#eddie winters

[zaxlover]

[fawncr33k]

Hey y'all! I think I found out why ghouls in Fallout 4 differ between black eyes and raspy voice, to irritated blue eyes and normal voice!

The main big suspect? Excessive chem use! Here's why.

Let's take a look at the black-eyed ghouls. (I have no pictures sorry-) Hancock, Daisy, Vault Tec Rep, and the drifters in Goodneighbor. Excessive chem use probably causes black eyes and raspy voices. Hancock is an avid chem user, and Daisy probably does chems, and all the drifters probably do chems more often than not. But, that leaves Vault Tec Rep. He doesn't seem like the person to do chems! But, that's where second-hand smoking (or, in this case, chem use) comes in. You can find Vault Tec Rep in Hotel Rexford, stationed in Goodneighbor. Hotel Rexford literally has a chem seller in it, so it's possible that Vault Tec Rep either did chems to cope, was affected by secondhand chem use, or a mixture of both!

Now, blue-eyed ghouls, Kent, Edward Deagan, and Eddie Winters. Kent is in a closed off area of the memory den, which prevents secondhand chem use, for the most part. (I say for the most part because it is possible for at least a little bit of chem fumes to get in, but not enough to give him black eyes.) Kent seems like the person to never excessively use chems, if at all. Edward seems like he would use chems only for emergencies. But that leaves Eddie Winters. Now I have two explanations. It's either when Eddie got locked into the hole in the wall, he did have a limited amount of chems, but either used them sparingly or did them in one big burst and spent the rest of his life regretting it, or he didn't have time to get chems at all.

[cankersaurus]

Drawings my ocs made

[livelovecaliforniadreams]

#You Got This Babe

[rocketkit]

fourth scene from a nonexistent fic

[evil-youth-messrs]

somehow, they're all the same flavor of gay✨️

[foulwitchknight]

When the Munsons heater breaks in the middle of winter Steve eagerly opens his doors to them. At first Wayne isn’t sure what to make of the generous offer. He’s learned not to trust Harrington’s but since his nephew has been singing the young boy’s praises for months he chose to trust his judgement. He didn’t know what to expect though. He spent the first few days just observing Eddie and Steve. Noting the stolen glances, constant redness in their cheeks and borrowing of each others clothes. He almost spit out his coffee when his metal head nephew came down in a pastel polo. He barely managed to keep his expression neutral. Steve offered early on to pay for the repairs but they both politely declined. He’d already done so much just allowing them to stay at his place. So it took awhile for him and Eddie to save enough to fix the heater and find someone reliable to do the job. By the time everything was fixed Wayne dreaded seeing his nephews and Steve’s reaction to the news. He doubted it would be a happy one. It was clear that the Harrington’s place (more specifically Steve) had become home to Eddie and it was obvious Steve felt the same. Wayne didn’t know what to do. The best he could come up with was not telling Eddie just yet and letting him have a few more days of happiness with his boy.

[loveinhawkins]

There’s a table in the school library that’s nestled in the corner, right by a radiator; Steve has claimed it ever since his double block of ‘private study periods’ began.

Not that he’s planning on doing any studying: it’s the last day of school before the winter break, and while his face has healed up from the whole Billy Hargrove Incident, he still finds himself feeling wiped at random—like his body’s having a delayed adrenaline crash ever since he pulled Dustin out of that freaky vine-infested tunnel.

So really, this spot should be ideal for a couple hours of not having to think.

And it would be perfect, if his eyes weren’t instinctively drawn to movement at the front desk.

Because for the past god-knows-how-long, Eddie Munson has been in a back-and-forth with the librarian.

It had started when he ambled up to the desk with a healthy pile of books in his hands, placed them down neatly, all ready to be stamped. Flashed a charming smile.

Steve was too far away to hear the words, but he got the gist that whatever the librarian had said amounted to no, absolutely not, because Eddie scooped the books back up, dumped them on a table a little distance away from Steve’s, then hemmed and hawed before returning to the desk with a more modest pile than before.

He was sent away again with presumably the same refusal, and so the pattern repeated until this very minute: he’s returning with just one book in his hands, his smile less charming now, more desperate.

But… no luck.

Eddie slouches back to the table in defeat. Just stands there, staring down at the books.

And goddamn it, Steve thinks, now he’s invested.

“Hey. Munson,” he says in an undertone. “What’s up?”

He doesn’t miss the weird kind of double take Eddie gives him, but at least Steve knows it’s not because of his face being a mess this time—seriously, drawing looks from students when all he wanted was to get in line for crappy cafeteria pizza had not been fun.

“Nothing,” Eddie says with a shrug, and he flashes another wide smile that makes Steve think bullshit. “Apparently I racked up a mountain of late fees. Who knew?” He sighs, glancing at his wristwatch. “Guess I’ve got enough time to just read the—oh. Um. Hey?”

“These books?” Steve confirms, having already stood up to look at them.

Eddie blinks a few times. “Yeah, these—uh, Harrington, what the fuck do you think you’re—?”

Steve heads over to the front desk with the books. It’s not all that difficult of a decision to make; he remembers Tommy H had his own library late fees in freshman year, but got nothing more than a simpering, “Just make sure it doesn’t happen again, sweetie,” just because his mom knew someone on the school board.

“For checking out, please,” Steve says, not bothering with a smile as he hands over his library card.

The only resistance he gets is a raised eyebrow from the librarian before all the books are stamped.

“What the fuck,” Eddie says, voice flat; he doesn’t take the books when Steve tries to give them to him, so Steve just shrugs and goes back to his seat, sets the books pointedly on the edge of the table.

“Look, man, it’s up to you, but I’m not gonna take them. They’ll just be sitting here.”

Eddie huffs. He goes over to the books, his hand twitching towards them before drawing back, like he’s at war with himself.

“You—you didn’t have to do that,” he gets out as if it physically pains him to do so.

Prickly, Steve thinks.

“It’s no big deal,” he says. “My account’s gathering dust, so someone might as well get the good of it.”

At hearing that, Eddie looks a little less defensive. He chews on his lips for a few seconds, then says, his tone serious, “Harrington, I’ll—I’ll forget. Like, with the holidays… like, I guarantee you, even if I write a million fucking reminders, I’m gonna take these books and forget to bring ‘em back for months.”

