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joelsrose · 3 months ago

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Dust & Devotion

This was heavily Ethel Cain inspired I listened to Strangers by her on repeat

You lay on the mattress pressed against the worn wooden floor, your fingers tracing the deep cracks in the old boards, feeling each rough edge beneath your touch. The room was small, but in its quiet, it offered refuge from the nightmares lurking beyond these walls. You and Joel had found this place by some stroke of luck, an ancient cottage that felt torn between being a chapel and a farmhouse, unable to settle on either, caught somewhere in between—a sanctuary for the weary.

As you had stepped into the house, a strange kind of stillness fell over you, broken only by the crunch of glass beneath your boots. The walls were lined with worn, faded crosses, their wood splintered and edges chipped as if they’d borne witness to countless silent prayers over the years.

Religious memorabilia dotted the room—small, withered icons coated in dust, a cracked rosary tangled around a rusted nail, and framed portraits of saints, their eyes gazing somewhere far beyond this broken world. Many of the pictures hung askew, their glass frames shattered, jagged edges catching what little light crept through the boarded windows, casting fractured reflections onto the floor.

The hall itself was narrow, and every step brought a quiet symphony of decay—the soft groan of the floorboards, the creak of loose nails. A faint smell of mildew clung to the air, mixed with something old and faintly metallic, as though time itself had grown stale within these walls. You felt almost like an intruder here, disturbing something sacred, though forgotten—a relic of faith left to wither in the shadows.

Joel muttered his usual “Stay here,” his voice low and gruff, a command softened only by the familiarity of it. As always, you waited, lingering in the entryway as he moved further in, his steps deliberate and cautious, each one carrying a quiet vigilance. You watched his broad frame melt into the dim shadows of the room, his shoulders tense, every movement precise.

He scanned each corner, his head tilting just so, eyes narrowing as he checked every possible hiding place. You held your breath without meaning to, a small ritual of your own, waiting for that assurance, that single word that meant safety.

And then, after what felt like an eternity, his voice cut through the silence, firm and unmistakable: “Clear.” Only then did you feel your shoulders relax, the air finally leaving your lungs as you took a tentative step forward, drawn by the quiet relief that came only with his presence.

Now as you lay, you heard the familiar creak of footsteps from downstairs. Joel was moving around, probably hunting for something to sharpen his blade with. You could picture him clearly, brows knit together, that perpetual scowl etched into his face like it was part of him.

More movement followed, his footsteps a steady rhythm, growing louder with each step as he climbed the creaky stairs. You could feel the weight of his approach, the subtle tension that always came when he was near.

When he finally reached your door, he gave a soft knock—a restrained sound, just enough to announce himself without breaking the stillness that lingered in the room. You shifted, pushing yourself up onto your shoulders, back straightening as you awaited him, anticipation pooling in the quiet space between his knock and whatever he might say next.

“Come in.” Your voice barely escaped you, soft and fragile, as it always seemed to be around him.

He pushed the door open just a crack, enough to meet your gaze. “Water’s working,” he said in that low, gravelly tone. “But it’ll only be hot for a minute, so if you’re wantin’ a shower, better take it now.”

“Okay,” you murmured, your voice barely a whisper, and he nodded—a silent answer, as usual. Joel had a way of saying more with a tilt of his head than most could with words. You’d come to understand it in the time you’d known him.

You padded softly down the narrow hallway to the single bathroom, a neglected relic from another time. It was grimy and unkempt, the tiles chipped, the porcelain stained from years of disuse. The mirror was fogged with age, and something blackish lurked in the corners of the tub.

Yet, it was water, a rare luxury out here, and that was enough.

You paused, catching sight of yourself in the mirror. How long had it been since you’d seen your reflection so clearly? You tugged off your clothes, frowning as your gaze lingered on the hair on your legs—a trivial thing, but somehow, since Joel, it felt like something.

You caught yourself eyeing the counter, wondering if, somewhere, a clean razor lay forgotten, a stupid - pointless hope.

With a sigh, you stepped into the shower, feet curling against the cold, gritty surface. You turned the knob, anticipating the rare reprieve of hot water, but nothing came. Just the creak and groan of the pipes, the faint splutter of disappointment.

Frustrated, you stepped out, cracked open the door, and called out to Joel.

“What?” His voice bellowed back from some corner of the house, thick and unmistakable.

“Shower’s not working,” you shouted, annoyance leaking into your tone.

You could hear the muffled groan of him rising, could imagine his joints protesting as he pushed himself upright. His footsteps grew louder, and you realized suddenly how exposed you were, grabbing for your sleep shirt and hastily pulling it over yourself.

“You decent?” he asked, voice closer now, rough around the edges.

“Yeah,” you muttered, tugging the shirt down over your thighs.

He stepped in, casting a quick, assessing look over you. Your hair was loose, tumbling down your shoulders, ready to be washed. You caught him looking, just for a second, something shifting in his gaze. His eyes lingered at your legs, and you felt a pang of self-consciousness—the pricks of hair, the way your arms instinctively crossed over yourself.

He’d noticed, in those small, fleeting ways, how you’d started to care about the tiniest things—things he knew wouldn’t have crossed your mind before. The way you tugged at your sleeves when your hands felt rough, or how you’d sometimes run your fingers over your legs absently, a flicker of irritation passing over your face when they weren’t smooth. He saw it in the way you’d bite your lip and avert your gaze whenever you felt exposed, adjusting yourself, hiding those little imperfections you’d never have thought twice about.

Joel noticed, too, how you seemed to eye the worn-down counters in each place you landed, almost as if searching for some scrap of luxury—a mirror, a razor, a brush that hadn’t been cracked by years of dust and grit. He couldn’t quite explain why it mattered to you, but he noticed it all the same.

Joel couldn’t give a damn if you had hair on your legs or if your hands were rough from calluses.

He was a man, not some boy caught up in a picture-perfect idea of what a woman should be. He knew better. Life had taught him that women were more than delicate, pretty things meant to be displayed; they were fierce, resilient, built from the same grit that held the world together. But still, a part of him felt that quiet ache, that twinge of regret that the softness you’d once carried—the gentle things you’d once let yourself want—had been taken from you, piece by piece.

But as always, Joel said nothing, just knelt down with a quiet exhale, hands deftly working the knob until the pipes coughed and sputtered back to life.

You watched his hands, rough and weathered, calloused from years of hard work and survival. His fingers were thick, his nails perpetually rimmed with a faint trace of dirt, as if they carried the remnants of every struggle he’d ever faced. Those hands—hands that could grip a weapon, hold the collar of a man with an unyielding strength, fend off whatever the world threw at him. And yet, despite their harshness, you couldn’t help but wonder if they’d ever be gentle enough to cradle you.

You found yourself drawn to the thought of them, of what it might feel like if he allowed his touch to soften, if those hands could lay down their burden, even just for a moment. It was a ridiculous, hopeless longing, yet it lingered there, deep in the marrow of your bones—a wish that those same hands, capable of such violence and grit, might one day trace your skin with a tenderness they seemed almost incapable of.

There was something in their roughness that beckoned you, a quiet desire for the impossible, for warmth to spring from what had been hardened and scarred. And it haunted you—the idea that those hands, fierce and unforgiving, might hold you like something precious, just once.

The water finally trickled, then flowed warm. He held his hand beneath it, testing the temperature, his voice low. “It’s warm now. Better get in while it lasts.”

You nodded, avoiding his gaze, murmuring a soft “Okay.”

As he left, he left the door slightly ajar, his figure starting to disappear down the hall. But before he turned away, he glanced back, catching a glimpse of your bare shoulder and the slope of your back as you stepped beneath the stream, the thin pink curtain closing around you like a final curtain on the only softness left in this world.

#ellie tlou #joel miller fanfic #pedro pascal #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller x reader #pedro pascal fanfic #joel miller #joel miller one shot #pedro pascal one shot #pedro pascal smut #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal x reader #pedropascaledit #pedrohub #gladiator 2 #pedrito #marcus acacius #joel miller tlou

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goldenseresinretriever · 7 months ago

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Subject To Change: Prologue

Tyler Owens x Reader

Summary: It’s been five years since you’ve been back home and when life brings you back to your hometown you find that while some things have changed, others have stayed the same. Your brother still has his head in the clouds but the cowboy currently sleeping in your childhood bedroom is definitely a new development. You’re trying to avoid falling into old patterns but maybe some of them aren’t so bad after all.

Chapter CW: Angst, swearing

Word Count: 0.8k

A/N: Here we goooooo!!!

Series Masterlist // Next Chapter

The cab driver gives you a dirty look that you try to avoid as you tip him generously for coming out to drop you off where every other driver refused. The ride had already left a sizable dent in your wallet, but finding a driver willing to drive so far from the airport was a miracle. If anyone understands underappreciated miracle workers, it's you. He wastes no time in pealing away back down the dirt road, blowing up a cloud of dust behind you that kisses the end of your slacks, holding onto you like a homecoming hug as you finally turn to face the dusty path up to your parents’ farmhouse.

It's been years since you’ve been home but in a split second, you’re that little girl with pigtails, kicking up a cloud in her wake as her tiny feet pounded up the drive to your country castle. Now it feels like you’re walking against the wind of your past decisions as you make your way up to the dark porch, and the last of summer's sun creeps past the horizon. When you make it to the porch, your stomach clenches in guilty protest as you step onto it. Suddenly you’re a teenager again, out past curfew as muscle memory guides your hands to the hidden spare key, and before you know it you’re turning the knob, stopping just before the tell-tale squeak that’s given away your entrance more times than you’d care to admit.

It feels wrong, you think, that the house looks the same as the way you left it. You try to ignore the fact that it seems frozen in time like you never left and never looked back. There’s a light on in the kitchen like there always has been. The most replaced bulb in the house, a lighthouse, a beacon for everyone who’s passed through these four walls and it seems to whisper to you that it’s alright and you’re welcome when you know that logically you’re anything but. You tear your eyes away as your feet carry you up the stairs, stepping this way and that to avoid old creaks and discovering new ones worn in by the pattern of avoiding the old ones. Your eyes find the darkness under your parents’ door and you release a breath you didn’t know you were holding. You’re not ready to face them.

When you make it to your door, you take a deep breath as you turn the knob and swing the wood open. Your eyes refamiliarize themselves with the shadows that haunted your childhood nights and you feel at home with the ghosts of your past. The narrow silhouette of the full-length mirror. The hulking form of the antique dresser made by your grandfather’s worn hands years before you were even born. The elegant spires of your four-poster bed, another gift of your grandfather’s, but this time accompanied with memories of you dancing around the barn as he works the wood to your childish whims. You sigh and kick off the heels that have your toes aching and let them dig into the raggedy scruff of the carpet. You cross over to the dresser, swing it open, and locate your pajamas easily even with the cover of darkness. There’s something final about turning on the lights, like you’ll be revealing your arrival to that little girl who’s been waiting in her ivory tower for you to come home.

The exhaustion has caught up with you and you let yourself trudge towards your bed, shoulders slumped to match the state of your mind. You collapse onto the bed, forgoing the covers, too exhausted to pull them back but instead of the comfortable embrace of your time-worn mattress, your body collides with something hard and you feel the air knocked out of your lungs as you gasp in a silent scream. The hardness under you stirs and then it shifts and your body is shifting on top of it, and you’re so frozen in shocked confusion that you don’t think to scramble to grab at the blankets for purchase until it’s too late, and as quickly as you’re falling, you hit the group and the air is punched out of your lungs yet again. A bare foot lands by your head and then you turn it to look up the attached leg to the man that’s blinking sleepily down at you.

From this angle it’s hard to see much, especially since the room is dark, at least until the lamp on your bedside table snaps to life as the man jerks the short chain, flooding the shadows with a warm glow that silhouettes the shirtless man sitting up in your childhood bed. His dark blonde hair is sticking up in various places, and he’s blinking down at you. A thousand emotions are running through your head, fear, shock, confusion, and finally anger. You manage to collect your limbs enough to sit up, ignoring the way your hair is falling over your face in disarray from being thrown unceremoniously off the bed as you glare up at the mystery man.

“Who the fuck are you?”

A/N: AAAAA and we’re off!! I’m so excited to share this story with you all!! Happy Twisters Tuesday!!! 🤠🩵

#subject to change // goldenseresinretriever #stc // goldenseresinretriever #tyler owens x reader #tyler owens #Tyler Owens x you #no use of y/n #twisters tuesday #twisters 2024 #twisters

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unlosts · 5 months ago

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goldrush

1.5k words. Based on some posts on @hotchfiles blog about Hotchs wedding ring 🫶

F. Scott Fitzgerald — 'There is a moment—Oh, just before the first kiss, a whispered word—something that makes it worth while.'

Small town motels begin to feel familiar after a while. Even the outdated 70s wallpaper and smoked tinted walls start to blur with the newly renovated minimalist gray walls of the latest chain hotel they’re staying in.

After ten hours of bureaucratic red tape, hostile locals and hysterical families, the paper thin mattresses and the softest of egyptian cotton sheets all end up in the same exhausted insomnia.

And it is in that blur of sameness that you find yourself pressed against the sheets of Hotc - sorry, Aarons bed.

Your very stoic, very married boss.

It started in this quaint farmhouse turned B&B somewhere tucked away in Maine, the blood splattered crime scene photos getting lost amongst the garish floral bedspread.

As strict and unyielding as Hotch was in the day to day you knew his biggest secret; an almost full pack of Marlboro reds tucked away in the smallest pocket of his go-bag accompanied by a baby blue bic lighter stolen from you. Reserved for special occasions, such as a week-long case in the middle of the winter with no end in sight.

It was on night four that you went to his room to get your lighter back - and possibly to bum a cigarette as well. Light footsteps on the creaking wood, you tiptoed over as if you knew how it would end.

Before you could even knock the door opened and there he was, stripped of his jacket and tie but still working at midnight, his starched white shirt rumpled from hours sitting at the rickety chair in the room.

“Hi, wasn’t expecting anyone right now,” he said awkwardly, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. His eyes firmly planted on yours and not on your very bare legs, covered by blue striped pajama shorts and a faded concert t-shirt.

“Well, I would be more shocked if you were” you replied with a laugh, crossing your arms against the midnight chill and leaning against the frame of his door “hey listen I’m on a rescue mission here, I know your pack of smokes is more of a ‘in case of emergency bring out the cancer sticks’ sort of deal but my very favorite lighter is sequestered with them and I’ve gone through two packs without it so can I have it back? and also maybe one of your cigs?” you added that last part with a very convincing smile.

“Right! yes, come on in” Hotch said as he stepped aside so you could come into his room. The pink wallpaper covered floor to ceiling in paisley flowers.

“Don’t mind the flowers, it seems like they’re multiplying but you get used to them”

“Oh I think that’s just your sleep deprivation speaking, maybe I’m not even in this room” As you walked in you took in his room, from the floral wallpaper and matching drapes to the blue fluffy carpet and dark wood furniture.

“If I were to imagine you I think the last thing you would be doing is stealing my cigarettes”

“Really? and what is it that I usually do in your imagination” You said, sitting down on his bed, moving around some files.

He just let out a small laugh, his wedding ring twinkling like a warning sign in the lowlight.

His laugh is boyish you think startled, a little high pitched at the end like it’s not used to making an appearance.

You try to picture him at your age, even before, early twenties fresh out of law school. His stride not as confident as it is now, less sure of his place in a courtroom than he is in a police precinct ordering around people he’s just met.

While you were lost in thought he went to rummage through his bag, his usual meticulous order abandoned in favor of quick changes between cat naps and interrogations.

His back turned, you can freely admire the solid line of his back, muscles stretched under his shirt, and it’s only ever really in these brief moments of solitude that you can admit to yourself that whatever is it that you feel goes well beyond a crush.

Which is why you should leave, you should get up, tell him you changed your mind and go to your room, forget that you do have a full pack in your nightstand right next to the nice lighter you bought for yourself a couple of weeks ago, you should…

“Here” He says handing you the baby blue lighter and a loose cigarette.

“What, you’re leaving me to smoke by myself?”

