#zombie!price

[j0celynh0rr0r]

Indeed

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Zombie! MW2 w/ a Human Sex Slave

Warnings: 18+, Monster Fucking, Zombie Fucking, Implied Initial Dubious Consent, Stomach Swelling, Cum Inflation, Unprotected Sex, Brief Worry of Infection, Rough MW2, Gentle MW2, Zombie! MW2, Human! Reader, Sex Slave! Reader, Captive/Captor Relationship, Implied Stockholm Syndrome, Kidnapping, Descriptions of Smut, No Pronouns Used For Reader Except You.

Zombie! MW2 who found you scavenging alone one day out in the wasteland, entirely unaware of their presence.

Zombie! MW2 who capture you soon after, not ones to waste time.

You were the first lone human they’d seen in months, and they’d be damned if they were going to let you slip through their fingers.

Zombie! MW2 whose intentions with you are unclear. Until you notice the bulge in their trousers and the purr in their groans as they watch you writhe against the restraints, watch you helplessly struggle against a fate they’ve already decided for you.

Ghost, König and Soap are the roughest with you, often the ones to just tear a your pants off when they’re desperate, filling you not long after.

They’re rarely gentle, instead opting to take you raw and use you for their own ends, slamming their hips into yours until you hear them release a guttural roar, emptying days’ worth of semen inside you.

Your first time with Ghost almost left you feeling like you were about to burst with how backed-up he was, his balls almost bursting and slapping the skin of your backside red and raw with each thrust.

He’d made sure to leave his mark on you, the prominent bulge in your stomach slowly deflating as his semen leaked out of you.

And while Soap and Ghost’s loads are somewhat palatable given how frequently they use you, König almost always leaves you feeling like you’re about to burst.

Given his height, he’s the biggest of all your captors. Not only that, but his cock is thick enough to leave you feeling like you have rocks in your stomach whenever he forces himself into you, his strokes long and pounding, making sure you feel every inch of him.

Price, Gaz and Alejandro are a lot more gentle, understanding that, while you’re human, you’re still fragile.

They’re soft and slow with their thrusts, giving you time to adjust to their size before continuing.

While they can’t talk, they do try to comfort to as best they can.

They’ll stroke your head, press their forehead to your shoulder (only to feel you tense beneath them, anticipating a bite) — anything to try and make you feel less like you’re a sex slave and more like a friend with benefits.

Of course, you worried the first few times they had their way with you that their pumping you full of their seed would infect you, turn you into one of them.

However, after weeks went by, you were still you. No rotting skin, no cannibalistic thoughts, no loss of autonomy.

But, much to your horror, you felt as if they’d infected you with an idea, a feeling.

That being that you enjoyed what they were doing to you, ravaging you, pumping you full of their load until they were satisfied and your stomach was swelling.

And while your sanity tried to reason your way through your acceptance — that you were being held prisoner by literal parasite-infested corpses — your mind, for better or worse, didn’t care.

Not when they were providing for you, bringing you food, clothes, blankets — things you were certain would be nigh impossible to obtain were you roughing it alone in the wastes.

Or, perhaps you were rationalising your willingness to stay here with them, to live as their human sperm bank, reduced to an existence of bending to the will of militant captors whose semen dripped down your thighs, whose hands forced your face into pillows or made you bounce on their cocks while looking at them, giving you a glimpse into their eyes, the people they once perhaps were: whose surprising stamina and strength left you whining, crying and almost begging for more whenever they finished, more often than not forcing orgasms out of you, too, making you push back into them, body willing to take every ounce of their cum and inch of their cocks.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Masterlist [Continued] Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

AO3 Wattpad

[atomic-chronoscaph]

Michael Jackson's Thriller (1983)

[nsharks]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-one —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3.5k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: I'm sorry lmaooo nine months... hopefully we can finish this thing!

The last bed you laid in smelled like lemon mint detergent. It was the full bed in your sister's guest room. Everything was crisp and white. They rarely had guests besides you. Some of your clothes stayed in that closet, one of your toothbrushes stayed in the connected bathroom, waiting for your visits. You'd awaken that last morning not thinking you'd never sleep in bed for another five years. You left it unmade.

This bed smells like pine and warmth.

Ghost's room is small and dimly lit. The ceiling slants so that one end is not tall enough for him to fully stand. There's a dresser and a nightstand, leaving only a sliver of floorspace.

After the metal latch on the door clicks shut, Ghost lays the blanket down and grabs a pillow for himself. That leaves the bed to you. Springs creak beneath your weight as you silently slip under a heavy, rustic quilt. The years-embedded scent of him wraps around you like a drug-induced fog. You hesitate to move, frozen as he flicks off the light. You wonder if he always locks the door or did it for you, to make you feel safer.

Only when his moving about ceases do you allow yourself to get comfortable. You cocoon your body under the quilt and turn to your side, closing your eyes.

A thought reopens them minutes later. You roll onto your back and speak into the darkness. "Have you known about this Switzerland place?"

For a moment, you think he's already asleep. Then, from below the bed by your feet, he says, "Heard of it."

"That is what you guys talked about, isn't it?" you ask absentmindedly.

"Among other things."

You sit up so you can see him, but all that you can make out is a dark shadow. "Care to share?"

"Some things are on a need-to-know basis," is all he gives.

"And I don't need to know?"

"Precisely."

It stings; you don't know why. "Some team we make, huh? Or I guess we're only a team when you need me to do something for you."

You quickly realize how petulant you must sound. The shadow sits upright. "They asked me to go with them. I said no. Too far. Too many variables that are hard to predict, and she's not ready for them. Happy?"

Happy—no, but relief replaces the slight uncertainty in your gut since your conversation with Nereida. Joining them was shut down. You wouldn't tell her, but their idea sounds asinine, whether or not that commune exists. The trip will be risky at best, fatal at worst. You're tempted to ask him how many days he thinks they'll recoup here before continuing their journey, but opt for sleep instead. He seems done with the conversation, too, lying back down. Then, you have the best sleep you've had in years in his bed.

When the sun turns pink, you awaken to a room void of Ghost. He's gone. It should be expected, but you'd thought he might wake you up to train like normal. Though, the past twenty-four hours haven't been normal. You look around, the details of his room more visible now. On the nightstand, there is a stack of books and you scan the titled spines. Mostly classics. One Hemingway. All tattered and read frequently. Beside them lays a silver chain attached to a dog tag. You gently finger the engraved metal so as not to move it out of place: Simon Riley. 

Snooping through his things is more tempting than you're willing to admit. You slip out of bed, socked feet padding over to the dresser. There are mostly papers. His map with the marked circle around what you now realize is Switzerland, a notepad with scribbled half-cursive on it, and then a faded photo beneath it. You freeze, breath hitching, as if you've done something dangerous just by stumbling upon it. Curiosity is thick in your chest, difficult to ignore. Gentle fingers reach to shift it out, revealing a picture that you know right away is of Blue and her mom. Blue is a baby. Maybe one year old. A woman with light brown hair holds her up, sitting on a bench in front of a playground. She's pretty and young. There is a sadness when you wonder if this is the only picture he has of them—before her death. Then, there is another feeling. You swallow it. 

You quickly slip the photo back just the way you found it and leave the room. The living room is quiet, people still sleeping. Price and Kyle's blankets are empty, but Kyle is the only one you spot outside. He sits on a tree stump, using a knife and some soap to shave his beard. He looks at you the moment you step outside.

