#bucking bull

[gremlinboykevin]

How to correctly hold your zombie gremlin!

And

How to NOT hold your zombie gremlin !!!

[bekoobove]

Fazbear Fears #20: The Bucking Bull

 

9 Years Ago

 Jared Montgomery knew his eleventh birthday party would be great. His parents were throwing him a party at Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza- in his eyes, they might as well have booked a venue in heaven. He loved the place- though only this location.

 That may sound strange to say, but it was true. In all honesty he had no interest in the dancing bears, bunnies, birds, or any other weird robots these restaurants had. He found them creepy, uncanny. The food wasn’t the draw, either- Jared had always felt the pizza was only marginally more tasty than the box it came in. No, what made him love Freddy Fazbear’s was the arcade. And what made this location his favorite were his high scores.

 The letters JRD could be seen flashing in the high scores on every cabinet’s screen. Combat Kids, Zany Sword, Mangle’s Quest- you name it, he’d mastered them all.

 Well, almost all…

 As soon as he passed through the doors, he heard it. The cheesy western music and squeaking mechanical parts.

 Jared caught sight of the large platform. The outside was lined with a fence, each corner topped with a plastic cattle skull. The platform itself was surrounded by inflatable cactuses and encouraging-looking cutouts of the Fazbear gang dressed like cowboys. And, at the platform’s center, bounding back and forth, was Jared’s nemesis: The Bucking Bull.

 It was a fearsome foe. Two quarters was all it took to get it moving, but Jared had easily sunk forty dollars into trying to get the high score. Obviously most bucking rides like this didn’t have any such thing, but this one was different. There was a sensor in the saddle that tracked how long you could stay on, which transmitted the times to a screen hanging above the game. Jared was on the board- number four- which would be enough for most people, but not him.

 But today, Jared had a good feeling. The high score was 2 minutes and 49 seconds, which he ultimately felt he could beat. And that high score would be the sweetest present of all.

 He warmed up with a few rounds of Air Hockey with some of his friends- Sally, Benjamin, and Jacob. The first two were no problem, but Jacob presented a challenge. Jared didn’t mind- he liked a challenge (It helped that he won, best two out of three). Jacob had always been the best at these games of his friends, JCB usually lingering just below JRD.

 It was Jacob who stood by his side as he approached the Bucking Bull. Jared glared at it. Its empty plastic eyes glared back, as a quick burst of steam shot out its nostrils. It felt like a Mexican standoff, with Jared almost expecting a tumbleweed to roll past. Still, the true confrontation wouldn’t begin until he mounted the ride.

 He slid the quarters into the slot, causing the gate inside to open up. An employee standing at a small booth gestured him inside.

 “Good luck.” Jacob said, smacking him on the back.

 “Thanks, but not needed.” Jared smirked. He climbed up to the platform. “This is the last time, you stupid bull.” He muttered under his breath.

 He climbed on and gave a thumbs up to the employee. They flipped a switch on their booth, and the rodeo began.

 The next few minutes were a blur- literally. Try as he might, Jared couldn’t make out any faces cheering him on, although there were many. The western music blared louder than ever, and there was a voice on the soundtrack yelling YEE-HAW! Still, he kept a firm grip on the bull, not letting up for even a moment.

 Eventually, though, he faltered, and was flung from the bull. He braced himself as he fell- less for the platform, and more for fear of failure

 Jared crashed into the inflatable platform, but didn’t either bother trying to get up. He simply listened.

 There was silence for a moment. Then, from the screen, he heard it.

 “2 MINUTES AND 58 SECONDS. WE HAVE A NEW HIGH SCORE!”

 Jared cheered, and jumped over the fence. His friends surrounded him, just as excited, congratulating him. There wasn’t any other fanfare, but Jared hardly cared. “I’m king of the arcade!” He yelled victoriously.

 The employee winced at his sudden scream. “Yeah, great job, kid.” They said unenthusiastically, rubbing their temples in irritation. “Ok, do any of you other guys want to go?”

 “Ooh, me!” Jacob crowed.

 “You sure?” Jared asked. “I’ve seen you on the bull before, you’re not that good.”

 “Why do you care? Scared I'll snatch your high score from under your nose?”

 Jared chuckled. “Just trying to save you some quarters, buddy. But have at it.”

 And Jacob did, depositing his quarters and boarding the bull. The ride began, and Jared prepared for him to be thrown off.

 He wasn’t though, which impressed Jared- an attempt longer than five seconds for Jacob was rare. Even more seconds rushed by, until Jacob had beaten his personal record of 31 seconds.

 Jared clapped. “Great job, dude! Best you’ve ever done.” He braced again, certain his friend wouldn’t last much longer. But to his shock which increased by the moment, he did. Jared would never be able to figure out what caused it- encouragement by seeing Jared’s high score ride, some elaborate rodeo training he’d undergone since his last try, or just some kind of luck. What mattered was that at this moment, Jacob was entering the top ten, and an unpleasant thought crossed Jared’s mind: “Am I gonna lose the high score?”

 It was ridiculous. The previous high score had lasted for years, surely his wouldn’t be conquered within five minutes. And yet, no matter how quickly the bull spun and bounced, Jacob’s hands clamped onto it.

 Jared had counted in his head. Only twenty seconds left and his high score would be gone.

 He knew it was stupid. He’d still have second place, and he was undefeated on every other machine in this building; why care so much about this one?

 Seventeen seconds.

 It’s just…this was one of the only things he was good at. Jared wasn’t particularly athletic, or intelligent, or innovative- his teachers would often tell him as much. If he couldn’t be the best at this, then what was he?

 Twelve seconds.

 It didn’t matter what he thought or whether it mattered, it was over. Jared stumbled backwards…and realized he was right next to the control panel. He could make out a small lever set to HARD. A few inches above it was another setting. It read NIGHTMARE.

 The ride could be made harder.

 Ten seconds.

 If Jared had thought about it even a moment longer, he would have realized how utterly stupid this was. There was an employee right there- even if he did the deed, he would be caught and get into major trouble. Definitely not worth it in the grand scheme of things. But Jared didn't have that moment. Instead, with one swift movement, he grabbed the lever and yanked it upwards.

 Seven seconds.

 The employee obviously noticed his movement, but rather than anger, horror grew on their face. Jared could hear the bull spinning faster, with scraping and squeaking from its machinery. He heard Jacob yell, startled and a little afraid.

 Four seconds.

 Jacred saw one last thing before his life changed forever. A small piece of duct tape stuck next to the NIGHTMARE setting, with a short note in permanent marker- POWER OUTPUT UNSTABLE AT THIS LEVEL- OFF LIMITS UNTIL REPAIRS.

 Two seconds.

 There was a scream, and for just a moment, Jared thought maybe everything would be ok. Surely Jacob had merely been thrown off, right?

 Jared turned to see he had, but things would hardly be ok.

 The sheer power of the bull’s buck had sent Jacob soaring, above the platform, over the fence, through the arcade-

 Until he slammed skull first into a concrete pillar nearby. There was a nightmarish cracking sound, and Jacob’s body fell to the ground, limp.

 “Jacob!” Jared screamed. He ran over to the pillar, as everyone else stared on in stunned silence.

 Jacob’s hair was matted with blood, which dribbled out of his head. Jared swore he could see cracked chunks of bone peeking through the hair as well. His skull had been seriously fractured by the impact, and Jared knew there was no hope.

 His friends tried to deny it, but Jared had always been a bit more shrewd than them. He was old enough to understand that there were some things doctors couldn’t heal you from, and this was one of those things. Jacob was declared dead as soon as EMTs arrived on the scene.

 Dead.

 Jacob was dead.

 And Jared had killed them.

 That simple fact whipped into a storm of conflict and controversy. How should he be charged? What were his intentions when he messed with the controls? There was no denying he had, the employee had caught him in the act, but his parents tried. “Our son wouldn’t do this, he’s a good boy!”, they would protest to anyone who reasoned with them. That pithy line was practically etched into his brain, as well as requests for testimony in his favor, advice for a lawsuit over the Bucking Bull’s faulty machinery, anything to shift the blame from their good boy.

 And there Jared sat, huddled up in the eye of the storm. While the adults screamed and screamed, he was left alone with the fact that Jacob was gone because of him. It hadn’t been intentional, but did that even make a difference?

 Eventually his family decided to move. They told anyone who listened they weren’t running from the accusations, they merely worried for Jared and his future. Anyone who asked Jared how he felt was met with silence and averted eyes.

 Two months after his birthday, Jared’s family left their town, Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza, and the Bucking Bull behind.

 But it wasn’t finished with him yet.

8 Years Ago

 His birthday had been empty.

 Not of fun, or of gifts, or of friends. No, of joy.

 Jared’s mind had finally begun to sift through his grief and guilt, and comprehend that if nothing else, feeling this broken and wrong wouldn’t bring Jacob back. He had emerged from his shell, and begun reaching out to people again. His trauma had been present, but buried, muffled.

 Now, though, it was as if every cry of “Happy Birthday” sought to uncover the self-hate and agonizing regret that dwelled below. Every smiling face he saw brought horrible thoughts to his mind: “How am I going to kill you? What selfish mistake will I make to ruin everything?”