“Like you said, these are ‘in case of emergency only’”

“Well I think having to deal with Captain Rooney and detective whoever the fuck for almost a week straight constitutes as an emergency, think of them as medicinal cigarettes, kind of like the ones pregnant woman smoked in the 50’s”

He laughs again, boyish and carefree and you tuck that sound away, to let it play on a loop in your head later tonight.

“One” Hotch says, holding up a finger “and then we’ll go to sleep, the last thing I need is you crashing the car because you were too tired to drive straight”

“God, imagine the paperwork” You reply with a grin. Standing up and walking to the window next to the desk. You notice with a pang that he keeps a picture of Jack there, only a year old, chubby cheeks and thin blonde hair.

“What are you doing?” He asks as he sees you sitting down on the window ledge.

“Are you having a stroke? you just said I could smoke one”

“I didn’t mean right here” Hotch says looking around, as if the crotchety old woman who checked you guys in would pop up from behind the curtains and kick you out for smoking indoors.

“I cannot believe you’re afraid of a seventy year old retiree, yesterday you stared down that reporter so hard I thought he was going to start crying” You said lighting up and taking a drag “besides, didn’t you go to boarding school or something? I bet there’s a whole slew of very scandalous stories hiding there”

As you blow smoke out the window you see him standing there, hands in his pockets. His eyes don’t stray from yours but he’s not avoiding anything, he’s instead searching for something.

The silence stretches on for a few seconds as the smoke slowly billows up, a haze enveloping you both and you could almost pretend that there’s not a picture of Jack right next to you, or even, another picture next to his. Her name carefully and diligently scrubbed out of your thoughts.

Slowly he walks over and sits down right next to you, the fabric of his slacks burning a path on your thigh. Instead of lighting one of himself he takes yours from your hand.

You see it then, on his left hand, tarnished gold in the moonlight. And the moment breaks.

“I think you guys think I was born wearing a tie”

“Well no you were a baby, it would have been a bowtie”

“Cute” You bite your lip to hold back a smile, resting your heated cheek in the cold window.

“Hotch you collected stamps”

“Coins, actually” You take the cigarette from him, your lips touching the same filter.

“Oh my bad, they should have locked you up and thrown away the key then”

“I collected coins, and also regularly snuck out to go to bars”

At this revelation you do gasp “no! Aaron Hotchner underage drinking? And they let you in the FBI anyway?”

“Okay, maybe I wasn’t a complete rebel in my youth but at the time it seemed like it, my parents were…strict and boarding school was their last ditch effort to straighten me out”

“What got you sent to the slammer?” You asked with a quiet upturn of your lips.

Before answering he looked at you, the light of the moon on the clearest sky you’ve seen yet turning you silver.

“I kept picking fights” There was something more there but you let him keep that secret, one was enough for tonight.

After that you finished what was left, the evidence discarded into the night. Yet neither of you moved.

It was easy to think that you liked Hotch because he was handsome, or smart or even because he was the boss, but in truth when he looked at you it made you feel singularly important, like every stupid joke or straight thought was worth hearing. Even now in the stillness of the night with only your thoughts and the cicadas for company you felt like he knew everything worth knowing about you.

“Well” you murmured “I should get going”

“Yes” he replied in the same tone “you should.”

And yet you stayed, looking at him. You were so close you could count his lashes, could almost touch the few strands of hair that had fallen forward.

“Goodnight” He whispered right before kissing you.

Truly you could have been the one to kiss him, it was impossible knowing who leaned in first, like an asteroid colliding the path was inevitable, only a matter of time.

Your hands softly cupped his neck as his went to your waist. It felt like you had been doing this for years, like he had been kissing you good morning and goodnight as long as you had known each other. As he leaned more into you, crowding you against the edge of the window seat your hands graced each others and that's when you felt it, hot as lava, his wedding ring a shock to your system making you push away.

“fuck” This, again, could have been said by either of you.

Hastily you got up, almost tripping with one of the decorative pillows left on the floor.

“Anyway, really should get going, we’ll probably be dead on our feet unless we get some shuteye” You said as casually as you could when every place he had touched was still burning bright.

“Right, of course” His expression was indiscernible, the only thing betraying his thoughts was his left hand, fingers softly touching the wedding band like a mantra.

As you were leaving you turned back one last time, looking at him still encased in the pale silver light and he was looking back.

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner imagine #unlosts

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whoopsyeahokay · 10 months ago

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October Sun

summary: the ability had manifested after your first semester of 7th grade. after the farmhouse cellar and the trail through the woods. after the EMTs and the policemen and Then Deputy Baxter. it was something you kept to yourself although you knew your mother had her suspicions. it made you more vulnerable to the things that go bump in the night, which was why you never used it. or so you thought.

pairing: Wally Clark x fem!reader

warnings: eventual smutty smut smut. and mad spoilers. and obvious Canon divergence. very involved, very dense plot.

bon reading, frens

___________________________💀

OCTOBER SUN pt.9

The pulse between you and Wally flared to a fever pitch, swirling and cresting around you, into you, through you. One hand in your hair, fingers kneading; the other secure on your hip, supporting you firmly in his arms.

You wanted to bask in it forever, an intoxicating maelstrom of sensation, and all at once every pop ballad you'd heard growing up made sense. The kiss deepened and shallowed; a swipe of his tongue, twin gasps, a moan, then back in, hungry and untethered.

Wally placed you on the edge of the stage, careful, like a totem at an altar, his lips never leaving yours for more than a breath. He stood between your thighs, big hands roaming down your arms to your waist, hips, up again, fingers teasing under the hem of your t-shirt.

Gradually, the feeling of hot need now lessened, though didn't dissipate completely. Rather, it softened into something contented, manageable. Satisfied now that you and Wally were tangled in each other's space.

Thoughts filtered in through the thinning cloud; questions you had to ask; admissions you had to give, so you put a stalling hand on Wally's chest and nudged gently.

"Wait," You said, and now you knew what you sounded like after being ravished to oblivion, wow. "We need to talk."

Wally blinked his eyes open, sweet brown almost entirely eclipsed by arousal. His lips, kiss-plumped and red, turned up in a smile you couldn't help but mirror.

Even though you'd shunned reason and responsibility—had gone against a lifetime of rules and shared yourself with a ghost—you felt at peace for the first time in days.

"What's up, baby?" Wally asked, pressing his forehead to yours. He took your hands in his, fingers laced, and waited for you to speak. But as you were about to, a lightbulb seemed to blink on in his head and he straightened. "Hold up," his voice dropped to a panicked whisper. "If you don't want anyone else to know, we should get out of here or Mina—"

"Is on lunch—" you air quoted, "—for another thirty minutes. She goes twice a day, sits outside the door, eats the same ham and cheese her mom packed her, and smokes the same cigarette she stole off Miranda Paterson before rehearsal."

Wally gaped, "I~ did not know that." Then he frowned cutely, "How do you know that?"

"My mom." You admitted, "She graduated the same year Mina died and warned me about it before I started here. She actually witnessed Mina's first loop." You grimaced, "The benefits of a residual haunting, I guess."

"Residual haunting?"

As you spoke, you crossed your ankles at the small of Wally's back and guided him back to you, "Basically, the worst kind of loop the dead can get stuck in." A peck to his lips, "At least, in my opinion."

"You know a lot about this stuff, huh?" He asked through quick, dry kisses of his own, grinning smugly when you chased his mouth as he leaned away.

You blushed and licked your lips, watched in fascination as Wally tracked the movement before doing the same. He squeezed the curve of your hips, fingertips digging into your flesh, pulled you roughly against him, and nipped your lower lip.

"Tease," He said, rolling his hips against you so you could feel how worked up he was.

You moaned, the pulse flaring again, brief and bright, and oh hell no, you had to talk. Hoping to temper the connection back to a simmering second thought, you decided to answer Wally's question.

"My family has a long and unique history with the paranormal. According to my Nanna, we can trace it all the way back to the Arthurian Age." You punctuated your statement with a lingering kiss, separating on a sigh. "You make it really hard to concentrate."

You felt kind of dumb admitting that aloud and were relieved when Wally snickered, "Back at you, baby."

He stroked the back of his pointer finger down your cheek, gazing at you as if in worship. It was heady being on the receiving end of such a look, and you hoped he saw in your eyes equal awe and appreciation.

"How about we just—" He took a step backward, out of your space, and instantly the connection between you protested.

You whimpered, a grouchy kitten of a sound, and he reinserted himself between your legs, hands smoothing up your thighs to your hips where they rested.

"Or not." He said. After a lengthy pause, he asked, "Do you have any idea what this is?"

"Nope. And we have a pretty specific collection of books at home. I couldn't find anything that talks about what this—" You indicated between you and him, "—might be. I'm praying that there'll at least be something there about why I can't see Maddie." You hadn't meant to divulge that tidbit so casually, but there it was.

Wally was visibly shocked, "Hold up, you can't see Maddie?" You shook your head, "So. At the bus stop yesterday, you really had no idea she was there?"

Holy shit, "Maddie was there?!"

Not all ghosts were visible, true, but every ghost had an assortment of ways to signal their presence. And you hadn't received any of them. No niggling thoughts in the back of your mind or strange prickles up your spine or high-pitched ringing in your ears. Zero, zip, zilch, nada.

"Yeah, she followed you and, uh, What's His Name—"

"Simon." You supplied, distracted.

"Him, yeah. She followed you guys out there. Wanted to see if you knew something about what happened to her."

Casting your mind back to yesterday's conversation, you tried to recall if Simon mentioned anything worthwhile. Except, he hadn't wanted to talk about Maddie. Not initially, not until you brought her up. Simon had wanted to talk about, "Whether or not I can see ghosts..." You glanced up at Wally. "That can't be coincidence. What if Simon's like me and he just can't see Maddie, either?"

Wally gave you a sympathetic look, "Trust me, that guy can't see ghosts."

"And how would you know that?" You raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"I've been here for a while, pretty girl." For some reason, that fact made your heart ache, "You're the second person with a pulse I've seen who I ever thought might be able to see me back."

"Second?"

Wally stared at you, long and hard, as if anticipating the pieces would slot into place. When they didn't, he helped you along, "You don't really look like her, you know?"

"Ah, yeah, obviously." Your mother, who had been a freshman at Wally's final Homecoming game. Your eyes narrowed, "How do you know it was my mom?"

"Back then, I didn't. But, after what you mentioned, it doesn't take a genius." Wally chuckled. "She never talked to me. And I never felt like this with her." He emphasized his point by delivering a bruising, heated kiss, parting with a wet-sticky smack.

Dazed, "Yeah, pretty sure that's something she'd lecture me about if it happened before. At least we can rule out that it's a 'you thing'."

"Cool, so it's not me. What about you?" Wally said, expression calculating, "What's changed?"

You cocked your head, "What do you mean?"

This time, Wally kissed you softly before he said, "Babe, you've managed to ignore me for three years because neither of us felt desperate to climb into each other's skin. So...why now?"

He was right.

You were a little impressed and a lot turned on. Wally had always come across to you as a bit of a stereotypical jock: somewhat slow on the uptake, but well-meaning and full of heart. And muscle. And you shut that thought down right there before your mind wandered again.

It made you consider that, while there was this intense, driving connection between you both, you didn't really know Wally Clark that well at all. Yes, you'd observed Wally from afar for the duration of your high school career, but up until yesterday, you'd never spoken, never revealed personal secrets or interests or anything.

As far as you were aware, he liked football and football-related things, and you were pretty sure he had an equally shallow idea of what made you tick aside from being able to see dead people.

Saddened by the realization, you blurted, "What's your favorite color?"

Wally seemed adorably rightly confused, "What?"

You repeated, "Your favorite color, what is it?"

"Um, red. What's yours?"

"Purple." Some days. "Or dark orange." Sounded more accurate, but actually, "Mostly green, but not, like, neon or anything."

Wally pressed his lips together, suppressing a goofy smile for a couple of seconds before surrendering it. "That answer totally suits you." He bussed you on the nose, making you go cross-eyed for a moment, "Do colors mean something?"

"No," You shook your head lightly, twinkling, "I just thought we should probably get to know each other better if we're gonna be under the influence of random hedonist ghost energy."

"Do you think that's what's making your powers go on the fritz?" Wally wondered, his phrasing punching a laugh out of you.

"Nah, it's not as simple as a glitch in the Matrix. This shit doesn't get glitchy."

Taking him by the wrists, you led his hands behind you so that you were more fully encased in his arms, tucking your head under his chin and circling your arms loosely around his waist. You felt safe, wrapped up in him like that. Like nothing bad could or would ever happen to you again.

"Okay..." He said, picking through what information you'd given him so far. "If your ghost powers are working and it's not because of whatever's going on with us, maybe it's Maddie? Maybe you can't see her because she's new? She hasn't been dead as long as the rest of us, only since last Friday..."

"Uhm, yeah, also not how this works." You replied playfully, bumping the tip of your nose to his, "Trust me, it takes four minutes before a person goes from attached to their earthen vessel to haunting the science lab."

A wicked, ruthless moment for everyone involved.

The scar on your left hand itched, reminding you of the nightmare that had hauled you in and coughed you out of that farmhouse cellar. Where you'd discovered—down to the second—how long it takes a soul to disconnect from the living world and cross over.

You groaned, "Maddie can't be dead." A hill you would proudly die on because that was the only explanation that made any kind of sense.

Wally wasn't convinced, "She seems pretty dead to me. I can see her. Rhonda, and Charley, and the others can see her. No one else can."

Feeling like a parrot, you repeated, "And I can't. What if...What if she isn't dead? What if she's trapped?"

"You mean more trapped than the rest of us?"

The statement inspired a whole host of questions that you forced yourself to ignore for the time being.

"This is gonna sound insane—"

"You're literally talking to a ghost."

"Insane-er," You amended, "But Maddie could've slipped into an In Between somehow." You barely had an argument, the list of hypotheticals dismal against what knowledge you'd collected from various factual sources, but you weren't willing to let it go. "Look, death is a very direct journey from one plane to the next, no detours. But if she isn't dead, then it could be possible."

Wally's eyes seemed to be trailing an onslaught of thoughts as they traveled across his mind. "Okay, yeah, you're right, that sounds insane. What the hell is an In Between?"

"It's—" A distant metallic snap-shudder pierced the otherwise quiet theater, interrupting you. Before you were able to discern where it had come from, you felt a hand grab your shoulder from behind.

You gasped, knocked back into yourself, and when you looked up, you saw Wally in a state of bewilderment, standing with his mouth agape and eyes the size of dinner plates, at the end of the center aisle that's length now divided you.

A familiar, though markedly less friendly, voice demanded, "What are you doing in here?" and when you glanced over your shoulder, Mr. Anderson stared, hard and haggard, awaiting your explanation.

💀___________________________

PART EIGHT - PART TEN

also available on AO3!

MASTERLIST

#Milo Manheim #Wally Clark #Wally Clark x Reader #fem!reader #Wally Clark smut #Wally Clark fanfiction #Milo Manheim fanfiction #School Spirits #October Sun

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 1 year ago

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The Farmer's Daughter 4

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Walter Marshall

Summary: You notice a peculiar change in a family friend. (short!reader, sorry size kink is out)

Part of the Backwoods AU

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Your father’s nurse, Heather, doesn’t arrive until after noon. Your mother spends much of the morning waiting on her, wondering if something happened. The woman with the steely hair explains that she had to drive from several towns over. It doesn’t matter, you’re just happy to have her there.

Your dad remains despondent. Your mother frets and hovers as Heather’s voice carries through the old farmhouse. She enunciates and projects as she speaks to the husk sitting in the recliner. Your mother paces and as you peek in on the nurse trying to guide your father in a simple exercise, your heart knots and nearly breaks.

You fell outside, proclaiming to your mother that you’ll check the hen house for eggs. She doesn’t argue even though you already did so that day. You tramp out onto the porch and clatter down the stairs. Things change so quickly.

In the distance, you watch the tractor drawing a straight line across the fields. You shield your eyes from the sun and squint. Timothy steers the smaller of the machines closer by. It should be your father out there. He doesn’t belong inside, he’s no type of man to be so still.

You sigh and muster your courage. You go back inside and find your mother standing at the door of the front room. She watches Heather and your dad. He mimics her clumsily as she shows him what to do. He’s shaky and gives up with a harrumph. He’s never been the one to surrender.

