Raven

Raven’s masterlist!🐦‍⬛

Somebody requested I make one of these, soo here ya go!

Daryl Dixon;

A moment alone(smut)

Carl Grimes;

Dull

THE HAT(smut)

Blame it on the weed(rarl x reader smut)

That’s all the imagines I have so far(I think) please request more. I need ideas, and I’m willing to write for any character, even outside of twd.

—Love, Raven!🎀

Doing that thing I usually do again, accidentally dropping one series and picking up another😔

New layout as well, and I’m considering changing my blog theme..

I’m now writing a series about Sirius black, Remus lupin and James potter. It’s from the second perspective, and there are a few triggering subjects, such as (muggle) alcohol abuse, panic attacks, cheating, explicit smut, talk of self harm and possibly suicide, and I’m yet to know what else my mind will conjure up.

If anyone is interested, reblog or simply like this. If no one is interested, I’ll get back into my other series. Any and all ideas are accepted and if they’re used you will be tagged in the exact chapter, simply ask me or DM me!

Hi guyzzzz! I rlly wanna do more twd oneshots n imagines, so if yall could give me requests or ideas that would be highly appreciated! Of course, I’m still writing for rdr so those requests are fine too, I just wanna get back into writing for twd!

YES IM A LITTLE LATE..

It’s my best friends birfday today though 😛

She’s genuinely helped me soo sooooooo much in writing and mood board and ideas and I just cannot express how smart and talented and BEAUTIFUL she is. She is genuinely the bestest writing buddy ever and I’m so lucky to have her! Her writing is amazing and yall should definitely go check it out😏😏

@cranberrysaucebath <3 HAPPY BIRFDAY BESTFRIENDDD

A really long pee break

Chapter 2

Carl x ron x reader

Warnings: Ron is kinda a perv? Idk

You’d spent the last hour down by the river, the water a murky ribbon reflecting the sky.

Setting up camp was a ritual born of necessity and paranoia: makeshift tripwires woven from fishing line and fallen branches, cans strung together to clatter if a dead one shuffled too close, a perimeter you’d walked three times yourself, machete in hand, before allowing even a moment of rest.

The earth was unforgiving, frozen in parts, making the search for suitable fire rocks a chore.

You’d scoured the riverbank, your calloused fingers numb from the cold and the constant sifting through pebbles and silt.

Carl had already collected a small pile, each stone roughly the size of your fist, perfect for forming a crude fire pit base.

You found one, smooth and dark, a decent weight, and held it out to him.

“Here,” you mumbled, your voice a low, gravelly sound from disuse.

Carl glanced at it, then at you, his single eye dismissive.

He didn't even bother taking it.

Instead, his hand shot out, open palmed, and slapped the rock from your grasp. It hit the muddy bank with a wet thud, rolling a few inches before settling.

“Too small,” he muttered, his voice flat, already turning back to his own pile.

There was no apology, no acknowledgment of the slight.

You frowned, your brow furrowing, a familiar knot tightening in your stomach.

It wasn’t the rock, not really.

It was the casual dismissal, the implicit judgment. It upset you.

But you knew better than to argue, you merely bent down and picked up the stone.

It wasn't too small. It was perfectly adequate.

You turned it over in your palm for a moment, then, for no reason, slipped it into your coat pocket.

As you straightened, your eyes scanned the riverbank, an unconscious habit of checking for threats.

That’s when you saw Ron.

He wasn’t looking at the river, wasn’t looking for rocks.

He was looking at you. His gaze was intense, almost burning, and his cheeks were slightly flushed, a faint red against the pallor of his skin.

It was unsettling, the heat of his stare, the way it seemed to strip away the layers of your clothing.

Weirdo, you thought, turning away swiftly, your muscles tensing, your hand instinctively hovering near your machete.

You focused on the task at hand, on the cold earth beneath your boots, on the gathering dusk.

Eventually, the fire was coaxed into life and you all had huddled around it, your hands outstretched to obtain some of the heat.

The warmth felt like a blessing, a temporary reprieve from the relentless cold that had become a constant companion.

Ron had been restless.

He’d paced for a bit, then announced with a brusque tone, “Gotta piss.” He’d stalked off into the deeper shadows of the woods, the rustle of leaves the only sound of his departure.

Five minutes passed.

Then ten.

The silence, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire and the distant, mournful call of an owl, began to stretch, thin and taut.

You shifted, a prickle of unease rippling across your skin. He’d been gone quite awhile.

“How long’s he been taking a piss?” you asked Carl, your voice low.

