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There was a promise of unrest carried by the winds that you could sense.
Your private quarters smelled faintly of parchment and clean wool, of herbs tucked into clothes to ward off moths. It was not lavish, but it was ordered with care and fairly lived-in already: the bed hastily made, boots set neatly beneath the window, the desk scarred by dried drops of ink and candle-wax. You had lived here long enough now that the room had begun to answer to you.
Ăowyn sat on the low bench by your window, one leg folded beneath her, an embroidery frame resting against her knee. Her fingers moved with practiced grace, sure and unhurried. She bent her head as she worked, pale hair slipping forward to veil part of her face, catching the light.
At the sound of the door, she glanced up at you only briefly and shifted at once, making room beside her out of habit.
You entered, crossed the room and sat by her side, smoothing your skirts nervously. In your hands you held a letter, folded twice, the seal still unbroken. The courier had arrived only moments before.
For a long while you did nothing but stare at it in silence, until your gaze slipped from the letter to the embroidery in Ăowyn's hands.
It was a small tapestry, not meant to hang at great halls. The colours were subdued: greys and greens and the pale gold over spring grass. Much of it remained unfinished, figures were not fully shaped, emerging softly from the weave. A crowd stood blurred in the distance, an outline of the King's kin watched from the edge. And at the centre, unmistakable even without a face, a lone female archer stood poised with a raised bow, three arrows nocked, the moment caught just before release.
You leaned closer, studying the work with a frown formed by awe rather than judgement. Breath caught in your throat.
"Why are you making this?" you asked quietly.
Ăowyn's fingers stilled. For a second, she said nothing.
"Because no one else would," she said confidently, her voice warmed by conviction. "And because it mattered."
Your eyes softened at that and your heart warmed, a small unguarded smile tracing your lips.
You both sat together in familiar quiet after that. Ăowyn was busy with her embroidery, the soft rasp of thread through fabric marking the passage of time, while you leaned back slightly, looking through the open window. The sky was blurring into grey, the light thinning as clouds shielded the sun and dulled its warmth.
Sounds drifted in from Edoras below: hooves striking stone, a voice calling, the ring of iron.
Ăowyn's presence offered a kind of comfort you had never quite known with your younger sisters. There was no need to fill the silence, no urgency to speak. Only the shared act of listening to the world as it moved around you.
"Will you not read it?" Ăowyn asked then, nodding toward the letter. A faint curve touched the corner of her mouth. "I would have torn it open the moment it arrived. Some of us have less patience for subtlety."
You hesitated, lifting the letter slightly; the seal was still whole, though its edges were slightly peeled up from fidgeting with it.
"It just arrived," you said, turning the paper between your fingers, uncertain why you were delaying it. Perhaps it was the fear that once read, its contents could not be set aside.
With a short, resolute breath, you finally ripped the seal open.
Your father's hand was steady, his words so familiar they stirred a tightening in your chest, and you smiled as though he had reached across the leagues of distance and spoken your name; it was a strange comfort to find him so fully present in his written words, for you could almost hear him reading them aloud.
He wrote of shearing season, of her sisters' endless chatter, of the river Isen running lower than it ought at this time of year. It was the sort of news families sent when they wished to pretend the world remained unchanged.
At the bottom he noted, almost as an afterthought, that there were nights he would reach for your door before remembering that you were not there.
You read it twice. The first one aloud, then to yourself, absorbing the meaning behind every comma and stroke of ink, every careful omission.
Ăowyn watched her closely. "It sounds as though all is well," she said carefully.
Lowering the letter, you shook your head with a sigh. "He worries," you replied, neatly folding the paper again. "He pretends not to, but his words lean that way."
The careful phrasing, the faint tension threaded between each word, betrayed the concerns he would not name outright: the river, the farms and fields, the western roads.
Outside the window, hooves rang again. A rider passed, then another.
You tilted your head, listening. "Reports from the East have come in this week. All of them say the same thing. Quiet." Your brow furrowed. "But one has not arrived yet."
"How late?" Ăowyn asked.
"Five days," you replied. "Some others were late, but they still arrived. This one has not."
Silence filled the room, dense with unspoken thoughts.
"They will blame the weather," Ăowyn said. "Summer storms."
"They already are," you responded, deep in thought . "GrĂma, I mean. He has been careful about it, telling the King that weather turns oddly this time of year, that horses may falter and rivers swell. Delays, he says, are to be expected."
Ăowyn glanced toward the closed door, wary, as though the man himself could be listening, then back to the window. "Delays are convenient," she said quietly. "They spare difficult questions. My uncle will accept it."
You turned then to kneel upon the bench and leaned on the window sill, looking down the slope. Below, near the stables, you spotted Ăomer talking with HĂĄma, the captain of the King's guard. He listened, nodded, yet his attention kept drifting eastward, as if pulled by something unseen.
Ăowyn joined you, edging close enough that your shoulders brushed. "That explains why my brother has been restless these days," she murmured, watching him too.
You nodded, squinting your eyes in thought. "He knows."
"He always does."
"And he will not wait idly," you added.
You both saw Ăomer turning into the stables before his conversation had truly ended. No escort gathered. No orders spoken aloud.
"He will ride east," you said, the certainty settling in your chest. "He will learn the truth for himself."
"And hope no one notices him leaving," Ăowyn added, unease threading her voice.
"Too late for that," you said, already rising to your feet.
Shutting the window, you turned back into the room, quickly moving to a chest. You slipped your father's letter beneath folded clothes and found your travelling cloak. You drew it on and reached next for the worn leather of your quiver.
"If you go,"Â Ăowyn said softly, already knowing the answer, "the King will not be pleased."
"I know."
You took up your bow from where it rested against the wall and tested the string with a gentle pluck. The weight settled in your hands, steadying your resolve.
"You won't ask permission," Ăowyn said, not quite a question.
You met her eyes decidedly. "I would rather beg for forgiveness than wait for permission."
Your friend studied you for a long moment as you packed what would be needed for the journey, with the efficiency of one whose decision had long been forming. She then stepped closer and adjusted the clasp of your cloak at your shoulder with care.
"Then be wise enough not to die," she said, her voice softened by concern, yet held by respect. "I will need someone in this hall who notices what is missing."
Your throat tightened. You covered Ăowyn's hand briefly with your own, then slung the pack and quiver over your shoulders, the familiar weight of the arrows familiar against your back.
Ăowyn stepped back. "Go," she said. "And keep my brother safe."
You nodded once and turned to the door.
At the threshold, you paused, head bowed down slightly. "Don't let ThĂŠodred worry too much," you said, low but clear, before slipping from the room.
The moment you stepped into the stables, you spotted him. Ăomer was there, and no one else.
He stood at Firefoot's flank, readying his mount with the brisk, practiced movements of someone who had already made his choice and would not be delayed by doubt. His mail was already on, his sword hung at his left hip and the front of his hair braided back for riding, revealing clearly his serious expression.
You crossed the stables, boots softly stirring straw against the packed earth.
"Where are you riding to?" you asked.
He turned at once, startled despite himself, the saddle still in his hands. For a second, he looked ready to snap, then recognition set in. He turned away again, setting the saddle in place across his horse's back.
"East," he said gruffly, sending you only a sidelong glance .
"To CĂŠolric's watchpost?"
He did not answer. His jaw clenched as he adjusted the girth of the saddle with gentle care.
"Coincidentally," you went on, you mild tone failing to hide the mischief in your voice, "that watchpost lies closest to where Orcs were reported."
Ăomer adjusted the stirrups, slower now and still avoiding looking at you. "It is only a short ride," he explained. "To see that all remains in order."
"Then I am coming."
He straightened and turned to you, disbelief flaring into irritation across his face. "No."
His stern tone and in his ablaze eyes told you that there was no place for debate, but you found your way into it any way.
You crossed your arms. "Why not? You call it a simple scouting journey. I would see matters clearly for myself, without messages softened before they reach the hall. Without voices dressing worries with patience."Â Â
His mouth tightened. He knew precisely whose voice you meant. "It may truly be nothing. Delays happen."
"If you really believed that," you replied lightly, almost teasing, "you would not be armoured."
He shook his head. "You do no understand what you ask. You cannot act against the King's orders."
"Am I forbidden to leave these walls without asking his leave?" you countered. "Or am I now a prisoner of courtesy?"
"You can leave," he answered, "but not without protection."
A spark lit in your eyes and a knowing smirk appeared on your mouth. "Oh, I will have protection."
He barked a short, humourless laugh. "I am not spending three days on the road guarding a princess."
"I am not asking you to." Your voice hardened, firm and unyielding. "But I am going. You may ride ahead and leave me to follow, or... you may ride beside me and complain the whole way. Those are your choices."
He observed you for a moment, looking you up and down as if measuring your determination against the trouble you would cause him, and the trouble you might save him from.
"You are infuriating," Ăomer grumbled at last.Â
Lifting your chin a fraction, you shrugged your shoulders. "So I've been told."
For a heartbeat, it seemed to you that he might refuse again out of sheer stubbornness. He inhaled slowly.
"If I thought you naive, this would be easier," he muttered under his breath, then turned his back to you, reaching for Firefoot's reins, and added dryly. "Choose a horse, princess. And keep close."
A small, satisfied smile touched your mouth as you moved toward a stall, reaching for a bridle.
Without an escort or announcement, you both rode out of Edoras. And by the time your absence was noticed, it would be too late to call you back.
You took the long road that ran west to east across the Mark, the ancient way that stretched from Gondor to the Gap of Rohan. To the south, the White Mountains rose alongside your path; summer had settled over the plains and hills, but the high peaks were still crowned with snow despite the turning of the season.Â
For a time, both of you rode without speech.
You kept your place beside Ăomer, learning the rhythm of the horse you had chosen, Beornic. He was young and brown, strong-limbed and quick to respond, not unlike your own mare left back in Westburg. You guided him with light hands, testing, listening, letting the road teach you both.
Ăomer, by contrast, rode Firefoot as though the horse were an extension of his will. The great dapple-grey moved with effortless confidence, his ears turning to every sound. Against the darkening sky, his storm-coloured coat seemed almost a reflection of the clouds gathering above the plains.
After a while, you pressed your heels softly to the horse's sides. He answered at once, lengthening his stride until you slipped ahead past Ăomer. You glanced back quickly, just enough that Ăomer could catch the grin across your face, before turning your eyes forward again.
Firefoot surged forward.
Ăomer rode level with you, his expression hard as thunder. "Keep your eyes on the road," he said, his strong voice full of command.
"I am," you replied lightly, a chuckle threaded through your words. "It is not my fault if you fall behind."
His frown deepened, but you noted something else beneath it now. Challenge. And a shred of amusement that he quickly smothered.
"I was sparing the pace," he said, hands firm on the reins. "Do not mistake courtesy for slowness."
"Then spare me the courtesy," you called back, the wind carrying your laughter back to him as you rode faster again.
He almost smiled.
Firefoot shot forward, powerful and sudden, and for a moment Ăomer rode ahead of you, just enough to make his point. Iron-shod hooves striking sparks from the stone road.
You did not wait to urge your mount on until you drew level once more. When Ăomer glanced across to you, he found your breath quick and your eyes alight, a clear, vivid colour that made the open plains pale by comparison.
He forced himself to tear his gaze from you and set it firmly upon the road.
You had been riding thus for nearly four hours, side by side along the main road, when the first drops of rain fell. They touched your neck and brow lightly at first, as the sun sank deeper into a ceiling of thickening grey. Then the wind rose, sharp and sudden, snatching at your cloak like a living thing.
The horses felt the coming storm immediately. They snorted, ears flicking back, hooves striking the road with a more hurried rhythm as the ground became slippery beneath them. You adjusted the reins, steady and sure, without breaking pace.
"There's a storm coming," you raised your voice just enough to carry, eyes still on the road ahead. Damp strands of hair clung to your temple.
"Aye," Ăomer answered. His grip tightened on the reins, his free hand brushing rain-darkened hair from his brow as he read the sky.
A short while later, you caught sight of a stream cutting through the meadow not far from the road. You drew Beornic to a halt.
"Ăomer!"
He reined in at once, Firefoot tossing his head as he turned back. Gesturing toward the water, you said "We should let the horses rest now. Let them drink."
His eyes narrowed as his gaze moved from the stream to the darkening treeline beyond, measuring distance, shelter and time. For a moment, you thought he might press on regardless. Then he nodded once.
You two led the horses down from the road, allowing them to drink and graze whatever pasture they could find. Rain pattered more insistently now, dimpling the surface of the stream and darkening the earth beneath your boots.
"How far is the nearest town?" you asked Ăomer, looking along the road toward eastern lands not entirely familiar to you.
He considered, then lifted his eyes to the heavy sky. "Not near enough. We will not reach it before the storm breaks on us."
You nodded. Without another word, you gathered your skirts to not cover them in mud, and stepped away toward the trees, aware of his eyes following you. You moved quickly, choosing fallen branches and snapping them, testing their weight and dryness.
When you turned again, Ăomer was already behind you, sword knocking softly against his hip as he bent to gather wood as well.
"I did not think to collect firewood before the rain falls heavily," he admitted, not quite looking at you as he spoke.
A faint smirk on your mouth. "My father used to say that brave men are easy to follow." You glanced at him, adjusting the bundle of branches in your arms. "But it is careful people who keep brave men alive."
Ăomer huffed out a breath, something like a laugh held back by pride. He straightened, meeting your eyes at last.
"Careful, are you?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.
"Careful enough," you said, eyes focused on the search of more proper branches.
For the first time since leaving the road, Ăomer did not look away from you at all.
Thunder rolled in the distance, low and warning.
After securing the bundles of firewood tight behind the horses' saddles, Ăomer and you mounted again and turned east, pressing back onto the road as the sky darkened above.
The wind rose without warning, scattering leaves and whipping the branches across the path. A thin spray of rain stung your face, biting cold and clean. You leaned forward into the horse's motion, one hand adjusting the strap of the bow where it crossed your back.
A flash of lightning lit the trees beyond, stark as a drawn blade, and seconds later thunder rolled low over the hills, rattling the trees. You felt your pulse quicken, not with fear, but with the raw, alert thrill of the storm.
The rain thickened, drumming on the leather of the saddles, pooling in the hollows of the road. Your cloak dragged heavy at your shoulders, soaked with water. The storm was not yet violent, but Ăomer's gaze kept returning to you, making sure you were keeping up under the weather. You pretended not to notice, but allowed a tiny private smile to escape when at last he seemed certain that you would not falter.
Lightning cracked again, sharper this time, revealing the road ahead, slick and treacherous between the sentinel trees. You tightened the grip on the reins and trusted Beornic to carry you safely. Ăomer closed the distance without comment, Firefoot falling into step beside you once more.
The downpour worsened soon after, beating in unison with the pounding hooves; sheets of water sliced across the road, soaking cloak and hair alike. Every tree shadow seemed larger, every bend in the road a potential threat. Once, your horse slipped on the slick earth, hooves scrambling for support. You caught yourself just in time, steadying the animal with gentle words barely heard amidst the storm.
"Careful!" Ăomer called, already slowing, his eyes scanning the mountain ridge to the right.
The sun was sinking fast behind the western hills. The storm would last, the road would twist, and the watchpost lay at least two days' hard riding away.
"We won't outride this," he decided.