“It’ll be okay,” your mother whispers.

“Ma,” you rub her back, “we should start dinner. The day’s half gone.”

She sniffs and nods, “you’re right, honey.”

You walk silently to the kitchen and start on the evening meal. Her special sweet and sour meatballs. The sauce is a family recipe and she serves the signature dish on white rice. The work will keep you both distracted.

🌾

Your mother helps your father to the table as you go out to get your brother and Walter. You find Timothy with a cigarette between his lips. You scowl.

“Don’t let ma see,” you warn him.

“Sorry, I… it’s stressful.”

“Yeah, I know,” you utter dully. “Just don’t smoke by the door.”

You leave him, searching around in confusion. Where’s Walter? Did he leave already? He swore he’d stay for dinner and it’s all your mother talked about as you cooked. You know she’s avoiding mentioning what’s on all your minds.

You walk along the front of the house and turn the corner, nearly colliding with Walter as he comes around. You cry out and laugh at yourself as you touch your chest. He doesn’t flinch.

“Sorry–” You begin.

“My fault,” he insists, “was just making sure the tractor’s read for tomorrow.”

“Oh? Tomorrow?”

“Still lots to be done,” he says casually.

“Right,” you agree, “er, dinner’s ready.”

“You cooked?” He wonders.

“I helped,” you say as you turn and walk ahead of him.

“I saw you. With the chickens,” he follows at half a step. He’s like your very own shadow.

“You did?”

“Tractor stalled,” he supplies. “I think I figured it out though.”

“Oh, that’s good,” you reply awkwardly. You’re not used to him speaking so much. Not to you. “I made dessert tho–”

As you crane to speak over your shoulder, simultaneously lifting a foot to climb the porch steps, your toe hits the wood. You cry out and throw up your hands, bracing for impact. You don’t hit the rigid zigzag, instead caught around the waist as you hover just above them. His strength is effortless as he has you bound up in his thick arm.

Again, Walter saves you from catastrophe. He pulls you back and rights you, brushing against you as he unhooks his arm. He clears his throat and runs his hand down the front of his shirt.

“You alright?” He asks.

“Yeah, I…” you giggle and shake your head, “I’m so… all over the place right now. I’m sorry–”

“As long as you’re fine, no need to apologise,” he assures you.

“Ha, yeah,” you rub the back of your neck and look pointedly at the steps. You take each deliberately, “just needa watch where I’m going.”

He hums and trails after you. As you get to the door, he reaches around you to pull back the screen before you can. You thank him and go inside, stopping to slip off your flats as he unties his boots. The savoury scent of dinner draws you in.

You wait for him and lead him to the dining room. Your mother welcomes him in as she sits close to your father and feeds him. Timothy’s eyes flick back and forth between your parents and his plate fearfully.

“Pat,” Walter approaches the table with you, “Maddie,” he greets firmly, pulling out a chair. Before you can do the same, he gestures you into the seat before him.

“Oh, thanks…” you accept and sit down at your father’s other shoulder and Walter lowers himself into the next chair. You catch your mother’s gaze as she peeks over at you.

“Thank you for having me.”

“It’s our pleasure,” your mother insists, “really. You are helping us so much, dear. I can’t–” her voice crackles, “I can’t tell you how much it means.”

“Ma,” Timothy utters, embarrassment lining his tone.

“It’s the decent thing,” Walter says plainly.

“Would you like some meatballs?” You offer, “rice?”

“Please,” Walter nods and sits back as he watches you scoop a healthy serving of both onto his plate, “thank you.”

You recline and spoon out your own dinner. A lot less than his. You’re not very hungry. Your mom’s plate is barren as she focuses on your dad. Or you assume she does until you once more meet her eye. Her eyes drift over to Walter and back again.

“Very good,” Walter says after a bite.

“Oh, well, my daughter did all the hard work,” your mother preens.

Your furrow your brow at her lie. You are ever her helper. She told you what to fetch and to set the timer but she has to measure it all so precisely.

“Mmm, well, she was taught well, I’m sure,” Walter comments and shovels more into his mouth.

“I didn’t do that much,” you scoff as you slice into one of the large meatballs.

“Oh, of course you did, honey,” your mother chimes. “She’s a great cook, Walter, don’t let her fool you.”

You don’t argue. It isn’t the time and besides, it’s harmless. Just another distraction. She’s redirecting the attention so she doesn’t have to acknowledge the reality sitting right beside her. A few white lies are nothing compared to that.

#walter marshall #dark walter marshall #dark!walter marshall #walter marshall x reader #drabble #series #au #backwoods au #the farmer's daughter #night hunter

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leviathanleva · 9 months ago

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Daisy

Pairing: Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x Fem Reader [DARK FIC]

Description: Cooper Howard was not a kind man, he cared for nobody, but himself. Then he found you, a lost little dove, barefoot and crying, torn dress and big innocent eyes staring at him like he was a hero. He knew you’d be a burden, he knew you couldn’t survive in the wasteland, he was doing you a favor.

But he couldn’t pull the fucking trigger...

........................

[5.7k words]

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

Chapter 8 "The Lie"

It’s been a journey.

Parched and starved, you’d been dragging your feet over the desolate wasteland deep into the night. The promise of a guesthouse only a mile or two away keeping your spirits up and your soreness to a minimum. Your head was still fuzzy with the trauma, as expected after taking such a brutal blow.

A pale coat of dust covers your boots, the blood has ceased oozing and now clings to your hair and skin like haunting war paint.

Cooper hadn’t said a peep about what had happened earlier, didn’t complain about you keeping his hand hostage either, just let you soak his glove in sweat while indulging in chain-smoking.

The lights coming from the inn are a beacon in the darkness, they slice through the shadow of the night, beckoning you with whispers of a bed and a full night of sleep. An exasperated sigh leaves you when you finally see it.

It was once a farmhouse. Large three-story mansion built of wood and reinforced by steel sheets only after the apocalypse. There’s a barn to the side, presumably turned into storage, a handful of soil beds from which vegetables are sprouting, a small herd of brahmin lay huddled in a corner, under a flimsy tin roof, sleeping in the remnants of a stable. A large rusty gate hugged by a sturdy fence, electric too once you were close enough to hear the distinct buzz. The generator rumbles behind a locked door in the ground, the basement if your speculations are correct.

It’s a fine establishment by today’s standards, well-known for offering respite for travelers because it was plopped in the middle of nowhere.

Regardless of the newfound relief, your pace stays the same, too achy and drained to rush towards the finish line. It’s a slow and agonizing walk, feels like an eternity, but as you climb the front porch steps you crack a smile. Your hand is promptly released and you take your usual place behind the ghoul, the medical folder still pinched under your armpit and looking like an old pancake.

The rich yellow hues shining through the dirty windows illuminate the creaky wooden boards beneath your shoes, the old benches on either end of the porch, and the large urns hosting a blooming tato plant each. There’s a mud-caked mat at the entrance and you can scarcely make out a “welcome” sign beneath all the grime.

Cooper spares you a glance over his shoulder, heavy-lidded eyes and husky tone indicating he’s just as exhausted as you.

“Don’ wander. No talkin’ t’ strangers.”

“Got it.” you nod, suppress the urge to hold onto his coat, and follow after him through the door.

You’re flooded with cigar smoke and the smell of spirit. Methodical chatter hangs in the air, mixing with the fluent jazz from the jukebox, random paintings are strewn across the walls, hiding the peeling wallpaper, some of the hanging lights are intact, some are missing their glass domes. Simple wooden chairs and circular tables, mostly vacant aside from a few rugged personas stuffed in the darker crooks of the establishment.

You take in everything under lowered lashes and caved-in shoulders.

It’s a cozy place, an oasis nestled along the road, a lovely little safehouse that welcomes any who have the caps.

The bar looks out of place, it’s too new and polished compared to everything else, dark oak shining under the soft glare of the old lightbulbs. A plethora of bottles are on display behind it, most of their labels scratched out or simply missing.

“Where’s Monique?” Cooper rests a palm against the counter and cocks his head to the female ghoul absentmindedly wiping at a glass with a stained rag.

“Holy Moly…”

You’re awestruck at the sight. She’s the second ghoul you’d ever seen and a woman at that. Despite the decomposition, she’s still retained her feminine features, one could even call her exotically beautiful. Donned in a full-body apron, a turquoise polo peaks under it; her eyes are sunken but lively, however the veiny red sclera makes you cringe. It just looks damn painful.

“Nice to see you too, Cooper.” she barks a laugh, her voice – distorted by radiation, but still cheery and friendly. “She went to bed so I took over. What’ll it be?”

“Got any rooms left?”

You’ve decided to focus on the hand-drawn menu hoisted above the liquor cabinet, scrunching your nose at the radroach skewers and cricket potato stew. There isn’t much that would suit your pallet, especially not the yao guai jerky. What even is a yao guai? Another overgrown bug?

The drinks have more variety than the food, even though most are alcohol. There’s still just plain water, specified as ‘mostly rad free’, then there’s tato and cactus juice. The options aren’t mouth-watering, but the drawings next to the headers are cute, some of them are even colored in.

“Got two, lucky for you.” she pauses then and the friendliness on her gaunt face gives way to confusion. She leans to the side as you step out of Cooper’s shadow to get a better view of the menu, her mouth shrinks out of its prickly smirk. “Oh, hello.” her curiosity quickly blossoms into sweet glee as she stares you down with startling warmth, then tosses the bounty hunter a passing comment. “Made a new friend, I see.”

You stiffen as the realization of her attention on you sinks in. Rolling your eyes to her, you find her beaming and you can’t help but return her welcoming smile with an awkward one. You fix your slouched posture, straighten up because first impressions are important, and give a polite nod.

“Mitzi, good to meet you. And you are?” she’s all giddy grins and wavy hands, finding you as a good treat after a long time of only having gruff wastelanders as customers. And you’re more than happy to humor her, she matches your character perfectly and you feel her filling up your energy levels instantly.

Your lips part as you fully intend to reciprocate her brightened mood.

“I’m – ”

“–An annoyance.” a dismissive scoff, one which has you shoot Cooper a nasty look. He’s indifferent, doesn’t bat an eye at you, instead nudges his chin at the untouched bourbon bottle. “I’ll take that one, room too, don’ care which one.”

Mitzie turns to reach for the bottle and sets it down next to the bounty hunter before sifting through the ledger hidden behind the counter. Keeping the privacy of her customers comes as a nice surprise. She mumbles something soft, supposedly checking the available rooms, then looks up at you.

“Shower or nah?”

“Excus – ” you blurt, then stop and suppress the need to ask for elaboration. “Shower.”

If she was alluding to the possibility of taking a proper bath, you’d cry. After months of rubbing soap into your sweat and using saliva to wash out toothpaste, you felt disgusting. Dirt had accumulated in places you didn’t even know existed and all of this excluded the greasy mess your hair had become. At times, you wanted to crawl out of your skin with how crusty you were.

And the stench was a whole other story you fought valiantly to ignore.

“Gotcha.” she hums and stuffs her hand into a jar before pulling out a large, rusted key and handing it to Cooper. “Master bedroom, second floor to the left.” her baby blues dart back to you. “Just so you know, showers cost extra.”

You hear the disgruntled groan and your expression sours.

Of all the things he dismissed to save up on caps, basic hygiene was one which you fiercely disagreed with. You’d already had this conversation multiple times, him walking around smelling like a dumpster fire with no regard for how that made him look was unacceptable. His clothes needed washing, he needed washing, and you’d scrub him clean if you didn’t know he’d stab you if you so much as tried to bring your soap bar anywhere near him. Both of you were in dire need of a proper bath. You’d work him into the idea, you’d already succeeded once when you were less acquainted.

With a sigh, you blindly pat the side of your backpack in search of the pocket holding your caps.

“How much?”

“Thirty per shower.” she answers simply, then perks up to holler at a behemoth of a man waving her over from the back of the bar. “I’ll be right there!”

“Deal.” you chirp and point at the menu. “And a cup of brahmin bone broth, please and thank you.”

“Right away.” Mitzi graces you with another cheeky smile before rushing past the counter and through a door to the kitchen.

You’re close enough for the smell of roasting meat and herbs to waft into your nose, your stomach twists with hunger and gargles in protest. You clear your throat in embarrassment, the jazz music does a wonderful job of disguising the ugly toon. A clatter of pots comes from behind the kitchen door followed by a meager slur of curses that has you hoping your order wasn’t the cause.

After gathering enough caps, you extend your arm to leave them next to the register. Your attempt is shot down by a sharp slap to the knuckles, you glance up at Cooper and prepare to debate why you should be allowed to wash up and spend the money for it. He snuffs out your bubbling protests with a stern look and a dismissive flick of his wrist.

Mitzi reappears shortly after with a tray in hand.

“Here you are.” she lays down a steaming tin can in front of you and scoots to the register, which is mostly used for decoration. “You want the total or separate tabs?” she scribbles down each of your amounts and lifts her eyes to Cooper.

“Total.” he gruffs out and litters the free space on the bar with scoops of caps fished out from his bandolier.

You have to bite down on your bottom lip to prevent a grin and tuck away your money. He definitely knew how to turn your legs to pudding and tie your tongue into submission. Sadly now that meant you couldn’t complain for at least a week.

“Hundred-fifty. Oh!” the waitress sloppily wraps a rag around your drink and squeezes it in place. “Here. I tend to forget smooth-skins have more delicate hands.” she winks at you and proceeds to gather up the payment, combing through it with a long bony finger and counting. “We’ll get to know each other another time.”

Once she was sure of the amount, Mitzi stuffs it all in the hefty pickle jar labeled ‘earnings’, then sealed it shut and stored it somewhere around her feet. She’s back to polishing shot glasses, gives both of you a ginger smile and nudges her head towards the staircase to the right of the counter.

“Enjoy your stay.”

You take the broth and let your fingers soak in the warmth as you follow behind Cooper with bated breath and a spring to your step.

A bed and a shower, you were being spoiled tonight. The covers and sheets are probably old, the room itself is most likely slowly rotting away and covered in grime and dust, but it’s heaven compared to sleeping on the ground with one eye open due to threats skulking about. The last time you’d managed to get a full night of sleep was back in Tillburry, and just the thought of being undisturbed had you going through a plethora of pleasant jitters.

You give the greasy drink, your dinner, a good sniff while climbing to the second floor.

It’s not an aroma that makes you salivate, but you’ve missed the luxury of warm food and the herbs do well at overpowering the stench of boiled beef. Even under the weak light in the corridor, you can tell it’s fatty enough to keep you sated for a while, it’ll have to do. The can is used as a cup for hot drinks, the broth came from elsewhere, either that or you were scammed into eating dog food judging by the peeling-off sticker of a poodle.

You thump over a long red carpet rolled out on the floor, squint at the hacked cough coming from one of the rooms, and then stop a foot away from the ghoul.

He jams the key in and after a deft click, the door creaks open.

Your refuge for the night isn’t as bad as you’d imagined. The bedding is mostly white minus a few stains, the wallpaper is torn a tad, but intact and it’s all relatively clean, there’s even a few trinkets lying about to bring more life. A wall clock is hung above the curved sofa next to the window, it’s not working but it is a nice touch. There’s a night lamp on one of the nightstands, a wide drawer, an ashtray on the table along with two more chairs in case there were more than two bodies in the room. There’s even a deck of cards next to the crystal alcohol glasses.

You watch Cooper set down the bourbon and slouch against the couch with a long exhale before shrugging off his hat and coat and letting his eyes shut for a moment.

“Darn hell, what a day…”

Safety is painted in his mannerisms, you smile adoringly at him and shut the door behind you.

True to her word, there indeed was a bathroom. You switch the lights on and peek inside. The tiles are cracked or missing, it’s old but clean and there’s a bottle of Rad-X among the diluted shampoo bottles. Lovely!

You hear a ripple and whirl your head to see the ghoul lighting a cigarette. His feet are perched up on the table and crossed, his bandolier thrown over the backrest of the sofa, he takes a long drag and strains to push open the window.

“You know Mitzi?” you ask and shed your backpack with a delighted moan before kneeling to zip it open. With your trusty Vaseline and a tiny vodka bottle in your free hand, you join him on the couch, sitting on the opposite end to give him as much space as possible.

