stares at you. It's so hard to read him with that mask on, but you're starting to think he might just be expressionless.
"Sorry," you sniffle, pulling your scarf down from your face and taking the mint from your nostrils. His eyes immediately catch on the exposed features.
He doesn't respond to your apologies. His dark eyes move about the nursery, taking it all in in that calculating way that he does. The man goes to the closet and grabs a bag, beginning to stuff some baby clothes, wipes, diaper creams, diapers, and anything else he can grab into it.
"What're you doing?" You ask, sniffling again.
He gives you a look that says What do you think I'm doing? You shrink a little.
"You'll need it," he says shortly. "They don't anymore." It's cold. It's cruel. It's true. This family, whoever they are, is clearly not using this home anymore. Maybe they found somewhere safe, you think. You don't allow yourself to muse over other possibilities.
He straightens, hooking the bag over his shoulder. "Ravagers lost us. Let's get going."
You stand, aching, tired, and upset.
"You got somewhere you're staying?" He asks.
You shouldn't tell him. You don't know him. But you're so tired, and you just want to go home. "It's 32 kilometers north. S'why I used the truck," you say solemnly. It would take anywhere between six to nine hours to walk there, probably closer to nine in your condition.
He seems to calculate the same thing. His eyes narrow, and he sighs. "We'll stay here, then, tonight. Leave at first light when you've got some rest."
You don't fight it like you should. Alfie and the chickens will be fine. They've got automatic feeders. So many things have happened this morning, and you're exhausted despite the hour.
"Stay here. I'll be back by 1300. You got a watch?"
You nod, raising your wrist to show him. He nods, then points at your gun. "Get it out."
Frowning, you do as you're told.
He comes over, towering over you in shadow. You compare him in your mind to the god of death. A spectre, maybe. He fixes your grip. "Two hands, like this. Understood?"
You nod, your throat feeling too raw to speak anymore.
"Hang onto it. I'll announce myself when I get back. Shoot anyone else. Understood?" He repeats, voice low and firm.
You nod once again.
"Good girl," he says before placing the baby bag at your feet and disappearing from the cottage.
He walks with an extra pep in his step on his way back to the truck. There were no ravagers. They were easy to pick off, and he's been keeping this town cleaned up for months. He couldn't have it be unsafe for the little rabbit that comes in to forage. The stalker had been a one-off that he'd missed. He'd barely contained his rage when the infected fucker almost got his prey before he did.
Oh, no, he wouldn't have that.
He goes straight to the stack of new tires he'd stashed earlier today. It was easy to set the snare. The little rabbit always parked her truck in the same spot. He knew she was skittish, knew she needed someone to catch her, pet her, keep her safe.
Slashing the tires had been quick work. Putting the new ones on, just the same.
He caught the rabbit; now it was time to take her home.
screaming crying throwing up because I’ve gained 39 new friends after posting the ghost zombie au 😭 AND received my first lil fanmail.
sort of busy these next few days with Christmas coming up BUT part two is coming so keep your eyes peeled.
thank you for everything my lil freaks
told @sunflowervase months ago that i would write her a fanfic of her choice. today, on her birthday, i delivered 5k+ words of COD x reader smut. friendship is so important because never would i have had to research if johnny mactavish’s dick would be cut or uncut without her being in my life <3
I am so grateful to have broadened your writing and research horizons 🙂↕️🙂↕️
the genesis of the end - s. riley x reader
zombie apocalypse au. - simon riley x pregnant!fem reader. inspired loosely by @drmonstersdungeon ! go check out their work :) zombies based on TLOU infection
~ 3k words
tw: blood, gore, death, weapon usage, zombie/body horror, injury, pregnancy, manipulation, stalking, british inaccuracies
The store had certainly been ransacked thoroughly long before you got to it. Coming into town was something you rarely liked to do. The fungus had taken over the cities and towns, crawling between floorboards in houses and weaving between cracks in the asphalt. It's difficult to navigate without triggering the hive of runners you know linger in the streets and decrepit buildings.