Your eyes were still fixed on the darkness where Ron had disappeared, slightly out of concern, slightly out of suspicion.

Carl took a long drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing like a tiny ember.

He exhaled slowly, the smoke curling around his head, almost like a halo. He didn’t look at you immediately, his gaze fixed on the dancing flames.

Then, a small, knowing grin touched the corner of his lips, a flicker of something almost amused, almost disgusted, in his good eye.

“Uhh, about ten minutes now,” he replied, his voice a low drawl. He had a pretty good feeling he knew exactly what Ron was doing and why.

You raised an eyebrow, a slight, almost imperceptible twitch of your facial muscles.

“He really need to go, I guess,” you said, shrugging.

“Yeah, let’s blame it on that,” Carl said, a small chuckle escaping him, dry and brittle like dead leaves.

He took another drag, his gaze drifting to the silent woods, as if mentally picturing Ron’s solitary, desperate act.

Meanwhile, deeper in the woods, beyond the reach of the firelight, Ron was leaning against the rough bark of a thick oak tree, his head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut.

His breath was ragged, heavy, his chest heaving with exertion that had nothing to do with walking.

The cold night air bit at his exposed skin, but he barely registered it. His hand, shaking slightly, stroked his cock, barely freed from its prison of jeans, slick with his own desperate efforts.

He was a hurricane of frustration and hormonal rage, a self-destructive storm brewing within him.

The world had taken everything – his family, his home, his sense of control.

He hated Rick Grimes, hated Carl, hated you.

He hated the way you moved, quiet and efficient, the way you never flinched, the way you always had that goddamn machete, the way your eyes, even in the dim light, seemed to see through him.

He hated the way you looked, the way your hair fell across your face, the curve of your jaw, the way your clothes clung to you in the right places, obscuring and revealing just enough to drive him mad.

He wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

Not now. Not in this hell.

His entire being was a raw nerve, exposed to the elements, and you were a constant, infuriating irritant, a presence that sparked a fire in his loins he couldn’t extinguish.

“Why,” he mumbled, his voice a low, guttural growl, a mix of self-loathing and furious desire, “why does that god awful woman make me so goddamn horny…”

He pressed himself harder, gritting his teeth, the cold air doing nothing to quell the inferno raging beneath his skin.

He imagined things he shouldn’t, things that made his gut churn with disgust even as his body screamed for release.

It was a vicious cycle of anger and lust, a self-inflicted torment. His back arched against the tree, a silent, desperate climax in the desolate woods.

A few ragged breaths later, it was over.

The shame hit him like a physical blow, cold and sharp.

He quickly adjusted his clothes, wiping his hand on the dirt, trying to erase the evidence, the feeling, the very thought.

He stalked back towards the camp, his footsteps heavy, kicking at fallen leaves, his anger a tangible thing now.

He emerged from the darkness of the trees, a silhouette against the flickering firelight.

His eyes, still slightly dilated, avoided yours entirely. He didn’t glance at you, didn't acknowledge your presence, even though your gaze was fixed on him, assessing, evaluating.

He simply walked past you, without a word, and sat down abruptly beside Carl.

Carl, who had been watching his approach, gave him a slow, knowing grin, laced with a subtle hint of disgust.

John marston x reader!

Warnings: a bit of angst, then some kind of fluffy resolution! John is a dick. Reader is too forgiving

New divider, what do we think😛

After the wolf’s had attacked John and scarred his face, he had became mean.

Not suddenly, it started small.

Little things would bother him, and he slowly became a volcano, building up with more pressure until he’d burst.

He’d yell at whoever was closest, then storm away to recollect himself, and what better way to calm down than sleeping with the sun of the group.

You were kind, beautiful and caring, always making sure everyone else could eat before you did, often bringing them food if you didn’t see them get any.

You weren’t weak, you could fight and she did, you just chose to be as good of a person as you could be.

John believed it was wrong. You were so sweet, and he’d grown so bitter he was sure he left a bad taste in your mouth.

Though, every time he came around, you welcomed him with open arms.

What you had wasn’t a secret, anyone with eyes could see it. Arthur would tease John all the time, and it only made John angrier.

John was trying. For weeks, he’d held his temper. Hadn’t yelled. Hadn’t stormed off. Had eaten his food quietly, nodded when spoken to. He told himself he was getting better.

Maybe I ain’t broken after all, he thought. Maybe I can be decent.

But, that was simply stupid, naive hope.

And, like a raging storm, Arthur strolled into camp with his practiced confidence and stupid, smug grin. Or, that’s how it seemed to John, at least.