"Good morning." He splashes a scoop of water on his smoothed jaw. 

You tuck your hands in your pockets. "Morning."

Without the facial hair, he looks even younger. Maybe in his early thirties. He pushes to his feet and you are reminded of his above-average height, though he is not as monstrous as Ghost. His form is lean, all muscle, with much less ink on his exposed skin. It is now you notice a scar across his jaw. Thick but faded. It trails halfway down his neck.

"Do you know where Ghost went?" you ask.

"Working on that truck of his. With Price."

A glance over your shoulder confirms it; you spot some movement behind the cabin where you know his truck sits. Guess that means no training. You nod. "So, um, you were in the military together, right?"

He takes a moment to look at you before answering. "Yeah. Same unit. Price was our captain."

"I kind of figured. He is... captain-y."

"'Captain-y.' Good way of putting it."

You're ready to turn away when he asks, "I hate to pry, but I admit I'm curious how you ended up here with him."

You force a smile. "It's not a very interesting story, sorry."

"I'm not looking for entertainment."

"What are you looking for, then?" You sound more defensive than you mean to. 

He shrugs. "Just curious, is all. You're a bit young."

"I'm not fucking him if that's what you're getting at." His brows lift to his hairline, and you're almost embarrassed for assuming that is what he was thinking, but before he can speak you add, "And you're young, too. I can handle myself just as you can."

"Of course." He shakes his head, moving his hand over his chest in earnest. "I apologize if I insinuated otherwise. Though, I am older than you."

"How old?"

"Let's see. Thirty-one last November. Or maybe it's just thirty. Hard to keep track, innit?" His smile is more genuine than yours, flashing white teeth. Then, his face turns more serious and he sighs through his nose, head tilting. "Look, I understand."

"Understand what?"

"I don't know your story, but I'm sure it is a gruesome one, and you have every right to feel uncomfortable. We'll be out of your hair soon enough. I appreciate you having us, though."

You want to tell him it's not like you have a choice; you're not the host here. But he already knows that. He's trying to be nice. "Thank you," you tell him honestly. 

Kyle bends to pick up his knife, wiping it off on his shirt. "So what did you need Ghost for?"

"Oh, nothing really."

"Care to accompany me for some breakfast, then?"

You consider saying no, but you need to hunt, anyway. Besides, you don't think he'd try anything in broad daylight. In another life, you may have looked at him with a more appreciative eye. But as you wade in silence through the woods, bow cinched to your back, you study him like an opponent. He's more agile than Ghost, likely quicker. When he crests the hill, it's hard to match his strides. 

Small conversation picks up by the pond and you find yourself easing up. You learn he's from London, too.

"What part?"

"Islington. I shared an apartment with my girlfriend. The rent was shit but it was worth it. Top floor loft with a good view and this insane Turkish bakery just below us." His tone is so casual you forget where you are for a second, until he suddenly throws his knife. It pins a squirrel to one of the trees. He bends to dislodge it and carries the dead animal, blood on his fingers. 

You keep walking. "What happened to her?"

"I had to make a choice. Go to London and find her, or go with Price and get my nephew, niece, and sister-in-law."

The understanding hits with the force of a fallen tree, and you pale. 

He notices your expression and continues. "I don't regret my decision. I've come to terms with it. There was no chance of me finding her in London, not with how quickly the infection spread there and the phone lines went out. I didn't even know where to look for her. At work? Home? Up north, things weren't as bad yet. I got in contact with my sister-in-law, Ameena, and told her to meet us at the small college up there where Nereida worked."

You recall what Nereida said, about Ari's mom and sister dying, so you don't pry about them. "What about your brother? Ari's dad?"

"He died before shit happened. He was in the military, too. Different unit. Multiple gun wounds while in Afghanistan a few years back."

"I think your story is more gruesome than mine," you admit.

His lips twitch ruefully. "Not a competition. Gruesome world, gruesome stories."

A more comfortable quiet settles. He is not so different than you, you realize. Only difference is he still has his nephew to look after.

The sun is already high, enough to make a collar of sweat appear on your shirt. There is a small dirt ridge you have to climb and the effort reminds you of the still-healing bruises on your body. A skirt of movement catches your eye and this time, you act quick. You use your bow to kill a squirrel up on a branch. It falls to the ground.

"Damn." Kyle whistles, low and long, as you wriggle the arrow free. "Hell of an aim you got."

"I'm... alright."

"No need to be modest."

You straighten and wipe your bloodied hand on your shirt. The movement lifts it, and you hear him suck in a breath behind you. A hand touches your shoulder, gentle than firm, as he spins you around. You're confused, then follow his gaze to the sliver of exposed skin on your hip. It's a gross yellow. 

"Twix." His voice lowers, and his friendly eyes are confused. 

Shit. "It's not whatever you're thinking."

"I'm thinking someone has put their hands on you." He frowns and shifts closer. "I know you have no reason to tell me things, but I can tell you I am not okay with that shit, no matter who it is."

You inwardly cringe. "Ghost is not... hitting me. Well, he is—"

"Fucking hell—"

"No, no. I asked him to." The bewildered look on his face makes you palm your forehead. "Not like that. Jesus. We train together, okay?"

"Train together," he repeats, shoulders loosening. 

"Yeah, like to help me get stronger." The embarrassment remains on your cheeks. "It's silly, really."

Kyle shakes his head and grins, clearly amused now that he knows you're not being abused against your will. "Not silly. Thought you two were into some kinky shit for a second there." He continues walking over a patch of dryer land, stepping onto a small rock and chuffing a breath under his nose. "Wouldn't have been surprised."

Your fingers absentmindedly tighten around the squirrel's limp neck. Your feet are frozen for a moment as you shake off a deep blush, then call out behind him. "Did you miss the part where I said I'm not fucking him!"

He simply laughs. 

The rest of the day passes in languid warmth. 

It's weird having so many people here, but you try to continue your day like usual, skinning the kill and washing your clothes. You learn more about Nereida as you eat together. You haven't had a female friend in... a long time. Save Blue. She used to be an arts professor at a private school. Sculpting, mainly. That is how she came to meet John Price, when he attended one of her galleries, buying a piece from her for far more than the listing price. He was just looking for a way to take me out to dinner. The way she speaks of him is that of a doting wife, despite everything they've been through. She tells you they were engaged before the infection. A makeshift ceremony at their old camp was the best they could do. 

"No wedding ring, but we do both have this." She pulls up her sleeve to show you a small scar carved on her shoulder—a faint letter 'J'. Price has the 'N'.

You're not sure what Ghost needed to fix on his truck that morning, or why it was important to do it with Price, but when you returned with Kyle, something felt off. Ghost's tension was palpable. He usually seems in thought, but even more-so. When Ari takes Blue for a quick ride on the horse—apparently Cherry used to be owned by his parents on their family ranch in Newcastle—he watches for only a minute before disappearing somewhere with Price. You pretend to need something from the cabin. You sneak around the back way, finding them again by his truck, muttering in low voices. Only pieces reach your ears.

"...through the rural parts. Not a straight path..."

"...could take months..."

"Got quite a bit of those."

Then, he's showing Price something under the tuck bed's tarp where you catch sight of that kayak once again. 

"Find it?"