It also reeks.
The stench of decaying corpses and pungent fungi permeates the air in a permanent fog. Wet and thick, it sticks in the back of your throat. It used to trigger your nausea much quicker in the first trimester of your pregnancy, but you've learned new tricks in the last several months of apocalyptic living.
The old journalist in you wants to laugh. Apocalyptic Living, sold on shelves next to those catty rags about the royal family or the American HGTV booklets that are strewn haphazardly across the market floor now. It would've been a laugh. A fake doomsday guide that could never be useful, because zombies weren't real. Five months ago, you would've cackled with your boyfriend about it, teased him for purchasing it, had it been real.
It's real, now. As real as the babe in your womb, the fungus veins on the floor, and as real as the memory of Dorian's throat being ripped out by the mangled jaws of a young woman already rotting from the inside out.
Five months ago, you'd been picking out which brand of pickles he wanted, getting pads, and browsing the biscuit selection in this very store. Now it's as desolate and ransacked as the rest of England.
Toeing carefully through the aisles, you manage to find a lone pack of batteries, a couple non-perishables that had somehow missed earlier inspection, and a couple of medications still within date. They weigh your pack down a bit more, but you're used to the weight. Dorian had been a big camper, so the hiking bag on your back has held most of your possessions for months now.
A scarf is wrapped around the lower half of your face, mint leaves from your small stash of herbs shoved into your nostrils to help the stench. Your pack is accompanied by a rifle on your shoulder and a handgun at your thigh. You'd been fortunate that your mother kept your father's things when he died years ago. Your mum had been on holiday in Sicily when the outbreak happened. She hadn't come home, but you'd been able to get to her house out in the country.
One of the things you'd teased Dorian about was how similar he was to your father. Both of the men you'd loved dearly had been doomsday believers. You'd laughed then. You're grateful now. Thanks to them, you weren't left entirely exposed and vulnerable when the world went to shit.
Your father's hunting coat hides most of the bump at your belly. It serves to keep you warm in the December winter. You snag some hand warmers from the shelf and stuff them into your pockets.
An animalistic cry sounds through the shattered windows of the store. It comes from several blocks over, but it's enough to send a terrifying shiver down your spine. It's time to go. You hoist your pack onto your shoulders and make your way out through a hole in the wall. It's difficult to shift around the vehicle that had wrecked into it, your growing bump becoming more of a hindrance each day, but you squeeze out into the frigid street. A quick look both ways gives you a clear view, and you stick close to the wall, boots quiet as you make an efficient path back to your truck.
It's an electric thing Dorian had spent far too much money on, but, saved again by a man who loved you, your father's home had solar panels, and you could get enough charge to the vehicle if you limited your trips to once every two weeks. It was also quieter than the average truck, which made it less of an attraction.
There's a tremor in your limbs from the cold and an unsettling feeling in your stomach. Coming to town was always dangerous. It increased your risk of exposure exponentially, whether to infected or to ravagers. Some trash rustles down the block behind you, and your pace quickens.
The dread increases to a heart-lurching panic when you round the corner to find the truck sitting on the hubcaps. Tires slashed, all four of them. Your feet stop quickly, and you drop behind an old dumpster, pressing your hand to your mouth. Now was not the time to throw up. The truck had been covered up, half tucked behind another wrecked vehicle, and you had even tossed some trash about for good measure. You'd had an odd feeling in your gut this morning before leaving the farmhouse. You'd even considered staying home. You should've.
Focus, you tell yourself, pinching your leg. It has less of an effect with the gloves you're wearing. But you manage to pull it together enough to grab your pistol with shaking fingers. You're no soldier, no hunter. You're just a girl, scared and alone, vulnerable and cold. Slowly, you push yourself into a crouch, gun tucked to your chest like you'd seen in the cop shows. The wind bites. Another shriek sounds, closer now than before. But you know it wasn't the infected who slashed your tires. Their instinct is far more primal and far less sinister.