 Eventually it was too much for him. He excused himself and locked himself in his bedroom. His parents tried to coax him out with promises of presents and cakes, but he couldn’t even begin to care about such things. He simply laid quietly on his bed, hoping they’d leave. Soon enough they did, and he drifted off into the sweet release of sleep.

 But this was not a dreamless slumber.

 Jared opened his eyes and picked himself off the dusty ground. “What…”

 He immediately realized this was a dream, which had never happened to him before. It seemed like a lucid dream. After he’d first heard the term a few years ago, he’d spent weeks attempting to trigger one, not that he had any idea how to do that.

 Still, this didn’t even feel like that. The environment felt- for lack of a better term- real. His eyes even watered a bit at the dust he’d kicked up while he moved. Jared tried to get a bearing of his surroundings.

 He was in a small, fenced-in square. A firm wooden fence lined it, and beyond there was nothing but unnerving, endless void. There was nothing left to see.

 Then, a snarl from the middle of the ring. And yes, Jared was certain this was a ring.

 Sure enough, a cloud of dust was being kicked up at the center by the Bucking Bull. This wasn’t the first time this reminder of his past had stampeded through his dreams, but he could tell it had always just been flotsam, drifting in and out, like anything else your mind occupied itself with during the day. But this dream felt like it had been made for the Bull. Not only that, the Bull was not right. The plastic form itself wasn’t the disturbing part- it was the same bucking ride which had gobbled Jared’s quarters for months, though its eyes were now empty sockets. What scared him were the additions- the arms and legs it used to stamp the ground even now. And yes, that was the right term- arms and legs. They were smaller than the Bull, in a way that would be comical under different circumstances, and clearly belonged to a child.

 To Jacob.

 The boy and Bull had fused into one horrifying hybrid of man and machine. A hybrid that came charging at Jared.

 So enraptured by the monstrosity, Jared didn’t even move. The Bull bucked upwards, and its horns (had they always been so long and pointy?) impaled Jared.

 Jared screamed. The pain was real- more real than any dream had any right to be. He could feel fractured bone shifting in his torso, and he struggled to breathe. Warm blood cascaded out, forming a dark stain on his shirt.

 The creature huffed, in a way that indicated grim satisfaction. It braced its hands against his body and pulled its horns out. Jared collapsed to the ground.

 At least, he would have. As he fell, he suddenly awoke in a cold sweat. Jared was shell-shocked. “What- what was that?” he whispered to himself. What chilled him most of all was that it felt like he had woken just as his dream-self died. As if he had only been allowed to wake because that thing had finished with him.

 That thing…

 “Jacob. That was you.” Jared didn’t know if Jacob was still present, but he spoke anyway. It was insane to say, but it was true- some figment of Jacob had returned to torment him.

 Jared didn’t sleep the rest of the night. He wouldn’t sleep for many more nights.

5 Years Ago

 It was like tradition at this point.

 Eventually Jared returned to some sense of normalcy after that first nightmare. But it wouldn’t be the last. His following birthday bore the same fruit- the same horrid dream, down to the smallest detail and up to the grisly end. He attempted to stay awake the whole night the year after, but failed (Jared was unsure if it was supernatural interference or if he just wasn’t good at staying up that long). Three made a pattern, and Jared accepted his fate- annual torment that he honestly felt he deserved.

 In a way it was almost relieving. This birthday was the best one he’d had since his mistake, because he no longer felt the guilty need to torture himself- someone else was doing it for him. And today had truly been great- his parents, who had been quite distant lately, treated him and his friends to dinner at a great Mexican place in town. He’d gotten some great gifts, including flying lessons from his parents (He’d always wanted to be a pilot). Overall, it had been one of the best days he’d had in years, and made him reluctant to climb into bed. He knew this wouldn’t be a pleasant sleep, but what choice did he have?

 After a restless hour, bracing for what was to come, Jared drifted off. As expected, he found himself in that arena. It was the same as always.

 At least, until the Bull appeared. Jared could never see it happen- it always materialized just out of sight. Still, he heard the huff, and turned. The Bull had changed. Rather than being just as it was with the grotesque additions of its limbs, the abomination before him was constructed of marbled flesh, bone, and muscle. It looked greasy and rotten, and there was a long, needle-toothed mouth along its upper back, from which a deep growl emanated. Its head was covered in several extra eyes, which all glared at Jared accusingly. Even in his dream, he could feel vomit rising in his throat.

 That was nothing compared to what happened when it spoke.

 “JARED.”

“I SAW YOU. YOUR PARTY.”

“YOU WERE LAUGHING. SMILING.

“YOU KNOW YOU DON’T DESERVE THAT.”

 The Bull’s words were a kick in the gut. And yet, Jared felt like it was right. He had always known he didn’t deserve any happiness, but tried to deny it.

“THIS IS WHAT YOU DESERVE. THIS PLACE HERE.”

“YOU WILL DIE, OVER AND OVER AGAIN.”

“YOU WILL PAY FOR YOUR CRIMES.”

“YOUR CARELESSNESS.”

“YOUR SELFISHNESS.”

“YOU WILL SUFFER. AND YOUR SUFFERING WILL HAVE NO END.”

 With that, the abomination- a stitched-up, bleeding reminder that Jared wasn’t worthy of joy- charged and gored.

 Jared didn’t even put up a fight.

1 Year Ago

 It had to just be in his head.

 Not the Bull, no. Jared knew very well that that was real. Each year they became more brutal. The pain of his goring wasn’t just familiar- he knew it like he knew the flight controls of a plane, except he had no power to change the course. What was in question was the feeling of agony that occasionally erupted from his torso while he was awake. It was like two red-hot knives were being driven into his chest, puncturing organs and cracking ribs.

 Obviously it was the Bull’s horns. But that had always been confined to his dreams.

 He had made certain to have no plans the day after his birthday: he usually needed the time to recover from the increasingly violent mental assaults. But a particularly vicious spike of pain left him speeding to the hospital, praying they’d have a rational answer for what was wrong with him.

 He eventually was looked over by a woman named Dr Gray. She ran some tests, but still couldn’t find anything wrong- at least, until she had some technicians run an x-ray.

 Jared waited in the examination room for a few minutes, before she reentered looking concerned.

 “Ok, so I got a look at the x-ray in the lab, and I can bring it up here on this screen. Maybe you can explain the…oddity present.”

 Dr Gray grabbed a remote and flicked the screen to display the scan. It showed Jared’s torso, most prominently his ribcage. The bones looked slightly bent and displayed cracks.

 “It appears your ribcage was broken, but not severely. In fact, it looks like it healed more quickly than should be possible. Even stranger, some examination of the fractures gives the impression this injury occurred multiple times.”

 She sighed. “Can you shed some light on this? Even apart from the bizarre nature of your condition, there is no reason it should be causing pain like this.”

 Jared hesitated, before deciding to let a little of the truth slip. “I’ve had this recurring nightmare for years. I’m trapped with a monster, and it always kills me, goring me on its horns right there. It feels so real. Do you think that might have anything to do with it?”

 Dr Gray frowned. “There’s a known phenomena called psychogenic pain, where your psychology and emotions can cause you to imagine pain. It could even result in true physical symptoms, but nothing this severe. And this is severe.

 The damage is building up, and the bones are weaker than they’d otherwise be. I fear if whatever has been happening to you occurs one more time, it could completely fracture your rib cage. This could very well be fatal.”

 She began prescribing an anti-anxiety medication for his dreams, which was hardly a novel experience for Jared. The last word echoed through his mind: FATAL.

 Was this what Jacob had intended the whole time? Not just mental torment for the sake of it, but to slowly wear down his body. Now, he was running out of time.

 Jared didn’t deserve this.

 It was such an absurd thought. He had spent nearly a decade enduring the attacks of the demonic Bull because he felt like it was his punishment. He was a bad person, who had killed a boy. But now, when confronted with death, he wasn’t sure. Did he really deserve everything he had suffered, for what had ultimately been a mistake? Why shouldn’t he be allowed a happy life?

 These questions piling up in his head were a shock to the system. Jared had never even questioned his place. But now, he was tired of being pushed around, and he was angry that Jacob would do this to him. Yes, as bizarre as it sounded, Jacob had crossed a line in the quest for post-mortem vengeance he’d set out on. And he needed to be stopped.

 No matter how long it took.

Now

 “Cutting it close, are we?” Jared sighed as he pulled into the abandoned parking lot.

 He had begun his mission of searching for the Bull mere days after his troubling diagnosis. Jared had assumed it was still located in his hometown pizzeria, which had closed shortly after Jacob’s death. Alas, it wasn’t so simple. Jared was somewhat disgusted to learn the company had simply relocated the best animatronics and attractions to other restaurants, which included the Bucking Bull.

 From there the ride had been pawned off from place to place. Over one six-month period, it had gone from a junkyard to a local sports bar to a Fazbear location to an inflatable-attraction renter. From what Jared could learn, the ride no longer functioned well, and carried a rotting smell no matter how much it was washed, thus no one holding onto it long after it was purchased. But Jared had finally pinned it down. The most recent Freddy Fazbear’s it had been installed in had quickly folded, and no one had touched its contents since.