Like a bloodhound sniffing out a raccoon, Arthur immediately strolled over to John, his smirk never leaving his face.

“Little johnny marston, finally got off your ass to help out ‘round here?” Arthur teased, cocking a brow as he leaned his weight on his right leg.

“Shut up, Arthur.” John growled, feeling that familiar resentment and frustration bubbling in his chest.

“Ah, I just figured Dutch’s little lap dog would want some recognition. You sure don’t mind when Dutch praises ya,” Arthur barked a laugh, shaking his head.

“Ain’t seen you lift a damn finger in weeks. You ever gon’ stop moping ‘bout your little scratch?”

John didn’t answer.

Just stared into the fire.

“Or maybe you’re waitin’ on her to bring you supper again? That it? ‘Cause I hear she don’t mind playin’ nursemaid to sullen boys.”

John felt the heat rise in his chest, quick, like a struck match.

“Shut your mouth, Arthur,” he growled.

Arthur didn’t flinch. “Oh, you mad now? Did I hit a nerve?”

“She ain’t your business,” John snapped, rising to his feet.

Arthur chuckled, and it only seemed to piss John off more, grating on his nerves. “She ain’t nothin’ to me, Johnny. But she sure is to you, ain’t she? Always hoverin’. Always smilin’. Always forgivin’.” He mimicked your soft tone. “‘Oh, John, I know you’re hurt. It’s okay. I’ll take care of you.’”

John thought he might shoot him.

But he didn’t swing at Arthur.

His anger had coiled tight in his stomach like a rattlesnake ready to strike, but it didn’t want Arthur..

And so, when you looked up, concern in your eyes, quietly saying, “John… it’s alright,” something in him cracked.

“It ain’t alright!” he growled, swinging around. “Stop treatin’ me like some damn child! I don’t need your damn kindness! I don’t need your pity meals or your damn attention!”

You froze.

The firelight flickered across your face.

For a second, the world went quiet. Even Arthur shut his mouth.

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t cry. Just looked at him like you were searching for something beneath his fury.

But John couldn’t bear it.

“You think I don’t see it?” he spat, voice trembling. “You think I don’t know I’m a mess? You think I like bein’ this way? You keep smilin’ like I’m worth savin’, and it don’t help, it just makes it worse!”

You stood slowly. “John…”

“No!” He shoved his chair back. “Just… just leave me be.”

He stormed off into the woods, boots pounding, breath ragged. He didn’t stop until he reached the edge of the creek, where he collapsed onto a rock, head in his hands.

What the hell had he done?

You’d never been anything but good to him.

And he’d thrown it back in your face like rotten meat.

He sat there, listening to the night, the crickets, the distant coyote howl, the wind in the forest. He thought about the wolf. How it had come out of nowhere, how badly it hurt, and how he was sure he’d be dead, but, he wasn’t.

And now he’d bitten the one person who’d tried to help him.

Ashamed didn’t even begin to cover how he felt.

He didn’t sleep that night.

Sat there, staring into the dark, until dawn streaked the sky with pale gold.

Eventually, he made his way back to camp.

A few others were up, Arthur was sharpening his knife, giving John a cold, unreadable look. No smugness now. Just silence.

You weren’t at the fire.

“Where is she?” John asked, voice rough.

Arthur didn’t answer. Pearson nodded toward the trees. “Went for a walk. Said she needed air.”

John swallowed harshly and gave a small, curt nod.

He found you by the creek, sitting on a fallen log, your hands in your lap. You were humming some quiet tune, one he couldn’t recognize.

He stopped a few feet away. “I… I came to say ’m sorry.”

You didn’t look at him. “You meant what you said.”

“No,” he said quickly. “I did, but not like that. Never… never like that.”

“You think I pity you?” You asked softly.

John hesitated. “Don’t you?”

You turned then, eyes clear, steady. “No. I don’t pity you, John. I care about you. That’s all. I see the man who fights everyday just to protect what he loves most. Who wakes up every day with a face that reminds him of pain and vulnerability, and still gets up.”

He looked down at the ground, kicking a rock gently.

“I don’t treat you kindly because I think you’re weak,” you went on. “I treat you kindly because I choose to be kind. It’s not about you. It’s about who I want to be.”

John felt something hot behind his eyes. He blinked it away.

“I yelled at you,” he said. “You didn’t deserve that.”

“No,” she agreed. “I didn’t.”

He waited. For her to push him away. To say she was done.

“I’m a bastard,” he said at last. The words rasped in his throat. “Ain’t no use pretending otherwise.”

You remained quiet, curious as to what else he had to say.