A low voice in your ear. You startle and turn around.

"Huh?"

Kyle raises a brow. "You said you needed something."

Your hand flattens against the side of the cabin. "Right. Um, I just—"

Boots scuffle behind you. You don't need to turn to know Ghost and Price have detected your presence, making their way over. Kyle's gaze flicks to them and you feel like a child who's been caught by her parents—embarrassment laced over your irritation. You wouldn't have been eavesdropping if they weren't so secretive.

"Everything alright?" Price's timbre is calm. Your neck prickles where you feel Ghost's stare.

You find yourself nodding. "Yes. Just fine. Sorry."

It gets cooler by nightfall. Your knee bounces slightly under the table during dinner. You listen to Blue explain the rules of battleship to Ari. You don't eat much more of the meat you caught with Kyle. With a mostly empty stomach, you enter Ghost's room after everyone else has gone to bed. His broad form hovers over his dresser. For a moment, you fear he's somehow noticed that you looked at his things earlier. But then you realize his eyes are glued to the map, and he's penciling some things on the margins.

He looks up when you close the door behind you. His brows are deeply knotted. 

"Figured you would be sleeping out there for tonight."

"What?"

"Seems like you feel just fine around them now." 

He looks away from you as if you're not even there. He places the map down and opens the top drawer. Without warning, he pulls out a clean shirt and changes, revealing his bare chest. His shoulders flex as he slips it over his head by the collar. Then, he moves toward you, eyes dully expectant.

"Being asleep near them is different than hanging out during the day," you finally respond. Mouth feeling dry, you swallow. "What's going on? I can tell that you... you've been thinking about something."

"You mean you've been listening." His brow lifts. He shakes his head before you can defend yourself. "I am always thinking about something."

"Would it kill you to not be cryptic for once? I thought that we were..."

"That we were what?"

"Being honest with each other now."

A dark, slightly amused breath leaves his nose. He contemplates your words for a moment. "It is my plan to go there," he then says. "I'm not stupid. I know she needs more than what I can offer her here. It has always been my plan. Just not now."

"Because she's not ready," you breathe.

"Because she's not ready," he repeats, chin tilting. His eyes darken, veering to the left. "Price seems to disagree."

Your nails curl in your palms. "And?"

He looks back at you. "And I am thinking of your camp. What happened to you. I can't grow complacent."

The mention unsettles your stomach. Of course, he needn't elaborate, not when the memory is more fresh than you'd like. "But going to Switzerland would take days, weeks. And they have no idea what they might run into out there. It's not like we have inside info on the state of France and—and wherever the hell else we'd have to cross through to get there. They could be worse than London."

"I'm aware."

"So what, then? You're considering it now? I thought you told them no," your hushed voice edges a bit harsher, and the pulse in your neck quickens.

You hate what you think he's saying, even if you understand it. He has his daughter's future to think of. Even if he were to try finding some safe community when she's older, the opportunity of traveling with two other military-experienced men would be gone, along with whatever weapons and supplies they bring to the table.

The contemplation is vivid in his eyes as you study them. Ghost's head lowers, dipping down at the same time that he emits a harsh breath, and you realize how close the two of you have become in this quiet exchange, keeping your voices safe from any awakened ears. So close, in fact, that his exhalation hits the space between your neck and collarbones, where a small patch of skin tingles with alertness. 

His voice emerges low and thoughtful after a drawn moment. "I haven't fully decided."

You nod with deep breath to steady yourself, taking in his answer. "Will you tell me when you do?" 

"I can do that."

And that's all he offers—four words that give a minuscule amount of comfort, because now bitter uncertainty has snuck upon you once again. Your fate lays in his decision. You can't survive on your own, not even here, so if he leaves you have to go with him. The impending doom fogs your brain. You fail to notice his hand has moved, pinching the hem of your shirt between thumb and forefinger, and beginning to carefully lift it up. A breath hitches at the top of your throat and your eyes unfurl, only to find that he is pensively looking down at your exposed stomach.

"What the fuck are you—"

You're cut off when his bent knuckles gently brush over your mottled abdomen, sweeping down the sore midline, leaving you frozen. It's a thoughtful, slow touch—calloused skin against smooth softness. His thumb traces a particularly bad one by your hip, causing your muscles to flutter as a pleasant heat blossoms. For the second time today, your bruises are under scrutiny, and you curse yourself for not applying more of that paste on them.

"They're healing well," he murmurs, more to himself than to you, and lowers the shirt back down. He steps back. Eyes find yours. "Don't get too comfortable."

You blink dazedly, then stiffen. "Um, what?"

"Sleeping in my bed. My room isn't a hotel."

The change of topic gives you whiplash. "You're the one who made me sleep here," you remind him pointedly. "I'll just take the floor tonight, and you have the bed."

"You're a woman. Take it."

"As if you give a fuck about being a gentleman."

"You're right, I don't." A dismissive shoulder shrugs, then his back turns to you. He lays in the bed before you have the chance to even move, which leaves the blanket on the floor for you.

You should've just accepted the bed.

Once the room is shrouded in darkness, you bury your head in the pillow. 

"Comfortable?" he says sarcastically above you.

"Fuck off."

Then it's silent. You don't sleep nearly as well.

[zombiegutfuck]

tf141 men and their love languages

captain john price will spoil you to the heavens. anything for his little wife. new perfume with the same high notes he knows you absolutely adore, expensive jewellery that jingle together every time you move your wrists, designer heels for date nights that he can’t wait to take off for you, big fuzzy coats for those dark, winter nights to keep you warm when he’s on deployment and he can’t supply you his own warmth… the list goes on. he has the money to spend, so why not spoil his dear darling.

lieutenant simon riley will do absolutely anything for you, you don't even need to ask. the pipes are making a funny noise when you turn on the shower? oh, lovie, he’ll get that fixed for you in no time. the fence blew over in the storm a couple days ago? sit back, love, he’ll go out and make the garden look nice and pretty again, just how you like it. it’s that time of the month again? he’s up and out at the brink of dawn, restocking your favourite snacks, painkillers for the aches he can’t get rid of, and a new fuzzy hot water bottle. the old one was in tatters, sweetheart.

sergeant kyle garrick believes in the old style of love. every night when he’s off on deployment, he’s either reading your handwritten letters under the dim light of his desk lamp in his barracks, gazing lovingly at the pictures you sent with it, or he’s spending hours writing his own to you. unlike how you write about updates in your daily life, he writes about how much he misses you, how beautiful you are, how he can’t wait to come home to you. he has a phone, of course, but it’s only use is to message you in the morning, when he knows you’re getting up after three alarms, to wish you a good morning and to have a nice day at work, don’t forget to eat and drink plenty of water.

sergeant john mactavish would have to be forcibly removed from you with a construction vehicle of some sort when he gets home from deployment, maybe an excavator would do the trick? he’s absolutely glued to your side. how couldn’t he be? look at you, bonnie thing. his beefy hand is 100% engulfing yours as you walk through the markets in town. if not, his hand is firmly planted in the back pocket of your jeans. the broke boyfriend hug doesn’t exist with this man, he pays for everything, he just doesn’t want to leave you alone, he doesn’t want to not be touching a part of you. why not downsize the sofa, bonnie? it’s overly big, his lap is just fine for you! why are you sleeping all the way on that side of the bed? don't be daft, lassie. come, let him be your personal heater.

i love them and they don't even exist (˶˃ ᵕ ˂˶) .ᐟ.ᐟ that's how i like my men

[ilovemesomevincentprice]

Vincent Price - The Last Man On Earth (1964)

[walmart-icarus]

Zombie Ghost they could never make me hate you

[hederasgarden]

The Price of Survival

Summary: Rescued by a stranger from a dangerous situation, you quickly find yourself thrust into an even more perilous one, forced to depend on him for protection in a world where survival means trusting no one. Pairing: Lucius Verus x F!Reader Word Count: 2.6K Rating: 18+ only, mature themes. Modern zombie AU, references to attempted SA, brief descriptions of violence and murder, and overall dark/gritty themes. Lucius is a little morally grey (perhaps soft dark?) in this story but he is not a bad guy.  A/N: I may turn this into a mini series if people are interested. Otherwise it can be read as a standalone fic. Thank you to @ryebecca, @writercole, @mayhem24-7forever , and @aliensupastar for their help! Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Gladiator Masterlist ♡ Masterlist

You’re making too much noise.