You think of the baby inside you, your only friend or family left. You think of the chickens at home in the shed and your dog, Alfie, waiting for you to come back. You can't fail them. You can't fail yourself.
You won't.
Your hands tremble as you pad forward, using the dumpster for cover. You could go around, go through another building. It would be better than heading out into the open. Avoiding the fungus veins on the ground and keeping a semi-steady eye on your surroundings, you duck into a nearby building. It used to be an accounting firm, you think. It smells like old paper, and the office looks decently expensive as you crouch through it. The muscles in your thighs begin to ache from moving in such a position. You force yourself through it. Better achy thighs than a bullet in your head.
Or worse. The thought comes unbidden.
As if the thought had been a premonition, you look up to make eye contact with one rotting, yellow. It moves before you can scream, the creature mutated with fungal mushroom caps growing out of its head and neck. You throw yourself backwards, raising your gun, but the creature swipes it out of your hands, shoving you to the ground.
Your voice is caught in your throat. Nothing comes out. Your eyes squeeze shut.
I'm sorry, you think to your baby, to your little Bug. Forgive me.
The impact doesn't come. A boot plants by your head, sounds of impact filling your ears. The creature groans and roars, but the sound cuts off with a quick, sickening squelch.
Forcing your eyes open, you scramble, shaking terribly, to grab your handgun from the floor. The same boot steps on your hand and you yelp.
"Don't," says a deep voice. You look up as a gloved hand swoops down to snatch your gun, freezing in terror at the sheer size of the man. He's huge, decked out in military grade gear, with a skeleton balaclava covering everything but his eyes. He cleans his knife on his pant leg, then holds the gun, your gun, at you.
"Please don't-" You start, but he cuts you off with a shushing motion. Your mouth snaps shut. What else can you do at gunpoint with a man standing on your hand?
You watch as the man checks the gun with an efficiency you've never before seen. He looks down at you for a moment before nudging your shoulder with his boot to make you roll over. You grunt, but the action twists your arm, and you wince.
His eyes catch on your belly, and you instinctively curl around it as best as you can. His eyes are cold, dark beneath that mask and his strong brow. You watch as his eyes search the rest of you.
"Did it get you?" He asks, voice low. It's almost low and quiet enough that it slips past your ears. You shake your head quickly. You don't think so, anyway. Everything just hurts from hitting the ground. He grunts before lifting his boot off your hand. "Get up. Ravagers found your truck. We need to move."
Your bones ache as you slowly make your way to your feet. The... infected that had attacked you lies on the ground, throat sliced open enough to see the esophagus and trachea. Some sort of fluid that's no longer sanguine leaks from its cut flesh. The sight of it makes bile rise in your throat, so you clamp your hand over your mouth. You're still shaking, still terrified.
He grabs your chin with rough, gloved fingers, making you focus on him. "You gonna be a good girl if I give this back to you?"
Something tingles under your skin. Fear, maybe a flicker of hope. You nod.
He turns it around and places it in the holster at your thigh. "Gonna shoot your own foot off with how you were holdin' it. Stay behind me. Don't talk."
Your face burns beneath the scarf, and your head tilts in a jerky nod. He wouldn't give you your gun back if he wanted to hurt you, right?He'd saved you from the infected. Surely that meant something. He could've let it kill you, then ransack your pack for supplies.
He gives you one lingering look-over to check you again, then turns on his boot, getting out his own gun. You stick close as he leaves the building, eyes wide and frightened, temporarily blinded by the cold light of the December morning. The veins are mostly what you focus on. You don't want to trip and embarrass yourself further.
He moves with the efficiency of a serpent. Smooth movements, quick, steady, sure. Based on the decisiveness of his mobility, you're sure he was a soldier before the outbreak. The gear, the competence with the firearms, and his execution of the infected. It all adds up. You'd done a few interviews and on-site journalism pieces involving the Met-Police, analysing response teams for your articles and local news pieces. He seems... deadlier. Yet, something about having him with you feels safer, even though he's brutish and off-putting.