“Oh, no,” Steve says dryly, “lemme go alert the press, I just heard a blatant confession to a crime. Dude, just take them, what do I care if your homework takes you months to—”

“It’s not even for school,” Eddie interrupts through gritted teeth, “it’s dumb, it’s just—”

“Jesus Christ. Lemme call the press again, sounds like you’re reading a book for fun.”

Eddie stares at him. Steve raises an eyebrow in challenge—he could do this all day; just the other week, he’d beaten Mike in a brutal staring contest that felt like it went on for hours.

Eddie breaks first. “Fine,” he says with another huff, but he’s less agitated when handling the books—lingers thoughtfully on their titles, puts a couple in his backpack. The rest he opens at seemingly random parts, but it looks like he knows what he’s searching for.

And then it seems as if he’s just going to pick up the remaining books and walk away—Steve expects him to, honestly—but he ends up staying where he is, gives Steve a look of consideration, almost like he’s a book worth reading, too.

“You stole my table, you know?” Eddie says.

“Uh, no,” Steve says automatically, then adds with more confidence, “I was definitely here first.��

Eddie snorts. “Nope. My senior year, uh,” he shrugs self-deprecatingly, “the first time around. That was my spot. Was pretty possessive over it too, think I signed the table, like, underneath.”

Steve’s eyebrows rise in interest; he runs a finger along the underside of the table and soon feels it: an E.M scratched into the wood.

“Huh,” he says. “Guess you’re right.”

A pause.

And then Steve surprises himself.

“There’s, um, room here, if you want? I’m not gonna use the whole table.”

Eddie’s eyebrows shoot up. There’s a long enough silence in which Steve considers just telling him to forget about it, but then—

Eddie sits down opposite him.

It’s not as awkward as Steve was expecting: Eddie seems focused enough on his books, on bringing out a battered looking journal with sheets of paper that look like they’re hanging on by a thread. He roots around his backpack some more, retrieves a ballpoint pen with a quiet, triumphant, “Aha!”

He either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care that Steve isn’t even making an attempt to look busy; his own side of the table is bare.

“Didn’t know you were left-handed,” Steve says after a moment.

Eddie looks up from his note-taking. He smirks, waggles his eyebrows briefly. “Fitting, huh? Spooky.”

“Oh, I’m terrified.”

And Eddie actually laughs—hushed, but it still counts as one.

He soon returns to being absorbed in whatever it is he’s writing, which means Steve has less of a distraction when the familiar wave of tiredness washes over him.

He tries to sit up as well as he can, conscious of the fact that he’s not alone, but the radiator is the perfect temperature, and the steady scratch of Eddie’s pen has a soporific effect. He’s distantly aware of the fact that his head is nodding down with dwindling energy to try and stop it—hears Eddie’s voice, as if from very far away, rising in question.

Steve sniffs sharply, jerks his head back up and blinks hard. “What?”

“Oh, sorry,” Eddie says quickly, and he sounds genuine. “Didn’t know you were sleeping.”

“I wasn’t,” Steve says.

“Uh, okay,” Eddie says. His lips twitch. “That was an awfully long blink then, Harrington.”

“Shut up,” Steve retorts mildly. He stretches slightly, hides a yawn behind his hand. “Did you actually want something or—”

“Nah, wasn’t important.”

Steve frowns, unconvinced. The side of Eddie’s left hand is covered in ink, and Steve can see where his pen has started to die on him as his writing gets more faded across the page.

Steve puts a hand in his pocket, brings out another ballpoint and throws it at Eddie.

The pen bounces along the table, and Eddie manages to catch it one-handed.

“Good catch,” Steve says.

“Thanks,” Eddie says. He sounds almost uncertain.

Silence falls. It only takes another minute or two of hearing Eddie writing away for Steve’s determination to stay awake to waver again. He slumps forward with a mumbled, “M’just gonna…” and lays his head down.

Eddie stops writing.

“Hey, man, are you… okay? Like, if you feel… if you wanna go home I could take you to the nurse? Or—”

“I’m fine,” Steve says into his folded arms. “S’just… the aftermath of… stuff. No big deal.”

“Oh?” Eddie says tentatively.

Steve lifts his head up a bit, squints dubiously. “C’mon, Munson. You must’ve heard the rumour mill.”

Billy Hargrove had spread it all over the school, how he had ‘taught King Steve a lesson.’ In all honesty, Steve hadn’t cared all that much about how he himself came across in whatever story Billy created, was just relieved that at least Max and Lucas’s names had been kept out of it.

“I don’t put much stock in rumours,” Eddie says carefully. “Folks can say… all kindsa things.”

Steve nods faintly. Fair point.

“Okay, but you can take a little bit of stock in this one. Like, a smidge.”

Steve demonstrates with his thumb and forefinger.

It’s only when Eddie doesn’t smile in response that Steve realises he’d been hoping to make him laugh again. Maybe.

“Huh. Well. For what it’s worth… I’m sorry.”

“What for?” Steve says tiredly.

“Harrington. I’m not stupid, y’know? That was more than a… a stupid fight after school or something. Like, I can remember what your face looked like.”

“Gee, thanks.” Steve sets his head back down, closing his eyes.

“I didn’t—I just meant whatever it was, it… it went too far. Way too fucking far.”

Steve yawns again, doesn’t bother hiding it. “Yeah. Something like that.”

He’s resigning himself to the thought of waking up with a stiff neck before Eddie sighs and says, “If you’re gonna sleep, Harrington, don’t be an amateur about it.”

Steve looks up in time to see Eddie reaching underneath the table with one leg, hooking his ankle round the empty chair next to Steve and shoving it closer to him.

“Three or four’s probably the best amount for stretching out on,” Eddie says. “Uh, speaking from experience.”

Steve smiles. “Noted.”

He manoeuvres himself until he’s lying much more comfortably across the seats, using his backpack and coat as a pillow.

Frustratingly but predictably, despite his fatigue, sleep doesn’t come easily, so Steve looks underneath the table and asks, “What’re you writing about, Munson?”

He can see Eddie’s boots, how one foot is tapping away, as if in time to a song no-one else can hear.