But you’re no longer concerned about the undead. The mindless, decaying monsters are a distant worry now. It’s the living men who are after you — the ones chasing you, the ones who want you back. Twigs snap underfoot, and leaves crunch with every hurried step you take. Your breathing is labored in the otherwise still air.

You push yourself harder, muscles screaming in protest. The scents of pine and damp earth fill your nostrils as the cold air burns your lungs. The zip ties around your wrists cut into your skin, tightening with each frantic movement, biting deeper the more you struggle. The blood beneath them stings, the friction leaving raw marks on your flesh. Still, you don’t stop. You can’t stop.

The voices of the men reach your ears, growing more insistent. Their words aren’t fully distinguishable, but the tone is unmistakable — hungry and malicious. They're closing in. You veer left, only to stumble as your foot sinks into an icy stream. Cold water rushes over your ankles, the shock of it halting your momentum for a brief, disorienting moment before you force yourself to continue.

As you run, the forest blurs around you, your heart pounding so loudly in your ears you can hardly hear anything else. You don’t see the figure emerging from the trees until it’s too late. You slam into them, the collision sending you both tumbling to the ground. A jarring pain shoots through your side where you hit the earth. You nearly miss the sharp intake of breath and grunt of surprise of the man beneath you. Though you’ve landed half on top of him, in the blink of an eye, he shifts, rolling you under him.

You try to scream, but his hand shoots out, clamping down over your mouth, silencing you before the sound can escape. Panic floods you and you twist away, instinctively trying to free yourself from his grasp. He holds you still, his body a solid weight pinning you to the earth. When you look up, the first thing you notice are his eyes: dark, intense, and unyielding amid the chaos of the forest. A sliver of moonlight cuts across his face, highlighting a rugged beard and wild curls. He’s not one of the men hunting you, but he’s still a man, and that fact alone gives you pause. 

For a heartbeat, the two of you just stare at each other, the tension in the air thick. His eyes move over your face, quick and assessing, before he seems to notice the zip ties binding your wrists. He tilts his head slightly, a flash of confusion passing over his face before glancing in the direction you came from. His brows knit in concentration as he scans the woods and you both hear the footsteps of the men as they grow closer, louder. You can almost hear their voices, too, faint murmurs cutting through the stillness of the forest. The stranger’s gaze snaps back to you and he stares at you as though weighing his next move. 

His grip on you loosens, but you can feel the tension in his body, the way he stays poised, ready to move if needed.

“Why are they after you?” he asks, quietly, so only you can hear. 

His question catches you off guard. For a moment, all you can do is stare at him, the panic still rising in your chest. His eyes remain locked on yours, his gaze sharp, waiting for you to answer. The longer you stay silent, the harder his expression becomes, a subtle edge creeping into his features. You shake your head and slowly tug your hands away from his to touch the torn collar of your blouse. His eyes follow the movement. 

“They want what all men want,” you murmur.

Your eyes lock onto his, searching for some hint of understanding or sympathy. You’re looking for something that might tell you what kind of man he is, whether he’s like them or not. His jaw tightens, and for a split second, his expression darkens in a way that makes your breath catch. He nods once, sharp and decisive, as though he’s made a calculation and found his answer. Then, without another word, he pulls you up by the arm.

“We don’t have much time,” he warns. 

“Who are you?” you ask, wariness threading through your voice.

He looks at you, his gaze steady and direct. “I’m someone who’s not here to hurt you,” he says simply.

The part of you that clings to the idea of how things were wants to believe there are still good people out there, who will help you survive. But you’ve learned the hard way that the world doesn’t work that way anymore. Everything good and kind about people died a year ago when the dead rose up and cities fell. Governments crumbled and everything you knew was replaced by a brutal, unforgiving reality overnight.

You started out with hope in a small group of survivors bound together by nothing more than circumstance. At first, it was almost comforting — traveling together, sharing food, and looking out for one another through the chaos that had engulfed the world. But that hope faded, slowly, painfully. One by one, they were lost to raider attacks, the relentless and unstoppable undead, and illness. Your world shrunk and the people you once trusted slipped away like sand through your fingers. And now, the same men who had slaughtered the last of your group were hunting you. 

You swallow hard, fighting the emotion rising in your throat. Trust is a weakness, a mistake you can’t afford to make again. But before you can find your voice the stranger is pulling you deeper into the trees, a firm hand locked around your bound wrist. He’s fast, moving with an efficiency you can’t match, his boots barely making a sound on the forest floor as he drags you along. You stumble after him but he doesn’t slow down until the brush opens to reveal a small, sheltered hollow between the trees. He pushes you into it and crouches beside you as his eyes scan the darkness.

“Stay low,” he directs, his hand firm on your shoulder as he guides you down onto the cold, damp earth. “And don’t make a sound.”

You nod, barely able to breathe as you sink into the shadows of the thicket, the chill of the earth seeping into your skin. The silence of the woods is loud, almost painfully so, but it’s shattered seconds later by the sound of heavy boots crunching through the underbrush.

A twig snaps. Another voice speaks, this time clearer. "She’s gotta be close. Keep looking.”

“I want the first crack at her, " a new voice adds.

Your eyes flick toward the man when he slinks forward slowly. For the first time, you notice the hatchet strapped to his waist, its handle worn from use, the blade gleaming faintly in the moonlight. He grips it tightly, his fingers brushing over the handle with an almost unconscious familiarity. Without a glance back, he disappears into the trees, a shadow among shadows.

A quiet rustling follows with a muffled thud, like something heavy hitting the ground. Your pulse spikes. Another noise, softer this time, a grunt, a brief, sharp inhale, then...silence.

Your heart races and your eyes dart to where he disappeared, your body rigid with fear. The men are closer now, their voices sharper, more urgent. One calls out again, “Where the hell is she?”

There’s another thud, followed by a sickeningly wet sound that makes your stomach churn. You can’t see what’s happening, but you don’t need to. You press yourself lower into the earth and try to make yourself as small as possible while the struggle continues. The smell of dirt and blood mixes in the air, filling your nose until it feels like you might choke. You can't move. You can’t even breathe properly, too afraid that a single sound will give you away. 