The mint and cold air burn in your airways, but it keeps you focused, keeps you here. He leads you through alleys, cuts through buildings, and you follow like a loyal, scared dog. Once or twice, he stops and listens. Your lungs tighten around your held breath.
"What is it?" you whisper.
His cold eyes cut to you, dark and calculating. His gaze could cut in its frigidity if your skin wasn't already so cold. "Bein' watched," he mutters in response.
Your stomach squeezes and you think you lose a bit of color. "Ravagers?"
He nods once. "Stay close."
You do as you're told. He's capable, he's better at this than you are, and you're still fucking scared.
He weaves both of you through town, needle and thread through cloth. The man heads north, toward the countryside, where your home sits about an hour north by dirt road. He brings you to an older cottage on the outskirts of town, one long abandoned. Sure feet head through the door as he clears the small home.
You stay in the living room, transfixed by the sight of what was once the abode of a little family. A mum, dad, and little boy. Baby toys litter the floor, pictures lining the walls. There's a mug of tea on the coffee table, long-dry and slightly molded. You wonder if this would've been your life had the outbreak not happened. Led by seemingly mother’s intuition, your feet lead you. You wonder if you're even allowed to call it that, yet. Being a mother doesn't feel quite real.
The nursery is quaint. Warm browns and gentle greens greet you. It's beautiful, genuinely. An uncomfortable knot forms in the middle of your throat. This could've been yours. It should have been yours. Your gloved hand settles over your rounded belly, and you sink into the rocking chair in the corner, feeling your eyes well and spill. Thick, hot tears roll down your cheeks into your scarf. You bury your face into your gloved hands.
You hadn't known you were pregnant when the outbreak hit. You hadn't known when Dorian died. You didn't even know until two months ago. You'd figured the nausea and difference in your period were due to the stress of the world burning down. It hadn't occurred to you in the slightest that you were with child. You were scared shitless upon finding out. You still are. And if it weren't for the fact that you would need medical assistance now with terminating the pregnancy, you probably would've done it.
Somewhere along the line, the little bug had become a friend instead of a parasitic reminder of everything you lost. The it became your baby, your companion. Bug is who you talk to, who you read, and sing to.
A floorboard creaks, and you look up, startled. It's him, the man who saved you. He stares at you. It's so hard to read him with that mask on, but you're starting to think he might just be expressionless.
"Sorry," you sniffle, pulling your scarf down from your face and taking the mint from your nostrils. His eyes immediately catch on the exposed features.
He doesn't respond to your apologies. His dark eyes move about the nursery, taking it all in in that calculating way that he does. The man goes to the closet and grabs a bag, beginning to stuff some baby clothes, wipes, diaper creams, diapers, and anything else he can grab into it.
"What're you doing?" You ask, sniffling again.
He gives you a look that says What do you think I'm doing? You shrink a little.
"You'll need it," he says shortly. "They don't anymore." It's cold. It's cruel. It's true. This family, whoever they are, is clearly not using this home anymore. Maybe they found somewhere safe, you think. You don't allow yourself to muse over other possibilities.
He straightens, hooking the bag over his shoulder. "Ravagers lost us. Let's get going."
You stand, aching, tired, and upset.
"You got somewhere you're staying?" He asks.
You shouldn't tell him. You don't know him. But you're so tired, and you just want to go home. "It's 32 kilometers north. S'why I used the truck," you say solemnly. It would take anywhere between six to nine hours to walk there, probably closer to nine in your condition.
He seems to calculate the same thing. His eyes narrow, and he sighs. "We'll stay here, then, tonight. Leave at first light when you've got some rest."
You don't fight it like you should. Alfie and the chickens will be fine. They've got automatic feeders. So many things have happened this morning, and you're exhausted despite the hour.
"Stay here. I'll be back by 1300. You got a watch?"
You nod, raising your wrist to show him. He nods, then points at your gun. "Get it out."
Frowning, you do as you're told.
He comes over, towering over you in shadow. You compare him in your mind to the god of death. A spectre, maybe. He fixes your grip. "Two hands, like this. Understood?"