 And here he was. Jared stepped out of his pickup truck, a crowbar in one hand and a holstered pistol at his side. “One way or another, it ends tonight.”

 The doors were boarded up, but he easily pried them off. He walked inside the building, scanning for the machine.

 The info Jared had received was accurate. The restaurant hadn’t even been touched- rows of arcade games without any gaps, and the three animatronics powered down on the main stage. If he didn’t know any better, he’d assume it was just closed for the night.

 The Bull wasn’t in sight, though. It had been purchased extremely recently; perhaps it was still uninstalled, stored in the back?

 Jared spotted a door at the back: STAFF ONLY. “Good place to start, I guess.”

  He swiftly walked across the main room, but paused. Had he just heard a voice, echoing through the empty restaurant?

 No, no. It was in his head.

 But was that enough to say it wasn’t real?

 Jared grasped the doorknob and turned. The door swung open, and there it was.

 The Bucking Bull.

 He hadn’t seen it for a decade in its ordinary state, surely it would be easier to stomach than the flesh beast that haunted his dreams? Nothing but a torso and head molded from shiny black plastic. And yet he almost vomited. It was all coming back- the control panel, the red duct tape with a scrawled warning, the smashed, bloody skull of his best friend.

 Jared stumbled forward, trembling. The platform around the bull had been deflated, leaving nothing but the central motor with trailing wires. It was dead center in the room, surrounded by other animatronic parts- almost like it was a place of honor.

 With all his strength, Jared raised his crowbar. He closed his eyes, and brought it down onto the machine’s plastic head-

 CLANG

 Before Jared even opened his eyes he knew something was wrong. That wasn’t the hollow sound of metal hitting plastic. That was the harsh sound of metal striking metal. However, that observation didn’t prepare him for what he saw.

 Before him stood the Bull- yes, stood. Silently, and faster than Jared thought possible, the Bull had gained legs formed of nearby parts. It had swiftly brought one up to block his blow, and had succeeded.

 Jared couldn’t even process this before the limb reshifted, closing around his crowbar, gripping it tight. It pulled it out of his grasp and threw it against the wall.

 Jared tried to scream, but no sound came out. The Bull approached, lumbering along on its horrible legs of mangled metal. Once it was within a foot of him, it spoke.

“JARED.”

“THANK YOU FOR COMING.”

“BUT PLEASE. CEASE THIS NONSENSE.”

 Jared wasn’t sure if it read his mind or the confused expression on his face, because it clarified.

“THESE DELUSIONS THAT THIS IS A FIGHT YOU SHOULD WIN.”

“YOU DESERVE TO DIE. I THOUGHT YOU HAD FINALLY UNDERSTOOD WHEN YOU CAME.”

“THAT OUR BOUTS WITHIN YOUR HEAD WERE AN INVITATION. YOUR MOUNTING INJURIES MY WAY OF LIGHTING A FIRE UNDER YOU.”

“YOU WERE MEANT TO COME READY TO DIE. YOUR FINAL BREATH BEGETTING LONG OVERDUE JUSTICE.”

“PERHAPS NOW YOU UNDERSTAND THAT?”

 Jared did. He stopped his slow retreat. He lowered his arms from their defensive pose. And he prepared to die.

 The Bull’s leg reshaped again, into a long, oily spike of gears and pistons. It positioned it against Jared’s chest- one slight movement would drive it through his heart.

 “I’m sorry, Jacob.” Jared said, as a tear rolled down his cheek. He knew it would earn him no mercy from the Bull, and he hardly felt he deserved any, but he just felt the need to say it.

 And then, a voice.

 “Jared, please! Run!”

 Jacob.

 Jared gasped, and somewhat awoke from his trance. He grabbed the Bull’s limb and twisted it away from himself. The Bull was clearly thrown off guard, and stumbled backwards. This gave Jared the chance to run.

 He burst out of the backroom and into the main showroom. He ducked behind an arcade machine and tried to be as quiet as possible.

 The backroom door slammed open, and Jared could hear the lumbering Bull, creaking on its amalgamated limbs.

 As the monster moved, Jared tried to concentrate. “Jacob?” he thought as strongly as he could, hoping his friend would be able to hear.

 “Hey, Jared.”

 Suddenly, the world around Jared collapsed, and he resurfaced in the ring. The same place that had been home to so many deaths. But it felt different, more peaceful in a weird way.

 And standing there was Jacob- a short brown-haired kid in a striped shirt, smiling awkwardly. There were no remnants on his body of his fatal injury.

 Jared stared, unsure of what to say. Eventually he forced himself to speak. “Uh, hey. Why’d you tell me to run?”

 Jacob stared back, confused. “Because you were just standing there even though you were about to be stabbed?”

 “But isn’t that what you wanted? Weren’t you just telling me about how I deserved to die?”

 Jacob sighed. “Jared, that wasn’t me. I’m not the Bucking Bull.”

 “What?!” Jared asked incredulously. “Then why are you here?”

 “Ok, maybe I sort of am. Ever since…the accident, when I died, I’ve possessed the Bull. I’m not sure why, it just sort of happened. But I’m not the one that tormented you in your dreams and is trying to kill you now.”

 “Who is?”

 “You.”

 There was a completely deafening silence. “No.” Jared muttered. “That’s ridiculous. I’m not trying to kill myself.”

 “In some subconscious way, you are. I’m not an expert on how this works, but from my time as a spirit, I’ve learned that the emotions of the living and the dead are powerful. They can animate nonliving objects, or hurt people. And one of the most powerful emotions is guilt.”

 “So you’re saying because I felt bad for killing you this thing is gonna kill me? I haven't even been close to it since what happened.”

 “First off, my theory is that since you knew the Bull so well, and it was so directly connected to your guilt, it caused a connection that helped your emotions be transferred no matter how far away you got. And secondly, stop saying you killed me.”

 “What do you want me to say?!” Jared cried. His knees trembled, and he fell to the dusty ground. “I messed with the controls of a ride you were on, all because I wanted to keep a stupid high score! You’d be alive today if not for me. Maybe the Bull- maybe I- was right all along. I don’t deserve to live.”

 Jared felt a hand on his shoulder. “You’re wrong.” Jacob said. “You made a dumb mistake. You were eleven. I’m glad you’re willing to accept responsibility, but you can’t let your guilt tear you apart.”

 Jared wiped his eyes. “Why are you even comforting me? Why is this your problem?”

 Jacob grinned. “Honestly? I think this is why I stayed after I died. You’re my friend. I wanted to help you.”

 Suddenly, the arena was consumed with unimaginably bright light. “Guess that’s my cue.” Jacob said as the white consumed him. “Good luck, Jared. See you again, someday.”

 When the light faded, Jared could see the dusty arena- his place of self-torment- was gone.

 And then Jared awoke. He was back in the pizzeria, and the Bull was still raging.

 Quietly, with no urgency, Jared climbed to his feet and walked out from behind the arcade machine.

 The Bull caught him out of the corner of its eye. It snarled, and stamped the ground, preparing to charge.

 “Listen.” Jared began. “I know what you are now. You’re me.”

 The Bull barely reacted.

 “I made a mistake. And because of that, Jacob died. For so long, I’ve been unable to forgive myself.”

YOU DON’T DESERVE FORGIVENESS.

 “I’m not denying what I did. But torturing myself like this won’t bring Jacob back. He’s forgiven me; maybe I should too.”

JUSTICE MUST BE SERVED.

 “You are kind of right. I left town so quickly, it didn’t give me the chance to do some things. Apologize to Jacob’s family, and his friends…I should do that.” Jared stared the beast down, determined. “But I won’t accept you killing me. I’m done being haunted by a past I can’t change.”

 There was silence. It was as if the Bull was, for the first time, struggling to condemn him.

I JUST WANT PEACE. FOR THIS NIGHTMARE WE BEGAN TO END.

 “Then end it.”

 The Bull was still. Then, it crumbled. The plastic body hit the ground with a THUD, and the metal joints and limbs it had used clattered apart.

 The Bull was gone.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 Jared slid into his car, tossing his crowbar into the back seat. He pulled out of the parking lot, and eventually made it onto the highway.

 The sun peered over the horizon, coloring the distance pink and red. The rolled-down windows ushered a calming, cool breeze into the vehicle. The world was alive and hopeful, and for the first time in almost a decade Jared felt the same.

 “Thank you, Jacob.” he said quietly, once again certain there would be no answer.

 He continued his drive, making sure to enjoy the dawn as he went.

[pbrsource]

RIP Chicken on a Chain

[califarmer831]

Bullet the Bull

[rocklnds]

it's all fun and games until the cowboy is scared of a little kitty cat [OUTER RANGE SEASON TWO ✵ EPISODE ONE]

[moodbroads]

oh- cervidae!!? XDD

but oh... cervidae.. <3

[balladofthe101st]

Buck Compton came back to see the Company to let us know that he was alright. He became a prosecutor in Los Angeles. He convicted Sirhan Sirhan in the murder of Robert Kennedy, and was later appointed to the California Court of Appeals. 

David Webster became a writer for the Saturday Evening Post and Wall Street Journal, and later wrote and book about sharks. In 1961, he went out on the ocean alone, and was never seen again.