A voice, closer this time, shouts, “What is that? Who’s there, who —”

The words are cut off by another thud and a gurgling noise. It doesn’t take long for the sounds to die down, and when they do, the silence rushes in, swallowing you whole. It’s an oppressive kind of silence, heavy and suffocating. The absence of sound is somehow worse than the chaos that preceded it. Every nerve in your body feels raw and taut with the tension of waiting for something – anything – to happen. Minutes stretch on, each one thicker than the last, until finally, the stranger emerges soundlessly. Although his clothes are streaked with dirt and blood, his posture is calm, almost detached. 

The instinct to flee hits you with such force that you scramble back, your bound hands held out in front of you like they might somehow stop him. But you know they won’t. He stops an arm’s length away, crouching down. Before you can react, he produces a small blade and grasps your elbow, tugging you forward. He slices cleanly through the zip ties around your wrists and then releases you. 

Your throat feels dry, the words caught somewhere between panic and disbelief. Finally, you manage to whisper, “You...you killed them.”

He doesn’t respond right away, but after a beat, he simply nods. Your mind swirls with a thousand questions you don’t know how to ask. One thing is clear, though. This man, for all his brutality, just saved your life.

“You need to go now,” he says, helping you stand. “Head north. That’s your best chance.”

Your mind struggles to keep up with the fast turn of events. Even though you were scared of him seconds ago, the thought of walking into the unknown, alone again, churns your stomach, and a cold wave of fear settles over you. You think of the endless days of running, of barely surviving, and for a brief moment, the idea of leaving him is terrifying. What little supplies you had were taken by the men whose camp you have no hope of finding in the darkness. 

The stranger watches you, sensing your hesitation, and steps closer. His eyes are unblinking, focused on you. "There are worse things in these woods than those men." “The undead,” you begin, but before you can finish, he cuts you off, his lip curling back in a snarl that surprises you. 

"The undead aren’t what you should be worried about." His words are sharp, and dismissive, as though they mean nothing compared to what really lies ahead. “Go. Now." he urges, his grip suddenly tightening on your arm, pulling you away from the shelter of the trees and into the open.

You stumble as he shoves you forward. 

“Maybe we can stay together. I can be useful,” you promise him, the words leaving you in a rush. “I have medical training.”

A soft, almost imperceptible look crosses his face, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. His jaw tightens and his expression hardens.

“Leave,” he grounds out. “Before it’s too late. Before-“

His voice cuts off and he looks away toward the dark trees, scanning the distance. Whatever he finds makes his posture go rigid and his breath leaves his lungs in a harsh exhale. You step closer to him, afraid of what you can’t sense but that seems to agitate him more. 

“My, my, Lucius, you’ve been busy. Macrinus sent you to hunt dinner, not men.”

The voice rings out from the edge of the trees where an unfamiliar man melds out of the shadows. Your rescuer, Lucius, tenses at the sound, and you can feel the shift in the air, the way the atmosphere thickens. He doesn’t respond to the man immediately. Instead, you watch his fingers move with practiced ease, slipping a slim, deadly knife from his belt. With a flick of his wrist, the blade is poised and ready.

For a brief moment you wonder if he means to kill this man too, but then, to your shock, two more figures emerge from behind the first. Lucius exhales through his nose, a quiet sound almost lost in the air between you, and you see the way he forces himself to relax. When you glance at his hand again, the knife is gone, as if it had never been there.

“Viggo,” Lucius greets curtly. “There are rabbits in the trap and a buck back by the stream. I did as he asked.”

The short but powerfully built man, Viggo, raises an eyebrow and glances at you, his grin widening. 

“You certainly did that and more. Looks like you found yourself a little something too, hmm?”

“A pretty little fawn,” another man comments with a smirk, reaching out, his hand extended like he intends to touch you.

Panic surges through you, and you instinctively take a step back, but you don’t get far before Lucius pulls you behind him. You wince as his fingertips brush over the torn skin of your wrist. 

“You know the rules,” Lucius growls, his voice low and deadly. “Take a step back if you want to keep your hand.”

Lucius’s stance doesn’t waver, still shielding you, but his expression softens for just a moment as he glances over his shoulder at you. In that fleeting look, you catch a hint of something else, regret or perhaps guilt? You blink and it’s replaced by a cold mask. You’re not sure what to make of him. Fear and appreciation tangle together as you consider his actions. You wonder what exactly he’s trying to protect you from, and why he seems so unsettled by the need to do so.

“Macrinus needs you back,” Viggo presses. "He’s waiting on the game. We can take her back to the settlement,"

“I don’t think so. I’ll bring her in,” he responds, jerking his head toward you, the motion sharp, dismissive. 

The words hang in the air, but it’s not just the command that catches your attention — it’s the hollowness in his tone. The men don’t challenge him, but they exchange a brief look before leaving. Lucius remains in front of you, standing rigidly, staring into the blackness. You get the sense you’re still not quite alone, something Lucius confirms when he turns to face you. He raises a finger to his lips and the warning is gentle but firm. Don’t speak.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice low and filled with a grief that sends a wave of unease through you. He takes a step closer and reaches for the rope hanging from his belt, uncoiling its length. 

 "What…?" you breathe, but the question trails off into the air, unfinished. 

You feel the panic rising in your chest as Lucius begins to wrap the rope around your forearms, the rough texture biting into your skin. Every muscle in your body screams to flee, to run from this situation, from him, but deep down you know that escaping would be futile. There’s nowhere to run, no one to turn to. The fear doesn’t stop you from trying, though, from taking a small step back, but Lucius’s grip on you tightens immediately, pulling you toward him again.

He doesn’t look at you as he works, lips pressed tight as he continues binding your arms, careful to avoid your torn wrists. When he finishes tying the knot, his hand lingers on the rope for just a moment, as though he’s second-guessing himself. Then Lucius shakes his head, a sharp, quick movement, almost like he’s clearing away his thoughts. His eyes flicker briefly to yours and he hooks his fingers under your new bindings, tugging you towards him. 

“You should have left when I told you,” Lucius says solemnly.

Part 2

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

1k / 39 / post-apocalypse au, part 3

...

By the time Soap eases himself off of Roach’s back and Ghost hauls him into what must be the infirmary cabin, you turn around to find the camp’s gates shut tight and fortified in preparation for nightfall. One way in, one way out, as with any smart semi-permanent settlement. You’re locked into the squad’s camp. Not on purpose, Price tells you. But you swear there’s amusement behind his eyes.

No good deed goes unpunished.

It’s more of an encampment than a settlement, with log buildings and structures everywhere. Looks like something they fixed up into someplace livable. Nicer than most hovels you’ve seen since society crunched under the boot heel of chemical warfare. You’re tempted to root around the place, get a better look around inside, too, but going inside somewhere enclosed makes you feel itchy now. You sit outside at the campfire instead, leaning back against the massive, furry flank of your snoozing dog.

Price looks at you over the fireside, a cigarette hanging from his mouth. His blue eyes seem to be analyzing you.

Roach sleeps next to you, one of his front paws flopped over your leg. It must be nice to be able to go to sleep that fast, no worrying about what the morning could bring.

You don't look at Price for a long time. But the more you concentrate on looking away, the more irritated you get. You pull at the grass. Finally, you glance back. He doesn’t politely avert his eyes. That irritates you even more.

"What?" you snap at him.

Price shrugs, not at all bothered. "Just checking you out." He takes a drag of his cigarette, leans back, and eyes you. "Smoke?"