Already following his line of sight, you nodded once. The hillside there was cracked by a shallow opening in the rock, shaped by wind and time, half-hidden by bramble and shadow. Not a proper cave, but deep enough to turn aside the worst of the weather.
Rain poured down your backs as you dismounted and led the horses into the shelter. Inside, the rock curved overhead just enough to blunt the storm's fury, the sound of thunder dulling to a steady roar beyond the entrance. Water ran in narrow tracks along the edges of the stone floor, but the centre ramained dry.
Outside, the storm pressed close, wind howling and rain lashing sideways in sudden gusts. The light dimmed until dusk gave way to true night.
Ăomer tethered the horses first, murmuring low to calm them. And then, you began to work together with a quiet that usually comes from habit and familiarity. Cloaks were hung where they could dry, packs were set well far from the cave-mouth.
You brought forward the firewood, along with some dry moss gathered earlier. Ăomer knelt to strike flint, while you shielded the sparks with your hands, angling your body between flame and wind. It took patience, and more than one failed spark, but at last a small fire caught, tentative, then steady. Sparks danced between Ăomer and you; warmth spread, slow and inviting.
He sat close to you to avoid the splash of rain that sneaked into the cave, your shoulders nearly touching, and you let your hair loose to dry by the heat. Ăomer kept his sword within reach and rolled his shoulders, only now allowing himself to release some of the tension from the ride as the fire settled. Neither spoke for a long while. The crackle of the fire, the sigh of the wind, the steady drum of rain, the echoing shuffle of the horses' hooves filled the space between you and him.
You noticed how the firelight carved Ăomer into gold and shadow, catching on the sharp lines of his cheekbones and sinking beneath his brow. You watched the flames glowing in his eyes, aware too late that you had been staring.
He felt your eyes on him. And stilled. Then looked away to the entrance of the shelter, jaw tightening as though he had caught himself stepping too close to something dangerous.
You extended your hands toward the fire, fingers still stiff with damp cold. Without a word, he shifted to adjust a shifting log, coaxing the flames higher. Your knees brushed; the touch was light yet undeniable to either of you.
Neither drew back.
A sudden thunder cracked close enough to make the horses stamp and snort. You stood immediately and murmured soft words to the animals, calm and steady, until they settled again. Ăomer watched your every move, deep in thought.
"You're not what I expected," he said once you returned to the fire, his voice so low that it was nearly lost beneath the storm. It almost sounded to you like he was not only talking about this day.
You glanced at him sideways. "Is that a compliment?"
"Don't get used to it, princess."
Raising a teasing eyebrow, you asked "How terrible would it be, Ăomer, to get used to me?
Ăomer's eyes found yours, stared for a moment longer than was safe, and a faint, reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. You returned it.
The storm raged on. Thunder rolled closer now, echoing through the rock, the sound strangely intimate in the confined space. You shifted, laying back against your pack and drawing your knees up.
"This will last," you said, staring out.
"A few hours, at least," Ăomer agreed. "Sleep."
You snorted softly, tucking a blanket around your shoulders. "You command very sweetly."
A short laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
Smiling to yourself, your heavy eyelids began to close slowly. Sleep came soon, carried by exhaustion and the steady, relentless hammer of rain.
Ăomer remained awake long after.
He sat with one knee drawn up, forearm resting across it, eyes fixed on the mouth of the cave, where the storm battered the world raw. He counted the seconds between thunder, tracking every shift of shadow, every restless movement of the horses.
Once, twice, his glance strayed back to your sleeping form, and each time, it lingered a moment longer than his own judgment allowed.
Longer chapter â
Slow-burn while they literally burn a fire â
Inevitably trapped together in a cave during a storm â
Me giggling nonstop while writing this â
Next Chapter (coming soon) >
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hello! can you write benny x reader when he hears his girlâs friend trying to convince her to leave him, that heâs not worth it and she deserves better, but his girl defends him. please
A/n: my first fic after a lllooonnggg hiatus due to some (happy) personal circumstances. Thank you anon for your patience, I hope you see this and love it!
Flowers on the Floor - Benny Cross X Fem!Reader
Word count: 3213
Warnings: angst, implied sex, fade-to-black
Benny had messed up. Bad.Â
Forgetting to pick up eggs on the way home from a rowdy night at the bar was one thing. Forgetting to put the toilet seat down was one thing. Forgetting how you took your coffee or your favorite color or to share a blanket with you on the couch - those were all forgivable. Lord knows heâd done them all before.
But forgetting your birthday? That was a whole other level of fuck up. And Benny was procrastinating in the driveway, puffing on his third cigarette, putting off finding out just how bad heâd fucked up.Â
He glanced up at the bedroom window in the second-floor apartment that two of you shared. The bedside lamp was on, its hazy light taunting him. It made the room look warm and inviting. God knows all he wanted was to bury his head in your hair and breathe you in and apologize and slip you out of that oversized t-shirt you wore to bed. But he knew better than to expect itâd be that easy. Thereâd be tears and screaming and heâd have to face your pouty, beautiful, heartbreaking puffy-red eyes. Itâd break his heart to see how bad heâd broken yours. He just hoped it wasnât irreparable.Â
He stomped out the red-ember nub of his smoke on the pavement. With a heavy sigh, he dragged himself up the front steps. The apology bouquet heâd picked up at the A&P hung lifelessly from his hand, as if the flowers knew they had only minutes left before they were likely thrown into the corner or beheaded one by one as you shouted and threw the pastel-pink blooms in his face.Â
He climbed the stairs up the second floor of the duplex. His boots announced his presence with each leaden step. He fished the key to the door out of the pocket of his jeans, hoping you hadnât thrown the deadbolt and locked him out. Much to his relief, the front door popped open slightly after he turned the lock. The hinges squeaked softly as Benny pushed through the door. He was shucking off his boots by the front door when he heard the sound of muffled voices from down the hallway. The rest of the apartment was dark and cold - as he figured most apartments would be at 2:30 in the morning. But that warm light from your grandmotherâs bedside lamp beckoned him towards the bedroom. He shuffled softly down the hall, his ears pricked towards the voices.Â
â-itâs fucking bullshit, y/n, he ainât even back yet and itâs almost dawn for Christâs sake!â
âCherry, itâs not a big deal. B usually comes home late, I ainât worried about him steppinâ out or nothinâ.âÂ
Bennyâs heart twitched to hear you use his nickname, the one that only you called him. He was close enough to peer through the crack in the door into the room. He could see your friend Cherry, her back to the door from the foot of the bed where she sat across from you.Â
âSteppinâ out or not, that fucker forgot your birthday hun! It ainât right. I swear, I donât know why you carry on with such a lowlife to begin with. He ainât got a job, no money, no prospects, barely keeps himself out of jail half the damn time. I mean for real, y/n, what even is the appeal here? You canât expect me to believe youâre still hot to trot for him after five fuckinâ years.â
Benny grimaced at Cherryâs back. Sheâd always been his most vocal critic, which was tough given that she was also your oldest and best friend. Worst of all, Cherry was right about him. He found her opinions dead wrong on almost every other imaginable subject, but on him she was dead-on. He knew how he measured up next to you, and he was acutely aware of how short he fell of what you deserved. It didnât keep his jaw from tightening or his pulse quickening with the first twinge of rage at her words.
âI know you donât get it, Cherry, but seriously, can you just drop it?â You sounded tired.Â
âNo, I ainât droppinâ it. Youâre my best friend. I want to see you happy-â
âI am happy,â you shot back quickly. Despite the weariness in your words, Benny could hear the sincerity in your voice.
âWell only God above knows why!â Cherry threw her hands up and stood up off the bed in exasperation. She started pacing back and forth on the crocheted carpet that lay at the foot of your bed as she geared up to continue her tirade against Benny.
âBecause I love him!â The words rocketed out of your mouth like a gunshot, full of pressure and fire.Â
Cherry stopped in her tracks, fixing you with what only Benny could imagine was a look somewhere between disappointment and disbelief.
âYou are not serious right now,â she murmured.Â
âOf course Iâm fuckinâ serious!â You were mad now, your voice rising in pitch. âBenny ainât perfect, I get that. I know heâs not what you or Daddy or the Melrose School had in mind for me in a man. Hell, he ainât even what I had in mind, but I love him and thatâs that.âÂ
Benny didnât have the right angle to see you through the crack in the doorway, but he could picture your pose: arms and legs crossed, eyes narrowed like a snake, lips pursed. You were stubborn as a mule in an argument. Benny was glad to see he wasnât the only one that brought out that infuriating side of you.Â
âWell Jesus Christ.â Cherry seemed too stunned to speak. She sank onto the edge of the bed like a windless sail. âI didnât know it was that serious, y/n.âÂ
ââCourse you did, Chi-Chi.â Your voice was softening around the edges, but there was still a little bite to it. âIâve been with him for five fuckinâ years, like you said. You had to know it wasnât just about the sex anymore.âÂ
Cherry picked at the blanket on the bed, her shoulders deflating millimeter by millimeter. âYeah, I guess.âÂ
The mattress springs creaked and Benny caught sight of half your face as you scooted closer towards your friend. You were looking at her with those enormous, moonlight-bright eyes. A fucking angel if ever there was one. The sight of you always made him catch his breath just a little bit. Even after all this time.Â
âHeâs a good man, Chi-Chi,â you insisted, taking your friendsâ hands in yours. âSure, he ainât the nine-to-five type. He runs with a rough crowd and heâs gruff and heâs stubborn and-âÂ
â-he forgets about your goddamn birthday,â Cherry interjected. You chuckled and nodded in agreement. Bennyâs hand tightened on the stems of the bouquet as a new wave of guilt surged in his gut.Â
âYeah, he forgets about my birthday. But he never lies to me. He looks at me like Iâm an angel walking around without my wings. He makes me laugh and he cares about my opinions and heâs loyal to me.â
Cherry snorted as if she didnât believe a word you said, but the fire in her argument was cooling rapidly. She could sense the intensity in your voice.Â
Benny leaned his head against the wall, a soft smile spreading across his lips. You knew, then. You knew it all. How he felt about you. How much he adored you. How heâd give you the stars and the shirt off his back and the breath in his lungs. Benny wasnât a man of many words, and when he did try to tell you about his feelings, he always fell woefully short. Somehow, no amount of âlove you darlingâs or âmorninâ angelâs ever scratched the surface of how he felt. He hadnât stopped trying though, hoping against hope that you could read the million emotions in his eyes. Seems like you could. A weight lifted off his shoulders, and he found his thoughts drifting towards the pawn shop ring heâd spotted over off of 8th Avenue a few weeks back. The ring that sparkled like the lights in your eyes, the ring that seemed to have your name written all over it. The ring that, at this very minute, was nestled inside its black velvet ring box in his left saddlebag out in the driveway.Â
âWell⌠I guess I better stop shittinâ on him, then? If you love him, I mean.â Cherryâs sarcastic question snapped Benny out of his scheming thoughts. You chuckled, your voice husky with tiredness.Â
âYeah, you better.â
âDonât know how good my maid of honor speech will be though. Given heâs still a horseâs ass for forgettinâ your special day.âÂ
This time, your laugh was full and rich, bubbling up from the bottom of your stomach. The sound made Benny smile, even if your laughter was at his expense.Â
âDonât worry, Chi. Bennyâs not the settlinâ type. I think Iâm lucky to have him saddled up and tamed as much as I do. I donât know if thereâs a ring in my future or not. And before you argue-â you cut over the first rumblings of a counterargument on Cherryâs lips â-I made my peace with it.â
Benny wasnât surprised to hear you say that you didnât expect a proposal from him. The first time youâd brought up your full expectation that Benny would never make you an honest woman had been in response to some joke Johnny had made while you were all out drinking around a bonfire one night about three years ago, and it had stung Benny more than heâd liked to admit. Mostly because he realized then and there that you saw him, all of him, and loved him anyway. You werenât with him because you expected him to be something he wasnât. You were his ride or die, and he hadnât had to do a damn thing to earn that kind of love. It made him embarrassed in a bone-deep sort of way.Â
Benny hadnât truly realized the magnitude of what had happened in those interceding years between that moment by the bonfire and now. Three years ago, he would have begrudgingly admitted that no, there wasnât a ring in his future. He wasnât cut out for all that. Couldnât imagine being tied down, didnât matter how heavenly the woman was.Â
But now? He couldnât imagine not being yours. Didnât want to. He knew he wasnât enough for you, but god damn it if that was going to stop him from trying to be. Heâd try every day for the rest of his life to measure up. He fully expected never to get there, but Benny Cross was not going to be a quitter, not when it came to you. You hung the damn sun in his sky, after all.Â
That was why that little pawn shop ring hadnât sat on the shelf for more than five minutes after heâd laid eyes on it. It wasnât the kind of thing heâd mulled it over for weeks and weeks, battling his inner demons to convince himself that you deserved it. He deserved it, he realized. He deserved to be honest with you about his feelings, his intentions. Youâd made him realize that over the last years together. Youâd shown him that he was worthy of love, of putting his heart out there, of trying hard and growth and change.Â
Benny ran a hand over his face, the weight of these realizations settling on his shoulders and in his heart. In the process, the bouquet fell to the floor. The sound was soft but definitive, and he heard the mattress springs jump in surprise as both and Cherry startled.
âJesus H. Christ!â Cherry flung the door open, the light flooding the hallway where Benny was stooped down to get the flowers off the floor. âYou make a habit of sneaking up on women at nighttime like that, Cross?â Cherryâs usual name for him still smacked of disdain, but Benny wondered if he could hear the faintest note of an olive branch in there.Â
â'Bout time you showed up,â you called out from behind Cherry in the doorway. Benny knew he wasnât imagining the disappointment in your voice. Despite all those sweet words heâd heard you say about him, he still had a big bruise on your heart to tend to.Â
âEveninâ ladies,â he murmured apologetically. âDidnât mean to be scarinâ you, Cherry.âÂ
âYeah, well, intention ainât everything, is it? Just like Iâm sure you didnât intend to forget your best girlâs birthday either.âÂ
âNo, I surely didnât intend that neither,â he agreed. He moved to step around Cherry to enter the bedroom, eager to get to you and start making it up to you. She didnât move, instead placing a hand against the doorframe, using her arm to halt his progress. Cherryâs hazel eyes narrowed in accusation as she leaned towards him, her voice dropping low so you couldnât overhear.Â
âI donât know how much you heard, out here ear hustlinâ like we both know you were, but donât for a second think that this means Iâll forget how bad you hurt her feelinâs tonight.â Cherry was a firecracker, her protectiveness over you fierce and unwavering. It had always irked Benny, but tonight all he could do was nod and agree.Â
âI wouldnât dream of it, Cherry,â Benny acquiesced.Â
Cherry didnât back down, her eyes boring holes in the sides of Bennyâs heads. He looked past her, to where you were balled up on the bed. Arms and legs crossed, just like he knew they would be. You were looking at him, not so much with anger, but with a stubborn set to your face that he knew meant heâd be making it up to you for a long time.Â
âChi-Chi, take it easy on him,â you urged. Your friend begrudgingly dropped her arm, allowing Benny the space to slide past her. He moved into the bedroom, tossing off his jacket until he was in just his white t-shirt and jeans. He sank onto the mattress next to you, sighing in relief when you didnât recoil from his touch.Â
Cherry shot you a meaningful glance, as if to say âdonât let him win that easyâ. You chuckled, shaking your head but returning her look with a matching on of your own that said âoh donât worry, I wonâtâ.Â
âYou better step up your game, Cross, if you want to keep a gal like that.â Cherry gestured toward you as she picked up the purse sheâd left discarded on the chair next to the bedroom door.Â
Benny smiled against himself, turning back to look up at you. The soft light from the bedside lamp cast your face in shadow as you returned his glance. Your soft mouth, the dimple in your right cheek, the way your hair fell loose and down around your collarbones. Benny forced his mind to take a picture of you in that moment, suddenly glad that heâd left the ring outside with the company of his bike because he could barely resist the idea of letting you wake up another day without that ring on your finger. But tonight wasnât the right time, Lord knew that. He wasnât going to blow the biggest question of his life in a 3am apology monologue.Â
âAight, well, Iâll leave you to it,â Cherry called over her shoulder as she sauntered away, the click from her skyhigh heels announcing her eventual departure from the apartment.Â
Sunk into silence and nothing but your company, Benny rolled over until he was on his side facing you. He reached out the flowers towards you, a peace offering and a paltry one at that.Â
âIâm sorry, baby.â His voice was quiet and abashed. It didnât matter that heâd spent most of the day riding around with Johnny, talking through the thousand of mixed-up plans he was sifting through to try and make his proposal something worthy of you. Heâd forgotten you on a day when no one should be forgotten about.Â
âYeah, I bet you are, Benjamin,â you taunted. Your voice wasnât as icy as he expected, but there was still an edge of steel there. A reminder of the hurt his oversight had cost you.Â
âYou know I donât like pink,â you grunted as you took the flowers, sniffing them perfunctorily. âGuess this was all the A&P had at midnight, then?âÂ
Bennyâs mouth quirked up at the corner. You knew him too well.