Johnny Martin would return to his job at the railroad and then start his own construction company. He splits his time between Arizona and a place in Montana.

George Luz became a handyman in Providence, Rhode Island. As a testament to his character, sixteen hundred people attended his funeral in 1998.

Doc Roe died in Louisiana in 1998. He’d been a construction contractor.

Frank Perconte returned to Chicago and worked a postal route as a mailman.

Joe Liebgott returned to San Francisco and drove his cab.

Bull Randleman was one of the best soldiers I ever had. He went into the earth moving business in Arkansas. He’s still there.

Alton More returned to Wyoming with a unique souvenir: Hitler’s personal photo albums. He was killed in a car accident in 1958.

Floyd Talbert we all lost touch with in civilian life, until he showed up at a reunion just before his death in 1981.

Carwood Lipton became a glass making executive in charge of factories all over the world. He has a nice life in North Carolina.

Harry Welsh – he married Kitty Grogan. Became an administrator for the Wilkes Barre, Pennsylvania school system.

Ronald Speirs stayed in the Army, served in Korea. In 1958, returned to Germany as Governor of Spandau Prison. He retired a Lieutenant Colonel.

Lewis Nixon had some tough times after the war. He was divorced a couple of times. Then in 1956, he married a woman named Grace and everything came together for him. He spent the rest of his life with her, travelling the world. My friend Lew died in 1995.

I took up his job offer and was a personnel manager at the Nixon Nitration Works, until I was called back into service in 1950 to train officers and rangers. I chose not to go to Korea. I’d had enough of war. I stayed around Hershey, Pennsylvania, finally finding a little farm. A little peaceful corner of the world, where I still live today. And there is not a day that goes by that I do not think of the men I served with who never got to enjoy the world without war.

[iceiceicecold]

What Your Favorite Band of Brothers character says about you (revamped and based on personal experiences)

Winters- You’re either a pretty level headed person or your life is in complete shambles and you find comfort in characters that know how to handle stress.

Nixon- You love a good self destructive character and more than likely see yourself in them. Also, how is your undiagnosed mental illness treating u lately?

Lipton- You just want to be held and cared for so bad it’s not even funny anymore.

Speirs- You most DEFINITELY read wattpad stories as a kid. The mafia kind. You’re also unnecessarily horny on the internet and probably say he’s “Lana-coded.”

Roe- You love a good tragic and tortured character, I’ll give you that. You also listen to boygenius and love religious imagery.

Babe- I’m gonna take a wild guess and say you’re on some type of lgbt or autism spectrum.

Liebgott- You have a really weird self-confidence complex and read a LOT of enemies to lovers. I’m lowkey scared of you even though you’ve probably never hit anyone in your life.

Webster- You’re an artist at heart and view the world in a way that might set you apart from your peers. You can never and will never tell if that’s a good or a bad thing. Also you call grown men “babygirl.”

Guarnere- You have TERRIBLE taste in men and can never tell the difference between being mean or flirting.

Toye- Ditto ^ but also may I add you probably have a thing for people in uniform.

Buck- You are a very simple person. You like everything to just be kind of normal and calm all of the time. Sometimes you dip your toes in the water, but it’s more of a once a year kind of thing. Your favorite superhero as a kid was Captain America.

Luz- You are just cool. Very Ferris Beuller, Bill and Ted, Matthew Lillard kind of cool. You’re also probably transmasc or into guys to some degree.

Shifty- You’re either one of those “omg smol bean” people or you just love a good ray of sunshine kind of character. Your favorite pony as a kid was probably Fluttershy.

Malarkey- I’m so deeply upset just looking into your eyes dawg you need to take a nap and book a therapy session. Not a single one of you guys is completely and totally stable.

Renee- You so desperately wanted this show to pass the bechdel test and wished more women were included in the production. You’re also into women.

Perconte- You’re either really cool or you’re really annoying. No inbetween.

Bull- You really liked the SNL “Big Boy” skit with SZA

Muck- You want to be the funny friend so bad and you’re still not sure if you’ve earned that title yet. Mad respect though bc I know ur ass has seen supernatural in full. More than once.

Welsh, Penkala, Spina, Talbert, Grant, Martin, Penkala, Hoobler, Skinny- Either you’re lying to be different or you genuinely love a good underrated background character.

Blithe- Mm you’re lying lol

Sobel- Hey, girl! What the fuck!

[ithinkabouttzu]

Hey Mac! I was wondering for an ask if you could do where the BoB men would take someone on a first date? Thank you!

Where Easy co. would take you on a first date!

a/n: Of course sweet friend! I’m sorry this took so long but as you know, life has been 🫠, but i hope you enjoy! ❤️

genre: Romance/comedy

warnings: cursing?(maybe idk i forgot); my brutal honest opinion

description: Where the men of easy company would take you for a first date and why!

taglist: @executethyself35 @linhkhanhcps @1waveshortofashipwreck @grumpy-liebgott @barbeygirl @samwinchesterslostshoe @ronsenthal @sweetxvanixlla @mstiemountainhop @imaginethatneathuh @goodluckbabeheffron @resting-distressed-face @bossboudicca (If you want to be on this list, let me know!! :))

BoB masterlist

Dick Winters: He's a simple man, might I add also a very romantic man. I think he would go for a classic candlelight dinner. Probably to some fancy Italian restaurant with amazing alfredo. He would pick you up, or meet you but either way he’s showing up with red roses. During the meal he’d be down for some nice conversation and overall he’s very charming. After dinner he’s paying and tipping the waiter generously.

Lewis Nixon: A sophisticated man like himself who occasionally enjoys history is definitely taking you to a museum for your first date. Thankfully he would pay for the both of you. I think it would go pretty well overall. Only somewhat bad thing about the whole date is the fact that he would talk so much about himself and interrupt. I don’t think he would do it on purpose, he really just loves talking any chance he gets lmao.

Carwood Lipton: He’s probably going to take you out to eat for your first date. Instead of a dinner date though, I see him taking you to a really cute cafe for brunch or something like that. He would be so polite the entire time, using his manners and being attentive to you. He’s kind of the opposite of Nix, instead of talking about himself, he can’t stop asking you questions and getting to know you more. “I didn’t know if you were allergic so I decided not to get you some, but I would love to give you a bouquet next time we meet.

Joe Toye: I feel like he’d be the type of guy to invite you to a bar on the first date. Not exactly like a bar but a nice seclusive brewery that isn't super overwhelming to get to, so I guess a pub? He's a fan of getting a couple drinks, relaxing, and talking about whatever is going on at the moment. He’s paying for all the drinks you get. Did I also mention that he’s so damn charismatic during the entire time? Afterward he would be more than welcome to walking or driving you home.

Joe Liebgott: This hottie would probably try to pick a nice dinner restaurant to eat at for your first date but then settle for something a bit more simple, like an ice cream date. You guys could sit, relax, and chit chat while enjoying a nice scoop of goodness (Sounds like an amazing date tbh.) He would of course pay for your ice cream and even take you out to another cool place afterwards (aka his room) if the date goes well.

Bill Guarnere: I feel like he’d definitely be the one to take you out to a nightclub on the first date. He’s all about having fun, and having fun with you, so why not go out and dance while getting to know eachother better? You definitely have to stop him a couple times for trying to grab your ass while dancing. You guys would have good conversation and fun and he’d definitely ask you to come to his place after.

George Luz: George would totally take you to an arcade on your first date together. I feel like that perfectly gives off his vibe. Fun and playful while still getting to know each other better. I'm not getting a Dave and Busters kinda vibe but maybe a cute place downtown that has fun games. (notice how you guys would probably be the only two adults there lol) Ughh it would be totally perfect. (George is so “Boyfriend” yk?) He would of course pay and afterwards maybe a cute kiss?

Moe Alley: I think he would invite you somewhere pretty random for a first date. Maybe wine tasting? It's giving middle aged mom but trust me it would be a total vibe lmao. Both of you would probably be a little tipsy afterwards (Ugh imagine flustered and tipsy Moe) and need an uber home. If he really liked the date I feel like he’d be the type to text you non stop until you guys go out for another date lmao.

Eugene Roe: I fear we’re going to find a common theme here. As much as I love Roe, I think he would settle for a nice dinner date like a good bit of the others. He would probably take you out to a steakhouse with really pretty decor. He would be such a cute gentleman the entire time. A little shy at first but he warms up to you as the night goes on. He's one of those guys that doesn’t want to make it awkward so he tries not to keep too quiet. (Also he would tip the waiter a lot which is a plus.)

Bull Randleman: Okay here me out: An at home dinner prepared by him. I know it’s kinda giving serial killer vibes when a man invites you to his house on a first date but lets go ahead and assume that you two already know each other pretty well beforehand. He gives such a homey vibe I feel like it would be out of his character to go out and spend a 100 dollars on a dinner that he “has all at home” But don’t worry because he can cook a pretty good steak.

Floyd Talbert: I think the first date with Tab HAS to be mini golf. The cute banter between you two while he’s slighting winning, the fake pouting once you take the lead. The flirting between holes and casual chit-chat while playing, he’s the perfect guy for a date like this. He’s so charismatic it's kind of hard not to fall for him after the first date. “We should come back here next week, then you might actually be able to beat me then, sweets.”