"Where the hell are you getting cigarettes? You live in the middle of the woods."

He chuckles. "Trade with some of the settlements a way away. Cigarettes always make good bartering chips."

"Not if you smoke 'em all up."

"Gotta indulge where I can." He blows a stream of smoke away from you. "Here."

He's right, too. He hands you a cigarette.

A few minutes later, you're enjoying it, letting the nicotine soak in after a long day. That's still one favor you owe Soap and now one to Price.

"Your dog got a name?" Price asks as he lights his own next cigarette."

"Roach."

"What's his deal? Mutie hound?"

"He was my dog before he went all..." You square your hands. "Big. So he listens to me."

Price eyes the beast. "Sure he does. Must be conveneint, being able to tell him to sit there and keep your feet warm, huh?"

You take another drag, leaning forward a bit more toward the fire. "Sure is. Slobber everywhere, though. And the farts he rips..."

"Worse than the mutagen?"

"Exactly. Chemical warfare."

He chuckles. "Soap mentioned you once or twice. Never a dog, though."

"I thought I lost him to the forest." You glance at Price sideways. "What did Soap say?"

"Eh. He says too much."

"Right."

"Just said you're scrappy for a civvy. Pretty scrappy, period." He takes in another drag. "Seemed fond of it."

You scoff. Civvy. Is that what you are? But you don't pick a fight about it. The cigarette is good. You feel like you could lay down in front of this fire and sleep. Maybe you will.

Price doesn't say anything more. The silence is comfortable. You take in the atmosphere. It's peaceful, really: the fire warm and bright, the forest sounds and the smell of smoke mixing pleasantly with the cloud of nicotine in your lungs.

Price takes another drag. "Soap's a good lad, even if he can't quite stop shooting his mouth off."

"How many of those you got?"

"Cigarettes?"

"Mhm."

"How many you tryna borrow?"

"Another one."

"You'll get hooked if you're not careful."

"Indulging where I can, aren't I?"

"You are at that." Price hands you another with a smirk. "And a handful. You know, that dog of yours is a lot of muscle. We could use that."

"You're not the first one to think that, old man. He only listens to me, so don't get any nasty ideas about offing me and stealing him."

Price smirks. Sounds like you have experience dealing with other survivors. "Wouldn’t be a bad trade-off," he says, shifting into a lazier position as he stares into the fire. "Might anyways. Can't imagine keeping a dog that size just for a foot warmer. That beast's gotta be put to use. Turn him into a war hound or something." He takes another drag. "Can't imagine Soap'd be happy about you gettin' killed, though. Or the other lads, for that matter."

You smirk. You can tell he's got a dry sense of humor. You do, too. "Can't kill civvies, can you?"

"You're hardly a civvy," Price mutters under his breath. "Civvies're tame."

"Shame. Guess you're not getting my dog."

"Pity." Price taps his cigarette ash into the dirt. "Got a lot of cigarettes and nobody to smoke 'em."

"Thought you bartered them."

"Just getting a head start in case the trading starts to slow down. Keeps the supply low." Price takes in another drag. "But suit yourself. Best to leave before you get hooked."

He flicks the cigarette into the fire and walks away. You watch the flames and feel the warm lure of sleep pull you closer. It's like another favor for a favor, isn't it? Roach's aid and yours in exchange for a full night of rest and another day of cigarettes and food. Maybe two days. Just enough to recharge and get enough sleep. Enough for Roach to recover.

You curl into Roach's side, closing your eyes. Just another day or two. That's all. Then you'll vanish.

Roach nudges you as you nestle into his fur. You're exhausted, but you're also safe and more or less relaxed for the first time in days--weeks--and your mind finally starts to slow down.

The fire crackles gently in front of you. Roach snores quietly, content to keep you company through the long, quiet, dark night.

For the first time in a long time, you feel warm and safe. It's not much. But it's enough.

You let your eyes close and finally succumb to sleep.

...

part 1 / part 2 / [part 3]

more Price / more Soap / masterlist

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Call of Duty: Modern Warfare [Continued Masterlist]

Ghost:

Ghost w/ a Zombie! S/O Father's Friend! Simon "Ghost" Riley Headcanons Virgin! Simon "Ghost" Riley Simon Riley is a Messy Eater House Husband! Simon who... Simon Riley's Breeding Kink House Husband! Simon w/ a Wedding Ring Just House Husband! Simon Things Cosy Hours with House Husband! Simon Things Simon Loves About You House Husband! Simon vs. Home Invaders Competition His Favourite Bimbo Barracks Bunny Ghost, Simon & You [SMUT] A Gift for Simon Pyramid Head! Ghost Gladiator! Ghost

König:

Virgin! König Giant! König Headcanons Giant! König when You're Pregnant Overstimulating König Bimbo Barracks Bunny Coquette Thoughts Pyramid Head! König König's Praise Kink

Soap:

Competition Bimbo Barracks Bunny

Price:

Father's Friend! John Price Headcanons Competition Bimbo Barracks Bunny

Graves:

Graves w/ a Breeding Kink

Gaz:

Competition Bimbo Barracks Bunny

All:

MW2 Reaction To You Being Their Controversially Young Girlfriend MW2 w/ a Sex Slave MW Reaction to You Taking the BDSM Test Who Jerks Off the Most in the 141 + König MW Reaction to You Leading Them On

Masterlist (part 1) Masterpost Modern Warfare AI Masterlist

Subscribe to My AO3 account for more content like this ! Follow me on Wattpad !

Yandere Masterpost

[ivymarquis]

Say You Won't Let Go

It's the Zombie Apocalypse

Pairing| John Price x F!Single Mom!Reader Rating| E Word Count| 2.2k Kinks/Content/Warnings| Zombie!AU, PiV, Oral (M!Receiving), pregnancy sex, the plot thickens

Sorry guys its been like 5 months oops

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

If anything, your slumber is more of a power nap.

You’re disoriented of how much time has passed, but it is still dark when you wake up. Like a cat in heat you seek John out in the darkness-  not that he’s far away from you. 

Rolling over towards him takes a fair bit of effort, pawing at him in your half asleep state.

His snoring stops, broken by a sharp huff as he’s reaching for you in turn. He really is rather clingy. Your nose burying in the crook of his neck, soft needy whines of his name helping wake him up.

Propping one knee over his legs, your pawing hands drift to his waistband. Your eyes focus on your hands in the poor lighting so you don’t notice as he starts to fully wake up just yet. 

“Mmm,” that baritone rumbles through you. “Need me to take care of you again, Love?”

It’s honestly not so much him taking care of you that has you so wound up.

“Wanna make you feel good,” you purr at him, kissing across his neck before gently pushing at his shoulder. 

“That so?” He complies easily, falling onto his back.

You hum in satisfaction, making your way down his torso. 

Having already pulled his cock out with your earlier pawing, you set to work straight away.

The lighting is poor, but enough for you to see what you’re doing- what you’re working with exactly. 

Your hands and your body are already acquainted with the girth of him, but there’s still a jolt of surprise when you see John’s cock. Jesus, how did you get that thing to fit in you?

Your jaw is not going to be happy with you once you’ve completed your mission. Regardless, you remain undeterred from your original task as you lap up the length of his cock. Stroking the base of him with one hand as you lavish attention on the tip with your mouth, you can’t help but be pleased with yourself as he hisses and bucks his hips. 