“Um, I was just… getting inspiration for… it’s kinda like. Like a story, but—”

“Don’t hurt yourself, dude,” Steve says, “I know what a campaign is.”

The foot tapping stops.

“Aren’t you just full of surprises?” Eddie says.

He sounds a bit far away again, though Steve knows that’s just in his head; he can feel his eyelids drooping.

“You’ve got…” He sighs, voice trailing off as he finishes, “No idea…”

Eddie launches into a speech; Steve can follow it well enough for a little while, Eddie rambling about the kind of decisions he thinks his players will make in the game, but eventually the words become a blur, and he drifts off just like that, into an unexpectedly peaceful sleep.

He wakes with the lightest of touches to his shoulder, a soft, “Steve?” that nevertheless makes him jolt to full alertness in a blink, reaching for a bat he doesn’t currently have.

“Jesus Christ!” Eddie yelps, almost falling back against the table. “What the hell kinda military training d’you have, Harrington?”

“Just have good reflexes,” Steve says, hopes it sounds casual enough as he breathes through his suddenly racing heart.

“Yeah, that’s one way to fucking put it. Anyway, uh. Sorry, didn’t mean to, like, startle you, but you slept right through the bell, man.”

Steve sits up; the library is empty apart from them, the librarian shooting them a not so subtle glare. And he realises that while everyone else was rushing out of school, eager for the holidays to start, Eddie must’ve stayed. Waited for him.

Steve runs a hand through his hair, quickly puts on his coat.

“God, sorry, you didn’t have to—if I’ve made you late, I’m—”

“Nah, don’t sweat it.” Eddie puts his backpack strap across one shoulder. “I wasn’t in a hurry. Um, are you… like, good to drive? I can give you a ride, if—”

“I’m okay,” Steve says, struck by the consideration behind the offer. He means what he says though; he feels pleasantly refreshed. He smiles self-effacingly. “Think I need one class where I can just sleep, and then I’ll get through the day.”

Eddie gives a playful scoff. “That’s already a thing, Harrington, it’s called first period.”

They walk out of the library together, and Steve finds that it’s kind of… nice, honestly. He keeps waiting for some awkwardness to creep in again, but it never does.

“Big holiday plans?” Eddie asks, smalltalk that should be stilted, but it just sounds like he’s sincerely interested in the answer.

Steve shrugs. “Not really. Oh, I’ve got—you know the Snow Ball thing tomorrow, at the middle school? There’s this kid I know, I’m gonna give him a ride there, but—”

Steve breaks off with a fond shake of the head, knowing that there’s this kid I know doesn’t really give it justice, doesn’t say the full truth: that Dustin Henderson has somehow wormed his way into Steve’s goddamn heart forever.

“His mom’s invited me over for dinner tonight,” he continues. “Think he wants, like, a dress-rehearsal of his outfit or something, which is probably the closest he’ll ever come to admitting he’s nervous. I kinda feel for him, honestly. God, do you remember being thirteen? Everything seemed to matter so much, and most of it was just… stupid shit.”

They’ve reached the parking lot, and Eddie gives Steve a sideways look with a bemused smile.

“Woah, Harrington, we’re still in school, remember? Don’t think we’re meant to sound so world-weary yet.”

Steve chuckles. “Yeah.” He gestures at Eddie’s get-up. “Bet you’ve never once cared about the stupid shit, though.”

What people think.

Eddie’s smile turns more knowing. “Shockingly, Harrington,” he says, “I didn’t come out the womb like this.”

They both hesitate; they’re at Steve’s car now, Eddie’s van parked in a space that’s further away. There’s no reason, really, for the conversation to continue any longer.

But Eddie still lingers.

“Uh, enjoy your dinner, I guess. If the… dress-rehearsal goes shit, just tell the kid it’s good luck for the real night.”

Steve laughs. “He’s in the Drama Club, so that might work, actually. Thanks, Munson.” He opens the car door as Eddie nods, starts to head off to his van. Seized by a sudden impulse, Steve calls, “Happy holidays!”

“Yeah, you too.” Eddie turns, tapping at his temple exaggeratedly. “Won’t forget about the books, I promise.”

Steve rolls his eyes. “You better not,” he says, tongue-in-cheek.

He starts the car and heads for Dustin’s house, honks the horn when he drives past Eddie’s van, catches Eddie waving.

Steve thinks he quite likes the idea (regardless of whether it’ll put his library account in jeopardy), of the books finding a permanent home at Eddie’s place. Briefly imagines Eddie writing with an ink-stained hand, curled up safely in a world of his own—where the only monsters are the ones that live in between the pages.

[malewifemrhouse]

20 ghouls ! ! i added another 29 to this file. more from fo4 and fnv, and a bunch from fo3 since ive now played it ! i want them all to look special :]!!! Here's the wip i posted previously!

[greenishghostey]

Eddie feeding the trailer park raccoons hot dogs and graham crackers in the winter. There's like 25 chubby raccoons waddling around because of the "Munson boy"

[fawncr33k]

Fallout 4 update, august 31

I GOT RID OF THE BASTARD EDDIE WINTERSS WHOOOOOOOOOO

[cankersaurus]

[livelovecaliforniadreams]

#Pretends To Act Shocked

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Lady - 1

Character: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader, Eddie Horniman x Female Reader

Summary: After fifteen years away, a step-daughter returns for her Duke step-father's funeral, only to inherit a staggering 8 million pound debt and strike a risky deal with a criminal underworld figure.

Main Masterlist || support: Ko-fi

Chap 1, Chap 2, Chap 3 , Chap 4 , Chap 5 , Chap 6 , Chap 7.

Your ongoing support means the world to me! Reblogs are a fantastic way to help spread the word about my work. I'll do my best to reply to all your comments. Thank you for your continued encouragement!

In the heart of the military training ground, you, a seasoned Explosive Ordnance Disposal (EOD) technician, stand poised amidst a group of nervous soldiers. Among them is Private Jameson, a newcomer with trembling hands and apprehensive eyes. With unwavering composure, you take charge, your voice steady as you address the group.

"Today, we're covering the basics of bomb disposal," you begin, your tone reassuring yet firm. Turning to Private Jameson, you offer a patient smile.