âYou caught me,â he chuckled. The smile faded quickly from his face as he sat up, motioning for you to turn your back to him. You gave him a questioning glance but did as he encouraged. He brushed your hair aside, resisting the urge to lean forward and kiss the soft skin of your neck. Instead, he brought his hands to your shoulders, kneading gently through the threadbare cotton of the Kansas Rodeo Clowns t-shirt heâd let you borrow the first time youâd slept over his place about four years ago. The tension there was unmistakable, and the way you let your head roll around on your neck told him all he needed to know about how good it felt.Â
âI really am sorry, darlinâ. I ainât got no excuse. I fucked up.âÂ
You nodded sleepily in agreement but didnât say anything back, content to let the silence hang between the two of you. He continued to massage you, willing the stress and tension to leave your body. Willing the depth of his feelings for you to seep out of his fingertips and bury itself deep in your spine.Â
After a couple of minutes, you sighed and went to lie down, pulling the covers up over yourself.Â
âYou should fuck up more often if it means I get a nice shoulder massage like that every time,â you quipped softly. Benny smiled. He moved to stand up off the bed, sliding his jeans off until he was in just his boxers. He moved towards the closet to grab a blanket, resigning himself to an uncomfortable sleep on the living room couch.Â
âWhere do you think youâre goinâ, B?â Youâd rolled over to face him and had propped yourself up on your elbows. You were looking at him with that needy simmer in your eyes that drove him crazy and made his cock twitch.Â
âYou sure?â he asked against himself, dropping his jeans and the blanket to the floor as he answered your call and practically sprang back to the bed.Â
âYou ainât done apologizinâ yet,â you teased, catching his lips in yours and biting softly on his lower lip, sending fire through his veins.Â
He broke the kiss momentarily, just long enough to say, âmaybe I should fuck up a little more if this is my punishment.âÂ
You laughed against his mouth, your hand tangling itself in the hair at the back of his neck telling him that, at least for tonight, the two of you were done with talking but far from done with making up.Â
And, just as theyâd predicted, those pastel-pink flowers found themselves discarded into the corner of the bedroomâŚ
Joe Liebgott (BoB) X Fem!SoldierReader
Part 2 of ? | Part 1 here!
WC: 1808
Warnings: depictions of war; cursing; not proofread; non-canon
Taglist: @imafckingbitch @aliciax3 @needf0rspeed
You saw it all in slow motion. In the cold, dark night, Pvt Jackson yanked the pin out of his grenade, the soft metallic click a familiar sound to your ears. He recoiled his arm to throw the grenade into the open window of the building. You could hear snippets of guttural German from inside, including a manâs brittle laughter, and the clinking of cutlery. Theyâre eating, you thought with a pang something almost like pity. In a few instants, theyâd be dead. Â
Jacksonâs grenade left his hand, sailing through the night in a graceful arc. It soared over the fence surrounding the building and leapt through the glass-less window into the inviting lamplight of the room beyond. For a split second, no one noticed. The Germans kept talking, the patrol outside held their breath, and the grenade landed with an ominous clunk.Â
In the same instant that the Germans inside let out a cry of surprise, Pvt Jackson was moving. Too soon, your instincts screamed. You grabbed clumsily at the back of his jacket, but the cold made your fingers feeble and fumbly. The fabric slipped through your grasp. He kept moving forward, mounting the small set of stairs in front of the door to the immediate right of where his grenade had only just disappeared. He confidently kicked the door in, warm light spilling into the night air outside.
You lunged forward with the intention of wrapping your arms around Jackson to prevent him from kicking in the door before his grenade detonated. You managed the first part of your plan - got your arms wrapped around his wiry torso - but his momentum carried the both of you forward.Â
You heard Bull yell behind you, a garbled mix of âwait!â and âno!âÂ
The grenade detonated a heartbeat later. Jackson absorbed the explosion in full, but you felt the bite of shrapnel and heat on your hands and forearms where they snaked around the front of his chest. Both of you were thrown backwards. He landed heavily on the top step of the entryway, but your feet slipped on the icy stone, and then air. For a moment, you were suspended. Somewhere beside you, Bullâs booming voice. You heard a gunshot, then another.Â
You collided with the frozen ground, a sharp lighting rod of pain ripping up your back. Your head snapped backwards against the earth, and all turned to blackâŚÂ
Joeâs lip curled at Hooblerâs idiotic observation.Â
âGee, Hoob, you donât say.â Everyone ignored the sarcastic bite in Joeâs voice. The men were on their feet, shuffling quickly to the street outside in search of the returning patrol. Joe hadnât moved from the dust-ridden armchair heâd sunk into shortly after dinner. His neck ached and there was a pounding headache forming behind his eyes. No one in Easy Company was a stranger to the risks of warfare at this point, but the stakes of this patrol, after everything theyâd endured in Bastogne, was a cruel knife-twist to the ribs. Nobody in Easy wanted to be in that patrol, but they hated being left behind even more. At least when they were all together, they could look out for each other. Pack mentality, Joe heard Lt. Speirs call it. The drive to move as one, fight as a unit, protect each other. This patrol had separated them, splintered off a small group to face danger alone. And now, as if proving the mensâ suspicions, something had gone wrong.
In the street outside on Easyâs side of the river, the distant sound of agony shattered the quiet of the pre-dawn dark. Someone was injured. Someone - maybe more than one - might be dead. Those whoâd been left to wait followed the anguished cries of their Company-mate through the empty streets.Â
It didnât take long to find the source of the wails. Joe, along with about a dozen others, honed in on a barn at the end of a narrow street running east-to-west through Haguenau. Joe was practically sprinting towards it, the sounds of screaming getting louder. Who is it? He didnât recognize the voice, and for some reason his heart locked up in terror. A few meters ahead of him, he saw Malarkey duck into the barn.Â
Joe got there, stepped into the quickly filling room and took in the scene. Most of the patrol members were there, clustered around Pvt Jackson writhing in pain and moaning. Doc Roe was bent over Jacksonâs head and chest, murmuring quietly and smoothing the manâs hair down against his forehead in a gentle, almost maternal gesture. Joe felt a sudden burn in his eyes as his throat closed up. Theyâd all served with Eugene Roe long enough to read his body language. If he was barking orders at the others to âgive me some of your morphineâ or âhold him downâ or anything of the sort, or if he was digging around in a bullet wound or tightening a tourniquet until his patient was screaming bloody murder, chances are the soldier could pull through. But times like this - when Docâs voice went quiet and he stopped barking orders and his touch got gentle - meant something differently entirely. Joe wondered if Pvt Jackson knew it the way that everyone gathered in the room did. There was an eerie hush on the growing crowd, a hollow sadness in their eyes. Not the first body theyâd seen, and far from the last. But this one felt wasteful in a way other deaths hadnât.Â
After a few minutes, Jacksonâs cries of agony turned to unintelligible moans. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, his muscles relaxed in a way that wasnât natural to any living thing. His eyes dulled and Doc Roe stopped stroking the manâs head. And that was that. Pvt Eugene Jackson died in agony surrounded by moldy hay and sad faces in a French town that was little more than a crossroads. A few of the men swore under their breath and ducked out of the stifling barn into the dark night outside. Joe thought to do the same, but as he ducked around Malarkey towards the door his eyes landed on Bull Randleman. Bullâs mouth was puckered into a line that threatened to turn down at the edges, his telltale cigar hanging limply from his lips. His eyes were trained on Pvt Jackson but misty, like his thoughts were elsewhere.Â
The realization hit Joe like a freight train. There was more than just grief over Jackson clinging to the eyes of the men from the returned patrol. There was an empty, bombed out quality to their stares, like they were all wrapped so tightly in their own thoughts theyâd suffocate. Joe hadnât caught it before, but he did now. He was in a room full of men for the first time since youâd joined Easy outside of Nijmegen, just before Bastogne. You were gone.
âJesus Christ, Bull.â Randleman looked disoriented for a second before his eyes found Joeâs, his gaze coming into focus as if his thoughts had to travel thousands of miles to come back to Haguenau.Â
âWhere the fuck is she?â Joeâs voice broke on the last syllable of his question. A few of the others whoâd joined the returning patrol looked on in varying states of comprehension at the unfolding exchange. The rest of the room was silent, all eyes glued on Liebgott and Randleman.Â
âI⌠Iâm sorry, Joe. She, she took a grenade. Jacksonâs grenade.â Bullâs voice sounded small and pinched. Webster, whoâd served as the interpreter on the patrol, laid a hand on Bullâs shoulder as if to steady him. Bull squeezed his eyes shut against the memory of your head ricocheting off the ground like you were a ragdoll.Â
âWhere, Bull.â Joe felt like he was about to vibrate apart into a million pieces. Not only had this piece of shit patrol gotten one of their own killed, but theyâd left someone behind. A goddamn woman, no less. You. The Angel of Bastogne. Joe had been - and continued to be - the first to decry your presence as unnatural at the Front. He stood by his feelings on that point. But heâd sooner put the barrel of his M1 down his throat and pull the trigger than consider leaving you behind in this muddy, wasteland of a crossroads. Joe knew it as deeply as he knew his own heartbeat.Â
Bull just shook his head slowly and sadly. âIâm sorry, Joe. Iâm sorry.â He kept repeating it, over and over again.Â
âShe dead?â Joe challenged, stepping towards Bull with half a mind to punch him. The air in the barn froze as a dozen men held their breath, waiting on the answer. Bull crumpled at the question, choking out a single sob as he hid his face behind a hand. The sight made Joeâs bones feel brittle like porcelain, and he blanched. His anger fizzled, turning dangerously in the direction of desperation. You couldnât be⌠dead?
It was Webster who answered after a few long moments. âNo. Likely not. Just concussed.â
The silence in the air deepened for a heartbeat as everyone processed Websterâs answer. The cold fist of dread in Joeâs chest burst open into black rage.
âYou left her?! You fuckers left her for the Germans?! Fucking left her in the mud?! Whatâs wrong with you?! Fuck!âÂ
Unable to keep his fury compressed to words, Joe turned and struck out with his leg at a rusted out bucket that lay discarded near his feet. The bucket flew through the air and hit the planks of the barn with a crunchy thwack before clattering to the hard packed ground beneath. The clamor earned Joe some chastising from his Company-mates, a few of them grousing about âsound disciplineâ. Joe ignored them and stalked out of the barn, his hands balled into fists at his side and his vision starting to go white. His mind reeled between memories of you darting from one foxhole to the next beneath the explosions of pinewood and snow in Bastogne to snapshots of your body bent at an unnatural angle and your face plastered in the half-frozen mud on the German side of the Moder river.Â
Joeâs body took him back to the house where heâd last seen you on autopilot. His hands put his gear and pack on, cleaned his rifle, and stocked up on ammo and grenades. The pale whisper of a pink dawn was peeking over the horizon when an empty-eyed Randleman and a stony-faced Webster joined him in a beeline due-east through the streets, headed towards the banks of the river and, on the other side, German-controlled territory. All the while, Joeâs mind teetered on a single, incontestable fact: if you were out there, Joe would find you. And God help any man who stood in his way.
**more to come!! stay tuned and let me know if you want to be tagged
Joe Liebgott (BoB) X Fem!SoldierReader
Part 1 of ?
WC: 1772
Warnings: cursing, not proofread, canon-divergence
A/N: omg it worked!! @redheadspark, TYSM for the BoB request.
Also credit to one of my favorite singers, Lukas Nelson, for the title of this fic
First time Joe saw you, heâd laughed. Which earned him a prompt smack across the back of his head from Lip, and a glowering stare from Bull. Apparently Easy men werenât supposed to laugh at the Experiment, as Joe had publicly dubbed you shortly after your arrival.