“Hm? Sure I do, met some years ago.” he twists to partially face you and pinches the smoke between his lips before grabbing for the bourbon. “Thought you’d wash up first thing. Changed yer mind?”

You chuckle at that and dab the vodka into your palm before rubbing it between your fingers. It’s a mundane little habit you picked up since you learned vodka specifically was almost pure spirit nowadays. Considering the unthinkable things you touched on the hour, from blood to dirt and worse, and without a sink to wash your hands, you needed this at least before eating.

“I’ll shower later. Wanna take a breather first.” you cradle the broth to your chest and take another good whiff before sighing. “Plus, I’d like to drink this before it goes cold.”

“Hope you know tha’ ain’t all brahmin, Darlin’.”

“Let me stay ignorant, please.” you mumble before taking a long sip.

Cooper cackles but decides not to ruin your dinner. You watch him pour a glass of bourbon for himself, mull, and then pour a second one before setting it next to you.

“Mm?” you give him a crooked look, frown with scrunched eyebrows.

“Heavy broth goes good with booze.” he gestures for you to take the offer with a keen smirk. “ ‘Bout time we pop your cherry anyway.”

“Gosh, don’t call it that!” you hiss through a flustered face, but take the glass and ignore his mocking grin.

The jukebox can still be heard from the main floor, it calms your apprehension and you twirl in your spot to open the window fully, looking to the sky for further comfort. You’re intentionally stalling as you swish the bourbon around, elbows rested on the windowsill and gaze lifted to the cluster of stars. A chilly breeze caresses your bare shoulders and you shudder.

“Thought you’d get bored gawkin’ at nothing by now.” The ghoul spits, watching you like a hawk because he refuses to miss your first time trying alcohol. You wish he wasn’t, it adds unnecessary expectations and you’re unaware of how exactly you’re supposed to react. By the smell alone, you’re guessing it won’t taste pleasant.

“I’ll never get tired of the sky.” you muse out loud with an unreadable expression, then face him briefly. “Has it changed over the years?”

You don’t know how old he is, he’s refused to disclose that with you, but from the subtle hints in the past, it’s been longer than the average person. You wish he’s looser, that he trusts you enough to share more about who he is and where he comes from. He seems to know almost everyone you’ve crossed paths with, could work with any weapon and traversed the wasteland without a compass or map and still know exactly where he’s going.

“ ‘Sides the radstorms, not much.” he rolls his tongue over a mouthful of bourbon, then audibly swallows and scowls. He raises his glass towards you, waiting for you to mimic him. “ ‘Nough stallin’ ya pansy, it ain’t poison. Drink.”

Your nose is already wrinkled at the idea, but you oblige him by lifting the drink to your lips. Holding your breath you take a tiny sip and your skin explodes in goosebumps before the fire registers on your tongue. Your taste buds feel defiled, the foulness makes your eyes pop open and you spit before the urge to gag crawls too high up your throat.

First impression: No.

“Ugh…Ew!” a hand clasps over your mouth, obscuring both disbelief at the fact you’d spat straight against the window and pain at the utter nastiness of the flavor. You take the rag wrapped around your now lukewarm broth and wipe off the evidence with urgency. “How do you like this stuff? It’s awful!”

He’s cracking up a storm on the other end of the sofa, having burst into such an abrupt fit that half his drink was running down his vest. You sneer through a glare, hoping he catches your translucent reflection in the glass and feels at least a drop of remorse for your misfortune.

“Glad to make you laugh.”

He tries to say something, a snippy remark most likely, but his gullet is too dry and nothing comes out when his mouth parts. He washes down the hoarseness with another swig of alcohol and tries again.

“You’re doin’ it all wrong.” he’s all up in your beginner technique, even though you weren’t open to be taught how to become a proper alcoholic. Nasty habit that, but he’s given you no choice. “Gotta let it rest on yer tongue, enjoy the taste ‘n go slow.” he can see you sulking even with your back turned to him, can practically smell the discomfort and annoyance emanating from you.

He tones down the decibels when you refuse to face him. Unlike you, Cooper finds the concept of convincing you that drinking is a fun pastime activity strangely thrilling. That, and he’s a horrid old man who selfishly craves to claim all your first experiences, no matter what they are. It’s a vile desire and he’s aware, but the longer you exist in his presence the further his obsessive protectiveness develops. He chalked it up to you being dumb and defenseless, it was natural to become possessive of you and want to keep you safe.

He’d be caught dead before he let some mangy bastard touch you before him or be present for your first cigarette. And he’d take this revelation to the grave because he was too prideful to admit to his urges. This was for your protection, better him, a person you trusted, than anyone else.

“Come ‘ere.” he takes off his gloves and extends a hand to you, beckoning you in the softest way he can muster. “I’ll teach ya.”

You look back at him and the angry frustration simmers down to mild irritation when you notice he’s reaching for you. Tasting that nightmarish poison again makes you queasy, you don’t want to and you’re fussy, but falter for him once more with the intent of giving it another go and then never again.

He’s paid for your dinner, bed, and shower, it’s only fair to entertain his stupid ideas. That doesn’t mean you’re going to smile through the whole thing though, no, you’ll grimace until the end.

He shifts until his feet are firmly planted on the floor as you round the table.

“One last time.”

“Last time.” he repeats through a haggard breath and as soon as your fingers dip into his open palm he spreads his legs farther apart to accommodate a plan you were blissfully unaware of. “Promise, Sweet pea…”

He coaxes you closer, tugging on your hand until you’re standing between his legs, radiating confusion. Guilt prickles his heart, you don’t deserve to be manipulated into succumbing to his perverse advances. It wasn’t even a good lie. Teaching you how to enjoy bourbon…a load of horse shit, but what were the odds that you’d so pliantly let him desecrate you once the concussion and fatigue didn’t stand in the way of clear thinking?

You were vulnerable now and he was a fiend for taking advantage. He’d deal with the consequences later.

The concentration carving his expression is hidden under the guise of darkness as he gently lures you down until you’re hesitantly sitting on his thigh. An arm coils around your waist to keep you in place, you’re face to face and the ringing in your ears increases, completely deafening the music from downstairs. Blunt fingers melt into your supple flesh, deliberately massaging away the prolonged day. You’d had it rough today, poor little thing, you needed some good kneading.

He’d give it to you. Whatever the hell you wanted, you’d have it.

Rotten man. Defiler.

He shakes the thoughts away and feeds on the sugary lavender hints beneath the sweat clinging to your body.

You’re engulfed in warmth and finally, you can put a name to the ever-present musk he carries around – bourbon and cigarettes; the smell of home. Your hands are resting in your lap, pinching at your dress in a nervous tick as you fight to keep eye contact. Inexplicable tension writhes in the air, it chokes you with sadistic glee.

Cooper’s studying your features as they twist, searching for something specific in the involuntary muscle twitches.

“You don’ like it, you call quits. Got it?” he speaks softly, but with authority, already taking another sip and letting it rest in his mouth.

You’re no less lost than you were two minutes ago, left to wonder what he means because your glass is on the other side of the table. But now he’s mute with alcohol and unable to elaborate verbally so you simply nod in understanding.

“Got it.”

No cheeky smirks or mischief is dancing in his eyes. He’s the most serious you’ve ever seen him, it’s nerve-wracking, you’re left to blindly follow his guidance and you trust him, but anticipation has no boundaries. The bedroom turns stuffy and his once welcomed heat is forming sweat on your forehead and pinching at random nerves throughout your body.

He glides a hand to the back of your neck, holds it with solemn tenderness. You make a pathetic noise when he leans you back until you’re cradled in the safety of his arms without leverage, hovering above the sofa as he watches over you with a mellow look.

“Tha’s it…steady, Pretty girl.”

You’re rigid and hesitant in his embrace, don’t know what to do except give in and let him work you like a puppet. It’s humiliating, you want to be an active participant, give him what he wants without him having to hold your hand, but you can’t. The only soothing thought that comes to mind is that he’s a dominant man, he probably doesn’t mind.

Probably even likes it like this.

“This okay, Sweetheart?”

You barely register he’s asked a question, the gravel in his voice seizes your breath.

“Yeah…Yes?”

The ghoul is languid and gentle when he leans forward, taking his time, but you notice the twitch in his fingers, the hidden urgency behind the façade he’s adopted to not scare you away. But he’s still a rugged man, you can tell by the callouses on his palms and the leathery skin on his face as it rubs against yours.

It’s a peck at first, makes you tingle all over. He barely brushes his chapped lips against yours, testing the waters, and dulling your awareness with patience before he shatters and ruins your innocence. But you’re too enticing for your own good. You don’t startle; cling to his vest instead and shiver with a milky moan and his resolve cracks.

With a ravenous snarl, he squishes you against his chest when you offer no protests and the hands that held you are now clutching. He kisses you with a bruising need, changing into a brutish oaf as his tenderness fades. Your mouth opens in a gasp and he lets the bourbon seep past his teeth and ravage your taste buds. The flavor is the last thing on your mind as he devours you whole, a few droplets escape from the corner of your lips and trail down your jaw until they soak into your hairline. Starved of everything soft and sweet, he gorges and palps, litters you with clumsy bruises because he’s forgotten how to handle someone such as you.

He tilts his head to one side and his tongue glides past your teeth to twirl around yours, forcing you to open wide. His eyes are hidden behind squeezed lids, leaving him purposefully blind to your current expression. He didn’t want to see rejection, didn’t want to know if you were disgusted but too fearful to pull away. All he needed was just one moment of indulgence disguised as him teaching you to drink. Let him feast upon you for a bit and he will never touch you again afterward, he swears it.

It’s just to show you how to enjoy a good glass of alcohol.

But you weren’t stupid, you already knew this was all a charade. It’s agonizing when you wrap your arms around his shoulders and clutch at his back. You’re klutzy in your love, a shaking mess as you try to match his pace, but this is too new and with an absent mind, instinct can only tell you so much. Still, you fill his cavernous maw with high-tuned chirps of affection and you’re so pleased despite the uncertainty, you’re aching for him, you’re just as starved if not more.

Cooper wasn’t prepared for reciprocation, it leaves him boneless and barely holding you both steady.

You let your eyes close as well and guzzle down the remainder of the booze from his mouth. A strained growl reverberates in his throat as he cuts down the urge to buck into you. Too soon, not yet. He’s taken enough from you for one night.

You suck in a breath as your knees turn to jelly. Your thighs are quaking; he presses one hand against them to soothe you and earns a muffled mewl. It’s raw lightning, sparking over your skin and making your clothes feel so damn constricting. You’re clawing at your tights, scratching at his sleeves, turned feral with lust and lilting pleas in his chewed-up ear.

A clash of teeth and jerking tongues, muffled sounds of indulged wants and thinned nerves.

He’s intoxicating, gruff to the bone and you avidly drink in everything he offers.

“Greedy little thing…” he rasps over deep breaths once he’s pulled away enough to take in your possum-like state. “So how’d you like the bourbon?”

A dull ache forms in your core at his sweet derogatory coo. You bite the side of your cheek to stifle the vulgar rattle trying to escape the confines of your heaving chest.

He lifts you into a proper sitting position and readjusts your dress back over your legs because he’s a gentleman tonight.

You’re a mixture of labored inhalations and sputtered words, struggling to descend to normalcy and proper manners. It takes you a moment to find your voice, you speak before thinking, high on a newfound addiction – him and his taste and his smell and everything that had to do with him. The knots in your stomach ease, but you’re still absently fiddling with the straps of his vest while trying to regain composure.

“Can we…” you shrink as his heavy gaze makes your throat tighten, lower your eyes in bashfulness but your insides burn and you need that fire sated. It’s his fault you’re like this, him and his sinful vulgarities. “Can you show me again?”

He croons a laugh and bloats with pride, doesn’t even care to take a shot before he latches onto you again.

“Needy girl…So pretty f’ me.”

You’re the one with the lingering hands now, sigh in relief when he violates your mouth again as if being apart had been torture. Nimble fingers intrude on his spine, slipping beneath the loose collar of his shirt and mapping out the marred flesh like it’s a piece of art. He shudders in your hold, mouths something that gets lost among the vocal sloppiness emitting from your feverish kisses.

You’re too eager at the mixed saliva dribbling down your chin, too delighted when he pauses to lick it off and keep you partly decent as he suffocates on his passion. You cage him between your thighs like it’s only natural, nestle down on him because he’s your new throne and he shoves a hand between your bodies to adjust his straining erection before you find out how desperate he is. You’re too spread and willing, unaware of the debauchery your actions hint towards.

He’s a man gone wild beneath you, boiling and unchained and drinking in your wanton display. A blank canvas for you to paint whatever you wished on as you submit to cravings he’d unraveled. He was a perverse bastard, stole your first kiss and hadn’t even made it proper, but there was nothing right in this world anyway. You returned his advances, you were happy, the rest be damned.

You leave his scalding tongue and nipping teeth to pepper his bony face with butterfly pecks. He’s a silent enjoyer, lets you drown him now that you were unleashed, with a ghost of a smile and lazy blinks, mild and content. Time slips past in a blur until you’re finally satisfied, having pruned and memorized every inch of his face.

You’re studying his features while cupping his jaw when the haze fades and you register just how many lines you’d crossed. His hardness digs into your thigh and you wince because you’d climbed him like a mountain, sat on him like he was just a chair and not someone you held dear. You’d taken advantage of his docile form, oblivious to the fact that this was what he’d hoped for from the start. You’d treated him like a tool to cater to your horniness without ever considering how much strain you’d put on him.

Maybe you weren’t as smart as he’d thought. No, that wasn’t it. You trusted him too much. Took his every word as fact.

Your heart is pounding and the trembling returns with twice the vigor as your serene smile dies.

“Oh my God…Jeez! I’m so sorry. Wait! I– ” you blabber while prying away with clumsy movements. You’re sure you’re about to have a heart attack and die on the spot.

What have you done?!

Why didn’t he stop you? Why did he look so high when you’d forced yourself on him without even asking for his consent? All he’d done was try to ease you into drinking and you’d thrown yourself at him like a…

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t even ask you…Why didn’t you say – Sorry. I’m – ”

“Whoaw there, Cowgirl.” he springs to action, forced out of his delightful trance by the utter horror written in your eyes. He grips you before you manage to stand, coercing you in a bear hug. Opposite to your shaken state, he rounds up your skittishness with honeyed words and caring touches. “Easy now, Sweetness. All’s fine, easy…easy.”

He stuffs you in the crook of his neck as you sputter more apologies, nuzzles his cheek in your hair and coos. You’re inconsolable for a time, badmouthing yourself because you knew no better and it’s heartwrenching because it’s his fault for taking advantage of your trust. He rocks you into silence while chuckling, criminally unapologetic.

“Now if I didn’ want any o‘ this I would’a kicked you off long time ago. ‘S okay, Sweet pea, all’s fine.” he palms himself until you can’t feel the incessant poke anymore, the scowls at his meager self-control. “Damn thing got a mind of i’s own.”

You hum in response, whiney and weak. He snorts at your deflated mood, to think his boner would be the cause of worry is comical. He lets a jab slip to bait you out of the cesspool of self-bludgeoning you’d thrown yourself in. He could be truthful and lay out the entire farce before you, but that came with the change you’d never let him near you again. Cooper isn’t a good man, nor a truthful man and what you didn’t know wouldn’t hurt you.

“Now quit yer mopin’, you’re ruinin’ m’ shirt.”

It does the trick. You stiffen against him and choke because how dare he.

“Asshole!” you recoil and land a weak fist against his shoulder. “You’re the one always ruining everything. I’m thinking about your comfort and your consent and trying to be nice and all you ever do is mock me. Awful man! You don’t even use the toothbrush I gave you. And you’re horrible company too.”

He’s laughing for the countless time that night, catches your wrist, then your other one, stifling your tantrum. A grin peeks beneath your stern glare, his high spirits are too contagious, and you wrestle against his unweaving hold without much zest.

“Too bad.” he gives you one good jerk and you faceplant into his neck, then rests his chin against the top of your head and you can hear the cocky smirk forming. “Is either me or the wasteland, Darlin’, and the wasteland don’ give no kisses, trust me.”

🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼🌼

<<< Chapter 7

Chapter 9 >>>

🌼 Daisy Masterlist 🌼

Masterlist

Tag list: @bountydroid @windierhades @ultimatreality @gruffle1 @v3lv3tf0x

@fallout-girl219 @one-of-thewalkingdead @robin-the-enby @savanahc @whatthefuckkrichard

@rockst4rkitty @lisnamavka @lomlbillieeilish @itsyellow @cloudroomblog

@skykaykay @i-just-like-to-read @landlockedmermaid77 @enaelyork @maeplaysbass

@sgt-barnesveins @alastorsw1f3 @villainofmyownstory

#cooper howard x reader #cooper howard x you #the ghoul x reader #the ghoul x you #x reader #the ghoul fanfic #fallout fanfic #cooper howard fic #cooper howard #the ghoul fallout #cooper howard fanfiction

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andy-15-07 · 15 days ago

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Can i request an angsty Joel Miller fic? :) Joel, Ellie, and the reader are traveling together when they are suddenly ambushed by raiders. In the chaos, both Ellie and the reader are captured. Joel is faced with a heartbreaking decision: he can only save one of them. Despite the reader’s deep feelings for Joel, she recognizes that, given his unresolved grief over Sarah’s death, he will undoubtedly choose Ellie. No matter what the reader has done for Joel, she knows that his emotional bond with Ellie will always come first.

The Weight of Loss

Pairing: Joel Miller x female reader

Word Count: 1728 | Requests are open! (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

The rusty gate screeched open, a jarring sound against the otherwise peaceful morning. Joel, ever vigilant, jerked his head up, hand instinctively reaching for the shotgun slung across his back. "Ambush," he growled, eyes scanning the overgrown field beyond.

Y/n, startled, fumbled for her own pistol, her gaze darting between Joel and the encroaching figures. "How many?" she whispered, her voice tight with fear.

"Looks like three," Joel replied, his voice low and dangerous. "Stay close, Ellie."

Ellie, ever the pragmatist, nodded, her gaze fixed on the approaching figures. "Ready when you are, Joel."

The raiders emerged from the trees, a motley crew of scavengers armed with makeshift weapons. The leader, a hulking brute with a scarred face, grinned viciously. "Looks like we've got ourselves a little feast."

The ensuing firefight was a blur of motion and gunfire. Joel, a seasoned survivor, moved with a deadly grace, his every shot finding its mark. Y/n, fighting alongside him, was a whirlwind of motion, her small frame a blur as she weaved through the chaos.

But the raiders were relentless. One, a wiry young man with a crazed look in his eyes, managed to get a shot off, hitting Y/n in the shoulder. She cried out, clutching the wound, her vision blurring.

Joel, seeing Y/n fall, roared in fury. He turned his attention to the young man, a cold rage burning in his eyes. The fight devolved into a brutal melee, Joel a whirlwind of violence, his grief and fury fueling his actions.

In the chaos, two more raiders managed to overpower Ellie, dragging her away. Joel, realizing what had happened, turned to see Y/n lying on the ground, her face pale, blood staining her shirt.

He knelt beside her, his voice rough with worry. "Y/n, damn it, stay with me."

Y/n, her breath coming in ragged gasps, managed a weak smile. "Don't...don't worry about me, Joel. Go after Ellie."

"I can't leave you here," Joel said, his voice thick with emotion. "I can't..."

Y/n placed a trembling hand on his cheek, her eyes filled with a love both profound and heartbreaking. "Joel," she whispered, her voice barely audible, "I know you have to. You have to save her."

Joel looked at her, his eyes wide with a mixture of grief and despair. He understood. He knew, deep down, that if given the choice, he would always choose Ellie. The weight of his grief over Sarah, the guilt that clung to him like a shroud, would always pull him towards the girl who reminded him so much of his lost daughter.

Y/n, reading the turmoil in his eyes, squeezed his hand. "It's alright," she whispered, her voice fading. "I understand. Please...save her."

Joel looked at her, his heart breaking. He wanted to stay with her, to hold her, to make her pain go away. But he knew he couldn't. He had to save Ellie.

With a heavy heart, Joel turned and ran towards the direction where the raiders had taken Ellie. He ran with a desperate urgency, fueled by a primal need to protect the girl who had become his surrogate daughter.

Later

Joel finally reached the raider's hideout, a dilapidated farmhouse nestled deep within the woods. The stench of decay and violence hung heavy in the air. He moved cautiously, his senses on high alert.

He found Ellie in a makeshift prison, bound and gagged, fear and anger swirling in her eyes.

"Ellie," Joel whispered, his voice hoarse with relief. He quickly freed her, his gaze searching for any injuries.

Ellie, once freed, launched herself at him, burying her face in his chest. "Joel! I was so scared..."

Joel held her close, his arms wrapping around her protectively. "I know, sweetheart. I know." He looked at her, his eyes filled with a fierce protectiveness. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

Ellie pulled back, her eyes searching his face. "What about Y/n?"

Joel's face hardened. "I...I had to leave her."

Ellie's eyes widened. "Why? What happened?"

Joel hesitated, the memory of Y/n's pale face and the despair in her eyes flashing before him. "She...she was injured. I couldn't save both of you."

Ellie's face paled. "Oh God, Joel..."

Joel averted his gaze, unable to meet her eyes. He knew he would never be able to explain the agonizing choice he had been forced to make. The guilt, the regret, it would haunt him forever.

They stayed in the farmhouse for the rest of the day, tending to their wounds and planning their escape. Ellie, despite her own fears, was concerned about Y/n. "We have to go back, Joel. We can't just leave her."

Joel looked at her, his expression grim. "We can't. It's too dangerous."

Ellie argued with him, her voice filled with desperation. "But what if she's still alive? What if she needs us?"

Joel remained adamant. "We can't risk it, Ellie. We have to survive."

Ellie looked at him, her eyes filled with a mixture of anger and disappointment. She understood his logic, but it didn't make it any easier to accept.

They eventually managed to escape the farmhouse, leaving behind the horrors of their captivity. But the memory of Y/n, her pale face and her heartbroken eyes, haunted them both.

Days later

They were traveling through a dense forest, the silence broken only by the sound of their footsteps on the fallen leaves. Ellie, who had been unusually quiet, finally spoke.

"Joel," she began, her voice hesitant, "I know you had to make a choice. But..."

Joel sighed, the weight of his guilt heavy on his chest. "I know, Ellie. I know I made the wrong one."

Ellie looked at him, her eyes filled with a surprising understanding. "No, Joel. You did what you had to do. You saved me."

Joel looked at her, surprised by her words. "But what about Y/n?"

Ellie looked away, her gaze fixed on the trees ahead. "I know she wouldn't want you to blame yourself. She loved you, Joel. More than anything."

Joel's heart ached. "I know."

Ellie turned to him, her eyes searching his face. "You have to forgive yourself, Joel. You can't let this consume you."

Joel looked at her, his eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and despair. He knew she was right. He had to learn to live with the guilt, to carry the weight of his loss without letting it destroy him.

They continued their journey, the memory of Y/n a constant shadow hanging over them. But slowly, tentatively, they began to heal. They learned to live with the loss, to cherish the memories they had shared with Y/n, while also moving forward, one weary step at a time.

The forest floor crunched under their boots, each step a jarring reminder of the silence that had followed Y/n's sacrifice. Ellie, despite her earlier words of comfort, was struggling. Nightmares plagued her, vivid and terrifying, filled with the image of Y/n's pale face and the sound of her fading breath.

"She wouldn't want this, Ellie," Joel said, his voice gruff as he watched her pick at a loose thread on her jacket. "She wouldn't want you to be miserable."

Ellie looked up, her eyes red-rimmed. "But what if...what if I could have saved her? If I had fought harder?"

Joel reached out, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. "You did everything you could, sweetheart. You fought like a warrior." He paused, the memory of Y/n's desperate plea echoing in his mind. "She knew I had to choose you. She wouldn't have wanted me to lose you too."

Ellie looked away, unable to meet his gaze. "I miss her, Joel. I miss her laughter, her stubbornness, the way she always knew how to make me smile even when I didn't want to."

Joel pulled her into a tight embrace, holding her close. "I know, Ellie. I miss her too." He closed his eyes, the weight of his guilt threatening to crush him. He had failed Y/n. He had let her down.

Days turned into weeks, and the weight of their grief began to settle over them like a shroud. Joel, haunted by the ghosts of his past, became increasingly withdrawn. He spent hours staring into the fire, lost in a sea of regret. Ellie, mirroring his silence, retreated into herself, her laughter replaced by a quiet sadness.

One evening, huddled around a crackling fire, Ellie finally broke the silence. "Do you ever think about what she would be doing now?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper.

Joel looked at her, surprised. "What do you mean?"

"If she were still here," Ellie continued, "what would she be doing? Would she be laughing at my terrible jokes? Would she be teaching me how to play guitar? Would we be...happy?"

Joel looked into the fire, his mind racing. He imagined Y/n, her bright smile lighting up a room, her laughter echoing through the forest. He imagined them all together, a small, unlikely family, finding joy in the face of adversity.

"I think she would be proud of us," Joel said, his voice thick with emotion. "Proud of how far we've come."

Ellie looked at him, a flicker of hope returning to her eyes. "You think so?"

Joel nodded. "I know so. She always believed in us, Ellie. She believed in you."

Ellie smiled, a small, fragile thing. "Maybe she's watching over us now."

Joel looked up at the stars, a single tear tracing a path down his cheek. "Maybe she is."

From that day on, the silence between them began to lift. They still mourned the loss of Y/n, but they also began to remember the joy she had brought into their lives. They shared stories about her, laughed at her quirky habits, and cherished the memories they had made together.

The scars of their past would never fully heal, but they learned to live with them. They learned to carry the weight of their grief without letting it consume them. And though the memory of Y/n would forever be a part of them, they also learned to find joy in the present, to appreciate the fragile beauty of life in a world ravaged by despair.

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investorsjunction · 3 months ago

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Whispering Woods Farmhouses: Exploring the Timeless Charm of Farmhouse Living

In a world filled with bustling cities, non-stop schedules, and digital noise, we all crave a retreat—a place to unwind, reconnect with nature, and escape the demands of daily life. But we can’t check in to resorts every time just for the sake of peace. But thankfully, the idea of farmhouses can save you from this hassle.

Many of the readers may get confused and question the very suggestion of owning a farmhouse. Let’s understand it better.

As for many, owning a farmhouse like Whispering Woods Naugaon embodies this dream, offering a tranquil getaway where family and friends can gather, memories are made, and life’s pace gently slows. Here’s why owning a farmhouse can be the perfect solution for those seeking both relaxation and rejuvenation.

A Natural Escape from Urban Life

One of our customers used to miss bird sounds. He is a surgeon and has a hectic working schedule. So, whenever he uses a break, he brings his family to his farmhouse and takes a long break. As per him, this brake rejuvenated him. It fills the zeal and energy back.

After all, nothing compares to the charm of a farmhouse. Unlike urban spaces, where concrete buildings and noisy streets dominate, farmhouses are typically surrounded by greenery, open skies, and fresh air. They provide a chance to unwind in nature’s embrace and reconnect with a simpler, more fulfilling lifestyle. Imagine stepping out into your backyard, greeted by lush landscapes, the sounds of nature, and an atmosphere of complete relaxation.

Ideal for Quality Family Time

A farmhouse offers the luxury of space—something that’s often in short supply in city homes. Whether it’s a weekend getaway or a long holiday, a farmhouse provides a perfect setting to bond with loved ones away from digital distractions. It’s a place where the family can gather for cookouts, explore outdoor activities, or simply sit together under the stars. Farmhouses also make for great locations for family celebrations, where everyone can come together to create lasting memories.

A Haven for Hobbies and Well-being

Having a farmhouse opens up a world of opportunities for hobbies and fun. Some folks start organic gardens, experiment with mini-farming, or breed animals, diving into rewarding pursuits. While others find joy chilling by the pool, doing yoga, or engaging in artsy projects—contributing to a balanced life. For those who love fitness, the vast open space is ideal for morning runs or even creating a personal open-air gym.

I remember one of our customers was a retired army officer. He loved to fish. He used to go on solo fishing trips for weeks at Sutlej. Then, he bought land near the village and built a small farmhouse. Where he kept his jeep and boat, so whenever he found himself bored with mundane life, he started spending time at his farmhouse. This place was near to the river, so he got the opportunity to invite friends and families over weekends.

Invest in Luxury and Sustainability

Farmhouses today aren’t just rustic retreats; they blend comfort and elegance, with modern amenities and sustainable designs. Choosing a farmhouse with eco-friendly construction and a 50+ year lifespan, as seen in luxury projects, can help you own a property that aligns with responsible living. Sustainable materials, zero-maintenance construction, and energy-efficient designs combine to offer a luxury retreat that’s mindful of the environment.

Your Dream Farmhouse Awaits

If the idea of a private, luxurious retreat sounds appealing, consider our upcoming Whispering Woods Farmhouses - a gated community of farm plots set to be available by March 2025. With plot sizes ranging from 13,600 sq.ft. to 27,225 sq.ft., you can choose between 2.5 BHK and 3.5 BHK farmhouses, each equipped with a private pool and designed to offer a hassle-free experience.

This exclusive community is conveniently located close to popular sites like Siliserh Lake, Moosi Maharani Ka Mahal, and the Sariska Tiger Reserve, making it easy to explore nearby scenic and cultural landmarks. Whether it’s relaxation or adventure you seek, this farmhouse retreat provides the best of both worlds.

Get in Touch

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bullet-prooflove · 6 months ago

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I know that you hate her but it was never her fault, not really.

For Lee Dutton

Tagging: @kmc1989 @queenslandlover-93 @newyorkrican922 @bryandechartisasmolbean @lovethis-lovethat

Companion piece to:

A Boy from Bozeman - Lee says goodbye to the woman he loves.

The Worry Doll - Lee still keeps the worry doll you gave him.

Wild Fire - Lee tells you the truth about the wildfire.

Experiance (NSFW) - Lee's gained some experiance since the last time the two of you were together.

Blind Date - John puts the word out around town that Lee needs a wife.

Fire Wood - Lee always chops firewood when he's pissed.

Wedding Bells - You and Lee tie the knot in secret.

Until Your Dying Day - You make a promise to Lee.

References to:

The One That Got Away - In light of Lee's recent wedding, John reflects on the one that got away.

The Other Woman (NSFW) - John was never meant to be with Evelyn.

John is waiting for Lee on the porch of the farmhouse when he returns home from his honeymoon. He’d dropped you off at the end of the trail where Kayce had left the VW. You have to be at the conservation centre in Helena this afternoon to discuss the soil samples you took from Pasture 12. Lee intends to meet you afterwards to help you pack up your stuff for your move to the farmhouse.

It's the coffee cup in his father’s hand that pisses Lee off, it’s the chipped one from his kitchen. He can smell that special brand of coffee you like, the one you buy from the farmer’s market. This is John Dutton trying to send a message and Lee reads it loud and clear.

Nothing is yours, it all belongs to the ranch.

Lee doesn’t say anything as he sits down on the opposite side of the steps. If they’re going to talk about this, it’s going to be on equal terms because Lee, he will not stand before this man like a naughty child. He’s done bending to his father’s will.

“You left one hell of a mess for me to clean up.” John says taking a sip of his coffee as he stares out across the pasture.

Lee knows he’s talking about the angry phone calls he’s been receiving from ranchers since the news hit that Lee had gotten married, the ones that were trying to trade their daughters like cattle for a piece of the ranch.

“I never said I wanted a wife.” Lee reminds him as his gaze fixates on the cattle roaming in the distance.

“But you took one anyway.” John points out, his gaze coming to rest on Lee’s silver wedding band.

“I know you hate her…”

“I don’t hate her.” John tells Lee, setting his coffee cup down alongside him. “She’s just not right for the ranch.”

“But she’s right for me.” Lee says tucking his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “She was back then and she is now.”

There’s silence between the two of them for a moment before John sighs.

“I had someone like that.” He says quietly. “A long time ago I had to make a decision between the woman I love and what was best for the ranch.”