"You, Private. What's your name?" Despite his nervousness, Private Jameson responds, and you guide him with a calming presence, instilling confidence as you impart your expertise.

"Jameson, take a deep breath," you instruct softly but firmly. "Remember, focus is key. You've got this." Private Jameson nods, his eyes locked on your reassuring gaze.

As he examines the device, you watch attentively, offering guidance with each movement. When he finishes, you nod approvingly. "Well done, Private. Now, let's move on."

As Private Jameson continues under your guidance, the other soldiers watch with admiration. They've seen you in action before, witnessed your dedication to the mission and your willingness to put yourself in harm's way for the greater good.

"Ma'am, what if the situation calls for immediate action?" Private Reynolds interjects, reflecting the group's curiosity.

You acknowledge the gravity of the question. "In a real-world scenario, there may not be time for thorough examination," you explain calmly. "Trust your instincts and make split-second decisions."

Private Jameson glances at you, newfound respect shining in his eyes. "But you always seem so calm under pressure, ma'am," he remarks admiringly.

You smile humbly, reflecting on the countless moments of uncertainty you've faced. "It's not about being fearless, Private," you reply earnestly. "It's about pushing through fear for those counting on you."

Your words hang in the air, a silent reminder of the sacrifices made by soldiers like you every day. With renewed determination, Private Jameson nods, his resolve strengthened by your example.

As the door of the training facility echoed with a sharp knock, you exchanged a puzzled glance with your comrades. The abrupt interruption stirred a sense of unease within you, a foreboding whisper of uncertainty.

"A lawyer wants to see you," the soldier at the door announced, his voice tinged with urgency.

You furrowed your brow in confusion. "Me?" you repeated, your mind racing to grasp the sudden turn of events. "Hmm, he sounds British," you mused aloud, your instincts sharpened by years of training.

With measured steps, you followed your comrade through the maze of corridors until you reached the visitor's area. There, standing before you, was a figure from your past, a familiar face veiled in the somber cloak of time.

"Miss," the lawyer greeted you with a solemn nod, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken truths.

Your heart skipped a beat as you recognized him, the memories flooding back like an unstoppable tide. It had been fifteen years since you last saw him, a lifetime of distance and estrangement separating you.

"I assumed something bad happened?" you ventured cautiously, your tone laced with concern and apprehension.

The lawyer, Cedric, nodded gravely, his expression betraying the gravity of the news he bore.

You and Cedric found a quiet place to talk. "Something's wrong?" you inquired, noting the somber expression on Cedric's face as he adjusted his glasses.

Cedric remained silent momentarily, his gaze fixed on the ground before meeting your eyes. "Duke Rupert died two days ago," he finally uttered, his voice laden with gravity.

Your heart clenched at the news. Duke Rupert was your stepfather, and the thought of his passing filled you with a mix of sorrow and apprehension.

Cedric continued, his words weighed down by the weight of the news. "On his will, he wrote that he wants all the family to gather. I came here as soon as I could. And you could attend the funeral too. He probably wants it too."

You nodded, absorbing the information with a heavy heart. The sudden loss of Duke Rupert had thrown your world into disarray, and the prospect of gathering with the family only added to the uncertainty swirling within you.

Taking a deep breath, you steadied yourself, determined to face whatever lay ahead with strength

You nodded in response to Cedric's words, a mix of emotions swirling inside you. "I'll gather my things," you said quietly, steeling yourself for the task ahead.

As you packed your belongings into your bag, Private Jameson approached you, his curiosity evident in his voice. "So, it turns out you're a noble," he remarked, his tone tinged with surprise.

You chuckled lightly, shaking your head in response. "I'm not. It was my step-dad. There's no noble blood in me," you explained, a hint of self-deprecation in your voice.

Jameson furrowed his brow, his curiosity piqued. "We've been working together for years, but you never mentioned anything about this," he observed, his tone filled with genuine interest.

You zipped up your bag, pausing momentarily before meeting Jameson's gaze. "It's just family stuff. Nothing interesting," you replied cryptically, a hint of sadness flickering in your eyes before you turned away, ready to face the uncertain future that lay ahead.

After a grueling 12-hour flight, you finally arrived back in the UK. As the car pulled up to Evergreen Abbey, your childhood home, a rush of nostalgia washed over you. The manor stood proudly, its historical façade unchanged by the passing years.

Stepping out of the car, you took a moment to absorb the familiar sight before you. The memories of your upbringing flooded back, filling you with a sense of belonging despite the years of absence.

As you entered the manor, you were greeted by the sight of a middle-aged woman wearing a classic black dress adorned with a string of pearls. Her youthful aura belied the years that had passed since you last saw her. It was your mother, Susan.

"You're back," she exclaimed, opening her arms wide to envelop you in a warm embrace. The familiar scent of her perfume brought tears to your eyes as you returned her hug, feeling a sense of comfort and homecoming wash over you.

You nodded as Susan spoke, absorbing the news of Duke Rupert's accident with a heavy heart. The realization that your stepfather had passed away hit you like a wave, stirring emotions you had long buried.

"I'm so sorry. What happened?" you asked, your voice filled with genuine concern as you reached out to grasp Susan's hand for support.

Susan sighed her expression a mixture of sadness and frustration. "That silly old man's, I told him not to ride a horse, but he insisted and he fell," she explained, her tone tinged with regret. "Rupert always well-prepared, but I don't know why he really insisted on riding a horse that day."

Before you could respond, the sound of another voice broke through the somber atmosphere. "Thank God you're here," the voice exclaimed, drawing your attention. You turned to see your stepbrother, Charles, standing before you.

But your breath caught in your throat when you saw him wearing priestly attire. "Charles?" you uttered in disbelief, your eyes widening in surprise.

Charles opened his arms and enveloped you in a warm hug, his presence comforting despite the unexpected change in his appearance. "I'm glad you're here," he said, his handshake firm and sincere as he greeted you.

You were speechless, your mind struggling to process the transformation before you. There was a warmth in Charles's eyes, a genuine kindness that seemed to radiate from within him. He was different from the last time you saw him, and you couldn't help but feel a sense of awe at the sight of him in his new role.