âI mean, câmon guys, donât fuckinâ sit there and pretend this shit is normal!â heâd insisted. At first, most of the men had agreed with him to some degree. None quite as vocally as him, but still, he saw it in their eyes. They knew it, he knew it too. A woman on the front was unnatural at best. Distracting at worst.Â
Despite Joeâs best efforts, your presence in Easy Company settled in after a few weeks. The novelty wore off, and youâd shown yourself as more than just âsome dameâ whoâd impressed the Brass. Steely under pressure, a decent marksman (even Shifty agreed), and a fearless courier. You were smaller and faster than most of the men, so Winters often tasked you with running commands back and forth from Command to Easy to the men in their foxholes and back. Joe would never say it out loud, but even he was impressed to see you out there in the bone-biting cold of Bastogne, dodging the Kraut artillery and artfully sprinting from one foxhole to the next. Youâd barely been winded and your eyes were shining when you gave him the news: dig in, no reinforcements expected.Â
Joe lost the few sympathetic ears heâd acquired during your first few weeks with Easy after youâd volunteered to take Malarkeyâs place on the night patrol in Haguenau. For reasons that even mystified him, your selfless act made Joe angry. So. Fucking. Angry.Â
âWhat are you playing at anyway, Ex?â he snarled in your direction. Heâd shortened your moniker Experiment to something smaller and even less descriptive. Although heâd meant it to signify just how little time he had to waste on you, the men thought it sounded an awful lot like a pet-name.Â
You ignored him and kept cleaning your rifle. You were one of eight preparing to head out for a nighttime patrol across the river to take a prisoner or two from the smattering of Germans still left in Haguenau, lobbing mortars and bullets across the river at a frequency just enough to pester the haggard regiment. The house you were in was one of the few homes on this side of the river still standing, although its interior was covered in a thick layer of dust and debris. The men had cleared off most of the usable surfaces, and were doing routine gear checks and prep for the patrol. Next to you, Bull raised a challenging eyebrow in Joeâs direction and popped the cigar out of his mouth. Unable to smoke on the front lines - âtoo much light and smokeâ Major Winters informed them - Bull had picked up the habit of chewing off the butt ends of cigars. The nicotine made him feistier than Joe cared for, and doggedly protective of you.Â
âLiebgott, whatâre you on about?â Bullâs question sounded skeptical, as if he suspected Joeâs anger had deeper meaning.Â
âWasnât talking to you, Bull,â Joe replied curtly, his eyes boring into the side of your skull. You swiped a few stray hairs out of your eyes and continued to ignore him. Joe felt his blood pressure creep upwards as his temper turned hot.Â
âMalarkey doesnât need you stepping in all guardian angel on his behalf.â Joe knew it made your blood boil whenever he pointedly addressed your sex in front of the men. For that reason, he made a point to do it every chance he could. He had his theories about why the others had stopped grumbling about having to share foxholes and K-Rations and morphine with a woman - sex starved, most likely, he told himself - but he wasnât fooled. No amount of fearlessness, courage, or capability would ever change the fact that you were a woman. You shouldnât be here. Joe felt that deep in his heart just like he knew his own name. It was a fact that was threaded into the center of his bones.Â
The new lieutenant, fresh out of West Point with a clean shave and pristine uniform, stepped into the room and gave a few orders. He was one of two whoâd actually volunteered for the patrol - you being the other - and heâd gotten it into his head that he was in some way responsible for leading the patrol. Liebgott nodded vaguely in his direction, like most of the others. Lt Jones grumbled something about lack of respect for chain of command but didnât press the issue further, his eyes settling on you. He regarded you curiously and intently, although without surprise. Clearly one of the other officers had briefed him on your presence. He tracked your movements as you checked the sight on your rifle, wiping the lens clean with a rag until you were satisfied. He lingered in the doorway, his gaze appraising you with the smallest curve on his lips. Your eyes remained trained on the gun in front of you, although Joe had no doubt that you were aware of the extra set of eyes taking in your every move.
âCan we help you, Lieutenant?â Joe wasnât sure why the words slipped out or why they sounded so much like a challenge. His snappy retort surprised even himself. He caught a few of the men exchanging looks around the room, their eyebrows raised as if to say âhere we goâ. A muffled hush fell over the room as the men waited for Lt. Jonesâ reaction.Â
âExcuse me, soldier?â Lt. Jones settled his dark eyes on Joe, his expression hard but patient. He clearly wasnât going to settle for an offhanded dismissal from an enlisted man, nor was he going to let Joe rile him up. Joe squirmed, suddenly feeling a bit uncomfortable and surprised at himself. What the hell was he doing, putting himself in the proverbial crosshairs of a man who outranked him? And over you? He chewed his lip and looked down, hoping the Lieutenant would allow his demur behavior to suffice for an apology and shove off.
âPrivate Liebgott asked if we could help you, Lieutenant.â If the room was muffled before, it descended into complete silence as your icy words slapped the floor. Youâd stopped fussing over your rifle, your eyes trained on Lt. Jones with a spark of challenge. Joe had to forcibly close his mouth to keep it from gaping open in surprise. Were you of all people really stepping into the quagmire alongside him?
âOh, I heard Private Liebgott quite well,â Lt. Jones replied smartly. Joe had a feeling from the way the Lieutenant said his name that Lt. Jones wouldnât forget it any time soon. âI was simply surprised to hear a Private addressing one of his superior officers with such a tone of blatant disrespect.âÂ
âAnd Iâm sure Private Liebgottâs question was made out of surprise to see one of his superior officers regarding an enlisted soldier with such a look of blatant lustfulness.âÂ
One single moment of silence lingered after you finished speaking before the room softened with the sound of poorly suppressed laughter. Lt. Jones looked around desperately, as if searching for an ally, his face turning redder by the moment. He spluttered something, looking utterly chastised, before Bull offered him a gracious exit.Â
âJust apologize to Private Y/L/N, Lieutenant, and be on your way. We were all a little knocked off our feet when she showed up. Sheâs a sight prettier than the rest of these mucks, thatâs for sure.â The men hollered in appreciation and mock offense as Bull stuck a hand out towards Lieutenant Jones like an olive branch. Joe, for his part, was watching you watch the Lieutenant. The sharp edge of your temper was softened by the menâs camaraderie with you, but there was a wariness in your eyes that got sharper as he mumbled a weak apology and skittered out the door, tail between his legs. Your eyes followed him until he was out of eyesight, and even then they stared blankly into the distance. It wasnât until Bull gently bumped your shoulder that you seemed to fully come back to the room.Â
âYou oughtta be careful there, Wings,â he murmured under his breath. Wings was the nickname some in the company had taken to calling you after seeing you fly through the woods of Bastogne, as they said. Joe for one thought it was ridiculous, and unsurprisingly he made sure everyone knew it. âA lieutenantâs a powerful enemy to make.â
âYou donât need to lecture me on the dangers of refusing a powerful manâs advances, Sergeant.â You ripped the rifle off the table in front of you and slung it over your shoulder with a quick, cold movement. Without looking up at either Bull or Joe standing on either side you like bookends, you left the house, stepping out into the gathering twilight. Joe saw you disappear around the corner of the street, walking in the direction opposite from where Lt. Jones was undoubtedly licking his wounds. There was a hard set to your jaw that heâd never seen before, and a tired expression in your eyes. His feet were moving before he knew what he was doing.
âLeave it, Liebgott.â Bullâs hamburger-bun of a hand grabbed Joeâs shoulder firmly but not unkindly. Joe couldnât decipher the tone of Bullâs voice, but he thought it sounded a lot like pity. He bristled, shaking off the Staff Sergeantâs paw.Â
âWhereâs she off to?â Joeâs question sounded petulant and nosy.Â
Bull shook his head. âTo cool off, most likely. Patrolâs in a couple of hours. Sheâll be needinâ coffee before then.âÂ
For the second time in as many minutes, Joe felt like Bull was talking to him as if he were in on some secret when it came to you, although he couldnât hazard a guess as to what that might be. He fixed Bull with a flat stare. That seemed to make the blonde Sergeant chuckle.
âDonât worry, Joe. Iâll take care of her for you.âÂ
Unable to make heads or tails of Bullâs obvious misread of Joeâs contempt for you, he stormed off to a quiet corner of the house and threw himself down on an armchair. As the sun set over the frozen horizon outside Haguenau, Joe gave himself over to a dark mood as he waited with the rest of Easy for news on the night patrolâŚÂ
**more to come!! stay tuned and let me know if you want to be tagged
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Iâm having like the worst episode of writers block in my life, itâs awful I just keep opening my docs and staring at them, maybe adding a word or two. I canât get inspired, canât find the right music, just staring blankly for what feels like hours, ARGH whyyyyy.
Anyways if you want to take pity on me and send in a request they always help đĽšđŤśđťđ
Iâll take requests for any of my fandoms but Iâd prefer for:
Benny Cross
Lord of the Rings/Rings of Power
War and Peace (this is a new one for me, just watched the BBC 2016 series. I know ppl have lots of thoughts on it but I personally loved it, loved the music and the casting)
You are cordially invited to join us in watching Band of Brothers, The Pacific, and Masters of the Air in chronological order November 11, 2024 - March 2, 2025
We will be watching two episodes a week and will have prompts to boost fandom creation as we watch together!
You can find the episode schedule and prompts below the cut. Individual posts can be found here and here if you prefer shorter posts.
If you are unable to watch the show at the same time as the schedule, no worries. While we are personally planning to liveblog together the episodes per the schedule, we understand everyone has lives outside of tumblr. Watch whenever you are able - our goal is to bond over our love for these shows and experience them again together. Pop in when you are able! :)
Please tag all your posts during this event with #hboww2rewatch and give us a follow for all updates on the rewatch.
Please reblog this post to spread the word!
Schedule:
We are tentatively planning to watch Tuesdays and Saturdays, but that is not set in stone - watch when you are able during the week!
Week 1: Mon November 11- Sun November 17
The Pacific E1 (Dec â41- Oct â42)
The Pacific E2 (Oct â42)
Week 2: Mon November 18- Sun November 24
The Pacific E3 (Dec â42- Fall â43)
Masters of the Air E1 (Spring â43)
Week 3: Mon November 25- Sun December 1
Masters of the Air E2 (Spring â43)
Masters of the Air E3 (Aug â43)
Week 4: Mon December 2- Sun December 8
Masters of the Air E4 (Oct â43)
Masters of the Air E5 (Oct â43)
Week 5: Mon December 9- Sun December 15
Masters of the Air E6 (Oct â43)
The Pacific E4 (Dec â43)
Week 6: Mon December 16- Sun December 22
Masters of the Air E7 (March â44)
Band of Brothers E1 (June â44)
Week 7: Mon December 23- Sun December 29
Band of Brothers E2 (June 6, â44)
Band of Brothers E3Â (June 7, â44)
Week 8: Mon December 30- Sun January 5
Masters of the Air E8Â (May-June â44)
The Pacific E5 (Sept â44)
Week 9: Mon January 6- Sun January 12
Band of Brothers E4 (Sept â44)
The Pacific E6 (Sept-Oct â44)
Week 10: Mon January 13- Sun January 19
Band of Brothers E5 (Oct â44)
The Pacific E7 (Oct-Dec â44)
Week 11: Mon January 20- Sun January 26
Band of Brothers E6 (Dec â44)
Band of Brothers E7 (Jan â45)
Week 12: Mon January 27- Sun February 2
The Pacific E8 (Feb â45)
Band of Brothers E8 (Feb â45)
Week 13: Mon February3- Sun February 9
 Masters of the Air E9 (Feb-June â45)
Band of Brothers E9 (March-April â45)
Week 14: Mon February 10- Sun February 16
The Pacific E9 (April-June â45)
Band of Brothers E10 (May-Aug â45)
Week 15: Mon February 17- Sun February 23
TP E10 (Aug â45)
Dunkirk
Week 16: Mon February 24- Sun March 2 - post rewatch events to encourage fellow fans!
Reblog peopleâs creations
Leave comments on fics
Consider making a new friend in someone else who participated
Make and post week 16 prompts if you want
Prompts:
Week 1: Mon November 11- Sun November 17
Goodbyes
Trouble
Selfless Acts
Yellow
Week 2: Mon November 18- Sun November 24
Family
Truth
Ice Cream
Dark Green
Week 3: Mon November 25- Sun December 1
Pub
Ghost Story
Waiting
Light Blue
Week 4: Mon December 2- Sun December 8
Potential
Letters
25 Missions
Orange
Week 5: Mon December 9- Sun December 15
Jump
Weather
Therapy
Pink
Week 6: Mon December 16- Sun December 22
Radio Tower
Running
Waiting
Gray
Week 7: Mon December 23- Sun December 29
Split Up
Purple Heart
Cigarette
Dark Blue
Week 8: Mon December 30- Sun January 5
Drawing
Ships
Awake
Red
Week 9: Mon January 6- Sun January 12
Presumed Dead
Isolated
Water
Green
Week 10: Mon January 13- Sun January 19
On Leave
Impressions
Blankets
Black
Week 11: Mon January 20- Sun January 26
Healers and Medics/Alternate Character as one
Explosion
Blood
White
Week 12: Mon January 27- Sun February 2
Coffee
Love
Exhaustion
Tan
Week 13: Mon February3- Sun February 9
Community
Flask
Officers
Purple
Week 14: Mon February 10- Sun February 16
Mortars
Souls
Relief
Brown
Week 15: Mon February 17- Sun February 23
Coming Home
Fire
Family
Teal
Week 16: Mon February 24- Sun March 2
Post War Healing
Favorites (Crew, Characters, Etc.)
Hands
Maps
Grief
PTSD
Souvenirs
Use as many of the prompts as you want, you don't have to stick to use of just that week's episodes if you have something in mind that fits it from a different selection of episodes. They're meant to help provide inspiration, not stifle your creativity.
Aemond Targaryen X Fem!Reader
WC: 2314
Warnings: graphic descriptions of burns and wounds; non-canon (lots of messing with the timeline, although general plot points are the same); not proofread
Five Years Earlier
You could feel the younger Targaryenâs eyes on you, and it made your skin crawl. Sagarus, the lead dragonkeeper and head of your order, had warned you not to stare at Aemondâs eye patch or the ghastly scar underneath. It plucks at the young princeâs nerve, heâd cautioned you earlier that morning as youâd been preparing feed for Vhagar and Sunfyre. And youâd do well not to ever pluck a royalâs nerve. Words you intended to live by.Â
So, while youâd mentally prepared to avoid looking at him, you hadnât banked on him being the one who couldnât stop staring at you. The intensity of his one-eyed gaze had already caused you to drop Vhagarâs reigns, and youâd narrowly missed the dragonâs retaliatory chomp of irritation at the misstep.Â
âWhat troubles you, little cave mouse?â Aegon called out to you, his voice louder than necessary so the members of his court entourage whoâd been brave enough to come to the Dragonpit could snicker at his insult. You were glad for the darkness as it hid the flush of embarrassment in your cheeks. Youâd been so focused on avoiding staring at Aemond, then avoiding his intrusive gaze, that youâd forgotten your own rule: donât ever pluck a royalâs nerve.
Gritting your teeth and forcing your attention back to the task at hand - saddling the princesâ dragons - you tossed the cinch strap of Vhagarâs saddle over the dragonâs monstrous back. The strap was heavy - almost thirty pounds - and your brow was already sweating from the heat of the Dragonpit and from embarrassment at Aegonâs taunt and Aemondâs unnerving stare. You swiped at the perspiration gathering in your eyebrows, hoping to keep the sweat from stinging your eyes.Â
A dozen feet below you, you heard Sagarus grab the leather strap youâd thrown and buckle it along Vhagarâs side. The dragon chuffed, recognizing the noise and anticipating a ride. Even after ten years of tending to him, Vhagarâs size and sheer ferocity still left you on edge. Heâd grown twice as fast as the other dragons and was nearly six times the size of Aegonâs dragon, Sunfyre. You shot a surreptitious glance toward Aemond, idly marveling at how someone so young and wiry could possibly command the largest, fiercest dragon to have lived since the Black Dread. The younger princeâs good eye was still trained on you, a small cryptic smile on his face. You ducked your head again, busying yourself with tightening the billet strap on Vhagarâs saddle and avoiding his wings as he flexed them, stretching before taking flight. Somewhere over your left shoulder, you heard a cheer of appreciation as Aegon took his seat atop Sunfyreâs saddle.Â
âAlas! Friends, foes, and cave mice. I must away! Such is the life of a prince!âÂ
How anyone managed to laugh at Aegonâs self-indulgent and weak attempt at humor mystified you. You managed to stifle a groan as you locked in the final buckle on Vhagarâs saddle.Â
âWell done.â The velvety murmur of a voice inches from your ear made you startle. Aemond was so close that you could smell the herbs and oils that the handmaidens of the Red Keep used to scent the royal familyâs bath water. You stepped backwards, bowing obsequiously, your heart suddenly in your throat. You hadnât heard him approach you, and to be caught unaware in the Dragonpit usually meant death. How could you have become so careless?