“You mean Lou.” Lee says and John tilts his head towards him in surprise. “I saw the two of you together after mom died, I heard what you said about how you loved her, how you’d always loved her.”

Lee has known from a young age that his mother and father didn’t act like other parents. There was always a coldness between the two of them, a practicality. It wasn’t until the night of the wake when he saw his father interact with Lou that he realised why. John hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her during the event, he held onto her hands a little too long when she gave him her condolences and that night after everyone else had left, he’d undressed her in the room his wife hadn’t shared in years.

Lee doesn’t know what happened after that, only his father is now in a causal relationship with Governor Perry and Lou sells honey at the farmer’s market with her twenty six year old son, Joesph.

“The men in our family, they don’t marry for love.” John says quietly. “We marry for duty and that’s what I need you to do.”

“What are you saying?” Lee asks him, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“When I get back to the house, I’ll have Jamie draw up an annulment, voiding the marriage.” John says clasping his hands together. “After that we’ll pick someone more appropriate, someone whose the right fit.”

Lee can’t speak, his eyes sting as he pulls the keys to the farmhouse out from his pocket and dumps them into his father’s lap.

“I’m not leaving Anna.” He says, his voice raw with emotion as he raises to his feet. “You took twenty years from the two of us, you don’t get to have the rest.”

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#Lee Dutton #lee dutton x reader #yellowstone

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deestorytime · 9 months ago

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Levi Ackerman x Reader Postwar Short Fluff On the farmhouse porch, you sat surrounded by your painting supplies, your brush delicately stroking colors onto the canvas. Perched upon a hill, the farmhouse offered a stunning view of the surrounding fields that you love to paint. Your baby bump was quite noticeable, and you occasionally paused to gently rub your swollen stomach. Levi's shoes crunched on the gravel path as he made his way up the hill to where you were sitting. His gaze lingered on the painting. "Looks beautiful," he commented. You smiled, setting your brush down. "You're back early," you observed, noting the numerous bags and items he began to unload. "Looks like you’ve raided the entire store." "Only the essentials," he joked, straightening up with a playful grin. "We’ve got to be prepared, right?" "I guess you’re right," you agreed softly, your hand finding his. "Do you ever imagine what it’ll be like?" "All the time," he admitted. "Teaching them to ride a horse, watching them run around here..." "Painting with them," you added, squeezing his hand. "I can’t wait to see you teach them how to clean, though." Levi chuckled. "That's non-negotiable. They're going to learn how to clean properly. No child of mine is going to live in filth." He squeezed your hand reassuringly and planted a gentle kiss on your forehead. "I almost forgot—I've got something special to show you," he added, his voice tinged with excitement. He dug through one of the bags and finally pulled out a wrapped package, handing it to you. "Go on, open it," he encouraged, his eyes bright with anticipation. You carefully unwrapped the package, revealing a beautifully handcrafted mobile. The pieces dangling from it were delicate and intricate—tiny horses and miniature versions of the Scout Regiment’s wings of freedom badges, all carved from light wood. "It’s for the nursery," Levi explained, watching your reaction closely. "I found an artisan in town who makes these custom pieces. Thought it would be something unique, a good piece from our world to share with them." "It’s beautiful, Levi," you said sincerely, running your fingers over the smooth carvings. "It’s perfect." Levi's lips curled into a small, satisfied smile. "I wanted our kid to have something that tells a story... our story. And maybe inspire them someday," he added. You reached out, pulling him down beside you again, your head resting against his shoulder. "This is going to mean so much to them," you whispered, trying not to cry, feeling his arm wrap around you, pulling you closer.

#levi fluff #attack on titan #levi aot #levi x reader #captain levi #fanfic #levi ackerman #aot levi #levi attack on titan

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mx-pastelwriting · 9 months ago

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Quiet Camping

Pierre Chavanges x GN! Reader

Summary: Having gone camping with Pierre and his friends, you both couldn't but get a little handy at night.

Warnings: Camping, Sleeping in tent, Smut, Quiet Sex, Sex around people, Outside Sex, Mention of hunting

Minors do not interact!

Swaying with the bumpy dirt road, sitting in the truck filled with Pierre's friends' laughs, having sat next to Pierre squeezed next to one another. Pierre's warm hand rests on your thigh, laughing quietly, sitting next to Régis and his partner.

Slowly, your body ached to stretch after being picked up from the farmhouse in the early morning then being on a long drive to the camping spot. Finally opening the sliding door, quickly stepping off to the side for the others to get out, letting you stretch, looking around at the lush trees and the little shore of the big lake.

Walking over to the shore, seeing the stillness of the water's surface and the trees moving with the light breeze, "Here?" turning to see Pierre hanging his bag over the spot behind you. "Oh, it's a little too close; maybe over here," you say, moving over away from the shore near a tree.

Happy with the spot settling down your things before building up the tent, having been the first time with Pierre meant buying a bigger tent than he had. Having splurged on a little, the tent has better insulation and even a sun window. Putting it up, you packed in the rolled sleeping bags and thick blanket just in time for the boys to be ready for Pierre to go with them.

Getting a kiss before he went off into the woods with the others for the morning, not seeing him until the evening, staying behind with Régis partner, you both set up the firewood to be lit later for dinner. Having nothing else to do, seeing as the water didn't look dirty, taking off your shoes, then hiking up your pants legs.

Walking into the cool water of the lake, hearing it ripple with your movements, standing there, taking in the waking sunrise that reflected on the lake.

Back from their hunt, the sun started to set, popping out the drinks with dinner ready to be served. Eating all around the campfire laughing at each other's stories. The night had made the air cold, cuddling close to Pierre, hearing his whispered words, making you laugh more than the stories.

Everything wrapped up with the fire dying down fast. Both you and Pierre packed into the tent while the others finished their drinks. Unwrapping the sleeping bags, laying them out with a thick blanket, quickly getting ready, then under the covers, warping arms around each other.

Hearing the crickets chirp with the others zip up their tents, feeling Pierre kiss your head, looking up from his chest to return the kiss before falling to sleep.

Waking to Pierre shifting under the sheets, realizing his reason for it as something poked your leg, looking at him in the dark tent with the moonlight to see each other. Seeing his apologetic face while moving away, you moved closer, placing your hands on his bare-skinned waist.

Moving your hand down, feeling his hardening cock followed along with a quiet curse, looking at his face seeing it change while you worked away at his cock slowly. Watching his head roll, fighting back moans, enjoying the sight before you, though quickly he turns the struggle onto you.

Feeling his hands run under what clothing you had on, squeezing at your skin, hands still on each other, Pierre moved above you. The moonlight illuminated his messed-up hair while working away at your clothing. Being the only one bare in the cool night, he moved, attacking your neck and chest before teasing you with his cock.

Biting back moans while he entered you slowly, holding onto your hips before leaning in kissing your cheek, thrusting slowly. Connecting lips, keeping the moans down in the quiet night, breaking the kiss to rest in the nook of your neck. Grabbing onto his back digging your nails down, he sped up, dancing along the borderline of everyone knowing what you both were doing.

Calls out for each other mixed in the quiet air of the tent, feeling his kisses start up again being placed on your ear before trailing back to your lips. Hands softly gripped your body as Pierre worked away at you with a shared, forced silence, feeling his hips start to buckle and your body build up, the end was close.

Coming undone, bodies breaking down onto each other while biting back moans, feeling his hips struggling to hold a quiet thrust while cumming in you. Fighting your own battle that would show later on Pierre's back while riding out your highs in the moon's bright light.

Laying next, you catch breaths before cuddling close, covering up with the messed blanket, resting your head on his bare chest, tangling your legs with his calming in the still night.

Hello, I hope you enjoyed if there is any grammar mistakes or misspellings sorry about that feel free to let me know in the comments, have a great day/afternoon/night!

𝙏𝙖𝙜𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩: @caramel-hufflepuff

#pierre chavanges #pierre chavanges x reader #swann arlaud #petit paysan #bloody milk

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chat334noir · 3 months ago

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Stardew Valley Fic: Shane x Reader

Description: You inherit a sprawling farm from your grandfather, nestled on the outskirts of a quaint small town, and make the bold decision to leave the chaos of city life behind. As you settle into your new surroundings, you encounter Shane - a brash, standoffish local whose abrasive attitude immediately puts you on edge. He seems determined to keep you at arm's length, and you can't shake the feeling that he's always watching, waiting for you to stumble. In this close-knit community, where everyone knows each other's business, you'll have to navigate the challenges of fitting in and building relationships. Can you learn to see beyond Shane's rough exterior and find common ground, or will you forever remain at odds with the one person you'd prefer to avoid? As you delve deeper into the rhythms of small-town life, you begin to wonder if there's more to Shane than meets the eye-and if perhaps he's not the only one who needs to change.

(Work In Progress)

Chapter One

You let out a heavy sigh as you finish unloading and organizing your belongings in your grandfather's old farmhouse. It's hard to believe you've accumulated so much, especially after living in that cramped shoebox apartment in the city. It hasn't been long since you received the news of your grandfather's passing. The reading of the will took you by surprise; you never expected to inherit his farm, especially given how distant you were from your extended family, including your grandparents. So, you made the bold decision to leave your dead-end job in the city, where you were perpetually underpaid and overworked, and take a chance on becoming a farmer. After all, it's in your blood—your grandfather was a farmer, too.

As you gaze out the window, you notice the sun beginning to dip below the horizon. Unpacking and settling into your new home took longer than you anticipated, and you had hoped to introduce yourself to the townsfolk today. But now, you're unsure if there's time left for that. Still, after a long day indoors, you feel a restless urge to stretch your legs and explore the town. You step outside the farm and head south, lost in thought as you take a series of random turns, quickly realizing you're completely turned around.

A flicker of anxiety rises as it dawns on you that you haven't taken an official tour of the town or even picked up a map. Just as panic starts to creep in, you spot a silhouette in the distance. It appears to be someone sitting against a tree stump, gazing out at the sea. Relief washes over you—perhaps they can help you find your way. As you approach, however, the unmistakable smell of alcohol hits you. The figure is a man, slumped over with empty beer cans scattered around him. You grimace at the sight. As much as you'd like to avoid interacting with a passed-out drunkard, you realize that desperate times call for desperate measures.

"Um, excuse me," you call out softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Silence hangs in the air.

"Of course," you mutter to yourself, rolling your eyes. "A passed-out person doesn't respond."

You take a deep breath and try again, this time louder, giving his shoulder a gentle shake.

Still nothing.

After what feels like an eternity of attempting to rouse him, you finally give in and slide down against the trunk of a nearby tree. Pulling your knees to your chest, you settle in, resigned to wait—either for him to wake up or for someone else to wander by. He has to wake up eventually, right? Besides, the woods feel too lonely, and staying here seems like the safest option.

You bury your head in your knees and let out a frustrated groan. This was not how you envisioned your first day in town—stranded in the, now pitch-black, forest beside a drunken stranger.

You lift your head and take a moment to take in your surroundings. The fresh air, so different from the city's smog, fills your lungs with a sense of renewal. Being in the woods at this hour isn't all bad. The soothing melody of crickets serenades you, harmonizing with the gentle whispers of the ocean waves in the background. Normally, in the city at this hour, you'd be surrounded by the blaring honks of cars and the heated arguments spilling out of bars, couples caught in late-night dramas. But here, the tranquility of nature wraps around you like a comforting blanket. The only sounds are the gentle rustling of leaves and the distant rhythm of the waves, creating a serene backdrop that feels almost magical. As you sit there, the weight of the day begins to lift. You close your eyes, allowing the cool breeze to brush against your skin. In this moment, it becomes clear that perhaps the chaos of city life wasn't what you truly craved. There's a stillness here that invites reflection, a chance to breathe and recalibrate.

You take a deep breath, letting the peaceful ambiance sink in. Just then, a loud noise jolts you from your thoughts. Your heart nearly stops, startled by the sudden loud contrast to the quiet serenity you had been enjoying just moments before.

Focusing on the source of the sound, you soon realize it's a phone ringtone. Curious, you turn your head to follow the sound and discover it's coming from the man beside you, still slumped against the tree.

You crawled closer to the man, your heart pounding with a mix of hope and trepidation. The phone, nestled deep in his pocket, buzzed and vibrated like a trapped animal. If you could just grab it, maybe it could lead to a way out of this strange situation—or at least a call for help.

Tentatively, you reach out, your fingers brushing against the fabric of his pocket, feeling the warmth radiating from his body. The phone vibrates insistently, a siren call in the quiet of the night. You take a breath, gathering your courage to tug it free. Just as your fingers wrap around the smooth surface, the man suddenly stirs, his body shifting like a heavy log awakening from slumber.

In a wild, instinctive move, he tackles you to the ground, pinning you beneath his weight. The shock of the impact drives the air from your lungs, and you find yourself staring up at the stars with the cool earth pressed against your back, momentarily disoriented.

"What the—?" you gasp, your heart racing as the realization of the situation hits you. His breath, heavy and laced with the scent of stale beer, washes over you, and you feel the warmth of his body enveloping yours. The stars above seem to swirl in confusion as you grapple with the sudden intimacy of this position.

"What do you think you're doing?" he barks, his eyes narrowed, suspicion dripping from every word. The intensity of his gaze feels like a physical weight, and you swallow hard, trying to process his aggression.

As you come face to face with the man, you finally see his features clearly for the first time. At first glance, he's gruff, cheeks marked by stubble that speaks to neglect or perhaps a certain rugged charm. His dark purple hair falls in tousled waves, a striking contrast against the backdrop of the twilight sky, and for a moment, you're taken aback by the unexpected beauty hidden beneath the rough exterior.

His eyes, a deep shade of blue, bore into yours with an intensity that makes your heart race. They are eyes that have seen too much, worn with the weight of experiences that you can only begin to imagine. But there's a flicker of something softer within them—curiosity? Vulnerability? It's buried under layers of irritation and drunkenness, but it's there.

You find yourself caught off guard by the way his lips twist in a scowl, but even that somehow draws you in. There's an undeniable magnetism to his demeanor, an energy that challenges you to look beyond the rudeness. His shirt, slightly rumpled and stained, clings to his form in a way that hints at a powerful build beneath, and you can't help but feel an inexplicable pull toward him despite the gruffness that radiates off him in waves.

"I—I was just trying to get your phone!" you stammer, the indignation rising in your throat. "I thought it was ringing!"

He scoffs, shaking his head as if your explanation is an insult. "Right, and I'm supposed to believe that? You look like you're out here trying to steal from me." His grip on your shoulders tightens, a roughness that makes it clear he's not just defending himself—he's ready for a fight.

"Steal from you?" you retort, struggling beneath him, irritation bubbling up. "Do I look like some sort of criminal? I'm just lost in the woods!"

"Yeah, right," he sneers, his eyes hardening. "People don't just wander into the middle of nowhere for fun. You must have some kind of agenda." He shifts his weight slightly, as if to emphasize that he's not budging.

"Look, I didn't mean to freak you out!" you snap back, frustration igniting. "Can you just let me up already? I'm not your enemy here!"

He pauses, eyes searching your face, as if weighing your words. The tension hangs thick in the air, but instead of loosening his grip, he seems to relish the standoff, almost daring you to challenge him further.

"Prove it," he demands, his voice low and challenging. "If you're really lost, why don't you tell me how you got here? What are you even doing in this part of the woods?"

You take a deep breath, struggling to keep your composure under his intense scrutiny. "I just moved to town," you say slowly, frustration giving way to a semblance of calm. "I wanted to explore, and somehow ended up here. Now can you please get off me?"

He hesitates for a moment, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features. Finally, he shifts his weight back, releasing you but keeping a wary eye on your every move. "Fine," he grumbles, pushing himself to stand up slowly, clearly still on edge.

An awkward silence settles between you, the night air thick with unspoken tension. You both stand there, your breaths mingling with the gentle rustle of leaves, the distant sound of waves crashing in the background.

He glances sideways, his expression shifting from suspicion to something softer, but then quickly masks it with a scowl. You can feel the weight of the silence pressing down, and you clear your throat, unsure of what to say next.