"Are you wearing a cassock?" you finally managed to ask, your voice filled with curiosity as you glanced at Charles's attire.

Susan gently pinched your arm, her expression amused yet reproachful. "Silly girl, this is why you should reply to my letters, phone calls, and emails," she chided gently. "Charles has become a priest."

"I know you will find it hard to believe. But I went through a miracle that made me fully believed in God." As Charles spoke of his newfound faith, you struggled to reconcile this revelation with the memory of Charlie, who once hurled harsh words at you.

Then you heard a familiar voice, cutting through the tension like a knife. "You're here."

It was Charlotte, Charles's twin sister. Her gaze bore into you with the same disdain it always had, unchanged after all these years.

Charlotte was never one to hide her feelings about you. From the moment your mother brought you into their lives, she had seen you as nothing more than an unwanted burden.

Your mother's marriage to the Duke had brought you into a world of privilege and resentment. While your stepfather had become a father figure you'd never had, it came at the cost of your relationship with your own mother. Susan was desperate to fit into her new role as Duchess, and you were often left feeling like an outsider in your own home.

The Duke's children, Charles and Charlotte, had quickly formed a bond with your mother, leaving you feeling like an intruder in your own family. They resented you for stealing their father's attention, and the tension between you had only grown over the years.

Living at Evergreen Abbey had always felt like walking on eggshells. That's why, as soon as you came of age, you left for the United States and joined the army, seeking refuge from the suffocating atmosphere of the manor.

Charlotte's cold gaze was a painful reminder of the resentment that had always simmered beneath the surface. "Let's get this over with, please," she said, her words dripping with disdain.

"What does it mean?" you asked, scanning the room for answers but finding only silence and the weight of years of unresolved conflict hanging heavy in the air.

You couldn't believe your eyes as Charles stood before you, now a priest leading your stepfather's funeral. Rupert's passing seemed surreal, and as they closed the casket, you had a chance to see his face one last time.

His face looked different, smiling unnaturally due to the glue used to preserve it. It starkly contrasted the smile you remembered, and you regretted not seeing Rupert one last time before this moment. Placing a red rose near his casket, you whispered, "I'm going to miss you."

During the burial, your gaze wandered, and you noticed a little boy standing near your mother.

But someone standing alone amidst the gathering of family and guests caught your attention. Who is he?

After the burial concluded, the house filled with guests offering condolences. The strange man also disappeared. Susan and Charles gracefully accepted their sympathies, while Charlotte's whereabouts only God knows.

Amidst the crowd, you heard a gentle voice call your name. "Y/N?"

Turning around, you saw Eddie standing there. "Eddie? How are you?" You greeted him with a side hug, grateful for the familiarity in the midst of the somber occasion.

Eddie hugged you back, offering his condolences as you shared a moment of solace amid the chaos of the gathering.

Eddie's inquiry about your military service brought back memories, including a long-kept secret: you used to have a crush on him. It was partly why you joined the army, sharing a dream of serving alongside him. "Yeah," you answered, still groggy from the day's emotions.

"What about you? Did you join the army too?"

Eddie chuckled. "I did, but I left to pursue a business."

You nodded, finding it fitting for him. "You're looking more like a duke these days."

Taking a sip of water, Eddie revealed a surprising truth. "I am. I became a duke after my father passed."

Your shock was evident. "I'm sorry, I didn't know."

Eddie's chuckle held a hint of understanding. "Yeah, after you left, you sort of cut contacts with everyone."

You hesitated, recalling the mention of a will by Cedric. "What about your family tradition? Isn't your older brother supposed to be the duke?"

Eddie's expression shifted slightly. "It changed after my father's will."

Your unease grew as thoughts of Rupert's will resurfaced. Eddie noticed your worry and reached out, touching your hand. "Hey, if you need me, just call me."

Grateful for his support, you managed a small smile. "Thanks, Eddie."

########

As everyone sat waiting for the lawyer, a new presence entered the room. A little boy, perhaps around 10 years old, joined the gathering, taking a seat beside Charlotte. He stole occasional glances in your direction, his curiosity evident in his wide-eyed gaze.

Unable to contain your surprise, you turned to Charlotte and asked, "You have a child?"

Charlotte rolled her eyes in response, her annoyance palpable, while Charles chuckled softly at the exchange.

Feeling a familiar pinch on your arm, you turned to see Susan giving you a reproachful look. "This is why you should've answered my calls. He's your brother," she scolded gently.

Your eyes widened in disbelief. "Huh?!" you exclaimed, your mind struggling to comprehend the revelation as you glanced back at the little boy sitting beside Charlotte, a newfound sense of connection dawning within you. Now his face and future look similar to yours.

You found yourself at a loss for words, grappling with the sudden revelation of a long-lost sibling. The realization that you had cut off all contact when you joined the army weighed heavily on your conscience, leaving you with a profound sense of regret for the years of missed connections and lost opportunities.

Running a hand through your face, you let out a weary sigh, the weight of the past 15 years bearing down on you like a heavy burden. "Will there be another surprise?" you wondered aloud, the question hanging in the air as you braced yourself for whatever other unexpected twists fate had in store for you.

A few minutes later, Cedric, the lawyer, strode into the room with purpose, placing his briefcase on the table before retrieving the file. With a solemn expression, he began to read aloud the contents of Duke Rupert's will.

"Everyone will get a share of his insurance and investments," Cedric announced, his voice measured and professional. "Except Y/N."

You couldn't help but feel a twinge of resignation at the news, having expected as much given the strained dynamics within the family. Glancing around the room, you noted the acceptance in your mother's and the twins' expressions, as if they had anticipated this outcome.

But then, Cedric's next words shattered the calm facade that had settled over the room. "For the Evergreen Abbey Manor and the title, I hereby give it to Y/N L/N," he continued, his voice resolute.

Your shock was palpable, the expletive escaping your lips before you could stop it.

'HUH?!'

"What the fuck?" you exclaimed, unable to comprehend the sudden turn of events as the weight of Duke Rupert's decision settled heavily upon you.

As Charles let out a disbelieving "Hoo," and Charlotte expressed her relief with a curt "Great, not my problem anymore," the tension in the room seemed to escalate.

'Wait. The twins aren't angry?'