He chuckled at your reaction, clasping his hands behind his back and inclining his head towards you a fraction of an inch. Was he⌠bowing?Â
âI always wondered who put Vhagarâs saddle on,â he mused softly. The sound of Sunfyre taking flight and the accompanying cheers from Aegonâs admirers covered the exchange of words between the two of you. Even still, your eyes darted left and right, trying to see if any of the other members of your order had taken notice. It was highly unusual, so much as to call it improper, for one of the dragonriders to speak to a dragonkeeper, especially to an understudy like yourself. The threat of one of Sagarusâ rambling lectures on propriety was enough to give you a headache.
Unsure of what to say, you only bowed again, keeping your eyes trained on the ground between Aemondâs boots. From your peripheral vision, you could see he wore the same bemused expression, although there was something icy and dangerous just below the surface. He was too tense, too calculated, like a predator stalking prey. It sent a shiver racing up and down your spine and kept your feet rooted to the ground.Â
âMaybe my brother was right,â Aemond added after a few more moments passed without your reply. He cocked his head to one side, considering you. âPerhaps you are a cave mouse after all.â
As if on cue, Vhagar turned his head expectantly towards Aemond with a grumbling roar of frustration. The dragons werenât used to being kept waiting.Â
âYou shouldnât keep him, my lord,â you mumbled. Your tongue tripped on itself, and in the disorganized din of the cave, you knew the prince wasnât likely to hear you. It surprised you, then, when he replied without missing a beat.Â
âNo, youâre quite right. Vhagar doesnât like being denied.âÂ
Aemond turned from you with a sharp, confident motion to grab the reins youâd knotted around the pommel of the saddle. He swung one of his long, lean legs up and over the crest of the dragonâs back and settled into the enormous, gilded seat. Aemondâs saddle alone was the size of a small litter and took two grown men to carry, but even a pillion of that size was dwarfed next to Vhagar. For all Aemondâs confidence, he too looked comically small, a smudge of white against a sea of black scales.Â
Sensing finally that his rider was in place, Vhagar roared and stretched open his wings. You and the handful of dragonkeepers whoâd come out to assist with saddling scurried towards the walls of the cave. One of the first rules youâd learned after taking your Oath: make yourself small, hug a wall. A deceptively cheery rhyme, given the dozen or so ways someone could meet their agonizing and unceremonious death in the Dragonpit if they didnât heed its warning.
Once youâd reached the cave wall, you turned and glanced up at Aemond. From that distance, you couldnât be sure, but your instincts told you that he was still looking at you. It wasnât until Vhagar was little more than a dark blemish amidst the puffy, midday clouds that you felt the uneasy sense of being watched dissipate.Â
Present
Your hands shook with exhaustion and the come-down of adrenaline as you carefully sliced Aemondâs charred flesh away from the last fragment of broken armor that had been fused to his skin. As you tossed the shard of armor onto the pile of discards, you exhaled heavily, allowing your head to hang limply between your shoulders in defeat and despair. Aemond had succumbed to a feverish and fitful delirium hours ago, leaving you alone to carve away the burned carapace of leather and metal from his mangled body. You dropped the knife from your hand, your fingers slick with sweat, blood, pus, and the weirwood sap mixture youâd slathered on his burns. Without access to a maesterâs poultices, you were forced to improvise.Â
Although you didnât put much stock in the old gods - or the new, for that matter - you threw up a casual prayer in the darkness for Aemondâs salvation. If such a thing were possible for any god to grant. You stole a glance up at him, immediately regretting it. His entire face was slick with a sickly sweat, his usually smooth and glossy hair matted with blood and tangled around his bare shoulders. His lips were so pale they looked waxy, and you could see from the flutter of his throat just how shallow and quickly he was breathing. He looked pathetic and tortured, moaning and writhing even in his semi-comatose state.Â
You had no idea how Aemond had gotten to Sea Dragon Point, but as youâd begun working on his injuries, the suppurating pus and rot that had set in told you heâd sustained these injuries days ago. Youâd seen and treated your fair share of dragonfire burns during your time in the Order, and you couldnât fathom how heâd survived the initial burn, or how heâd managed to cling to life for so long. An impressive feat, and one that may have bolstered a less keen healer. But you feared that Aemondâs stubborn refusal to succumb had only prolonged his suffering. Simply put, Aemond was dying. No amount of healing could fix it.
The realization that heâd found you again only to die in front of you crashed against your mind like a wave of bricks. Your composure crumbled as you began sobbing - heaving, ugly, gasping sobs. You hid your face in your hands as you tried not to wake him, hot tears streaming from your eyes. Four years apart, all the pain of your separation, the future that had been within reach and then cruelly ripped away from you, it all hit you in an instant. You sobbed until your crying turned silent, your face contorted but your voice given over to grief.Â
âIâm not dead yet, y/n.âÂ
Hastily swiping the tears from your eyes, you shot a dark look up at Aemond. Even covered in a fevered sweat with blood and dirt in his hair, he was glorious. That barely-there smirk, the strong sharp jawline, the eye that for all its shrewdness softened every time you caught his gaze.Â
You choked out a half-laugh, half-sob. Even in agony, Aemond still found a way to make you laugh.Â
âYou better not be,â you shot back, trying your best to match his playful tone. âI worked too damn hard on cutting you out of your armor for you to die now.âÂ
He managed a weak quirk of his lips before his eyes slipped closed again. You dabbed a (relatively) clean rag in one of the buckets of water youâd collected at the stream that morning and wiped the beaded sweat away from his forehead and neck. He groaned appreciatively at the sensation, although you suspected that was largely for your benefit. Youâd had your own brush with dragonfire, courtesy of Syrax about a year into your apprenticeship, and you still had the scar to prove it, a ribbon of discolored skin wrapping around one of your ankles. It had been the merest of burns, barely a moment at the tail end of Syraxâs plume of flames, but you remembered the anguish itâd dealt all too well. The scope of Aemondâs torment, with half his skin melted off, was unthinkable to you.Â
He caught your hand, failing to fully stifle the involuntary grunt of pain that accompanied the motion. Nevertheless, his grip was strong and insistent. When you caught his gaze, you saw the effort he was putting into staying lucid.Â
âYou should leave.â
âLeave, Aemond? Need I remind you, I already left? You came to my home this time, you canât just kick me out.â Desperate to keep him awake, you were rambling a bit, and your tone was insipid given the tsunami of emotions in your head.Â
He squeezed your hand harder to drive the point home.Â
âTheyâll come for me. For Vhagar.â
Vhagar. That answered your question as to how Aemond had gotten here. Where that mammoth of a firebreather was, you had no idea, and perhaps that was for the best. You remembered how volatile and uncontrollable Balerion had been after King Viserysâ death and in the weeks of his ridersâ convalescence. You had no interest in encountering Vhagar now, not while Aemond was so weak and perched precariously on the edge of death.Â
âWho will come, Aemond?â you asked, leaning forward to hold his gaze. His head lolled backwards against the pillow, eyelids drooping shut as fever threatened to yank him under again.Â
âEveryone. Kingâs Landing. The Army. The Hightowers, the Lannisters. All the lords. Theyâre all coming. For me.âÂ
Your brows knitted together, trying to determine if Aemond was addled from his injuries. You couldnât see how the Hightowers, his motherâs namesake, or the Lannisters, some of the oldest and most steadfast allies of House Targaryen, would possibly turn on Aemond, younger brother of Aegon the King and rider of Vhagar, one of the most prized offensive weapons in the war against Rhaenyra the Imposter Queen.Â
You rewetted the rag and busied yourself with wiping along his hairline, swiping away dried blood and dirt, and hoping heâd slip into sleep.Â
âOf course theyâre coming for you, Aemond. Youâre the Kingâs brother. Theyâll be worried. Theyâll bring maesters to heal you.â Words you scarcely believed yourself, but the tantalizing taste of hope was irresistible, and you felt your heart lunge in its direction.Â
Much to your surprise, Aemond shook his head almost violently and wrenched his eye open to glare at you.Â
âNot to heal me. To kill me.â
You ignored his words, although a sliver of foreboding wedged itself between your ribs.Â
âNonsense, Aemond. Rest now. Save your strength.â
âY/n, youâre not listening.â
âI donât understand-â
âI killed him.â Aemondâs confession landed like heavy stones on the floor around you. You froze, your hand suspended over his head.Â
âWho?â Your reply was small and fearful. Because before he answered, you knew.Â
There was only one person Aemond hated. One person who had always belittled him, even when Aemond had sought their approval tirelessly. One person who had denied Aemond at every turn, denied him his rise to power, denied him his true nature. One person who had denied Aemond you, when heâd expelled you from Kingâs Landing under pain of death.Â
Dragon's Fire - series, work in progress
Female Reader
Summary: Years after you fled King's Landing to escape execution, your past comes back to haunt you. More aptly, your past finds you covered in burns and half-alive.
Aemond Targaryen X Fem!Reader
A/n: I'm in my writing-for-whatever-show-i'm-currently-watching era and I'm not apologizing. let me know if you'd like to be tagged in future chapters!
WC: 2018
Warnings: graphic descriptions of wounds; non-canon
You squatted next to the stream, exhaling into your cupped palms and rubbing your hands together to try and cajole some dexterity back into your fingers. The nights were getting colder, you noted as your breath turned to steam in the early morning air. What was it the Starks always said? Winter was coming. You shivered, whether for the cold or for the chill of foreboding that raced along your spine you werenât entirely sure.Â
You dug around in your satchel for the small hammer you used to break up the thin screen of ice that had formed along the surface of the stream. Having located it, you thwunked once, twice, three times until the tool cracked the ice. The gurgling water beneath was clear and unbelievably cold, the sensation digging bone-deep as you dipped your hands into the running water. You splashed a few handfuls across your face to invigorate you, shaking off the fog of sleep in the process. Gasping from the shock, you busied yourself with dunking your waterskin and filling the two buckets you used each day for cleaning and cooking.Â
Your morning routine hadnât changed in the four years since youâd come to Sea Dragon Point from Kingâs Landing. The hardships youâd endured in this cold, foreign land had at first burdened you to the point of almost breaking you. In your past life as an understudy with the dragonkeepers, youâd never had to concern yourself with such trivial tasks like fetching your own water. You had fled Kingâs Landing without thinking through the consequences of scratching a living out of the woods and the rocks and the soil. The only consequence that had been on your mind was your own execution, a threat that had spurred your flight from the capital city to this desolate, forgotten place. When youâd first come to Sea Dragon Point, youâd had a few supplies still from the larders and the pantries of Kingâs Landing. After youâd eaten through those, youâd found yourself on the brink of starvation and coming to terms with the fact that you knew nothing about how to survive on your own. Necessity had taken over after a few weeks, however, and youâd begun doing what needed to be done. And here you were, four years later, with little in the way of material possessions to show for your years of hard work, but immeasurably more capable and knowledgeable about life outside of the Red Keep than youâd ever dreamed possible.
After filling your buckets and the waterskin, you checked the fishing lines youâd set the night before. Of the five you had, only two had snared prey, and only one was worth keeping. You tossed the juvenile freshwater rock lobster back into the frigid stream, its shell too soft and its meat too sparse to make it worthwhile. The hefty river trout that your other trap had snared, however, would make for a fine meal, and maybe youâd have enough leftover to salt into strips of jerky. You spiked the fish quickly, not wanting it to suffer, before beginning to scale and gut it on the riverbank. The cold water would clean the fish nicely, you knew.Â
You were so intent on your task that you almost missed the telltale snap of a twig behind you. Almost. Unsheathing the dragonglass dagger you kept tucked into your belt at all times, you turned quickly and rose from your crouch to full height with the blade extended in front of you in the direction of the noise. The sight before you stole the breath from your lungs.Â
Leaned against a tree a few hundred yards from you was a ghost from your past. Glossy silver hair, pale skin, a sharp proud jawline, and a black patch over one eye. Aemond.Â
The dagger in front of you dropped to the frostbitten ground as your hands flew to your mouth in shock.Â
âAemond!â Your mind was frozen somewhere between running to him and cursing his name, so you stayed unnaturally still, staring at him in disbelief. He chuckled at the note of terror? relief? adoration? in your voice, but immediately winced and doubled over. You hadnât noticed before, but suddenly the details of the man before you came into focus. He was paler than usual - if such a thing were possible for a Targaryen - and he was grabbing at the bark of the tree for support, his other arm wrapped tightly against his gut as if holding himself together. Thick dollops of blood were dripping from his hand and forearm, and the single eye he still had was glassy with pain.Â
Moments before he toppled forward, you rushed to him, closing the space between you two and catching him with your body. He was taller than the last time youâd seen him, and more solid. You grunted with the effort of keeping him upright as his legs turned to liquid underneath him.Â
âYouâre hurt,â you noted as if admonishing him. He chuckled again.Â
âEver the astute observer,â he quipped weakly. Unable to hold him standing any longer, you tried your best to twist his body until his spine was against the trunk of the pine tree that heâd been clinging to moments before, easing him down into a sitting position. There were a thousand questions rattling around your mind like bees - how did he find you? how long had he known where you were? what had happened to him? how did he get here? why had he come? who else knew you were here? - but you couldnât get them to be silent long enough to grab at one and force it out of your mouth. For the second time, you felt yourself frozen to the spot, your chest heaving with exertion and adrenaline.Â
A few moments passed before he managed to fix you with a piercing stare despite a blood loss-induced fog of delirium. âI had rather hoped youâd help me,â he rasped, motioning meaningfully to his bloodied arm with his eyes. You shook your head as if in a daze, your mouth opening without sound coming out. Why? How? Who?Â
âPlease, y/n,â he added effortfully after watching you gasp futilely for words. âIâm dying.â The intensity with which he met your gaze knocked something loose inside you. Your heart twisted inside your chest as you quickly looked at his wounds. The arm he was favoring had a large gash running down the length of his forearm, and he was bleeding freely from it. The edges of the wound were burned and jagged, like the flesh had been torn rather than cut. You recognized the wound instantly as a dragonâs claw mark. Having seen so many of those wounds yourself as a dragonkeeper, youâd never forget it.Â
You reached for Aemondâs wounded arm, careful not to disturb the wound itself. He winced and bit down hard on his lip to stifle a groan of pain as he carefully extended his arm towards you. You moved aside the torn shreds of his leather bracer, still laced at the elbow, to get a closer look at the wound. The amount of blood he was losing suggested that the claw must have nicked an artery. Heâd need stitches and cauterization, after cleaning the wound thoroughly. With any luck, Aemond might escape a deadly fever with the right herbs. You cursed your circumstances that you were here, hundreds of miles from the well-trained healers of the Red Keep, although Winterfell was only a hard dayâs ride. You might be able to buy whatever Aemond needed in Winterfell, although you doubted youâd have access to the same level of supplies that youâd grown accustomed to in Kingâs Landing.Â
âYouâre not dying, Aemond,â you soothed, poking tenderly at the flesh of his arm to test the muscles beneath. At worst, youâd have to amputate his arm beneath the elbow. As it was his right hand - his dominant - it would be an adjustment and likely a blow to his ego, but men had lived with far more grievous injuries. You chuckled softly as the surge of panic his words had wrenched out of you began to ebb.Â
âItâs not the arm,â he groaned. His voice sounded thick, as if he were talking through cotton. You looked up in confusion. His face had grown paler and there was a sickly, greenish cast to his skin that terrified you. He jutted his chin downward in the direction of his chest. Your eyes followed his gesture, raking over every inch of him, scouring him for signs of injury.Â
When you finally saw it, your heart sank into your stomach like a stone in deep water. You hadnât noticed it initially against the black of his armor. Running up the right side of his torso and cutting across the front of his torso from left hip to right armpit was an enormous, blackened swath of flesh and armor melted together. His skin was almost completely burned off, revealing muscle and sinew and fat underneath, much of that fused with the plates of his black and gold-threaded plackart where it had turned molten against his body. His flesh was twitching, nerves and damaged muscles spasming in pain. With each breath, you saw Aemond fight against a new wave of agony.Â
Unable to look anymore, you turned your head away, hot tears spilling from the corners of your eyes. You knew what youâd seen: a death sentence. You fought to steady yourself and to bite down the wave of nausea that climbed up the break of your throat. When you turned back to him, he was staring into you with an intensity that terrified you. He hadnât looked at you like that since the first night youâdâŚ
You swallowed back the bile and the memories, unable to let yourself get distracted now, with his life in the balance. Now you understood why heâd come here, why heâd risked everything - his life, and yours - to get to you in this remote place. He knew your skill with healing, and he knew that you were familiar with this type of injury. As if confirming your thoughts, he nodded, the motion eliciting a new wince of pain.Â
âDragon fire.â It wasnât a question, more of a statement. You already knew the answer. He nodded again, his eye closing as he took a few shallow breaths.Â
You took in the state of his injury once more. How youâd missed the acrid, sulfur-like stench of his burn initially was a mystery. It assaulted your nose now, threatening to bring up that wave of bile youâd barely managed to swallow down. You couldnât see how far along Aemondâs back the burn extended, but you were grateful to see that his neck, arms, and legs look relatively unscathed, with the exception of that gruesome gash.Â
âI need to get you back to my hut,â you stammered out, trying to swat away the small twinge of embarrassment at calling your home a hut, although it was arguably the most appropriate word you could come up with. If Aemond noticed, he didnât show it, only nodded once and braced himself against the back of the tree. You carefully lifted his left arm up and threw it over your shoulders, bracing his body weight against yours as he rose precariously to his feet. You were careful not to touch him wherever he was burned, but it was near impossible with his entire torso wreathed in charred flesh.Â
âDo what you have to,â he growled through gritted teeth. âI wonât stay conscious much longer.â You took his meaning: you had to get him where he needed to go as quickly as you could, pain be damned. Stealing your own nerves, you shimmied up right against him, taking more of his weight, and started off in the direction of your home. He roared in agony most of the way, fighting to keep his screams from breaking loose. Aemond barely made it inside and onto the single cot you slept on before his eye lolled shut and he slipped into unconsciousnessâŚ
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Can I request a band of brothers imagine please I was thinking a one where her a d dick are In a secret relationship and she wants to come clean to the other men. They get in an argument about it. She feels like he is ashamed of embarrassed. He loves her more than anything so he kisses her infront of everyone and he asks her to marry him. They all congratulate them xx
A/N: another one that turned steamy/spicy before my eyes! great request my dear, thank you! :)
Show It - Dick Winters X Fem!Reader
*This fic is entirely based on the Band of Brothers TV show - no disrespect intended to the true veterans and their families*
WC: 1992
Warnings: references to canon-typical gore; non-canon; spice/steam; implied smut
Zell Am See was breathtakingly gorgeous, and all you could do was cry. Sitting on the edge of the dock, that beautiful mirror-smooth water stretching out around you, the Alps rising up through the horizon in front of you like a crown made of stone, your eyes were glued on your lap. Big fat tears dribbled down your cheeks and neck.Â
This is foolish, you chided yourself. Pull it together. He is not embarrassed.Â
After a year and a half of serving in the Army Nurse Corps, watching men choke on their own blood and holding them down while they got amputations without morphine and cradling their heads while they cried out for their mothers in agony, this was what brought you to your knees? The fact that your boyfriend wouldnât hold your hand in front of a few soldiers?