He swallowed, the shame thick as syrup. “I really didn’t mean to—”

“I know.” Her voice was barely a thread. “You were angry and embarrassed.”

He turned to you, but your face was hidden in the shadows. “You ain’t runnin’, then?”

A soft snicker left your lips. “Where would I go?”

John stared at your face, looking for a sign of hatred, of resentment. He found none. “I’d understand if you did.”

You turned then, your eyes finally meeting his. “I don’t run, understand that.”

He blinked, trying not to tear his gaze away from yours, and once again, “I’m sorry,” Left his lips.

There was a pause, long and excruciating. Then, “I know.”

He didn’t reach for you. Not yet. But he stayed, and the silence between you was no longer tense.

Eventually, both of you had left eachothers side and began your days, but when night fell, you brought him a bowl of stew, and when you pressed a damp rag to his scar, he caught your wrist.

“Stay,” he said, voice rough.

You smiled, a small, light thing. “Always.”

This is mostly just to publish something, so it’s short. But PLEASE REQUEST STUFF!! I mostly do John, Arthur and Javier but I can do anyone! Just give me a name and whatever you want to happen in the story.

Currently working on a John marston x reader angst to fluff one shot, would you all like me to use ‘she’ or ‘you’ ?

Arthur Morgan x oc!

Hii! This is a new kinda series ima do w my rdr2 oc x Arthur Morgan. Idk how many chapters it’ll be but js lmk if u guys want more!

Basically, Arthur didn’t get tb, the gang js kinda split apart n Arthur and Mary got married. NO SHADE TO MARY BTW THIS IS JS KINDA NECESSARY..

Warnings: some angst, not much tbh.

you can sleep with someone without developing something for them, right? you don’t have to be in love to have sex.

those were excuses. sorry ones.

arthur had a missus, someone to lay down beside of every night, so why did he miss her so bad?

why did the hands that slipped from his grasp the moment the deed was done feel more like home than the hands that waited for him at his house?

he’d feel guilty, anybody would. but the intense desire to run back to the hotel room he left her in was simply.. stronger.

returning to the woman felt like thirsting to death, having water dangled over your head, and then ripped away as a cruel joke.

perhaps being married to mary linton was a cruel joke.

still, arthur climbed atop his horse and rode like he was genuinely happy, he even threw on a small smile as he walked in the door.

“missed ya too..” he’d mutter when her lips met his cheek, the kiss like a third degree burn compared to the soft touch of her

they’d sit down, have dinner, and he’d act like a good husband, offering to rinse the dishes, but it was just an excuse not to lay with her in the same bed.

salem bryre hated arthur morgan. she loved him, and he abandoned her. she’d ask herself, ‘was i not enough?’ then smack herself just for the doubt.

maybe it was just a reminder that wild women cant be loved.

mary was tame and kind, salem was rough and mean.

but, salem would, nonetheless, talk herself into believing he was the problem. it wasn’t her fault she’d mistaken his lustful touch for one that promised a marriage, a kid and a few acres of land.

she should’ve read the signs, but maybe he didn’t put up any. maybe arthur had lured her into his web on purpose, hungry spiders do need to eat, don’t they?

arthur told himself leaving her was the right choice, that adultry was worse than misery.

there was nothing particularly wrong with mary, in fact, she was perfect. just not perfect for him.

was it the toxicity that kept him wanting more? after all, nobody would expect the child born in ashes to not want to feel the burn.

everything could have all been avoided if kieran didnt die. the boy was sent back to the camp like the headless horsemen, and that was traumatizing.

could that be why mary had married him in the first place? and if he’d lived, would things be different? would he have stayed with salem until the sun rose again?

but those were all theories, of course. and unfortunately, arthur had to stay in reality. he was married to mary. she was his wife, and salem was just the girl from the hotel.

salem loaded the buck onto her horse with practiced ease, a small grunt leaving her lips as she threw the beast.

‘this’ll feed us,’ she thought. when the men were all pinned against eachother, sadie and salem sat by a fire with a piece of venison on their knives.

small conversation was made, and a bond was formed. sadie was salem’s partner, her rock, her anchor in a sea of sharks, and salem was sadie’s saving grace.

their lives had crashed down around eachother, but at least they had eachother.

“a successful hunt, i see?” sadie smirked as she approached salem, taking a good look at the sizable buck on the back of salems horse.

“yeah, wanna help me get ‘em down, he’s real heavy.” salem answered with a soft smile. approval and pride was the best reward salem could ever receive from sadie, and sadie knew that.

“yeah, ready?” sadie said as she slid her hands under the head end of the buck.