Your mother reached out, gently squeezing your hand and offering a reassuring look, her silent support a comforting anchor amidst the chaos unfolding around you.

"Why do I feel like I'm carrying a bomb in my hand?" you muttered, the weight of Duke Rupert's legacy pressing down on you like a heavy burden.

Cedric adjusted his glasses, his expression grave as he spoke. "When you became the Lady of this house... Your grace, pardon me that I have to tell you this," he began carefully. "The former Duke had debts, and he was involved in what we might call 'creative' work."

"You mean drugs, gambling, and the like?" you interjected, your voice laced with disbelief.

Susan shot you a warning glance, her lips forming a silent reprimand. "You shouldn't say that word in front of your brother," she whispered, her tone urgent.

Turning to her younger son, she leaned in closer, her voice barely above a whisper. "It's not drugs, but weed," she clarified softly.

"Oh, wow. Now I feel relieved," you replied sarcastically, the absurdity of the situation not lost on you as you struggled to come to terms with the unexpected revelations about Duke Rupert's illicit activities.

You ran a hand through your hair in frustration, the enormity of the situation sinking in. "How much is the debt?" you asked, your voice tinged with apprehension.

"8 million pounds," Cedricbreplied solemnly, his tone grave.

Charles made the sign of the cross a gesture of disbelief. "Oh Lord," he murmured under his breath.

"And he wants me to repay the debt when I never took a single cent?" you exclaimed, incredulity coloring your words as you struggled to comprehend the injustice of it all.

"Was he high when he wrote the will? Why me?!!"

Sighing heavily, you turned your gaze towards the imposing manor, its grandeur now overshadowed by the weight of Duke Rupert's debts. "Can I just sell this manor?" you wondered aloud, desperation creeping into your voice.

"It will take months or years, Your Grace. And the debt has to be paid by the end of this month," Cedric explained, punctuated by a sense of urgency.

But before you could act on your impulse, Susan's voice cut through the air, her tone laced with urgency and apprehension. "You can't sell the manor," she interjected, her gaze pleading with you to reconsider.

Confusion flickered in your eyes as you turned to face her, a mix of frustration and resignation bubbling up inside you. "Why not?" you demanded, your voice tinged with exasperation.

Susan's response was swift, her words carrying the weight of years of pent-up frustration and resentment. "If you sell the manor, I would lose my title as a duchess," she explained, her voice quavering with emotion.

The realization hit you like a punch to the gut, stirring up memories of the strained relationship that had defined your interactions with Susan over the years. Her obsession with upholding the image of a perfect duchess had driven a wedge between you, leaving your relationship fraught with tension and resentment.

As you stood there, grappling with the weight of Duke Rupert's debts and the expectations thrust upon you by your title, you couldn't help but feel a sense of bitterness creeping in.

You let out another sigh, resigned to the reality of the situation. "I need a drink," you muttered, the thought of seeking solace in the most potent alcohol near the lake seeming like the only reprieve from the turmoil raging inside you.

As you sat by the lake's tranquil waters, the weight of the situation bearing down on you, regret began to seep into your thoughts like a creeping mist.

Coming back here had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but now, faced with the reality of Duke Rupert's debts and the burden they placed upon you, you couldn't help but wonder if it had been a mistake.

Taking a sip of your whiskey, you allowed the warmth of the liquid to wash over you, momentarily easing the turmoil in your mind. But even the soothing embrace of alcohol couldn't dispel the unease gnawing at your insides.

Lost in your thoughts, you were startled when a small figure approached, breaking the silence that had settled over the lakeside. You glanced up to see your little stepbrother, Hugo, standing before you with a tentative expression on his face.

"Uh, hi. Hello. I'm your older sister," you greeted awkwardly, the words feeling foreign on your tongue.

Hugo returned your greeting with a shy smile. "Hi, step-bro. Hugo. Ten years old," he introduced himself, his voice soft and uncertain.

An awkward silence hung between you, the gap between your worlds feeling vast and insurmountable. Sensing the tension, you made an effort to bridge the divide.

"You want to walk?" you offered, gesturing towards the path that wound its way around the edge of the lake.

Hugo hesitated for a moment before nodding hesitantly. "Hmm...," he murmured, his eyes brightening with a hint of curiosity as he took a tentative step forward, ready to embark on this uncertain journey with you.

As you and Hugo began to playfully throw stones into the lake, the tension between you gradually dissipated, replaced by a sense of camaraderie born from the simple joy of shared activity.

"So, Hugo, do you know what's happening at the household?" you asked, choosing your words carefully. You had learned in the military that children often possessed an innate honesty that could shed light on complex situations.

Hugo paused in his stone-throwing, considering your question for a moment before responding. "Walls have ears, and the workers always gossip," he replied cryptically, his voice tinged with wisdom beyond his years.

Impressed by his insight, you couldn't help but smile. "Wow," you remarked, genuinely impressed by Hugo's observation. "Do you want to share?" you prompted, curious to hear his perspective on the goings-on within the household.

As Hugo shared his insights, you listened intently, surprised by the depth of understanding hidden behind his youthful facade.

"Charlie doesn't want to take the house because of the debt, and he wants to become a pope," Hugo explained matter-of-factly, his words carrying a weight of resignation.

You responded with a puzzled "Huh?"

"And Charlotte doesn't care since she's going to marry a prince. She doesn't want anything related to Dad's 'creative work.' It will ruin her image."

"Her image? She's marrying a prince?" you interjected, your incredulity evident in your tone.

Hugo regarded you with a knowing look. "You're really ignorant, huh?" he remarked bluntly, his words stinging with a hint of playful teasing.

Feeling a pang of embarrassment at being corrected by a child, you cleared your throat awkwardly. "Hey..." you started, but Hugo continued without missing a beat.

"Sis Charlotte has quite millions of followers on social media," he elaborated, his voice tinged with a hint of admiration. "If her name is connected to weed and family debt—"

"It will ruin her image, and she'll have to pay the penalty," you finished, the implications sinking in as you processed Hugo's words. "Wait, how old are you again?" you asked, feeling a mix of surprise and amusement at the maturity of his observations.

Hugo raised both hands, a playful grin spreading across his face. "Ten," he replied, the innocence of his youth juxtaposed against the weight of the knowledge he carried.