Dick Winters was many things, but embarrassed by you was not one of them. After keeping your relationship with the handsome, stoic major a secret since youâd met at Toccoa, you knew his reasons for the secrecy. It was improper, a violation of the Armyâs no fraternization policy, and ultimately disrespectful to your fellow service members. And heâd told you time and time again, in no uncertain terms, that he expected the two of you to keep your relationship under wraps until you were both safely back in the States and no longer at the Armyâs beck and call.Â
Nevertheless, youâd made the fatal mistake of dreaming. Ever since VE Day, youâd let yourself get slack with secrecy. Risking a peck on his cheek in front of an open window. Running your hand along his shoulders as you walk past him in the aid station. Trying to intertwine your fingers with his as he escorted you back to your barracksâŚ
âY/n.â The sound of his voice tore your thoughts to shreds, leaving them scattered like scraps of tissue paper along the dock. Your cheeks burned with embarrassment, the memory of him gently swatting your hand away as youâd reached for his stinging fresh in your mind.Â
âNot now, Dick,â you groaned back, burying your face in your shoulder away from him as he took a seat next to you.Â
âLook at me, y/n.âÂ
You stubbornly turned further away from him, gluing your eyes to the lake. You saw a few of the Easy Company guys lazing on the sun dappled shoreline in their military issue boxers. After so many campaigns in the snow and rain and mud, the warm sunshine and clean air of Switzerland felt like a rebirth.Â
âPlease.âÂ
Damnit Dick, you thought as the tone of pleading in his voice finally broke you. Canât you just leave me be?Â
âWhat is it?â you groused. You let yourself turn halfway back to him, still avoiding looking at him, not sure if you could trust yourself fully yet.Â
âYou know what it is,â he replied patiently. He knew you were pouting and prone to stubbornness. You wished you were calmer, more mature, like him. But at the end of the day, your passion - which he proclaimed to love so much - came with its fair share of warts.Â
You sighed heavily, busying yourself with dragging a stick across the surface of the lake beneath your foot. You leaned your cheek against the knee you had bent upwards, your foot tucked in against you while the other one hung loosely over the edge of the dock.Â
âIâm sorry.â You hated how petulant it sounded, but it was the best you could do. Youâd probably have to rehash this conversation later, in private. The sounds of men playing football and jumping into the lake around you made you keenly aware that there were eyes and ears close enough to learn your secret. The last thing you wanted to do was have a repeat of earlier, where Dick publicly rejected you.
âNo, youâre not.â There was a pressure in his voice, and his words startled you. You looked at him, your brows knitted together in question. He reached out and extracted the stick youâd been idly tracing along the surface of the water from your fingers, lacing them with his. He held up your intertwined hand and showed it to you.Â
âIâm the one whoâs sorry,â he clarified. His voice was dripping with sincerity, threatening to break you apart. Youâd only heard that tone in his voice three times before: the first time heâd confessed his feelings for you the night before D-Day, the first time youâd slept together on a squeaky bunk bed in a half-bombed out house in Carentan, and the first time heâd said heâd loved you in Haguenau. Each moment was seared into your memory like a brand.Â
âIâve been fighting for so long, I forgot what itâs like to be at peace.â He paused, swallowing effortfully with a look of concentration on his face. You were shocked to see the threat of tears in his eyes. You reached out with your free hand to capture his cheek, your touch hesitant at first. He practically melted against your palm, his eyes closing.Â
âI know what you thought, when I wouldnât hold your hand,â he continued softly. âThat I was embarrassed.â
âDick, I know youâre not, I ju-â
âThatâs what your heart felt. Maybe your mind told you otherwise, but I know you.â You squirmed slightly. It was true, Dick Winters knew you better than anyone. And the fact that he knew it too felt intimate and tender.Â
âBut you also know me,â he added. You smiled, demurring slightly as a blush spread across your cheeks. It was true. Dick Winters wasnât a complicated man, but he was deep. One of many reasons youâd fallen for him was his thoughtfulness, his depth of character, and his bottomless loyalty. You wore your thoughts and feelings on your sleeves, while Dickâs passions had to be dug for like a well. But time and time again, youâd been reminded that the effort was worth the reward.
âYou know I love you. I know you know that. But⌠Iâve been trying to hide it for so long, I forgot the importance of showing it.âÂ
You nodded in agreement, trying to fight the urge to defend his actions from his own apology. As much as his contrition was soothing your damaged ego, you wanted to reach out and smooth away the worry etched in that little creased line between his eyebrows. Nothing hurt you as much as seeing Dick Winters hurt, even if it was by his own doing.Â
âItâs ok, Dick. We made an agreement, itâs for the best. And itâs only a couple more weeks.â Surely the Army wouldnât keep you here longer than that, not now that Germany had officially surrendered.Â
Dick lifted your still-interlocked hand to his lips, pressing a warm kiss to your knuckles.Â
âIâm tired of waiting,â he murmured. The heat in his eyes was beckoning you to fall into him. You felt your stomach tie itself into knots and your toes curl under themselves at the suggestions in that gaze.Â
Without hesitating, he released your hand and found the back of your neck, guiding you towards him. You practically leapt into the embrace, Dickâs lips finding yours with ease. The intensity with which he kissed you wiped your mind clean of any lingering fears. Youâd never felt him take so much time with you. Months of sneaking around taking advantage of stolen moments and darkened corners had conditioned both of you to love each other fast and purposefully. There hadnât been the luxury of time to laze around in each otherâs embrace in Carentan or Haguenau or Bastogne.Â
But here, in Zell Am See, Dickâs slow and full-bodied kiss took its sweet time to bloom. You werenât sure you were going to be able to stay decent much longer. Your heart was beating erratically like a drunk marching band in your chest, and there was a sinful coil of desire beginning to tighten deep inside your gut. You let Dick explore your lips and mouth and tongue, eagerly leaving yourself wide open to this new pitch of passion.Â
You werenât sure how long you kissed him. Moments, minutes, hours, eons. Time felt liquid.Â
You would have been content to hover there on the edge of that dock until you died, but the rest of Easy Company had other ideas. A handful of wolf whistles and matching whoops shattered your concentration, along with Dickâs. He smiled against your lips at Lew Nixonâs rousing admonition that âitâs âbout damn time!â, which was immediately answered by a loud cheer from the rest of the Company. No one sounded surprised, you realized. All the careful attention to detail you and Dick had put in to cover your tracks hadnât fooled anyone. Dick realized it too, his face breaking into a sheepish but relieved grin as he pulled back from you.Â
âNot so fast, Major,â you teased him, repositioning yourself so that you were straddling Dickâs lap. You recaptured his lips in an encore kiss, eliciting another round of cat-calls from Easy. Dickâs arms hovered on your hips for a moment before he snaked his arms around you, pulling you closer against him. The two of you could barely keep your lips connected with all the smiling and giggling. You sat back with a contented sigh, coming to rest on Dickâs thighs. He cocked an eyebrow at you as his eyes danced up and down your body, squeezing your hips with greedy hands.Â
âNow that the entire Company knows, think we can safely kick Lew out for an afternoon without having to come up with an excuse?â you simpered as you tugged playfully at Dickâs tie. Even now, as the rest of Easy was lazing around in their makeshift swim trunks and aviator sunglasses, Dick Winters was ever in uniform. You were eager to change that.Â
âIâm sure Lew can be persuaded,â Dick agreed with a mischievous note in his voice. âAlthough, before we goâŚâ
He tipped you backwards off his lap and into the cold water of the lake before you had a chance to scream. He broke the surface immediately after you. You surfaced with a gasp at the chill of the water and a laugh on your lips.Â
âMajor, how very unprofessional of you!â you teased with a splash aimed at his face. He only laughed and reached out, pulling you closer. The heat from his body felt too good in the mountain-cold lake to resist, and even if you could have, you wouldnât want to. You wrapped your legs around his torso and your arms around his shoulders as he treaded water with his arms. The feel of his muscles flexing under your touch was tantalizing. He laid a soft, chaste peck against the soft, wet skin of your throat.Â
âHow about we get you warmed up, then?â he offered as you shivered involuntarily. You could barely contain yourself at the offer, only able to nod and look at him needily. He swam over to the side of the dock, helping you clamber your way up the ladder in your water-logged skirt. He was close behind you, a hand coming to rest at the small of your back as he strode off quickly in the direction of the barracks. It seemed you werenât the only one who was excited by this newfound public acceptance of your relationship to cash in.Â
âDonât get my bed wet!â Nixon called after the two of you.Â
âOh, donât worry Nix, weâre not going to make it that far,â Dick called back, causing you to stifle a gasp at his insolence with the back of your hand. You smacked him lightly on the chest as he wrapped an arm around your shoulder.Â
Despite the chill of the air as you and Dick practically sprinted back to the privacy of his quarters, youâd never felt warmer.
Hi! I was wondering if you'd be willing to do a gender neutral reader x Zipco one shot. Maybe something like them both being sweet on each other but both thinking the other isn't interested. Ending with a first kiss or more or whatever you feel! Thanks for considering!!
A/n: this got steamier than I thought it would when I started. What can I say, I love a broody biker man <3 Thanks for the request anon!!
Long Time Coming - Zipco X GN!Reader
WC: 2142
Warnings: mention of past domestic violence relationship; alcohol use; steam
**K i know this gif isn't from the movie but i could literally not find any on tumblr so dont hate me
You leaned back in your chair in the bar, taking in the motley crew of bikers that had become something like a family over the last few months. Johnny was standing over by the pool tables, one arm slung over Bennyâs shoulder to keep himself upright, the other clutching the neck of a beer bottle and conducting a very off-tune rendition of Elvisâ All Shook Up, vocals provided by the very drunk duo of Wahoo and Corky. Kathy had kicked off her heels and was doing a rather uncoordinated jumble of the monster mash, trying to adjust to the sloppy cadence of the drunk chorus that kept falling behind the beat of the jukebox. Your cousin Cal was laughing so hard at the antics he almost had tears in his eyes. Cockroach was off in a corner whispering something naughty in his wifeâs ear, judging by her giggle and the bright pink flush on her cheeks, as he played with the ends of her hair. Funny Sonny was smoking a joint near the front door at a table with a fast-asleep Fat Jack across from him. Every few minutes, Funny Sonny would try to flick a pretzel crumb into Fat Jackâs open mouth between his snores. Most of the crumbs fell short of their target, dotting Jackâs beard and his chest.
And then there was Zipco, seated solemnly at the bar studying the bottom of the whiskey and coke in his hand as if he were reading tea leaves. He was the one somber face in the tavern, and judging by the furrow in his brows his emotions were churning like a storm. You chewed on the inside of your lip as you watched him from across the smoky bar, wondering what it was - or who - that was causing him such grief. Of all the bikers, you knew him the least and thought about him the most.Â
Zipco shifted on the barstool, and you could see the muscles in his back tense and move against the black of his t-shirt. Enjoying your unobstructed vantage point from the relative anonymity of the dimly lit bar, you greedily drank in the sight of his side profile, his face partially obscured by his perpetually mussed hair and shaggy beard. He lifted his glass to his mouth and took a sip, his forearm and bicep flexing appealingly as he did so. The sight made you feel thirsty suddenly as your mind fed you imaginings of his thick arms wrapped around your waist, his big hands spread open and roaming across your skin. You wondered how heâd taste - probably like whiskey and cigarettes, you thought, with a small squirm - and how that scruffy beard would feel against your lips.