Skip Muck: To me I feel like he would want to take you somewhere a little seclusive where both of you can just relax and enjoy yourselves without there being crowds of people there. I could definitely see you and him going to a nice comedy show in town that has some nice drinks and food. It would be so fun for a little date night. Maybe afterwards you guys could stop by an ice cream shop and get some dessert?

Don Malarkey: I think like some of the other guys he would take you out to eat for a first date, but instead out to dinner maybe a lunch date at a diner? One with hamburgers and milkshakes that are to die for. There’s definitely a moment within the date where he’s trying to chug his milkshake and ends up getting a horrible brain freeze lol. Afterwards he would take you to a sweet drive-in movie theater to watch a classic movie. (He’s just the sweetest)

Babe Heffron: This first date has to be at an amusement park of some sort. I mean an amusement park kinda sums up his personality as a whole . Fun, wild, and if you’re there just know you’re having a good time 9 times out of 10. He would dare to go on all of the scariest rides with him. (Cue to him screaming at the top of his lungs right next to your ear. ) He definitely gets a stomach ache from eating all the junk at the park. By the end of the date he's making you take super cute pics in a photobooth

Shifty Powers: I’m really thinking that he would love to take you on a super duper cute picnic! He would set up a picnic table at the park and you guys could hangout there once the weather is nice during the day. He’s such a gentleman the entire time, it's certain that you guys are gonna have an amazing date together. Also his attempt at making a bunch of homemade foods is actually really good, I have a feeling he’s secretly an amazing cook!

Frank Perconte: He’s just gotta take you to a drive-in movie. He knows it won’t be too awkward because the movie will be playing, and if you guys run out of things to talk about then you guys could just focus on the movie. (Major overthinker here) he’s definitely one of those guys who sit there and stare at you intensely while you watch the movie and you can just feel his gaze on you lmao. “I had a fun time tonight, maybe we can go get dinner sometime again next week?”

Ronald Speirs: Again, (like a lot of the other guys) I'm sensing that he would take you on an amazing dinner date. He would probably take you to one of those fancy hibachi restaurants that make volcanoes out of onions and whatnot. I think he would be such a charming person you can’t tell if he’s going to be the love of your life or make you wish you were never born. He’s the type to pull up to the date with one singular rose to impress you lmao.

Johnny Martin: This old head is taking you bowling. (arguably one of the worst date options in my opinion) It’s a little awkward at first, just because the walking back from it being your turn and seeing him staring at you is so funny lmao. Also i can’t forget to mention the fact that he’s oddly super good at bowling?? I mean this man is practically getting a strike every time. “Maybe we should play again sometime, unless you don’t wanna get beat again.”

Chuck Grant: Okay here me out, this guy loves cars and motorcycles and just driving in general, so what would be better than a first date then go-kart racing?? It would be really fun and not too awkward for a first date. Maybe afterwards he could take you to a burger joint where you guys could get to know each other a bit better. But go-karting would originally take the awkwardness out of the first date.

Skinny Sisk : Axe throwing!! He wants to put your skills to the test (and his) with some fun knife throwing (i can’t tell if imagining him throwing an axe is hot or scary. ) Hopefully with a place that also serves food and drinks as well! The entire time he would try to make you laugh with a bunch of corny jokes of his (you can tell off the bat he’s kind of a terrible flirt lol) Afterwards he’d take you home and maybe finish the night off with a kiss?

David Webster: Knowing this guy, of course he just has to take you to an art gallery. He would sit there and try telling you all about some of the art pieces up for show. And after he would take you somewhere that has some really good tasting wine. I think the date would be very lax but also interesting. The more you talk to him all you can think is, “What else has this guy been through?” (I think he’s the type to trauma dump on the first date but can’t hate bc relatable tbh)

Buck Compton: I’m not trying to stereotype but I REALLY would want him to take you to a baseball game for a first date. He would be so excited to tell you all about the sport, he also desperately tries to catch a ball for you to take home. He probably buys you guys a ton of junk to snack on throughout the game and is so easy to talk to while the game is going on. “I know they lost but, wanna try and go out again sometime next weekend?”

Thank you all for reading so much! If you enjoyed, please help a writer out and like or reblog!! 🩷💖💕💝

[lovelyd0gg]

People who are most likely to pass a test because they studied;

Eugene Roe, Richard Winters, Carwood Lipton, Buck Compton, Shifty Powers, Bull Randleman, David Webster

People who are most likely to pass because of luck;

Lewis Nixon, Joe Toye, Donald Malarkey, Donald Hoobler, Harry Welsh, Ronald Speirs, Wayne Sisk

People who are most likely to fucking fail;

George Luz, Frank Perconte, Skip Muck, Bill Guarnere, Joseph Liebgott.

[redrcs]

Unexpected dismount

Kenilworth Rodeo.

[chronicallytirednixon]

BoB Mini Playlists

[landmodsblog]

Sponsorship vs. Partnership at UB Bucking Company

Sponsorship * Financial Commitment: A flat rate based on the desired level of sponsorship. * Benefits:   * Brand visibility through advertisements and mentions.   * Social media exposure.   * TV/broadcast exposure.   * Networking opportunities.   * Branded collaborations. * Ownership: No ownership stake in the bulls. Partnership * Financial Commitment: Investment in a specific bull or multiple…

[a-gassy-antelope]

Chanting "McDonalds! McDonalds! McDonalds!": Luz, Perconte, Babe, Webster, Muck, Malarkey, Shifty, Welsh

"We have food at home": Winters, Lipton, Roe, Bull, Renee

*Pulls in and orders 1 black coffee*: Speirs, Nix, Liebgott, Martin, Toye, Sobel, Guarnere,

(Gives in and orders everyone a happy meal: Buck)

[hottpinkpenguin]

Easy Company HCs: Coming Home To You After the War

A/n: ahhhh my first time writing for a new fandom always makes me nervous. I'm rewatching BoB for probably the 5th or 6th time and just felt compelled to start writing for some of these incredible characters. please note all writings are based solely on the BoB TV characters and not the actual veterans. Let me know if you want any other BoB HC's or oneshots!

*Please refer to each character for warnings*

Dick Winters Warnings: angsty Major Winters, vague references to PTSD/war trauma

Dick is standing outside on the deck of the ship before the sun is up on the day they’re due into port. He can’t stop looking towards the horizon, waiting for the shoreline to swim into view.

He’s melancholy, thoughtful. Reflects on all he’s seen in the war. He feels different than how he was when he left almost 3 years ago. He thinks about all the men he left behind in Normandy, in Foy, in Bastogne, in Holland, in Hagenau, in Germany. And he looks around at the men whose bodies are coming home, but who lost pieces of themselves in foxholes, in the bombed out streets of Europe, on the beaches. 

He also finds himself wondering what it’s been like for you. He hasn’t thought about that much, hasn’t let himself think on it too hard. He feels ashamed that he never asked much in his letters about how you were. He knows it was to protect himself. If he’d asked, and if you’d been honest and told him about the rationing, the fear, how many of your friends were losing their brothers, husbands, and lovers overseas, the suicides of the men who couldn’t go… well, Dick knew he’d have been distracted. And distracted leaders got men killed. So Dick had sealed off his thoughts on that account. He knew it was the right choice. But now, he doubted. 

So as the ship pulls into port, he’s sad in a broken way. Like the war has finally caught up with him. And he’s terrified, suddenly. How is he going to see you like this? What are you going to see in him when you finally do? More importantly, what are you not going to see? 

He lets all of his men debark before him. Partially because that’s what a good officer does, but partially to try and collect himself. 

You know what to expect. You know Dick Winters isn’t going to really stop fighting the war until he sees every last man in Easy Company off that ship and safely home. So you wait. You’ve waited this long, after all. You can wait another thirty minutes.

When you finally see him in the thinning crowd, you call out his name and break into a beaming smile. He’s here, he’s home. He’s safe. 

As soon as he sees you, the ice in his veins thaws. The sun is warm on his skin, he’s surrounded by clean sea air far from the burnt out husk of Europe, and you’re there. You’re smiling at him. He can’t remember the last time he’s seen something so singularly beautiful.

He strives over to you, taking his cap off as he approaches. His stomach is flipping like a schoolboy and he couldn’t keep the smile from his face if he had an entire firing squad of Krauts in front of him. 

You run the last few dozen paces into his arms. He catches you easily, spinning you around with a long, languid sigh of contentment. Your laughter is like a peeling bell in his ear. 

Richard, how dare you make me wait? you tease him. 

He can’t find any words except to smile at you, looking into your eyes, memorizing your smile, reacquainting himself with the dusting of freckles across your nose, the scent of your shampoo, basking in the feeling of you in his arms. He smiles, then laughs. Your hands frame his face and suddenly he’s kissing you. 

Dick Winters’ mind goes blissfully blank. The harsh edges of all his worries, his responsibilities, the burden of leading a company of men and ordering some of them to their deaths. It’s all soft now. There’s just you. You and that piece of land he’s been dreaming about.