You chuckled softly, taking another sip of your whiskey as you observed Hugo with newfound respect. Children were indeed frighteningly perceptive these days, and you made a mental note to tread carefully around him in the future.

You looked at the lake and sighed again. No wonder Charlie felt relieved upon seeing you. He wouldn't have to worry about these things. If his past caught up with him while pursuing his path to becoming a pope, it would ruin everything for him.

As for Charlotte, nothing ever seems to be enough for her. If her future in-laws from the royal family were to find out about this business, they would likely cancel her marriage.

So it's obvious they were relieved when Rupert chose you as the heir.

As both of you made your way back home, your senses went on high alert as you spotted a black Range Rover parked near the entrance. The sight of the familiar car sent a chill down your spine, and you felt a sense of unease settle in the pit of your stomach.

He's the man who watched Rupert's funeral from afar.

"Hugo, go inside," you instructed quietly, your voice tinged with urgency as you gestured for him to retreat to the safety of the house.

The man who emerged from the car was none other than the same individual you had seen at the funeral. James Barnes, or "Bucky" as he preferred to be called, approached you with a confident stride, his demeanor exuding an air of authority.

"Sorry to disturb your afternoon walk," Bucky began, his voice smooth and polite. "Allow me to introduce myself. I'm James Barnes, but you could call me Bucky."

You nodded in acknowledgment, your guard instinctively rising as you braced yourself for whatever news he had come to deliver. "How can I help you, Mr. Barnes?" you inquired, your tone guarded yet polite.

"It's difficult for me to say while you're still grieving," Bucky admitted, his expression sympathetic. "But the former duke owed money to us."

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose in frustration. "You see, Mr. Barnes, I just got here two days ago after 15 years," you explained wearily, the weight of Duke Rupert's legacy pressing down on you like a suffocating blanket.

Bucky raised an eyebrow at your revelation, his interest piqued. "Yeah, Rupert mentioned it a couple of times," he remarked casually.

"Did he?" you muttered under your breath, feeling a surge of annoyance at Duke Rupert's apparent penchant for gossip.

"Let's continue this at the office," you suggested tersely, eager to put some distance between yourself and the unsettling presence of James Barnes.

As you stepped into Rupert's office for the first time, a wave of nostalgia washed over you, mingling with the lingering scent of his cigar and the familiar musk that seemed to permeate the room. It was a scent you had grown accustomed to over the years, a reminder of the man who had once occupied this space.

Pouring another whiskey for yourself and a glass for Bucky, you couldn't help but feel a pang of melancholy as you reflected on the memories associated with this room. Duke Rupert's presence seemed to linger in every corner, his larger-than-life persona casting a shadow over the space.

Bucky took a moment to savor the whiskey, his expression one of appreciation. "Your step-dad always did have a good collection of alcohol," he remarked, a hint of nostalgia coloring his words as he raised his glass in a silent toast.

You nodded in agreement, acknowledging the truth in his words. Despite the complexities of his character, Duke Rupert had always taken pride in his impressive selection of drinks, a testament to his refined taste and penchant for the finer things in life.

Taking a sip of your drink, you cleared your throat, breaking the heavy silence in the air. "Do you have business with my step-dad?" you asked, your tone cautious as you eyed Bucky across the desk.

Bucky's admission hung heavy in the air as he spoke, his words carrying a weight of responsibility and obligation.

"I lent him my money and I protected him," he explained, his tone tinged with a sense of duty.

"Why? His weed business didn't work out?" you asked, curiosity piqued by the revelation.

Bucky shook his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. "It was successful. But he had a change of heart and wanted out. And his boss didn't like it. That's where I came in," he elaborated, his expression grave.

"Eight million pounds. Is all because of you?" you queried, the enormity of the debt now beginning to make sense.

Bucky tilted his head, his gaze meeting yours with a solemn intensity. "The price of the damage I got for protecting your step-dad. I gained more enemies," he admitted, his voice tinged with regret.

Setting down your whiskey glass, you felt a sense of relief wash over you. Despite the tangled web of intrigue and deceit surrounding Duke Rupert, at least his involvement in the weed business was not the cause of his debts.

You let out a heavy sigh, the weight of the situation pressing down on you like a suffocating blanket. Options seemed limited, and each path forward appeared fraught with challenges and uncertainties.

Glancing at the bank statements and stock reports spread out on the desk before you, a sinking feeling settled in the pit of your stomach. Duke Rupert's financial situation was far from ideal, and the prospect of producing eight million pounds seemed increasingly daunting.

Your mother's reluctance to sell the manor only added to the complexity of the situation. Despite the financial burden it represented, the estate held sentimental value for her, serving as a tangible connection to Duke Rupert and the life they had built together.

The twins' indifference to the predicament only further highlighted the sense of isolation you felt in confronting this dilemma alone. But then your thoughts turned to Hugo, the youngest member of the family, and the realization dawned on you that the manor held a special significance for him as well.

Selling off the artwork and alcohol collection was a possibility, but the process would take time, and the prospect of navigating the complexities of the open market and taxation only added to the uncertainty.

With few options left to consider, you knew that your best course of action was to confront the man himself. Despite your reservations, you couldn't ignore the fact that Bucky held the key to unraveling the mystery of Duke Rupert's debts.

As the desire to return to the U.S. gnawed at you, a sense of urgency washed over you, driving you to seek resolution as quickly as possible. But with time ticking away and the weight of responsibility bearing on your shoulders, you knew the road ahead would be fraught with challenges and sacrifices.

You sighed heavily, the weight of the situation settling upon your shoulders. "What options do I have?

Bucky's smile was almost too slick, his finger pointing at you like a loaded gun. "I really like your attitude, Your Grace. Straight to the point," he remarked, his voice smooth as silk.

As he unbuttoned his suit and slid his hands into his pocket pants, a sense of foreboding settled over you like a dark cloud. "I'm also intrigued by your career as an expert in bombs," he continued, his words sending a chill down your spine.

A knot of unease tightened in your stomach as you braced yourself for what was to come. "Go on," you replied tersely, the tension crackling in the air between you.