âJesus Christ, y/n, take a picture, itâll last longer.â Cal slid into the chair next to you, jarring you out of the daydream that had your toes curling in their shoes. Embarrassed, you ducked your eyes and scolded your cousin.
âShut the fuck up, Cal.â
âIâm tired of watchinâ you makinâ eyes at each other,â he continued, ignoring your protestations with a confident swig of his beer.
ââEy, Zip! Get over here!â
âChrist on a fuckinâ cracker, Cal, what the hell are you doinâ?â You jabbed your elbow as hard as you could muster at his ribs. He dodged, protecting his beer with one hand and batting away your arm with the other. Zipco turned on his stool, one eyebrow raised in annoyance or curiosity, you couldnât tell.Â
âThe fuck you want?â he shouted at Cal. His eyes landed on you momentarily, and your heart pirouetted in your chest. Your imagination picked up right where itâd left off, feeding you intrusive pictures of Zipcoâs body hovering over yours, the heat from his skin warm against you as his lips devoured your moans.
âCome over âere! You and y/n are both drinkinâ alone, nothinâ sadder than a solo drunk.â You felt yourself dissolve into embarrassment at Calâs words. Panic set in as you saw Zipco actually stand up from his stool and begin making his way across the bar towards you. What the fuck were you going to say?Â
âCal, Iâll fuckinâ kill you,â you growled murderously, which only made Calâs smug smirk widen.Â
âYouâre welcome,â he replied smartly as he stood up from the chair and offered it to Zipco, who settled with an unintelligible grunt. As Cal left, snaking through the crowd towards the pool tables, he looked back at you and winked.Â
âYour cousinâs a shithead,â Zipco commented gruffly, his bluntness shocking a laugh out of you. âSorry, I know heâs kin to you. But heâs a shit.âÂ
You smiled, feeling a millimeter more comfortable now that Zipco had broken the ice.
âNo argument here,â you agreed with a queasy, nervous-sounding laugh.Â
âHowâd you end up in Chicago, anyway?â Zip asked stiffly. He was searching for something to say, just like you. It was a safe question, and it should have had an easy answer. But you found yourself chewing on the inside of your cheek, wondering just how much of your backstory you should tell him. Should you tell him the truth - that you wound up here after Cal found you half beaten to death by your boyfriend - or just offer something vague and mysterious, like âoh, I blew in on the windâ? You felt very self conscious as the silence between you stretched longer and longer. Â
âLong story,â you finally managed glumly, dark memories pressing in on the edges of your mind. Zipco was visibly fidgeting next to you, acutely aware that heâd inadvertently stepped on a sensitive subject. When he finally spoke, his voice was laced with embarrassment and pain.Â
âDidnât mean to pry. Cal never said much âbout how you ended up here. And Iâm⌠curious.â Something about the way he muttered the last word plucked a string in you. You fought to suppress a small smile at the confession that Zipco was curious about you.
âMy ex was a piece of shit,â you offered quietly. âWhen I ran out of escape plans, I called Cal. He brought me here.â There was a lot more to say about that long story, but you let those sparse details suffice. Zipco looked at you, bashfulness replaced by something hotter and more dangerous.
âHe give you this scar?â Electricity leapt through your veins when Zipcoâs fingertips connected with the jagged line of scarred skin that snaked down your forearm - courtesy of a broken bottle in your exâs hand. You jumped reflexively at the contact. The scar wasnât sensitive anymore, but you were surprised that anyone had noticed. You took great care to cover it most of the time, eager to avoid prying questions. Somehow though, the question in Zipcoâs voice felt inviting. There was a protective streak stitched in between his words that beckoned you closer. Mouth gone dry, you nodded wide-eyed at him.Â
âI didnât think anyone had noticedâŚâÂ
His eyes captured yours, the anger bubbling in his gaze softening at the sight of you drinking him in. An unexpected intimacy tangled together in the space between you, tightening like the laces on a corset. Your head was spinning, heart pounding, palms sweating slightly. Your lungs seemed to forget how to breathe, spasming futilely in your chest. Unable to bear it anymore, simultaneously you both dropped your eyes to the table.Â
Feeling warm and overwhelmed, you took a healthy swig from your beer, followed by another, hoping for a dose of liquid courage. So far, all the booze had done was whet your appetite for other vices. You swallowed thickly as you snuck a glance in Zipcoâs direction. He looked deliciously casual in his jeans, riding boots and black t-shirt, the signature leather jacket long discarded in the hot, summertime air of the smoky bar. Suddenly, an idea struck you.
âItâs a little hot in here, donât you think?âÂ
He nodded. âAlways is. No fuckinâ ventilation in this shithole.â
âIâm gonna get some air,â you said, letting your words hang in the space between you two like an offering. You wondered if he heard the invitation. It took a moment, but when you saw comprehension dawn on his face, the sparkle in his eyes and the quick smirk told you everything you needed to know about his eagerness.
âI could use a fresh cigarette myself.â You rose first, Zipco trailing you like a shadow. You wondered if anyone noticed, but you couldnât bring yourself to focus on anything but the prickling awareness of Zipco close behind you, so close you swore you could feel the tease of his breath on your neck.Â
When you stepped outside, the quiet of the dark, sleeping street and the cool of the air was welcome. Your body turned without needing input from your brain towards a particularly shadowy alleyway next to Junkerâs. You could hear Zicpoâs heavy steps close behind you.Â
The quiet of the August night helped you think more clearly, ratcheting up both your commitment to the moment and your nervousness. You reached a wall, turning to face Zipco. The streetlight glinting in his gaze looked like starlight. He was close enough for you to smell the mint of his aftershave and the grassy, woodsmoke tang of whiskey on his breath. Your heart surged up into your throat at his closeness.
âIâll take a cigarette, too, if youâre having one.â Your voice was a half-note higher pitched than usual, fluttering at the edges.Â
He smiled gently, moving a half-step closer to you.
âNow that Iâm out here, Iâm not sure I need a smoke after all,â he murmured. His eyes flicked back and forth between yours, the questions hanging in the air beginning to vanish one by one as your body language answered each one. You felt your back come into contact with the bricks of the wall behind you just as his lips found yours. The feel of his mouth against yours unleashed the restraint youâd been fighting to maintain. You kissed him back with a needy pressure that you could tell surprised him by the small gasp he let out. He barely let a moment pass before he was matching you, a strong hand coming to cradle the back of your neck. His skin was calloused and warm, just like youâd imagined. You felt your bones melt as you relaxed into his embrace, letting his arms and the wall behind you hold you upright.
The kiss morphed from needy to excited to probing, each of you happily responding to the other as you found your rhythm. Zipco was utterly silent against you. The almost ferocious focus with which he moved and held you was intoxicating, and pretty soon you were gasping and sighing and moaning enough for the both of you. Your hands had found their way up into his hair, raking across his scalp and trailing down the side of his neck, dancing underneath the collar of his t-shirt. He shuddered slightly against you, his lips curling into a smile against yours. Hot summer night and barely-private alleyway be damned, you were too far gone to care as your fingers began sliding downwards, looking for the hem of his shirt.
The front door of the bar opened, letting the sound inside pour out into the street. You broke away from each otherâs lips as Cal stumbled out with a bleary-eyed Fat Jack and Johnny close behind. Zipco rolled his eyes, bracing for what he knew was about to come as he placed a hand on the wall next to your temple, granting you a measure of privacy and obscuring your face from the bar-goers.
ââEy, you two, tonsil-lickinâ session is over! Pack it up and get a room!â You barely stifled a giggle at Calâs quip, leaning your head against Zipcoâs arm and smiling up at him. His face was flushed as he matched your relieved smile.Â
âBeen wantinâ to do that for a long time,â he admitted with a devilish smirk.Â
âRude to keep me waitinâ then,â you shot back. He ducked down, catching your lips again, this time softer and more tender.Â
âSeriously, guys, get outta here. As annoyinâ as it was to watch you two pine after each other for weeks, somehow this is worse.âÂ
Cal was so close he was practically making it a threesome. Despite the self-congratulatory grin he wore, the note of sincerity in his voice kept you from hitting him. You and Zip broke into matching laughs at Calâs invitation, and before you knew it, you were settling in on the back of Zipcoâs bike, its engine purring underneath you and your cheek pressed against the leather of his jacket. You smiled at Cal, knowing youâd never hear the end of it, as he winked at you before Zipco drove off into the night.
Ahhh don't come at me for the lack of updates lately! đ I've been so distracted with watching the Olympics and my job. I'm not meant to work a ful-time job, your honor. I just wanna write silly fanfics all day and read all night pls and thanks ! Anyway, enjoy! đŠˇ
Benny x Bunny Masterlist
Word Count- 3.4k+
Summary- The last person you expect to be there to dry your tears is that stubbornly persistent biker of yours.
******
Pete never showed up to your fundraiser. You had waited the whole afternoon in the hopes that youâd see him, but he wasnât there for your event. He wasnât there for the bake sale, or the picnic. He didnât even show up for the auction which you were sure heâd be interested in that since one of the items to be sold was an expensive golf club set. He must have had other plans, you tried to tell yourself. He must have been too busy.Â
You hadnât seen Benny after that either, but you tried to find that as more of a relief than disappointment, after all, he was the reason you and Pete had a bit of a disagreement anyway. Part of you wondered if he only showed up for your tent since you hadnât seen him anywhere else at the charity afterwards. Regardless, the hours passed at the picnic and you eventually helped everyone pack up before you left too, riding home on your bicycle. You tried to call Pete when you made it home, but his mother answered and told you he wasnât home. You asked her to have him call you when he could. You ate dinner with your family and tried to not look too hopeful every time the phone rang because it was never Pete calling you back. You expected to go to bed with a sense of dejection, but instead you were surprised to feel something closer to . . . relief.Â
So the next two days went by quickly. You were too busy with work and household chores to notice that Pete hadnât called you back. It was only when you had gotten up early to start on breakfast on the third day that he finally did ring you.Â
âIâm sorry I havenât seen you much,â he told you over the phone. âI miss you.â
âItâs okay, Iâm sure you were busy,â you mumbled as you stirred the pancake batter, phone receiver balancing precariously between your cheek and shoulder.Â
âI want to see you this weekend. I can pick you up around noon on Saturday if youâre free.âÂ
You agreed a bit reluctantly, but he didnât seem to catch it.Â
******
âOh, are you going to teach me to golf?â you asked excitedly as Pete pulled into the country club parking lot. Heâd been quiet to tell you where it was that he was taking you today, but you wanted to trust the spontaneity of the moment so you let him drive you to the mystery location. Out of all the places he could have surprised you with, this certainly wasnât what you were expecting. Part of you was confused because you hadnât expressed a particular fondness for the sport, but another part of you felt warmth that he wanted to share his hobby with you.Â
âYeah, I thought youâd like to join me and the boys today.â He smiled at you as you both exited the car. âSit in the cart and look pretty while you cheer us on.â
Oh. So he wasnât even teaching you his hobby. You wanted to say something back, to tell him that you were willing to learn if he taught you, but his friends came over then, interrupting your chance to speak. Pete introduced you to them, five in total and you struggled to remember their names. But it didnât matter much since all chances of you speaking were thrown out the window when they bear hugged each other, and turned to go out onto the field. You followed behind, quietly trying to find a place in their obviously-tight friend group. And thatâs how you spent the next three hours: awkwardly existing in their world, sitting on the cart and watching them play. You were the only girl, and it was clear that they didnât know how to involve you much in their conversations. And when you were able to pull Pete to the side for a moment, you asked if he could let you take a swing once, just to try it out. He nodded but said, âWell, maybe in the next game, this one Iâve got a bet on and every shot counts.â You didnât ask again.Â
Even though you were still technically spending time with him, this didnât feel in any way fun or exciting. You tried not to, but your mind drifted to your night spent at the bar with Benny and how fun that was, despite it being a bar full of bikers â a scenario you would have never thought youâd be in, let alone enjoy. As you sat in the golf cart, having nothing better to do than to watch Pete with his friends, you wondered if this was all he wanted you for. Were you really just a doll to him? A trophy? You didnât get to play?Â
After the next game ended, you asked Pete if he could take you somewhere for lunch and he seemed almost reluctant to leave his friends. But in the end, he did agree, and you said goodbye to the band of golfers. You walked back to the parking lot together and when you spotted his car in the distance, you figured this was your chance to actually talk with him, not just listen to him speak.Â
âWhat do you want out of life, Pete?â you asked quietly as you slowed to a stop on the sidewalk.
âWhat?â He paused a few paces ahead of you, glancing back. âWhat kind of question is that?âÂ
âI mean,â you struggled to gather your jumbled thoughts. âWhat kind of life do you want?â
His brows pinched together in confusion. âWell, Iâm going to school for engineering so Iâm going to do that.â
You waited for him to continue, but he just shrugged and motioned for the car. âYou coming?â
Not seeing the conversation over quite yet, your feet remained firmly planted in your spot. âBut what do you want out of life? What do you want for me in your life?âÂ
âGeez, (Y/N),â he laughed humorlessly. âWhere is this coming from?â His expression darkened suddenly. âIs this because of that dirty biker?â
It was your turn to look confused as you opened your mouth to speak, but he cut you off. âHave you seen him again, hmm?â
âI . . . he was at the fundraiserââ
âWhat did I tell you?â He asked rhetorically as he closed the distance between you. âI donât want you around that deadbeat again.â
âIt wasnât like I sought him out,â you defended, trying to ignore the rush of agitation at his choice of description. âI had no clue he would be there. I thought you were going to be there.â
âWell, I couldnât be. You canât just expect me to drop everything for you at such a late notice.â
âWhat was more important that you needed to be at?â You frowned.
He rolled his eyes, turning back to the car. âI have my own life.â
Thatâs when you realized that he was so . . . disconnected, uninterested. He may have wanted you but not in the way of getting to know you. His want was selfish, only born out of lust. He didnât care about your hobbies or interests. You werenât even listened to when you spoke to him. The realization was painfully obvious and you felt like a fool, like he had played you. And maybe he wasnât even aware of it himself, but you could see it now: he didnât care for you, not in the way you longed for.Â
You wrapped your arms around yourself, shaking your head as you watched him approach the driverâs side door. âI know that, but . . . I was just hoping to spend time with you.â
He turned back and threw his arms out dramatically. âIâm spending time with you now, aren't I? Will you just get in the car?âÂ
You took a deep breath, looking down at your shoes. âI think Iâm gonna walk home.â
âAre you serious?â His voice grew colder as he yanked open his door. âBecause I didnât go to your bake sale?â
You shook your head. âNo, I like walkinâ and I just want some time to thinkââ
âYouâre going off to find that biker, arenât you?âÂ
âWhat?â Your gaze shot back up to his. âNo, Iââ
âI knew this would happen.â He shook his head, an unamused smile flashing on his face. âHeâs filling your head with all these dangerous ideas. Heâs poisoning you against me. Me.â
âIâm notââÂ
âGet in the car.â You didnât realize that it wasnât a request anymore.Â
âPete, I just donâtââ
âGet in the fucking car, (Y/N)!â He shouted, slamming his hand on the roof, and you jumped at the sound.Â
You stared at him, wide-eyed like a deer in headlights. Youâd never seen any man act like this, especially not Pete. Panic turned the blood in your veins to ice and you were suddenly painfully aware of just how fast your heart was beating in your chest. Seconds ticked by, and he finally reacted to your speechlessness by rubbing a hand over his face, sighing loudly.Â
âLook, just get in the car,â he tried again, his voice barely controlled. âWe came here together and I donât want people to talk about how Iâm leaving without you, okay?â
No, it wasnât okay, you wanted to say, but your throat was suddenly too tight to speak. All you could do was stare at this man who you thought you had a pretty good understanding of, who you never thought would raise his voice at you, who would never command you to do something you very obviously denied. You shook your head, hand holding over your chest in an attempt to even out your heart rate.