You nod, your throat feeling too raw to speak anymore.
"Hang onto it. I'll announce myself when I get back. Shoot anyone else. Understood?" He repeats, voice low and firm.
You nod once again.
"Good girl," he says before placing the baby bag at your feet and disappearing from the cottage.
He walks with an extra pep in his step on his way back to the truck. There were no ravagers. They were easy to pick off, and he's been keeping this town cleaned up for months. He couldn't have it be unsafe for the little rabbit that comes in to forage. The stalker had been a one-off that he'd missed. He'd barely contained his rage when the infected fucker almost got his prey before he did.
Oh, no, he wouldn't have that.
He goes straight to the stack of new tires he'd stashed earlier today. It was easy to set the snare. The little rabbit always parked her truck in the same spot. He knew she was skittish, knew she needed someone to catch her, pet her, keep her safe.
Slashing the tires had been quick work. Putting the new ones on, just the same.
He caught the rabbit; now it was time to take her home.
i want to get into hockey. the beautiful people of tumblr should decide what team i will root for. please at least pretend to give me rpf potential and wokeness. win-loss record doesn’t matter. this list was poorly curated by basic knowledge of team and location for ability to watch a game irl.
which randomly selected NHL team should i root for?
Seattle Kraken
Boston Bruins
San Jose Sharks
Minnesota Wild
Colorado Avalanche
New Jersey Devils
Philadelphia Flyers
Pittsburgh Penguins
St. Louis Blues
Nashville Predators
Florida Panthers
Dallas Stars
(this list makes no sense. my cousin roots for the panthers. i root for a sharks-affiliated team irl. none of them are that geographically close to me. sorry if your fave wasn’t included. idc.)
please contribute to this ask because lis is making me cheer for the same team since I only watch minor league !!
one of my few claims to fame is that I’m irl moots with @lislemons and I find people suggesting their fics while on the phone with her in TikTok comments sections. or recently someone I follow on here, for unrelated content, reposted their post of an ao3 comment and I had to take a breath.
let me forever be your biggest fan and uninvolved listening ear when you tell me all the freaky ways your characters are bad for each other
be solid, be reasonable, be rowdy. if you can save a mouse you can save a person, if you can save a person you can save the world. so beats a worthy heart, xoxo marya. what does adventure mean to me? everything. on high we go, cloudward, ho.
Until next time <3
HQ img download here
feeling very “what does adventure mean to me? everything” right now. missing them so bad already
tagged by my irl moot @lislemons
rules: make a 24hr poll listing the titles of every wip you want to work on. (it’s fine if you only have one, still make a poll for the vote count). whichever wip title gets the most votes, write 1 sentence for every vote received
don’t really have too many WIPs and I’m a wattpad publisher atm BUT I’ll share anyway
vote if you’d like :)
ready to start (w. peace x oc)
love me like you used to (c. swan x oc)
hurricane (f. odair x oc)
meddle about (tangerine x oc)
saints of kintura (original fantasy, fem!paladin x prince)
double shot (s. riley x military!oc/reader)
feather tail ridge (fantasy original, princess x rebel leader)
in dreams (p. lahote x oc)
and lis is my only moot so 🫶🏻 if anybody wants to be friends lmk
cloho spoilers!!
olethra “keep her name outta your mouth” macleod defending marya junková, a woman she’s known in person less than a month, to her grandmother whom she’s idolized her entire life is SO so special to me. literally the SECOND she thought comfrey was insulting junker, her first instinct was defense. I love them so much.
got my friend started on Cloudward, Ho! by Dimension 20. this was them texting me during “Skirmish Above the Swirling Sea” and I needed to share. give it to an 80 gunslinger to give the rest of us heart attacks
Oh Lou Wilson the performer that you are
my jaw was on the goddamn floor. Lou Wilson/Montgomery Lamontgomery, the man that you are.
yesterday i was insane about that fictional man. today i am insane about that fictional man. tomorrow? take a wild guess brother
grief is all I have left of you.
so yes, I will hold onto it.