With a calculated gesture, Bucky brought his hands together, the glint of gold rings catching the light and adding an air of menace to his demeanor. "I will make the debt of 8 million pounds disappear. If you help me," he declared, his tone dripping with promise.

Your heart skipped a beat at the audacity of his offer, the implications of his words sinking in like a lead weight. "What do you want?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, the gravity of the situation weighing heavily on your shoulders.

Bucky hesitated for a moment, his gaze flickering with uncertainty before he finally spoke. "I've got more competition after I helped Rupert. Thinking about it gives me headaches. That's where you come in," he explained cryptically, his words laden with hidden meaning.

Raising an eyebrow, you regarded him with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. The silence stretched between you, thick with tension, until Bucky finally broke it with a chilling revelation. "I want you to create an explosion. To get rid of them," he stated bluntly, his eyes boring into yours with unwavering intensity.

"Fuck!"

Cursing under your breath, you cast a wary glance at the painting of Rupert hanging on the wall. His eyes seemed to bore into you, judging your every move. As an army EOD technician, the thought of making a bomb for a criminal to pay off a debt filled you with a sense of dread.

Regret gnawed at you like a festering wound as you grappled with the weight of the decision before you. Coming back home had seemed like the right thing to do at the time, but now, faced with the reality of the situation, you couldn't help but wish you had never returned.

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[livwritesstuff]

I definitely think that former rich kid-Steve knows how to ski, and when he and Eddie move to New England in their late twenties, he gets into it again.

Eddie, on the other hand, is not a skier. Not by any stretch of the imagination. He let Steve drag him onto the mountain once, and that was way more than enough for him.

Years later, when they have kids that they're supposed to be enrolling in sports (to become "well-rounded human beings" or whatever), Steve signs them up for skiing "just to see how it goes", and much to Eddie's chagrin, they love it, so every weekend from November through February, the Harrington family can be found at their local mountain.

Eddie joins the trip to the mountain every weekend purely for child-wrangling purposes because, seriously, three kids five-and-under is no fucking joke. His favorite part of their ski days is the conversation Steve has to have with Moe, their half-feral menace of a five-year-old, before they hit the slopes.

"Okay, no running into anyone," Steve says as he adjusts Moe's bright pink ski helmet, "Last week you were bowling people over left, right, and center."

Eddie has to hold in a snort, because it's true. The second Moe got the hang of skiing she'd made it her mission to figure out just how fast she could barrel down the mountain. To hell with the other skiers.

"Can you make some big turns today, Moe?" Steve asks, and Eddie watches Moe give her dad some major side-eye.

"Maybe," she says, her tone suggesting she wouldn't be doing any such thing.

So Moe and Steve hit the big hill and Eddie drops three-year-old Robbie off at her lesson on the bunny slope and then he gets to spend the rest of the day in the warmth of the ski lodge with baby Hazel, watching out the window as Steve makes every attempt to prevent Moe from careening straight down the mountain.

"I swear – that girl doesn't feel fear," Steve says later when he finally manages to drag Moe into the lodge for lunch, "You see it, right? She's gonna kill someone if she keeps skiing like that."

"Hey this was all you, man," Eddie shakes his head, "At least we know we can't ever sign her up for hockey."

"Jesus Christ – imagine the bloodbath that would be."

[ghoulfuckersincorporated]

Do you have any headcanons about the Ghoul's cum? Is it an unusual color, taste, or texture? Is it radioactive? If you look at it under a microscope, do the sperm cells look mutated? Can he get someone pregnant? If he cums inside someone, are there any side effects?

I feel like my answer to this shouldn't start with "I have actually given much thought to what ghoul cum would be like", and it shouldn't be as long as it is, Anon, but here we go:

I headcanon that being a ghoul does make you infertile, especially as a man...early on. Radiation is a massive sperm-killer so I think all the human sperm would be wiped out pretty damn quick. But I think if you manage to stay alive long enough into the ghoulification process (which can be instantaneous or can be drawn out over years and years), your boys could possibly adjust and "heal" from being so damaged by the radiation and start producing sperm again. In the lore of the games, there are records of ghouls reproducing with one another (though it is not elaborated on at all and is apparently rare), so why would it be out of the realm of possibility (in the Fallout universe) that they could reproduce with healthy humans?

I think it would take the right human, the right ghoul, and the right conditions (my heart says 'radstorm', but I know how deeply corny that is), but I do think it's possible for some ghouls to get women pregnant.

I don't think their sperm themselves would necessarily be remarkable under a microscope; sperm having multiple heads/tails, no head/tail, and other malformations already exists in human men, and the number of them visible in a sample is used as an indicator of sperm quality. I think, that close, a sample from a ghoul would just look like a sample from a regular man with poor quality sperm.

The semen would be very radioactive after a few years, especially if you had sexual contact with an older ghoul or a still-sentient glowing one like Jason Bright or Oswald the Outrageous. I think it has a bit of a strangely-colored hue and I think it's thicker in consistency than before. You will absolutely get sick from it (especially if you swallow it) if you don't properly prep with Rad-X. Expect all the traditional symptoms of radiation sickness (fever, fatigue/fainting, confusion, vomiting, red inflammation and burns in the places you had direct physical contact, bleeding from the nose/mouth, unusual bruising) if you don't, and have Radaway ready for afterwards. What's the stuff for if not saving us from ourselves?

When a ghoul cums inside you, you can absolutely taste it, like you rested a nickle on the back of your tongue. You'll really hate it at first, but eventually you'll come to tolerate, even like it. Try not to let them "shoot up the club" every single time, though, since it'll probably leave you incredibly raw and sore. It's also long-accepted ghoul-fucker canon that your sentient ghoul lover cumming inside of/all over you can hide your scent from feral ghouls.

When I tell you that shit would taste so bad, I'm not even sure I have the proper words for what I think it would be like. Sort of like licking a battery combined with the bitter, acidic flavor of bile (and also the taste of semen, which doesn't exactly taste great anyway). You'll probably try to be sexy and brave and at least let your ghoul lover cum on your tongue once, but trust me when I say you'll never offer again. Especially since their regenerative abilities make them cum buckets every single time.

Godspeed, ghoul fuckers. We wouldn't do it if we weren't willing to risk a little rad exposure, right?