Lewis Nixon Warnings: alcohol abuse, war-time violence, detailed reference to parental suicide

Lewis Nixon came back from the front with an exorbitant amount of contraband, shadows in the back of his eyes, and a terrible drinking habit. You had no idea what to do with any of it.

Two months after his return and you found yourself staring out across a sea of boxes piled haphazardly in the foyer of the summer home Lew had bought you for your six-month wedding anniversary. Your home had never been more crowded, and yet you’d never felt so lonely. 

You wiped the damp tea towel you’d soaked in the kitchen sink against the back of your neck in a vain attempt to keep the heat at bay. 

Lew! you called up to him, although you knew he wouldn’t answer. A brief glance at the clock - 2:15 pm - told you as much. Since coming back, Lew hadn’t woken up before 3:00 pm and you’d yet to share a goodnight kiss with him because he was liable to stay out until sunrise. Doing what, you’d rather not know. 

With a weighty sigh, you decided you might as well pick a box and get started. Otherwise, this ridiculous maze of illegally shipped stolen goods would just go to rot in your foyer. And with your in-laws due in next month to visit your shell of a husband, you’d better try to clean up the mess. 

You chose the box closest to you. It came up to your waist. As you ripped into it, you realized it was incredibly heavy, and you heard the unmistakable tinkling of glass on glass. You sliced the tape open with the boxcutter, marveling at how sharply the instrument cut into the flesh of the tape and cardboard. One of the first few nights after arriving back home, Lew had managed to stay at home and get drunk rather than do so out on the town. Somewhere between bottle three and four of the Chateau Rhone that you’d served at the reception, Lew had started to talk. Once he’d started, he hadn’t seemed willing to stop, as if he had one chance to pour out all the misery and regret and terror he’d accumulated in Europe. You remembered that at one point - one of his more lucid memories, when the slur in his words was light enough for you to understand him - he’d told you that he had seen a whole platoon of men shredded to ribbons by a Kraut tank. He’d recounted in excruciating detail how one of their fingers had landed on him, the blood and sinew drying on his uniform like an adhesive, and he hadn’t noticed it until the next day. You’d never seen anything quite so distasteful or violent in your life, but you imagined that it might be something like watching someone get sliced apart the way your boxcutter glided through tape.

With a shiver, you sheathed the blade and set the boxcutter aside to rip into the contents of the box. Tipping the heavy box sideways a bit, you spooned out the top layer of packing peanuts to reveal a familiar sight. Four corked bottles of wine sat at the top of the box. You stopped, staring down at the wine in the box in disbelief. This was the precious contraband that Lewis had spent thousands on to smuggle out of Europe? Fucking wine?

Your temper flamed to life with a vengeance. You pushed the heavy box over, letting loose a scream of frustration as you did. One of the bottles shattered as the box tipped over, a puddle of red wine staining the white marble floor. Once again, your mind flashed back to the war. Not to Lew’s memories, but your own. To the black-and-white films you’d seen in the theaters, to the newspaper clippings, to the reports that had come out of Germany about the death camps and the killing fields and the brutality of the war, to the letters your brother had written to you before his death at St. Vith. You thought of all the men you’d known who hadn’t come home - your brother Johnny, your childhood neighbor Tim Viens, your cousins Luis and Giovanni, the florist’s son from your hometown, your girl friend Jill’s fiance… 

Your head was spinning and your blood was boiling as you summited the stairs to the darkened upstairs two at a time. When you flung open the door to Lew’s study where he’d taken to sleeping, you were seeing black at the edges of your vision.

Lewis fucking Nixon, you better wake the fuck up or so help me God I will strangle you in your sleep!

The words flew off your tongue faster than you knew what to do with. You’d never had a foul mouth, and you’d certainly never threatened your husband before. Despite his obvious hangover, he snapped to wakefulness faster than you’d expected him to. He regarded you with a wary, tired expression, and you wondered for a half second if he was going to ask you to make good on your threat. 

Saints above woman, what is it? he demanded, reaching around the graveyard of beer and wine bottles strewn about the floor next to him. You noticed a particularly foul smell in the room at the same time you noticed the stain of vomit caked on one of the pillows he’d propped under his head. 

The sight of your husband fumbling around for another drink at 2:30 in the afternoon with vomit caked on his cheek did something to you. You weren’t sure if the sight broke you or if it snapped you into form. Whatever it did, it took the wind out of the hateful words that had been boiling in your gut. You snapped your mouth shut as you became acutely aware that you had nothing left to say to him. You’d said it all already. You’d cried, threatened, screamed, pleaded, reasoned, demanded, and done just about everything you could think of in your power to bring Lewis Nixon back to something resembling sense. You weren’t without feeling - you knew that he wasn’t the only man who hadn’t fully come back from the front. Memories of your father’s glassy, empty-looking eyes flicked in your mind like a silent movie. Your father never really left the trenches, your mother used to say by way of explanation and apology. Some men just can’t come home after a war like that. 

The last memory you have of your father was the sight of him leaned back in his chair, his head bent away from his neck at an unnatural angle, with a ghoulish bloodstain on his chest from the hole his pistol had left where he’d fired it under his chin and up into his skull. You’d found him like that when you were just six years old. At almost twenty six now, you were resolved never to see someone you love waste away like that again. Yet here you were, watching someone who’d once been your brash, fun-loving, hot-headed husband fade away like a ghost.

As Lew braced for what he felt sure was going to be a proper dressing down, you felt yourself deflate like a punctured balloon. Something final and irrevocable had happened in those few moments since you’d come running up the stairs, and you knew deep in your bones that there was no going back. 

I’m leaving. 

It was all you could say. Lewis looked over at you through slitted eyes, stifling down an acidic belch as he tried to figure out your angle. Usually your arguments started with much more heat than this, but he wasn’t sober enough to hear the goodbye in your tone. 

After a few agonizing moments, he grunted at you by way of dismissal. Get me some Vat 69, while you’re out. Vat 69 was the only thing that Lewis Nixon had asked from you since he’d gotten back to the States. 

You didn’t have the heart to answer him, so you just turned on your heel, letting the boxcutter that you hadn’t even realized you’d been gripping like a vice slide out of your hand and land with a thump on the carpet. 

You descended the stairs with a strange buzzing in your head. You wondered if you should pack something, although you realized that all you really wanted to was to get as far away from the time bomb that was Lewis Nixon as fast as you possibly could. You called your mother from the kitchen phone. She didn’t need to hear you say the words to know what had happened. Come on home honey,  she said gently. I’ll make your favorite key lime pie. The kind and simple gesture brought tears to your eyes.

After a few minutes to gather the essentials - your wallet, your pearls, your father’s WWI medals - you thought of one more phone call to make. A parting kindness, you thought, as you sifted through the Rolodex you kept next to the phone until you found the card you wanted. 

The phone rang twice before a voice you knew well picked up. 

Hello? Dick, it’s me, it’s y/n Nixon. Listen, you better come get Lew. He’s… he’s not well. And I’m leaving. 

You didn’t wait for a reply before you clicked the receiver. If there was any saving of Lewis Nixon now, it wouldn’t be by you. 

With one final glance at the house and the sad trove of memories it contained, you closed the door on your past and left, hoping that both you and Lew would find some corner of peace to spend the rest of your days. 

Ronald Speirs Warnings: smut, sweet baby boy Speirs

Ron doesn’t even tell you that he’s coming home. You know it’ll be soon, and you’re waiting for a letter. None come. Years of waiting, years of him faithfully writing, years of dreaming and praying for this day. Now? Radio silence. 

So when this man shows up at your door, his duty bag in one hand and his hat in the other, the first thing you can do is scream at him. 

Ronald fucking Speirs! You didn’t fucking write me, I thought you were dead or lost or just done with me! Why didn’t you tell me! You fucking bastard, you utter fucking bastard! 

You’re hitting him and screaming and tears are everywhere. Ron just smiles. You’re precisely how he remembers you. Better even. 

He wraps you up in a hug, so tight that you can’t move. You’re still struggling, wiggling and sobbing into his shirt, trying to beat your fists against him. 

When you feel him kiss the top of your head, it all just melts. Your knees buckle and instead of beating on him you’re clinging to him. Realization hits you in waves. Ron is home. Those are Ron’s arms around you. Ron’s voice murmuring into your ear. Ron’s breath on your forehead. 

When you finally look up to him - eyes bloodshot, nose running, mascara streaking, cheeks tear stained and red - Ron smiles down at you. My beautiful girl, he says softly before catching your lips in a kiss. Everything breaks loose in that kiss. You practically want to crawl into his mouth. It’s all need: lips devouring each other, hands grabbing and nails dragging, tongues invading each other. Ron moans and you’re done, you’re a mess. 

He knows. He pushes you across the doorway, his hat and duty bag long forgotten on the porch, lifts you up and carries you to the nearest couch, undressing on the way. He rips your blouse, knocks over one of your side tables when he kicks off his shoe, and almost drops you to let you rip off his belt. 

Ron’s home to you when he slams inside of you. Your thoughts disintegrate as the two of you collide together, alternating between frenzied ferocious fucking and softer sweeter sensuality as lust, love, longing and whatever lives between those things rips open the walls you’d both built up around your hearts. 