“why do i get the ass?” salem huffed disappointedly as she slid her hands under the rear end of the deer.

“because you, my dear friend, are an ass!” sadie responded with a snicker, to which salem scoffed.

“i’m a kind, lovely lady, thank you very much.” salem grumbled sarcastically. “oh yeah, that why you ain’t married?” sadie continued.

though, that one had a little sting.

sadie was right, no one in their right mind would marry salem bryre, especially not arthur morgan.

but, like usual, salem shook the thought from her head and helped lift the buck from her horse with the help of sadie, and the two carried it to the ground near a fire.

“you wanna skin it, or ya want me to?” sadie asked, already withdrawing her knife from its holder.

“you do it, i need to get something from the store.” salem said as she grabbed the flask of water, taking a deep sip before closing it and sitting it back down.

“just wait for me and i’ll go with ya, i’ll be quick.” sadie comprised, digging her knife into the stomach of the deer and dragging it from tact to sternum.

salem stood awkwardly, yet patiently, watching as sadie skinned the buck and threw the pelt on the back of her horse, sorting through the meat and placing it in a metal can.

“we’ll cook this later,” she said as she walked over and climbed on her horse, looking back to wait for salem.

salem mounted her horse as well and began riding into valentine with sadie right behind her, the sound of hooves hitting the ground a familiar melody in her ears.

upon arriving at the shop, salem and sadie hitched their horses and both walked in together. the shop was quite busy, as it normally was, multiple people buying food items and other things of the sort.

“get us some coffee grounds, i’ll get the canned food.” salem instructed, nodding her head towards the coffee.

sadie shrugged but listened, walking over to the section while salem walked over to the shelf that held the canned foods. they needed food that would last long and give them nutrition, so salem gathered some canned peaches and beans.

the bell on the door the door jingled, signaling someone walked in, but salem didn’t look, she didn’t care.

after she’d gotten all she could carry, she turned to walk to the register but ended up running into someone, a burly man.

as her eyes scaled up the chest, her stomach churned at the sight of who it was.

arthur morgan stood tall, just like the last time she’d seen him. his eyes widened slightly as they landed on her, but he tried not to make it obvious.

he failed miserably.

“ah, i’m sorry, ma’am.” he grunted, reaching down and picking up one of the cans that had fallen among the collision. he said it so.. casually. like he didn’t even remember who she was.

maybe he didn’t, and maybe that was for the better.

though the look in his eyes, the way his nostrils flared and the way his body tensed threw that theory out of the window.

the two spent a moment just staring at eachother until mary had came around the corner, a soft smile gracing her features.

though it dropped as soon as she saw the way their eyes were locked on eachother.

“arthur, who’s this?..” she inquired, her gaze darting between the two, as if trying to pry his vision from salem with her words alone.

“uh.. just— just an old friend.” he stammered with a nervous smile. salem nearly scoffed. for a moment, salem thought about the situation at hand. arthur had ran away from her, maybe because he was dating this woman.

then, her gaze dropped to mary’s hand.

a small tarnished ring, more than likely stolen, but definitely a wedding ring.

arthur morgan was fucking married.

the realization hit salem hard, planting a new resentment for the man in her stomach. he’d slept with her, knowing he had someone waiting on him at home.

her hatred for him had just gotten so much stronger, but yet.. at the same time, she still couldn’t fight the feeling in her stomach that had nothing to do with anger.

“got what we need yet?—“ sadie’s voice felt like an anchor, pulling salem back into reality. “arthur morgan, mary beth, good to see yall.” she grinned as she walked up beside of salem.

“how yall been?” she asked. “fine, bout as good as we can after everything.” mary answered with a small laugh.

“that’s good— oh, salem, this is mary and—“ “arthur morgan.” salem interrupted her, and sadie raised a brow. “you two know eachother?” sadie looked between the two suspiciously.

“you could say that.” salem responded quickly, “we should get going, leave arthur and his *wife* to their shopping.” salem said, a petty undertone hiding beneath her words.

arthur couldn’t understand why salem acknowledging mary as his wife felt wrong.

“yeah, i suppose. bye arthur, mary.” sadie nodded her head, following salem out of the shop.

“what was that about?” sadie said, looking at salem like she knew all to much. “what?” salem countered as if she had no idea what sadie meant.

“what happened between you two, and don’t say nothing because there was way too much tension in that little store.” sadie let out an exasperated laugh.

“nothing, sadie, leave it.” salem grumbled in return. but she knew sadie didn’t give up easily, and this was one of those things she wouldn’t just ‘leave.’