Just when you were about to ask him how to get out of here, his phone rings again, the jarring sound slicing through the stillness once again. He reaches down to pick it off the ground, where it had fallen during your earlier scuffle. As he grips the device, his expression shifts from annoyance to irritation, his brow furrowing deeper as he glances at the screen.

"I have to go," he says abruptly, the words clipped and cold, as if he's already made up his mind. Without waiting for a response, he turns and starts walking in the opposite direction, dismissing you entirely.

Feeling a surge of frustration and disbelief, you quickly scramble to your feet and call out after him. "Wait!"

But he doesn't slow down. You quicken your pace, rushing to catch up, and suddenly realize you're losing your breath, even though you've only moved a short distance. I really should exercise more, you note to yourself, half-amused at the irony of the situation.

"What do you want?" he snaps, shooting you a glance, irritation flickering in his eyes like a warning light.

"I'm lost," you reply, trying to keep your voice steady despite the pounding of your heart.

"So?" He sounds dismissive, as if your predicament is trivial.

"So... please help me out," you urge, your voice softer this time, hoping to reach whatever part of him is still listening. "I don't know this area at all, and it's dark. I'm not asking for much—just a little direction."

He pauses for a moment, looking at you with a mixture of skepticism and something else you can't quite place. The tension in his shoulders eases just a fraction, and you sense that beneath his irritation lies a flicker of empathy.

"Fine," he sighs "Where are you headed?"

"Ummm, well, I—" You had to think of a way to describe where your cabin is located, but were at a loss.

"I don't have all day here," he huffs, impatient but not hostile.

You exhale a deep breathe, determined to make him understand. "It's my grandfather's old farmhouse—just a little ways up from here. I just need to know how to get back." Your voice steadies as you speak, and you find the courage to meet his gaze. "Please."

He pauses, his brow furrowing in thought, and for a moment, the tension between you feels almost palpable. Then, as if a light bulb has gone off, his eyes widen slightly in recognition.

"Oh you're the person who just moved into the old man's farm," He exclaims.

"Uh, yeah," you reply feeling a bit sheepish.

"So how did you get lost out here?"

"I wanted to explore a bit of the town after unpacking, but I forgot I didn't have a map or any idea of the town's layout beforehand," you admit.

"That is such a stupid thing to do," He remarks

"Yeah, yeah, I know, no need to lecture me...asshole," you roll your eyes and mumble the last part under your breath.

"What was that?" He leans in, eyebrows furrowed.

"Uhh, nothing!" You say quickly, forcing a smile "So, can you help me out already?"

"Yeah, sure. Follow me," he says, starting off in what you assume is the direction of your farm. You trail behind him, both of you enveloped in an uncomfortable silence. You consider breaking the ice, but fatigue settles in, and you doubt he'd appreciate the effort anyway.

"You should really be more careful out here at night. There are a lot of reports of pickpockets," he finally says, shattering the quiet.

"Oh, I guess that explains why you accused me of being one earlier" you snap back, irritation creeping into your voice. "I guess that's good enough of a reason to tackle someone, right?"

He exhales sharply and turns to face you, and you instantly regret your words, bracing yourself for what you anticipate will be an argument.

"Look, I've had a really rough night, okay?" His defenses start to crumble, and a hint of vulnerability flickers in his eyes.

Right, because that justifies tackling someone, you think to yourself.

"I'm really sorry for doing that," he adds, his tone softening.

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," he continues, running a hand through his disheveled hair, glancing away as if ashamed. "Can we just forget that happened?"

You pause, weighing his apology against your irritation. You know you should let it go, but the "just forget about it" part really rubs you the wrong way. Can't exactly just forget about it.

"Fine, whatever," you reply, your voice steady but tinged with frustration "Let's go."

You push past him, marching ahead with a quickened pace, only to realize you don't actually know the way. But you're too fired up to slow down now.

Fortunately, it doesn't take long before you spot your farm in the distance, much closer than you anticipated. Relief washes over you as you make your way home, the tension of the evening still lingering but fading with every step.

#stardew valley #stardew valley fanfic #stardew shane #sdv shane #sdv shane x reader #sdv shane x farmer #reader insert #x reader #sdv shane x reader chapter 1

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topazy · 1 year ago

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Tomorrow's promise

Paring: Shane Walsh × reader, Rick Grimes × sister reader, Daryl Dixon x reader (slow burn)

Warning: Swearing, character death

Chapter: 2.12

“Rick,” your raw voice is barely audible. “Rick, Rick.”

Your brother fails to hear you as he and Carl face the opposite way as he tries to explain things to his son. You scramble to your feet and rush to them. “We need to go. The dead are coming.”

The three of you manage to run to a tree, which temporarily hides you from the dead, but you’d need to move fast. Carl whispers, “We've got to get to the house; tell the others.”

“We’ll never get through that; we can’t go around,” Rick says. “Both of you stay close. Go.”

You grab hold of Carl’s hand and run towards the barn, which was the safest option. Once inside, Rick locks the barn door, but the walkers that spotted you running push at the door. You notice the ladders leading to higher ground. “Carl, go up, now.”

You start following your nephew, but Rick grabs your hand and gives you a lighter. “Drop it when I say.”

You take it and rush up. You watch as he pours gas out of a red tank on the ground and hope the fire kills all the walkers. The last thing you wanted was for them to reach the farmhouse. The fire would also give the others the chance to escape, and most importantly, your sweet son would be safe.

Rick opens the door to lure the dead in. “Y/n now!”

Soon as he starts to climb the ladder, you drop the lighter, setting the barn ablaze. You grab his hand and pull him up. “What now? We need to get to the house. I need to get to Jace.”

“If we can’t get to him, Lori will; she’d never leave without him. But for now, we take out as many walkers as we can to stop them from getting to the house.”

Holding back tears, you nod.

As more walkers were drawn in by the brightness of the flames, you, Rick, and Carl fired at them. The wood beneath you seems to become less stable as the fire grows bigger. The three of you step out onto the ledge hanging above the door to the barn. At least if it collapses outside, one of you may have a chance of escaping the dead.

“Hey! Hey! Over here!” Rick waves his hand to get the attention of Jimmy, who was driving the RV.

The RV pulls up just underneath the ledge, and you jump onto it beside Rick, then take Carl's hand to help him. By the time you climb down from the RV, Jimmy has already been eaten by walkers.

You attempt to run in the direction of the house when Rick grabs your wrist and says, “No, come on this way into the woods.”

“I need to go back for Jace.”

“You’ll never make it; now come on.”

Reluctantly, you run with him and Carl into the woods. The air was becoming thick with smoke, causing each breath to feel poisonous. Gunfire rang out from all directions, so it was hard to pinpoint where the others were. Once the walkers chasing you trail off, you run back to the house with Carl close behind you. You sprint up the stairs to where you left your son, but he’s not there. Carl checks a few other rooms, but he doesn’t find him.

“Shit!” You grab Carl’s hand again and drag him outside, where your brother is shooting walkers with Hershel. “Rick, he’s not there!”

“Lori must have taken up. We have to go.”

He was right; everyone else was gone, so she would have taken him with her. Now you need to find her. When two walkers get close, you shoot them in the head and say, “Carl, stay behind me until we reach the truck!”

In-between blasts, you hear Hershel say, “I saw her leave with Beth and Patricia, but not with the boy.”

“What?!”

Your arms fall to your sides as you feel your world starting to collapse. Rick shoots a walker that almost grabs you from behind before wrapping his arm around you and pulling you towards the truck. “My baby,” you cry. “Let me go; I need to find my baby.”

“Y/n, if we don’t go now, we will all die.”

You kick your legs out desperately, trying to get out of his grip. “He’s still in the house; I must have missed him! Rick, let me go!”

Rick ignores you and tosses you into the back seat as if you weigh nothing. Hershel tries his best to comfort you while watching his home crumble to the ground. The only thing you do in that moment is cry hysterically, thinking about your son.

Losing Shane was hard, but losing Jace would completely destroy you.

—

Daylight has not long passed when Rick drives the truck back onto the highway, in the same spot where the RV was once parked. You sit on the edge of an abandoned car and look at the spot in the road where the vehicle once was and sob. You remember when the horde of walkers appeared right before Sophia ran into the woods, and you were terrified of losing your family, your son, and your fiancé, but Shane kept him safe. Even if Jace had begun to cry, Shane would have killed all of them to keep his son safe.

Shane would never have let this happen.

Everything around you seems like a blur; even when the occasional walker goes by, you’re only shaken from your thoughts when Carl pulls at the sleeve of your jacket; his eyes are swollen and puffy, much like your own from crying, “Aunt y/n, I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“It’s my fault; if I hadn’t left the house, then you would never have.”

Gently, you take his face in your hand. Your voice cracks as you speak, “None of this is your fault, okay? Nothing that happened is.”

You pull him in for a hug and hold him.

You hear vehicles approaching, but don’t even lift your head to see who it is because as soon as you know who made it through the night, you’d know who hadn’t.

“Yo y/n!” Daryl calls out. “You’ve got a real screamer, you know that?”

Taking a deep breath, you finally look up and see Carol climbing off the back of Daryl’s motorbike, with him still seated at the front. He gets off it slowly, and you hear him mumble, “Yeah, yeah, now you stop crying because your mom is here.”

You let go of Carl and stared at him in disbelief. Your voice is weak. “Jace?” A new stream of tears will pour down your cheeks as soon as you see your son. You rush over to Daryl and take Jace from him. “My sweet boy, I thought I’d lost you.”

“Soon I saw you on the ledge of the barn. I went back and got him.”

You cover Jace’s face with kisses. “I’m so sorry for leaving you. I’m never going to do that again.”

Daryl smiles. He goes to walk away, but you grip his arm with your free hand and kiss him on the cheek. “I know I’ll never be able to say it enough, but thank you.”

He swallows thickly and says nothing. Daryl wasn’t the best at receiving compliments or being thanked; he seemed to struggle with the idea that he was truly a good man.

The survivors have a brief discussion of who the walkers were. Patrica and Jimmy were both dead, and Andrea was missing.

Lori looks directly at you and asks, “Where's Shane?”

“Shane’s gone,” you say. “He’s gone.”

Looking devastated, she hugs your brother, which seems like a twisted irony.

—

The group decides it’s best to move on before the remaining walkers from the horde that overran the farm appear. Carol joins Daryl on his motorcycle while the rest of you split between two different vehicles.

You get behind the wheel of the truck, your brother sits beside you and takes Jace from your arms, freeing you up to drive, while Lori, Carl, and T-Dog get into the back seats.

“Oh shit,” after only a few hours of driving, you pull over to the side of the road and signal for the others to stop.

You take Jace from Rick, get out of the truck, and walk down to the other car.

“You out?” Daryl asks.

“Running on fumes, and it’s going to get dark soon.”

In a sharp tone, Rick says, “We’ll have to make a run for some gas in the morning.”

Soon as he says that, others begin to question what he’s saying, and you watch as your brother becomes more angry. Rick was trying his best to remain calm and keep everyone safe. “Stop panicking and listen to Rick.”

“All right, we’ll set up a perimeter. In the morning, we’ll find gas and some supplies and keep pushing on.”

“Glenn and I can go on a run just now; try and scrounge up some gas,” Maggie suggests.

“No, we stay together,” your brothers said sternly. “God forbid something happens and people get stranded without a car. I know this looks bad; we’ve all been through hell and worse, but at least we found each other. I wasn’t sure... I really wasn't, but we did. We’re together. We keep it that way.”

You feel Lori’s eyes burning into you; she must have known Rick’s building rage wasn’t just about the farm burning.

“We’ll find a shelter somewhere. There’s got to be a place.”

“He’s right, we need to find a place and hunker down.” You nudge Rick on the shoulder and point towards what looked like the end of the trail by the edge of a waterfall that was surrounded by brick walls. “What about over there? Would that do for tonight?”

“That will be our campsite for tonight,” he confirms.

With a frightened look on her eyes, Beth steps forward. “What if Randall finds us?”

“You know I found Randall, right?” Daryl says. “He had turned, but wasn’t bitten or scratched.”

You and Rick share a look. You gulp down, “we better get moving before it gets dark.”

“What the hell? You two know something, don’t you?” Lori says, glaring in your direction.

Neither of you answered.

“Shane killed Randall just like he always wanted,” Darl states.

“And then the herd got him?” Lori asks.

Rick lets out a deep sigh. He stares at the ground, a troubled look on his face. “We’re all infected.”

A few seconds of silence pass before anyone speaks again.

“What?”

“At the C.D.C., Jenner told me. Whatever it is, we all carry it.”

Carol looks at him teary-eyed and says, “And you never said anything?”

“What difference would it make?"

While your brother defends his reason for keeping what Jenner told him a secret from the rest of the group, you walk to the car and open the boot. You needed to get him away before he reached his limit; you felt bad that he had to carry the weight of knowing that himself.

“Rick?”

Shaking his head, he walks over to you and asks, “What?”

You place Jace on his back in the empty boot of the car so he doesn’t wriggle away or fall, then pull out a small packet of wet wipes from your back pocket and pull two out of it. You give one to your brother, and when he reaches you, he takes it and wipes at his face while you try to get some of Shane’s dried blood from your hands. Aside from Daryl, who was observing you and Rick, everyone else was too caught up in panicking to notice your absence.

The adrenaline of everything that has happened is the only thing keeping you from crumbling.

“Are we in agreement? I killed Shane.”

Your eyes flash up at him in surprise. “You didn’t.”

“I killed him.”

“Rick…”

He blinks away the tears forming in his eyes. “Shane was shot, not bitten. That’s how, when he turned, I knew Jenner was right.”

You rub at your eyes, trying your best not to cry again. “I knew Shane was lying. I saw him bury his gun right before he said Randall snuck up on him. I had no idea he’d try and hurt you; otherwise, I would have said something. I just thought he wanted Randall gone. I turned a blind eye to so many things. It’s my fault all of this happened.”

“No, it’s not.” Rick brushes his hair behind your ear. “Shane killed Randall, then lured me away from everyone else to do the same to me. He had become unhinged and dangerous.”

Sniffling, you say, “I still love him; does that make me crazy?”

“No, no, you two were together for a long time and share a child. The person Shane was before the apocalypse would have hated the person he became.”

“I bet he never would have imagined he’d die at the hands of someone he loved.”

“Me, his best friend.”

“I can’t let you—”

Rick shakes his head. “Carl thought it was me who shot him, so that’s the story we are going to go with.”

“Why?”

“I’ve not always been able to protect you.” Rick wipes away his own tears. “But I can do this, so if anyone asks, I shot Shane in self-defense.”

—

You scowl at Lori as she sits on the opposite side of the small fire. Rick had told her privately what had happened with Shane, including that he killed him in self-defense and insisted on being supportive; she had turned her back on him. Her reaction made you wonder which man she really loved.

You turn your head to the side and snap when you hear Carol saying she wants a man of honor instead of your brother taking charge and that Rick is only going to drag Daryl down with him. The moment Rick went on watch, they took the chance to whine about him. “I'm going to say this as respectfully as I can, but you all need to shut the fuck up about my brother. He didn’t ask for any of this, but he’s doing his best to keep us together and alive.”

Carol looks at you as if you’re crazy. “He killed his own friend.”

It made you feel physically sick knowing he was lying for you. You wanted to tell them all the truth so they’d back off, but revealing the fact you both lied would probably make things worse.

“You’re right, I did,” Rick says as he walks back towards the group. “You saw what it was like—how he pushed me, how he compromised us, how he threatened us. He staged the whole Randall thing and led me out there just to put a bullet in my back. Then y/n turned up, and he turned on her; he gave me no choice.”

You let out a gasp with the last part, then quickly covered it with a cough. Jace was lying between your legs, wrapped up in your jacket, and seeing his tiny, peaceful face scrunch up in his sleep, you felt a weight pressing down on your chest. Not only had you taken his father from him, Jace was now going to grow up with the people around him believing his dad tried to hurt his mom.

“Maybe you people are better off without me,” Rick says bitterly as he lets out pent-up frustration. “Go ahead. I say there’s a place for us, but maybe that’s just another pipe dream. Maybe I’m fooling myself again. Why don’t you go and find out for yourself? Send me a postcard. Go on, there’s the door. You can do better. Let’s see how far you get.”