But Ron isn’t home until after, long after, hours even. The house is trashed, clothes and pillows and furniture disheveled and everywhere. You’re both in bed, exhausted from countless rounds of tangling, with dawn threatening. You’re asleep, and Ron’s watching you dream. There’s a small crease between your eyebrows, and you’re muttering. You look troubled; and he wonders if he should wake you. He can’t stand the sight of you in anything resembling pain. But then, suddenly, you roll towards him, your head settling on his chest and one of your legs slung over his. 

Your face relaxes. You nuzzle into him. You sigh, a gentle smile on your lips. The crease is gone, your face smooth and peaceful. 

He marvels. His head tips back against the headboard, looking down at you in awe as a distinct wave of content washes over and through him.

Ronald Speirs is finally home.

Carwood Lipton Warnings: just Lip and his perpetual angel-status <3

Lip is standing with the throng of men on the deck, watching as they pull into port. The crowd below is cheering and waving American flags, popping off champagne, and the women are waving handkerchiefs. There’s a band somewhere playing patriotic songs and jaunty marches. Home has never looked so good.

‘Ey, Lip, I think I see your girl

It’s Malarkey who spies her - why and how he picked her out so easily, Lip didn't rightfully know nor want to know. But Malarkey was right, there she was.

White ribbons in her hair, white dress on, white handkerchief waving. She’s craning over the other sweethearts and mothers and fathers, eyes combing the deck of the ship. Her expression - impatient longing - snaps Lip in two. How the hell did he ever leave that girl halfway across the world?

Carwood?! Carwood Lipton?! 

He can’t hear her, but he sees her lips moving and he knows that she’s calling out his name. He doubts that any of the deck goers are having luck finding their men that way. The ship is alive with soldiers and airmen buzzing with excitement, calling out to the shore and cheering. The dock is no less vibrant, so the entire place is drowning in the sounds of joy.

Lip stares at her, unwilling to lose sight of her ever again. He vaguely registers the ship jolting to a halt at its berth, the enormous horn announcing the official arrival and, for all the men on board, the uproarious end to the war from Hell. Lip exchanges hugs, slaps on the back, firm handshakes with the men of Easy. It’s strange to have so many painful goodbyes at the same time as a long-awaited hello, but Lip knows he’ll see these men again. He can’t imagine life without them, just like he can’t imagine living without her.

The crowd of soldiers and airmen begins to move, a mass of jumbled emotions with a healthy sprinkling of joy. He watches as the first few men off the ship are swept up into the awaiting crowd as they step off the planks. He can still see her, a beacon of white. An angel, he realizes. 

He shuffles forward with the rest of the disembarking ranks. The process is painfully slow, and he’s not close enough to call out to her yet. He tries to catch her eye with a few waves, but he can only imagine how many waving hands and beaming faces she can see at once. She’s almost passed him on the dock, and Lip feels himself losing patience with the slowness of the men around him. He contemplates yelling at the men to keep it moving or don’t stand at the end of the ramp, but he doesn’t. He can’t bear to ruin a moment of this, for anyone. 

Suddenly, she sees him. Her hands fly to her mouth, tears welling in her eyes. That handkerchief blots at her face. She’s gone quiet; just staring at him, waiting. He waves at her, swallowing down the tears threatening in his eyes. She waves back, unsure whether to laugh or cry, so she ends up doing both. Once again, Lip wonders how he’d ever left her. He realizes he’ll never be able to again. He’s stuck to her like glue now, it can’t be helped. And he’s got his eye on a ring. He’ll buy it tomorrow, he decides. Maybe even today, if he can find a jeweler. No more wasted time.  

The wait is agonizing. Every few minutes, she waves at him again, as if afraid that he’ll disappear like a ghost. He can’t stop smiling at her. He doesn’t notice, but the Easy men all softly agree that they’ve never seen this Lip before. A smile reserved all for her.

He steps off the ramp and she’s there, pushed through the crowd. He envelopes her in his arms as she peppers his face and neck with kisses. Soggy ones, from the tears. His or hers, anybody’s guess. She keeps repeating his name like a prayer and a plea. He holds her as she comes undone in his arms, body-wracking sobs and her head buried in his neck. He tells her it’s alright, I’m home and it makes her squeal with delight. Then they’re both laughing. He carries her a bit, not trusting her legs quite yet, and honestly unsure if he trusts himself to walk without her weight in his arms holding him to Earth. She babbles, he listens, she asks something, he talks. It’s easy - so easy - and Carwood Lipton feels himself stepping back into himself after so many years of being Lip and First Sergeant. 

Her hand in his, they walk the streets of this strange town that neither of them are from, but yet somehow always find themselves feeling right at home. He has to squeeze her hand every once in a while to remind himself that she’s real, and he’s really here, and the war is behind him. All day and late into the evening, Lipton and his girl stroll together, two friends, two lovers, one very happy ending. 

Buck Compton Warnings: cursing, references to alcohol abuse

No one’s there at the train depot when Buck gets home. His mother is tied up taking care of his baby sister and her new baby, sick with colic, and his dad is too frail to make the forty-minute trip by car to the station. And you’re done with him, as of Christmas time. 

Some homecoming.

He wanders through the town’s sleepy Main Street, killing time before his brother-in-law’s shift ends at the munitions factory and he can pick Buck up. It’s a hot day, sweat runs down his back. It reminds him of Toccoa. He chuckles darkly, grateful that he’s not running up Currahee with Sobel’s sour puss hot on his heels. He’s grateful for a moment, but then he wonders if maybe those were the best days of his life, and he just didn’t know it. So far, the end of the war hasn’t brought much happiness his way. Maybe the best is behind him already. 

He stops for a root beer float at the local soda counter. He brought you here for the first date. He still remembered that your lips tasted like strawberry milkshake later when he’d parked his truck in front of an empty cornfield and kissed you until he was dizzy. He knows he’ll never be able to order a strawberry milkshake again.  

A couple of the old men sitting in the window side booths nod at him, one even pays for his tab. Buck thanks them but makes no move to engage in conversation. He’s not gloomy, exactly. Just lonely. He thinks about Joe Toye and Bill Guarnere, about the marrow-deep cold of Bastogne, and about just how far away he feels from the taste of strawberry on your tongue. Despite the scorching summer heat, he suppresses a shiver. 

Buck’s sitting on a bench in front of the depot when his brother-in-law pulls up. 

Hey Buck! Welcome home, buddy.

Thanks, Dickie.

His sister’s husband has a noticeable limp, one of his legs visibly wasted and bent at an unnatural angle from the knee down. Bike accident when he was six, kept him out of the war. From his sisters letters, Buck knows that Dickie’s been hitting the bottle hard after he got 4F’ed and told under no uncertain terms that he won’t fight for Uncle Sam. Buck can see the strain in Dickie’s smile, the dark bags under his eyes and the faint stain of gray at his temples. Buck feels about three decades older than when he left home, but Dickie looks it. 

The ride home is quiet. Buck asks after his sister, Dickie asks after the war. Neither of them really listen to the answers. 

When Dickie cuts the engine off in front of Buck’s parents’ place, the porch light is on and there’s a lamp in the front room window, shining merrily. Buck sighs deeply. He’d expected to come home to you, a little apartment somewhere. He’d planned on picking up his life from there, but instead he’s here, looking at a place he calls home without feeling at home. He thinks he might prefer a cot in Toccoa, or a hot cot on a transport ship, or maybe even a foxhole. 

Aight Buck, you take it easy. I’ll see you ‘round. Make sure you stop in and see Kitty soon, she’s dying to see ya.

Sure, Dickie. Thanks for the lift. 

The sun is setting fast behind the mountains. Cicadas are beginning to strum and the fireflies dance in the fields gone farrow behind the house. Buck climbs up the front steps, his duty bag slung over one shoulder. 

Buck?

He freezes where he is, hand outstretched towards the doorknob. It can’t be… can it?

He hears the creak of the swing from the darkened corner of the porch as you stand up. 

Welcome home, Buck.

It is you. Buck is still frozen, his upper lip beginning to tremble. He wished it were darker, wished the damn light was off so you wouldn’t have to see him like this. He feels the boards vibrate as you step towards him, hesitating at his side.

I’m sorry, Buck. I… I made a mistake…

A tear slips out. He swipes at it angrily. What the hell is he crying for? he wonders. 

It’s just that Louise told me she read in a magazine that it’s harder for the men sometimes if they’re worried about someone back home and in your letters you were just always asking about me and how I was and what I was doing and I just knew that you were going through it, Buck, you know, I read the news and I knew you were right on the front lines and I started thinking about you being out there and distracted and what would happen if you lost your focus at the wrong time and you got shot or you got hit by a grenade or a sniper and I thought about losing you, Buck, and I just couldn’t, I couldn’t lose you, and I started to think maybe I needed to make it easier on you and I wrote you that awful letter and it was terrible Buck it was so bad and I hated writing it and I hated sending it but I convinced myself I had to and-

Buck silenced you by pressing his lips to yours mid-sentence. Whatever other explanations and apologies you had died in your mouth with a soft whimper, and suddenly your hands were traveling up his arms and tickling the base of his neck and you were sighing like you hadn’t really exhaled in months. Buck swallowed it up, kissing you deeply and gently. He didn’t know how to say that he didn’t care about all that, that all he wanted was you with him. The rest would work itself out. Buck knew from the war that if you surrounded yourself with good people, then you could get through anything. 