The light illuminates just enough that you can see John’s face, eyes locking on yours as you look up at him while gagging on his cock.

You’re welcome, you think smugly to yourself as he groans and tells you “Good fuckin’ girl”.

Hopefully your stamina won’t give out before he gets off, because you are a woman on a mission but there is only so long your body will put up with your efforts. In the meantime though, it’s sweet how John reaches for and pets you as you put your mouth to work.

Unfortunately for your curiosity, you don’t end up finding out whether or not you can get John to cum before your jaw starts to protest too much. Your complaints are minimal, however, when he’s pawing at your hair to make you stop.

“Need you, lovely,” he instructs, and you happily crawl into his lap. Like a woman starving, your hands grasp at fabric and flesh, more than content to get to work.

You’re eager if not a bit clumsy- it’s not like you can see what you’re doing very well. However you remain dauntless in your task to mount John.

If he was laid out flat on his back, perhaps you’d be inclined to ride him the standard way. But given how his back is resting against the headboard, you decide the easiest course of action for your plan is to do reverse cowgirl- give yourself some room to ride him into the mattress. 

One of his hands lands heavy on your hip- soothing and warming you in equal measures. 

The other helps you get everything together- John hissing and you giving a soft whimper as you sink down on him. 

John’s hands are warm and roaming- groping and squeezing at you, sliding under the fabric of your dress for more access.

You try to be good- keep your whines quiet as you ride John to your own pleasure. The way his fingers tweak and tease one nipple has your voice pitching in pleasure. Clearly he’s still heeding your earlier warning of being gentle with you, because your breasts are so sensitive. It’s enough to drive you crazy, working yourself into a frenzy on his lap as you bounce.

“Good girl, lovely,” he praises, free hand helping guide you up and out of his lap before you sink back down again. “That’s it, take what you need.”

You’re trying very hard to ignore the burn creeping up your legs, instead focusing on the pleasure. Your breathing is more labored, borderline feeling hot as everything threatens to boil over. “John,” you plead softly, attention locking in on the orgasm you are so close to having.

Everything burns, and you’re not sure what’s pleasure and what’s leg cramps and what’s you needing to breathe and relax.

Your weight settles back into John’s lap and for the life of you, you just cannot muster the strength to get up again. Your chest heaves as you try to catch your breath, tears of frustration welling in your eyes with just how close you are.

It takes John a moment to realize that your impromptu break is not planned on your end. The hand on your hip smooths up your back in a soothing gesture, “What’s the matter, Love?”

“I’m tired,” there’s no sexy way to answer that question. You’re keenly aware of the fact that he’s still hilted inside of you.

You can’t help but feel his answering coo of “Oh, you poor thing- Here, I’ll take care of you” has an edge of patronization to it, but you are clearly in no state to do anything about it. You can’t even summon the energy to brat up on him. Especially when he’s offering to handle this horrid, empty ache you have.

John guides you how he wants you, although changing positions has you feeling as graceful as a beached whale. Your belly has completely shifted your center of gravity and somehow is still constantly in your way even though you’d think you’d be used to its presence by now.

You’re on your hands and knees now, a pillow shoved under you for additional support as John mounts you from behind.

“John,” you keen and rock your weight back into him while he placates your needy whines with gentle shushing.

“I already told you, lovely- I’ll handle it.” His tone is softer, less smug as he steadies you with one hand and lines himself up with the other.

You’ve always had a penchant for riding your partners into the sunset, but being face down in a pillow with your ass perched in the air certainly has its perks too. John’s low groan reverberates at the same time that you’re whining again, trying to muffle your noises with the pillow.

Fuck he knows what he’s doing.

“R-right there,” you moan through the pleasure, feeling John shift his grip on you so he can keep hitting that spot.

You can practically feel the vibrations from his pleased hum, clinging to the pillow like a lifeline.

“That’s it,” his voice rumbling low in your ear has a shiver shoot down your spine. Your leg is shaking, your grip on the bedding the only thing keeping you in place. 

“Taking me so well, pet,” he praises as you muffle your whine below him. “Good girl- just like that.” 

Him talking to you- talking at you more like- does the trick. Your orgasm has you squealing into the pillow, biting down on the fabric to quiet yourself. 

John drags you across the finish line before changing the tempo in his thrusts- no longer focusing on your pleasure now that you’re a limp heap underneath him. His face buries in your hair, groaning low as his own orgasm hits.

Blissed out, you quickly fall asleep, and hours later as the sun begins to rise you’re very reluctant to leave the little cocoon of warmth enveloping you.

In the days since John has begun herding you into the same bed as him, he is typically awake and out of bed before you. You’re not sure what time it is (relatively speaking, anyway), or how long you’ve been asleep for, but you’re very cognizant of two things; John is behind you snoring up a storm with a territorial arm across your belly, and your child once again is sitting on your bladder.

The bathroom is the most pressing issue for you at the moment. As much as you’d like nothing more than to roll over and burrow further under John for warmth, mother nature is calling you.

Unfortunately for you, John perpetually seems to be keyed into your every movement despite him currently being unconscious.

Much like the first night, no sooner have you actually gotten any distance between the two of you before he’s huffing and grabbing at you with an efficiency that has you (once again) convinced he’s actually awake and just fucking with you. Unlike the first night, you’re not merely scrambling in a bid for propriety to clear your head. You need to pee God damn it, with the urgency only a late term pregnancy can produce. Thus you are not amused. At all.

You squirm, or try to- an honest bid to slip out of his hold that doesn’t escape him in his sleep. The man is clingy even though he’s asleep.

“John!” you hiss, trying to hit just the right decibel where you can wake him without being too loud. His snoring stops which is a promising sign, although it takes another jostle for him to actually wake up. 

“Let go, I need to go to the bathroom!” you instruct now that he’s actually aware of his surroundings. Once you’re free you…aren’t exactly bolting because speed is not your forte at the moment, but you move as quickly as you can given your current predicament. Meanwhile, John’s clearly in that half asleep-half awake limbo, mumbling something in his half-sleep as his bleary eyes track you across the room.

You’re fine, and make it across the hall without issue. Once finished and making the trek back to the oh-so-warm bed waiting for you (and deciding that you are going to crawl underneath John if it’s the last thing you do), something catches your attention out of the corner of your eye.

At the top of the stairs you’re able to see down to the front door, the opaque windows just beginning to be lit up by daybreak.

Which means you can clearly see the shadow of someone moving on the porch. You freeze, suddenly not giving a damn about the cold.

It’s a zombie. You tell yourself the most logical option. It’s the zombie apocalypse- there’s gonna be zombies outside. It cannot get inside. They’re not smart enough to open doors, and John has them locked and-

You can hear the sound of the doorknob turning. The hair on the back of your neck raises up, a chill running down your spine like someone dumped ice water on you.

Zombies aren’t smart enough to open doors.

That is not a zombie on the other side of the glass.

Your fight or flight kicks in, instinct demanding you hurry back to John’s side. The door is locked, but that doesn’t guarantee the interloper won’t still try to get inside. You don’t even know why this is spooking you so badly, but if there’s one thing the end of the world has taught you, it’s to not question your instincts.

“John!” The distress in your voice must cut through whatever sleep still clings to him, because he jumps immediately from a sleepy acknowledgement of your return to being wide awake.

“What’s wrong?”