Rick’s outburst didn’t surprise you, but the expression on everyone else’s face did. You were just as guilty as the rest of them for not realizing sooner how much your brother did for everyone, except you weren’t challenging him on every decision he made.

When nobody responds, he continues. “No takers? Fine. But get one thing straight: you’re staying; this isn’t a democracy anymore.”

Rick walks off again, leaving everyone in silence.

Hearing Jace stir, and you pick him up and hold him close to your chest. He was grumpy from the lack of sleep. You begin to rock him gently, while trying your best to avoid Lori’s murderous glare.

#the walking dead #daryl dixion fanfic #daryl dixon x reader #daryl dixon x you #rick grimes x sister reader #shane walsh x reader #tomorrow’s promise #the walking dead x reader #the walking dead fanfic #the walking dead fanfiction #Daryl dixion/reader #Daryl dixion/you #daryl dixion x reader

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she-wolf09231982 · 1 year ago

Text

Chapter 3- The Business

Summary: On June 6, 1944, D-Day, C47’s with thousands of paratroopers cross the English Channel to France, where they come under heavy fire. None of you land where you’re expected to, and many lose their weapons and supplies in the drop. Even worse, you are separated from Liebgott. Fortunately, you do land near LT Winters, who links up with solitary soldiers, then set off to find other units.

A/N: Mature audience, Joe LiebgottxFem!Medic, post D-Day, She/Her Pronouns, Y/F/N, Y/L/N, Cursing/Swearing, Enemies to friends, Derogatory Slurs, Womanizing Comments, Aggression, Angst, Confrontation, Military Terminology, 1940’s slang, Inappropriate Nicknames, Band of Brothers References, Mentions of Weaponry, Wounds/Injuries, Smoking, Crying, Banter, Pining, FLUFF Chapter takes place 1x2 Day of Days & 1x3 very early Carentan

*These stories may not fall entirely in accordance with the TV series timeline. I do not know the real soldiers the actors portray in this series, so please understand I show no disrespect. Some or most of the historical events and character interactions in my fanfics are fabricated purely for the sake of the enjoyment of fiction*

~~~~~~~

“Y/L/N!” Winters shout whispers to you, waving you over to come to him.

You had landed in the middle of a field, tall grass quite overgrown, and dark as hell. You gather your chute to keep the wind from pulling you off, then hurry over to him.

“You ok, corporal?” Winters asked.

“Yes, sir.” You respond no louder than anyone but him to hear.

Although you say you’re physically ok, your internal activity is utter chaos. Your eyes were constantly on the move from left to right looking for German threats, your fellow jumpers...but most importantly for Liebgott.

During the flight, you were sitting directly across from him. You secretly wished to be next to him so you could land closer to eachother after the drop. Instead, you jumped right before LT Winters, whereas Liebgott jumped and probably landed long before you had left the plane.

Another soldier about ten feet away hustled over.

“Flash!” Winters called out.

“Shit!” The unknown soldier responded.

“I don't think that's the correct reply, trooper. I say 'flash,’ you say ‘thunder.’” Winters advised him.

“Yessir.” The soldier replied nervously.

The unfamiliar soldier was Private John Hall from Able Company. He was the radio man until he lost his radio in the jump. Nobody landed where they were supposed to, and it was clear that everyone was scattered.

You remained to the rear of Hall and Winters to secure behind you in case any Germans approached from behind. The three of you make it to a tree line and enter the woods to get some proper concealment.

“We'll locate some landmarks to get our bearings. Keep your eyes peeled for buildings, farmhouses, bridges, roads, trees.” Winter instructed.

You hear a rustle in the thicket across the stream from where you had been walking. Winters motioned for you all to camouflage yourselves against the brush of some bushes. Winters takes his clicker, then signals to who he deduced were American soldiers by clicking twice. Four clicks in response confirmed they were Easy Company members.

“Lieutenant Winters, is that you?” Lipton questioned.

Sergeant Lipton along with two paratroopers from the 82nd Airborne crossed the stream and you all kneeled in a circle to figure out the next course of action.

“Sir, I saw a sign back that aways, said, ‘Sainte-Mère-Église.’” Lipton declared.

Winters pulled out a map, flashlight and small compass, while an 82nd troop threw a raincoat over him for light control so not to give away your position.

Winters stated it was at least a four hour walk to the assembly point, so you all got walking. You run into Privates Malarkey and Rob “Popeye” Wynn, as well as Corporal Joe Toye.

Easy Company began greeting eachother, relieved to see that some of you made it safe to the ground. Toye gave you a few heavy pats on the back.

“Son of a bitch! You made it, doll!” Toye acknowledged, impressed by your gumption to survive such a vicious drop.

“Good to see you, L/N!” Malarkey was all smiles as he brought you in for a one-armed hug.

When you pulled away, his facial expression turned uneasy.

“Seen Joe?” He asked concerned.

You could only shake your head, too afraid to speak about it outloud so not to make the worst-case scenario a reality.

Malarkey put a hand on your shoulder giving you an encouraging squeeze.

“I’m sure he’s fine.” He whispered to you. You each exchange weak smiles.

You start the convoy following the train tracks to your next destination. As you’re walking you hear another rustle from behind.

“Flash!” Winters called.

“Thunder! LT Winters? Is that you? Malarkey?” A very familiar voice responded.

Fire and bile bubbled in the pit of your stomach...Guarnere. Just what you needed. You yearned for Liebgott to be here with you now that Guarnere had joined up with you guys.

“Hey, fellas!! Good to see ya, Lark! Toye!” Guarnere beamed.

As soon as he saw you, he grimaced, spit at the ground the turned around to face Winters.

“Guarnere, keep moving. You and Hall up front.” Winters directed.

After an unfortunate run in with a group of Germans, you push forward towards Sainte-Mère-Église.

It was the longest night ever but as daylight broke, you come upon what looks to be a small farm with several dead Germans lying under a dead paratrooper hanging by his parachute cords from a tree. The group scrounge any supplies left from the casualties, then continued the trek to the assembly point.

Finally, you see in the short distance where the rallying point is. A small town with bombed out buildings served as an assembly point for the Regiment to regroup. After you pass the cow carcasses made to be a makeshift check point at the entrance of the village, you inadvertently start trailing your team as you desperately scoured the main street for Liebgott.

Your heart began to sink into a whirlpool of despair. Your chest starts to tighten as tears begin to cloud your vision causing the world to close in on you. The voices of the men around you are muffled and distant. You wouldn’t even know or care if any of them were speaking directly to you because it felt like everything was crumbling around you. All because Joe was nowhere to be seen or heard.

Lost in your own underworld, ready to yield to what you thought was the inevitable, you clearly hear a single voice that heaves you from your sorrowful conviction.

“Easy Company!” You hear through the crowd.

Only Joe Liebgott’s voice could revive you from this morbid state.

“That has to be him!” You think to yourself.

Your breath hitched as you frantically searched for him. So many men wearing the same uniform made it almost impossible to tell one from the other. Your ability to speak was muted by distress, you couldn’t even bring yourself to call out to him. You almost thought you imagined hearing him at all, until at last, you look ahead up the road, and off to the side, you see him. A wave of relief rains onto you as you stand there stunned.

He shakes Guarnere’s hand.

“Bill! Good to see ya.” Liebgott gestured with a smile.

His expression shifted to concern when he didn’t see you right away. He started to push through the crowd in hopes of finding you. The guys parted a path for him to see you at the other end of the street, motionless as your eyes finally meet.

Joe, excitement spreading across his face, hurried to you. Your legs fail you, bringing you to the ground on your hands and knees.

“Y/F/N!” Liebgott wailed as he broke into a full-on sprint towards you.

When he reached you, he threw himself to his knees in front of you scooping you into his arms.

“Y/N?? Look at me! Are you hurt?”

He brought his face level with yours, trying to look at you. When you finally look up, he held your head between his strong hands to keep your face straight towards his. Tear streaks stained your filthy cheeks. Puzzled, he tilted his head studying you. He took the sleeve of his uniform and gently wiped your face and with his other hand cradled your head. You bring your hands up and hold his hand that supported your head, leaning into his touch.

He looks you over, trying to find any signs of injury. He looks upon you fervently, affectionately running his thumb across your cheekbone. He’s waiting for you say something, anything to reassure him that you’re ok.

Your tears continue to flow, but you’re smiling.

Liebgott chuckled from confusion.

“Y/N, why the hell are you crying?” He asked you.

After a long pause, and a much-needed exhale after holding your breath for so long, you say,

“I thought I’d never see you again...”

He was pleasantly shocked by your response, not to mention absolutely elated. His smug grin surfaced as he gently helped you to your feet.

His hands gripped your shoulders keeping you stable while your hands rested on his chest. He tenderly shifted your head side to side by your chin to examine your face for any scratches or abrasions...or he wanted an excuse to look at you which was likely the case.

“Don’t worry, I ain’t goin’ nowhere.” He stated with that unmistakable confidence.

He smiled at you then winked, sending you into a flutter of euphoria.

“So, you missed me, huh?” He added.

You punch him in the shoulder then hug eachother like you’re not right in the middle of a gruesome invasion of Europe.

But you had missed him. You were afraid for him...terrified. Joe had an unshakable presence of rage that drove him straight to the center of danger with no regard for his own well-being. His love language was sarcasm and any form of banter, so if he ever did feel fear, it was never terribly noticeable.

It didn’t matter right now, though. You finally found Joe. Nothing or nobody else was more important.

~~~~~~~

Winters was told to select some men and lead an assault on a French estate called Brécourt, about 300 yards from where you all were rallied. The Germans have installed four 88mm antitank cannons that were firing directly on Utah Beach and inflicting heavy casualties. Easy Company’s objective was to flank the Germans from behind and demobilize them so American soldiers had safe passage onto the beachhead.

Only having 13 Easy Company members accounted for, this left them having to borrow men from other companies that they picked up on the way to the town after the drop.

Winters addressed the 13 troops that were selected to go on this next mission. This included Liebgott and yourself.

“The 88s we’ve been hearing have been spotted in a field down the road a ways. Major Strayer wants us to take them out.”

He had a sheet of blank paper with a map in the center of the circle of soldiers.

“There are two guns that we know of firing on Utah Beach.” Winters drew x’s on the paper signifying where they were located then continued.

“Plan on a third and fourth here and here.” He drew two more x’s before proceeding.

“The Germans are in the trenches with access to the entire battery. With machine gun covering the rear. We’ll establish a base of fire and move under it hard and fast with two squads of three.”

“How many Krauts they think we’re facing?” Guarnere interrupted.

Winters paused.

“No idea.” He responded.

“No idea?” Guarnere retorted while rolling his eyes.

Winters returned to the brief disregarding Guarnere’s passive attitude.

“We’ll take some TNT along with us. Despite the guns. Lipton, your responsibility.”

“Yes, sir.” Lipton replied.

“Liebgott, you’ll take the first machine gun, with Petty A-gunner.” Winters instructed. Liebgott only nodded.

“Plesha, Hendrix, you take over the other. Who does that leave?” Winters asked collectively.

You, Malarkey, Toye, Guarnere, and Compton raise your hands.

“Okay. We’ll be making the main assault. Understood?” Winter added.

You collectively replied “Yes, sir.”

“Alright, let’s pack it up.” Winter ordered.

You all gather outside to prepare your gear. Winters approached you as you crouched organizing your med supplies.

“Y/L/N.”

“Sir?” You say standing quickly, facing Winters.

“I’ll need you more towards the rear, so we have the best chance of maintaining our medical assist in case anyone gets hurt.” Winters ordered.

“But, sir-” You began.

“Remain to the rear.” Winters repeated sternly before you could finish.

You look at him wanting to protest his order, but only sigh reluctantly.

“To the rear.” You confirmed.

You return to prepacking your gear begrudgingly. Liebgott watched you and chuckled.

“What?” You ask him.

He looked over to you.

“You’re cute when you're upset.” He admitted.

Unamused, you decide not to dignify with comment and keep packing your stuff.

~~~~~~~

“MEDIC!!” You hear from a distance after heavy gunfire and explosions unleash relentlessly onto Easy.

You run and duck, racing in the direction of the yelling, weaving and bobbing trying to avoid getting hit by any oncoming enemy fire. You couldn’t hear anything except your own heartbeat as you ran, but managed to find the spot where you were needed.

You jump feet first into the trench, finding Guarnere, Compton, and Lorraine, with ‘Popeye’ Wynn lying on his side crying out in pain.

“I’m sorry, sir!!” Wynn kept yelling.

“Where you hit, Pop?” You shouted.

“Right in the ass!” He yelped.

Compton, Guarnere, and Lorraine laid suppressive fire while you worked on Wynn.

“Lay on your stomach, Pop, I need to see!” You direct him helping turn over onto his front.

You cut through the hole on the seat Wynn’s pants where the bullet made contact, exposing the wound.

“Goddam it, I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to fuck up!” Wynn called out to Compton.

“Pop, just stay still! You’re gonna be fine, buddy.” You tell him as you applied pressure to his wound reaching for your clot powder and bandages.

You project your voice to Wynn, but it’s calm and steady so not to alarm him. The slightest hint of terror in your voice only makes things worse for the wounded was something Doc Roe told you.

“You think you can make it back yourself?” Compton shouted out to you and Wynn.

You both look up at him.

“I think so, sir!” Wynn responded.

“I’m not goin’ anywhere, sir.” You declared.

Corporal Y/L/N, you’re going with Pop to make sure he gets back!” Compton ordered.

“With all due respect, sir, I’m needed here. I’m staying!” You argued as you helped Wynn to his feet to shove him out of the trench.

Compton grunted in frustration.

“He wasn’t asking ya, he was tellin’ ya.” Guarnere snapped at you.

“And I wasn’t talkin’ to you, Guarnere! You just hold the line while I do my job!” You returned with ice in your voice. You carefully crawl out of the trench to go find anyone else that might need your help.

Guarnere scoffed to himself amused by your response.

~~~~~~~

Easy Company along with Spiers’ Dog Company claimed victory at Brécourt, securing the beachhead.

As the two units walked back to the assembly point back at the town, Liebgott caught up with you.

“Hey, Y/N, you alright?” He asked right away. He looked you over and noticed blood stains on your uniform.

You sense his panic, “Don’t worry, it’s not mine. I’m fine, Joe.” You reassure.

He exhaled then gave your shoulder a gentle squeeze, smiling at you when you looked at him.

“Good.” He replied. “I’ll find you later, Gams.” He added with a wink, then rushed off ahead.

You laugh to yourself, a fuzzy feeling rising within you that only Joe could produce after such a horrific situation.

~~~~~~~

That night was spent recovering. The following day orders were given to maneuver to take Carentan where German soldiers were being sheltered. Carentan was the main crossroad between Cotentin and Calvados where the ally force’s tanks needed passage to attack the main objective, Cherbourg.

“Listen up!” LT Welsh shouted. “It'll be dark soon. I want light and noise discipline from here on. No talking, no smoking. And no playing grab-fanny with the man in front of you, Luz. We're taking Carentan. It's the only place where armor from Omaha and Utah Beach can link up and head inland. Until we take Carentan, they're stuck on the sand. General Taylor's sending the whole division.”

Some of the men begin to grumble under their breath. Everyone started to stir to gather their gear to begin the journey to Carentan.

Walking in a file formation on each side of the road to Carentan, Liebgott makes sure to keep you in his peripherals. You’re behind Toye, who’s talking to Guarnere in front of him.

“Heard Y/L/N gave you the business back at Brécourt, Bill.” Toye teased him.

“Ah shit, Toye, why?” You whispered to him, not thrilled about the instigation.

Guarnere was unusually quiet at first. Probably thinking of something snarky to say about you.

“She sure did, Joe.” He finally responded almost warmly.

Guarnere looked back at you giving you a small smirk before he added, “Ya did good out there, kid.” He complimented you.

You were surprised to say the least. You’ve earned Guarnere’s respect because you didn’t allow his indifference towards you to break you during combat. Not only did you not allow him to shake you, but you also dished some attitude in return, reminding him to keep his focus on the battle. Things were going to be different between you and ‘Wild Bill’ Guarnere. ~~~~~~~

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