He laughed when he tasted the strawberry milkshake on your lips. Smiling against your mouth, he broke the kiss and held you in his arms, his hands at the small of your back. 

Why are you laughing you ask incredulously. Did you hear what I said? aren’t you mad? You hadn’t expected this reaction. In fact, you’d prepared yourself for Buck to be so furious that he wouldn’t even speak with you. It was less than half of what you felt you deserved. 

Buck just shook his head, smiling to himself at a private joke. You wondered if he was laughing at how easily you fell for that kiss before he told you to take a hike and disappeared from your life forever. 

Mad? He sounds incredulous, like that’s the most ridiculous question anyone’s ever asked him. 

Yeah, Buck. I mean… I know I broke your heart.

He doesn’t deny it, just nods simply and looks deep into your eyes.

Don’t leave me again, darlin’, and I’ll consider it even.

You can’t reply because his lips are on yours again. All you can do is smile as you kiss your apology into Buck’s mouth until the sunset has faded and his dad calls out to the two of you to come inside already!

Bull Randleman Warnings: angst (you have been warned!!)

Something strange happened to Bull in the convent at Foy. He hadn’t expected it. But suddenly, there you were. Sitting in the back of his mind like an itch he just couldn’t scratch. His third grade crush from Ms. Wheeler’s class. And his eighth grade crush. And his prom date. 

Bull grew up in a small town, and it had only gotten smaller to him since he’d left. Sometimes in quieter moments he’d wondered if he’d ever be able to go back home. He’d seen a lot of the world - granted, most of it with the threat of German artillery at his back - but still. His hometown felt so far away and so small that he couldn’t imagine fitting the size of his memories back there. 

And yet, sitting there in the dim candlelight of that convent, listening to those angelic voices, that tiny podunk town was all he could think of. Why couldn’t he remember the name of that street, the one with the post office on it? And what was the name of those neighbors with the herd of basset hounds? He couldn’t recall what kind of flowers his Ma planted in front of the house, facing due east. Bull realized that he was forgetting home, and it opened a gaping wound in his heart.

One thing he did remember clearly was you. He hadn’t seen you in a long time, maybe not for months before he’d signed up for the 101st. You’d been working at the florist right off 1st Street the last he’d heard. Why he hadn’t looked in on you after high school, he couldn’t say. He’d been sweet on you back then, puppy love head-over-heels type stuff. You were his first kiss, his first date, his first of just about everything. Including his first love.

Somewhere along the way, Bull had gotten the hare-brained idea that he’d outgrown you. He’d stopped calling, stopped asking you out to the movies or to the diner. He remembered how he’d seen you out one night, his arm slung over some other girl that his buddy had set him up with. He remembered the way you’d stared with your lip shaking, your eyes welling with tears, before you’d practically run off into the Sears department store. Bull knew damn well you couldn’t afford anything in Sears; all of the money you’d ever made working as an English tutor and a nanny went to taking care of your eleven foster siblings. He knew you ran in there just to get away from him. At the time, he’d laughed about it. He’d told himself you’d be fine, you’d grow up eventually and get over it. He told himself that’s exactly what he’d done - grown up - but now he realized quite the opposite. He’d been intimidated by how much he’d liked you, how much he’d thought about you and worried after you and how scared he’d been when he’d realized that he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed you anymore. You with your hand-me-down dresses and your sweet, shy smile and your head always in the clouds of a romance novel. His buddies had commented on it, and suddenly Bull had felt jealous, insecure even. He’d hated it, and he’d run from it. 

But that night in Foy, you were the only place his mind could land. You were all he thought of. And he’d promised himself that if he somehow managed to walk out of hell at the end of the war, that he’d ask you out again. Who knew what you were up to now. He thought he remembered his Ma make an off-hand comment that you’d started working at the hospital in the next town over, but he couldn’t be sure. But Bull knew you’d be back in that small town, probably just as sweet as ever. And if you gave him another chance, he’d never let you go again.

Three days after stepping foot back in the States, and Bill was standing outside your house in his Army dress uniform, a bouquet of orange lilies in his hands. He wondered if you’d remember that he’d gotten you those same flowers for your prom corsage. They’d stood out against the baby pink of your dress that you’d borrowed from your cousin. Every time Bull saw a sunset or a flower bed, he thought of you. In fact, there wasn’t much that Bull saw these days that didn’t make him think of you.

He knocked three times sharply on the door. Your house looked just the same as ever: the front porch sagged in the middle, the curtains drawn and stained, the paint peeling. There was a ruckus inside, and what sounded to be about a dozen kids all screamed out “DOOR!” 

A severe woman with dark gray hair slicked back into a tight bun answered. Her mouth was a thin, straight gash and her eyes narrowed in something between distaste and disbelief. She glanced down at the flowers in Bull’s hands and at the sharp, crisply ironed lines of his uniform.

Mother Beatrice, Bull said with a slight bow. Not sure if you remember me, ma’am, but I-

I remember you. Randelman, right? You here for the girl? 

Your foster mother looked older but her manner was as cold and loveless as ever. She never used names for the children she took in - just called them by various impersonal monikers. For some reason, yours had always been “the girl”. Bull wasn’t the only one who’d overlooked you.  

He nodded, thinking that if Easy had Mother Beatrice in their ranks then Germany might have fallen about a year earlier. He’d have to be sure to tell you that. He was certain you would laugh.

I wondered if anyone would come Mother Beatrice commented as she shut the door behind her, muffling the sounds of screeching children. She walked down the front porch steps and turned towards the back of the old farmhouse without a backwards glance. Bull followed, his brow furrowing slightly at her cryptic comment. He figured you might have had a few pen pals on the front, some girls would do that sort of thing, write to strangers to try and keep their spirits up. He’d heard that some of the men had made a point to look in on their pen pals when they’d gotten back home. Maybe that’s what she meant.

She’s back here? Bull asked, taking in the sight of the rundown farmhouse-turned-orphanage and its weedy lawn. As long as he’d known you, he’d never known you to linger here. Too loud, no privacy you’d always told him. Bull usually found you in the library or a park bench. Somewhere quiet. 

Mother Beatrice nodded, shooting him a strangely exasperated look. Course she is, where else would she go? The girl doesn’t have any other home.

Bull chewed his lip thoughtfully. He supposed that was true. Maybe things had changed. 

Mother Beatrice led him around the backside of the dingy farmhouse, past a rundown chicken coop with a few mangy looking birds pecking at the dirt. There was a dilapidated stable off in the distance with one bony mare grazing on the tall grass and an overgrown vegetable garden. The tree line off in the distance looked ominously dark, like a line of guards sent to make sure the misery of this place didn’t spread.

Mother Beatrice stopped short, and Bull almost walked into her. There she is.

Bull looked around but didn’t see you. In addition to the forlorn horse, the garden and the coop, he noted a greenhouse missing more windows than it had and a towering oak tree reaching up for the sky as if running away from the unfortunate place it’d been planted. But no sign of you anywhere

Mother Beatrice looked at him intently for a moment, making Bull squirm in his boots, before sharply turning on her heel to leave. She called back to him at the base of the tree and vanished around the side of the house. 

Alone at last, Bull looked at the shadowy trunk but didn’t see anything. Must be around the backside, he reasoned. He started walking towards the tree, but a strange quiet settled over him. Suddenly, his collar felt too tight and his chest felt hollow. Something wasn’t right.

As he approached the tree, he began to make out what Mother Beatrice was referring to. He could hardly believe his eyes, and with each step forward he felt his feet grow heavier as if his boots were filled with lead. About ten paces from the trunk, he stopped, unable to go any closer. His shoulders sagged and he felt the bouquet slip out of his hands.

There you were, your name staring back at him from the headstone. 

Y/n Y/l/n October 11, 1924-January 9, 1945 Army Nurse Corps May she rest in the peace of the Lord

Bull wasn’t sure how long he stared at the stone. At your name. At the words Army Nurse Corps. Bull hadn’t known you were a nurse. He hadn’t remembered your birthday. He realized he’d been misspelling your last name this whole time.

Bull stood and stared until the light was almost gone from the sky. The sound of Mother Beatrice ringing a bell and calling out dinner! from the front porch jarred him out of his reverie. He hastily wiped the tears that had long ago dried on his face, feeling out of place and like an unwelcome intruder. 

He left without saying goodbye. He did manage to tilt the bouquet against your headstone, and run his fingers over the cold edges of your name cut into the marble. He didn’t feel entitled to much else. 

It wasn’t until he was home that night, deeper into a bottle of whiskey than a grieving man ought to be, when he realized something.

January 9th, 1945. The day you’d died. It was the same day he’d sat in that convent outside Foy, listening to that angelic choir, reminiscing about you and imagining a future that would never come to be.

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Still working on... Joseph Liebgott Doc Roe Maybe David Webster too? *let me know if you have any other requests