“There’s someone outside- I heard them trying the door.”

He freezes for a nano second before throwing the covers back and getting out of the bed. “Did they see you?” he asks as he dresses with impressive efficiency.

“I-I don’t think so- I was at the top of the stairs. I just saw the shadow through the glass- I-,” you stammer.

“Stay here,” he instructs firmly- that’s an order you were anticipating from him, and one you fully intend to comply with.

He places the pistol you’d been carrying the first night in your hand. “I’ll go look. Either scare them off or see what they want. Anyone comes up the stairs who’s not me, you fire, understood?”

You nod, feeling a bit more settled now the initial adrenaline dump is fading. Right- they don’t necessarily have to be a threat. You certainly hadn’t been much of a threat to anyone when John caught you skittering around in the kitchen. That already feels like a lifetime ago.

But you also aren’t stupid- there are people who would not hesitate to steal your supplies and leave you for dead, either. Or just happily kill you both for the thrill of it. 

“Stay here,” he reiterates, pulling you in for a kiss goodbye before stepping away.

“Be careful,” you caution him, knowing full well he’s far more equipped to handle anything going bump in the night than you are.

“I’ll be back in a bit- shouldn’t take too long,” he assures you- and then you’re alone.

[reds-skull]

Messy Cyberknights sketches because I am tired of everything+the English and Scottish banners of the respective knighthoods

I can't choose a favorite I love them all <3

[owlcomics101]

Zombie Task force 141 x immune!Reader head cannons

Warnings: possible gore (We are talking about zombies here), corpses, Language (Cussing), sfw (I am a minor), fluff, Reader is gender neutral.

Context/backstory: The zombie apocalypse started few months ago. You were just a citizen, but not just any citizen, you were one of the very few who were immune to the Virus. You were being hunted by people who wanted to you use to find the cure to the virus, but that meant the cost of your life. There had to be a better way to get the cure. Right? Lasswell later found you, she was one of the very few soldiers left unaffected in the British military. Lasswell needed your help. The whole task force was infected but by some miracle they can still work. They just need someone to keep them grounded. Someone human who could take few bite or scratches. But you had no military experience, you only somewhat knew how to use a pistol and a knife thanks to the apocalypse. You were currently being escorted to an old run down base by two masked soldiers who were infected as well. You could tell by how they made groans and gurgling sounds and couldn’t take their eyes off you . You could’ve sworn you saw drool drip down from their masks. You could already see the silhouette of the task force. They have been waiting for you.

Soap: Soap was the most unstable of the group. As much as he didn’t want to bite or hurt you there has been a few close calls. Especially if you drew blood. You always kept your skin covered as much as you could around Soap. You would borrow any of the team’s old oversized uniforms and covered your arms, legs, and neck with it. Soap couldn’t help but be a bit possessive of you. Wither it be because of his urges to eat you or that you’re the only human who ever treated him and the others like people and not monsters. Whenever you were close to other zombie soldiers, Soap would tightly hold your hand the whole time. Price constantly has to remind Soap that you’re capable of taking care of yourself and to stop acting like your body guard 24/7 but he just can’t help himself. Enjoy an over protective, walking Scottish Corpse looming over you.

Ghost: Ghost was the first one of the team to be infected when the virus first broke out. He attempted to cut his jaw off to prevent himself from biting anyone before he turned but it was already too late. Soap found Ghost gurgling and groaning as he was feasting off the remains of another soldier. To Soap’s horror and relief that he also found Ghost…crying? Ghost was still conscious, somewhat at least. The team took him back to get studied and maybe even cured but that wasn’t the case. Ghost had starved himself for weeks, refusing to eat another human being again but when Soap came to check on him. Ghost lost it and bit into Soap. When you first arrived Ghost did his best to distance himself from you. He was already a distant person to begin with but he also didn’t want to hurt you like he did to Soap, despite Soap already have forgiven him multiple times. But you just kept getting closer, somehow breaking down his walls with your affection and that sweet smile of yours. That Damm smile.

Gaz: The last to be infected. He couldn’t bear to leave his team behind, even if they were zombies. Gaz stayed with them as long as he could. Trying to keep the team sane and stop them from eating everything like you are now, but one mission Gaz got bit by an enemy soldier and it was all over. Gaz is the least decomposed compared to the others, he looked the most human. Which meant he’d accompany you when going into places with People. Gaz is a bit more in control than Soap or Ghost but sometimes his mouth can’t help but water being surrounded by people. He wore a balaclava mask to somewhat muffle his senses, but thankfully you were always there to keep him grounded. Gaz tends to silently scowl or snarl when someone gets too close to you. It felt like instinct to him to keep everyone and thing away from you. Even himself sometimes, but it’s hard to when you’re always holding his hand or leaning on him.

Price: The most in control. Price sacrificed himself to save Gaz from a horde of zombies which explained his more mauled looking state compared to the others. He’s the one that bandages you up when you get wounded because the others would either go berserk or drool all over you. He acts the most human and even still smokes from his cigars which looks hilarious because when he exhales, the smoke will leave out of every cut or hole in his body. How can he smoke with rotting lungs? We’ll never know. Despite having the most self control, Price can slip up sometimes but it’s very, very rare. One time he was bandaging your bloody wrist up when you look over and see him licking and sucking the blood off your wrist.

Y/N: “Uh, captain?”

Price: “Mmm?”

Y/N: “Your doing the-uh…thing again.”

Price: wha-….Ah fucking hell….

[amazeingartist]

Doodles

ghoap baby grabbing price’s beard

vampire!soap reattaching zombie!ghost’s jaw

and eepy mini demon!ghost

[ilovemesomevincentprice]

Vincent Price - The Last Man On Earth (1964)

[decaffeinatedcandycane]

Everyone talks about being survivalist, love that btw, but nobody talks about Zombie! Reader.

But not any zombie - a human like one.

So human, a horde almost ate them, because they were too much human and too less - a fucking zombie. Of course, the rotting smell deterred them.

Imagine what life would be like?

Not needing to eat, breathe, not feeling warm, cold, etc. Just a rotting corpse, able to walk, talk and instead of looking for supplies, you are looking for a way to keep your body up.

The rotting process stops after some time, but you can still break. It doesn't hurt, but it is inconvenient.

Somehow, somehow you found a way to become 100 % human on the outside and convince survivors, you are one - for some time, of course.

Just for a quick chat. You hate eating flesh, so you are not tempted to eat anyone.

And you meet the task force and they "save" you from zombies. And.. and you try to run away, but they try to convince you to stay in their base.

For the plot, a zombie follows you to the base and calls a horde there.

You successfully stop them and reveal your zombie self, making zombie communication sounds, convincing the horde you are all advanced zombies.

The zombies leave and just as you try to slip away, the boys muzzle you down and question you relentlessly.

They figure you are not threat, since you just want to run away, but are convinced you brought the zombie that started this.

One of them already fell for you. Another though you are their friend. None of them want to let you go and some weird scientists wants you to try and create a cure, or at least, a sentient zombies. (Maybe they will turn out like you and not eat human flesh?)

This will include torture, which the boys cannot allow. Yes, you won't feel it, physically, but you will go insane, for sure.

I don't know. I am on some zombie apocalypse lane lately.... But, yeah.

Love the trope of Zombie! Reader x Task force 141 and sprinkle some serious drama on that shit.