He called your name, but you turned and forced your legs to walk, to move away from him. You just wanted to get home to the safety of your bedroom. Behind you, you could hear his car door slam shut and the engine whine as it fired up. He drove over to you, nearly hitting the curb as he weaved.
âFine, walk home then!â he yelled and revved the engine, tires peeling out on the blacktop as he zoomed away.Â
Thatâs when the tears started falling. You sucked in a breath you hadnât realized you were holding and a sob choked into it. The sidewalk blurred from the stream of tears but you trudged on, wanting nothing more than to escape the prying eyes of the neighborhood. The action of Pete slamming his hand against the metal proof of his car replayed in your mind and something unpleasant gripped your heart at the realization that what you saw was his reaction to not getting what he wanted the first time. This was supposed to be the exciting moments of you relationship, the time when you were still discovering who each other were. If he could be so easily angered by you now, what would 5 years of marriage look like? What would 10?Â
And as you approached the intersection, a thought came to you and you felt sick at the possibility that maybe this is what your mother felt before she married your father. And your grandmother before she married your grandmother. Like a chain, these women with hearts and ambitions and dreams all just got married and became something their husbands wanted, lived a dream their husbands had. And maybe that was their dream, but what if it wasnât yours?
The revving of an engine broke you free from your all-consuming thoughts and fresh fear spiked through you. Was it Pete coming back? But no, you realized. The engine was coming from the gas station you were passing on the corner, and it wasnât a car, but a motorcycle. The rider pulled up to one of the free parking spots, cutting the engine and kicking out the kickstand. His back was turned to you, but you knew who it was already by the messy blonde hair and signature blue jacket lettered âVandalsâ across the shoulder blades. You groaned because he was the last person you wanted to see right now but you needed to walk right by him to continue on your way home. And as ridiculous as it was, you wanted to cry harder at the thought of him seeing you crying.Â
When he dismounted, you quickened your pace, putting your head down in the hopes that he wouldnât notice you. But of course, you heard him call out, âHey, Little Bunny.â
You sniffed hard, quickly swiping your fingers across your cheeks as you heard him approach. Even though you didnât slow your pace, he caught up to you quickly.Â
âYou walkinâ home again?â His voice was light, teasing but you didnât dare to look up at him. âYou must really likeââ
But he must have seen your tear-soaked face because he stopped, his hand gently grasping your upper arm. âWhatâs wrong?â
You bit your lip, and against your better judgment, you glanced up at him. That was all it took before his shoulders visibly stiffened, and his jaw locked tightly. âWho did this?â
âNobody,â you muttered softly, voice cracking. âIâm fine.â
âWas it Pete?â his grip remained firm on your arm.
âPlease, just leave it alone, Benny,â you whispered desperately, and his eyes softened as he released you. A painfully long beat played out between you as you watched him decide if he wanted to press you further for details. But to your surprise, he dropped it, instead, reaching out, his calloused thumb brushing away a solitary tear from the apple of your cheek. You flinched at the contact, not expecting him to touch you so intimately. As quick as he was to make contact, so was he able to let his hand fall back to his side, leaving you wide-eyed at the act.Â
âLet me give you a ride home, please,â he asked, his voice so quiet, so compassionate that you were honestly dumbfounded that this was a biker in a notoriously revered club standing before you. âI donât want you to have to walk back when youâre upset like this.â
You glanced down the sidewalk, knowing you still had a few miles to go before youâd see your house in the distance. You sniffed again, âYou wonât try to propose to me again, will you?â
âNo strings attached, I promise,â he replied quietly.Â
You relented, nodding slightly, and you didnât protest when he slid his hand into yours, lacing your fingers together and gently tugged you back to his bike.Â
******
Benny drove slowly back to your house, and you just buried your face against his jacket the entire ride, focusing on the gentle rhythm of his heartbeat. It gave you time to settle your breathing, to dry your tears, and when he finally did pull up to your house, a disappointed wave surfaced over you. He put both feet down to balance you both, but he didnât cut the engine, and you didnât release your arms from around his torso.
âCan we . . . keep going?â you asked hesitantly, unsure of just how patient he was willing to be with you.
âYou wanna keep going?â he questioned over his shoulder, and you responded with a brief nod. âWhere?â
âAnywhere, just not here.â
He pushed off the ground, revving the engine slightly and the bike picked up speed as you left your neighborhood. You tightened your grip as he drove you out of the city, down the long country roads, past barns and farms, out by the lake and through the winding back roads which cut the woods. He drove until the sun began to make its descent over the far wheat fields, the last warmth of those golden rays catching the two of you like a spotlight, like you were the only two people on stage. And you realized thatâs what riding with Benny felt like: solidarity together. Youâve felt a strange sense of loneliness most of your life, even when you were surrounded by others who loved you, but with Benny . . . it was like you were finally being seen. No, not just seen, it was like you were finally being heard.Â
But reality came back too quickly when Benny pulled up to a stop light, hand moving to brush across yours as he asked, âYou ready to go back now or dâyou wanna keep going?â
Keep going, your heart wanted to shout, keep going and letâs drive until we hit the sandy beaches of California. But your head always won the battle in the end, and you only nodded mutely.Â
When Benny pulled up in front of your house again, he cut the engine, but remained seated. He held his hand out for you as you dismounted, and he wanted to say something â anythingâ to make sure that you were okay, to help you. But Bennyâs not known for his good communication skills so he clenched his jaw tightly, frustration building in his chest. You needed him, you needed to be consoled, and he was so pathetic that he wasnât even sure how.Â
Sure, he knew how to have someoneâs back, especially in a fight. He knew how to throw punches and get back to his feet after getting knocked down. He could do that all day. But you staring at him with your Bambi eyes and heartbroken expression, he couldnât take it. He just wanted to pull your tiny frame to him and kiss away the tears, to tell you that everything would be okay because heâs got your back. Then a horrible thought clouded his mind because what if he was the reason you were crying? A bitter taste filled his mouth at the possibility. And my god, how stupid could he be because of course he had to dig himself deeper into that hole when he had told you that he wouldnât apologize for his conversation with your date. At the time he said it, he had no guilt or shame for his actions because he saw nothing wrong with it. He wanted you more than Pete did, he was sure of that. But now as he glanced at your sweet face, he realized that his actions could have hurt you. And all for what â his pride? That seemed so insignificant now.
âThank you for the ride,â you said ever-so-politely.Â
Before you could turn to walk to your front porch, Bennyâs hand reached out to lightly touch your own, and he blurted out, âIâm sorry. Iâm sorry for what I did to Pete. That was wrong, and I see that now. Iâm sorry if what I did has hurt you in any way, that was never my intention.â
Your frown deepened, and Bennyâs heart sank. But then you said, âIâm not upset with you, Benny, but thank you. That . . . that means a lot to me.â
He was at a loss for words, struck by your angelic voice and unwavering benevolence. He could only watch as you slipped from his grasp and turned away. You were walking away from him, but Benny couldnât help but feel it meant something more than just putting physical distance between you. His mind raced with thoughts, trying to find something he could say to get you to stop, to be able to see your face again.Â
However, it seemed that fate had other plans because you halted in your tracks, hesitating a moment before spinning back around and approaching him again. He opened his mouth to ask if you were okay, but you cut him off as you leaned up and planted a quick kiss to his cheek. His heart skipped a beat at the gentle touch of your soft lips, and he widened his eyes as you pulled back, a shy smile on your face. He grinned because every time he thought he had you figured out, you continued to pull stunts on him. You were the most entertaining thing he knew.Â
You took a few steps backwards, but maintained his eye contact as you spoke, âMaybe . . . next time we could go a little faster?â
He knew you were referring to the bike, but God help him because heat burned in his lower belly, and he wanted to pick you up over his shoulder and carry you into your house where heâd show you just what speed he was capable of. He wasnât sure you even knew what effect your words had on him, or if you even knew the sexual implications, but he felt himself losing a battle of will. âYou want there to be a next time?â
You nodded and that adorable rosy color tinted your cheeks. âYeah, if-if you do.â
He shook his head in disbelief that you were finally giving him a chance. Though looking at your sweet smile now, he didnât seem to mind the extra effort he had to put in. âYou wanna go fast? Look whoâs the trouble now.â
You fought to control your smile. âGoodnight, Benny.â
âNight,â he replied as he watched you walk back up the steps to your house, his fingers ghosting over the spot on his cheek that you kissed, wondering if apologies were really that easy.Â
no question or request, i just wanted to say that i love your work so much, especially your band of brothers & peaky work 𫶠you're a beautiful writer!
Ty so much âĽď¸ i am always a little shocked when ppl say they like my writing, it's such a hobby for me and usually when i'm writing i'm like 'who's going to want to read this crap' so hearing that honestly makes my heart melt :) thank you anon
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Would you write a one shot for Zipco at all? I Understand if not I just laughed every time he was on screen I feel like heâs one of them drunk naturally funny guys who just rambles but I had an idea, heâs obviously very very drunk 90% of the time đ
imagine heâs crushing on you ( your way out of his league but like him back) yet you donât like how drunk he is all the time and word gets back to him and the group starts picking up how heâs sober more now because heâs trying to move on you
If you donât write for him at all I understand â¤ď¸
A Good Woman - Zipco X Female Reader
A/n: after writing my first fic for the Bikeriders, I kinda fell in love with Zipco's character so actually very happy that you requested something for him! it's currently a oneshot, but I might do a prt 2...?
PS fam, there are no gifs of Zipco and that rlly needs to be rectified pronto
Word Count: 3072
Warnings: some outdated misogynistic/traditional gender roles vibes; cursing; alcohol use
Youâd never seen your father closer to murder than the night Zipco picked you up for your first date. You heard Zipco coming on his chopper about a mile before he pulled up your cul de sac and stopped at your front door. He had a small cluster of wildflowers - picked by hand, illegally, out of a garden he passed on the way over - clutched awkwardly in one of his hands. He left a smudged fingerprint on the doorbell.Â
âMama, Daddy, this is Zipco.â You reddened with embarrassment when you realized that you didnât actually know his full name. Your mother raised her eyebrows at the sound of his name, while your fatherâs complexion turned a shade of red dangerously close to purple.Â
âNice to meet you,â Zipco mumbled. You swallowed thickly, trying to catch his eye to see if you could somehow cue him to kiss your motherâs cheeks like she expected. As you took in the terrified look on his face, you realized it wouldnât do any good. He hadnât shaved since youâd first met him three days prior, and his stubble would almost certainly offend your mother.Â
âMrâŚ. Zipco.â Your mother moved first, extending a hand in greeting with great trepidation. Zipco took it limply for a brief moment before dropping it, shuffling his feet and clearing his throat self-consciously.Â
âOur daughter has a curfew, Mr. Zip-toe,â your father blustered. You were almost certain that he intentionally mispronounced Zipcoâs name.Â
You stepped forward, eager to intercept this conversation before it took a turn into confrontation. Much to your surprise, Zipco nodded obsequiously. âYes sir, your daughter told me. Iâll have âer back well before then, and only a little bit drunk.â
Your stomach fell out through the bottom of your feet. Of all times for a bad joke, this was certainly not one of them. Your mother inhaled sharply as her eyes widened in disbelief. Your father opened his mouth, ready to hurl insults, as his face darkened from puce to fuschia.Â
âDaddy, heâs just teasing. He knows, I told him all that. Weâll be safe, I promise! Kathy will be with us.â Your second-cousin, Kathy, was the whole reason Zipco was here at all. Youâd been tagging along with her and her new biker boyfriend, Benny, when youâd run into Bennyâs motorcycle club - Zipco included - outside of a pool hall in a section of town your parents would never allow you to go to. Not that they knew that. But Kathyâs endorsement of Zipco was the only reason theyâd agreed to the notion of you going on a date with a man who rode a motorcycle.Â
Your mother placed a silencing hand on your fatherâs shoulder. Outnumbered, your father let the protests that had been so close to exploding die on his lips with a flustered sigh. Next to you, Zipco was practically vibrating with discomfort. Quick to leave, you place a hasty kiss on both your parentsâ cheeks and bid them adieu, ushering a stockstill Zipco out of the door before they had a chance to rethink the whole thing.Â
You made a small show out of putting on your helmet and fastening it under your chin so your parents could see. You delicately perched on the second seat of Zipcoâs bike and gripped the handles near your ankles chastely until youâd rounded the corner and your house was well out of sight. You quickly let go of the handles, wrapping your arms around Zipcoâs thickly muscled torso and leaning your cheek against the Vandals MC patch of his jean jacket. Riding on his bike was just as much of a thrill today as it had been three days prior. You shimmied up towards the front of the bike as close as you could get to his back, until the two of you were practically zipped together from your belly to his back. Unsure of where you were going, you closed your eyes and smiled contentedly, listening to the roar of the road as Zipco drove you out of the suburbs and out into the rolling farmlands outside of townâŚ
*****
âWoah woah woah, look what the Latvian beast dragged in. A pink princess!â You blushed at Johnnyâs greeting, resisting the urge to twirl around in the baby pink dress youâd picked out for the occasion. Kathy had actually laughed at you when youâd tried it on for her, asking you if you knew that weâre going to a biker race, not a Sadie Hawkins dance. But you knew that Zip liked it when you dressed in soft colors. One night when heâd been feeling particularly romantic, he called you his cotton candy queen. Youâd practically melted on the spot.Â
Next to you, Zipco grumbled some nondescript retort in Johnnyâs direction, his arm tightening around your shoulder. You reached up and planted a kiss on his stubbly cheek, happy to reassure him. The grainy smell of whiskey tickled your nose, and you tried to conceal the flash of frustration that ripped through you. He was drunk again? It was barely 6:00pm on a Thursday, for Christâs sake. Plus, he was supposed to be driving you home. You hated to think of how your parents would react if, once again, it was Kathyâs boyfriend Benny who dropped you off at the end of the night. As your mother succinctly observed, âgetting picked up by one biker is bad enough, but getting dropped off by another just makes you look like a cheap whoreâ.Â
Johnny threw up his hands in mock surrender. âDonât worry Zip, nobodyâs cominâ for your princess, not on my watch.â Zip chortled before he took a heavy seat next to Funny Sonny in front of the fire. You followed, sitting on the other side from him, exchanging a small wave with Kathy. She barely noticed, her tongue so deep in Bennyâs throat you wondered if sheâd managed to lick his tonsils yet.Â
âHow you doinâ, darlinâ?â Funny Sonny asked, shooting you a leering smile with rotten teeth. You remembered the first time youâd met him how that state of his dental health had almost made your stomach turn. Now, you couldnât imagine him with a beaming set of pearly whites. One thing that these last four months of dating Zip had taught you, nobody in the Vandals was perfect, and if they were, they wouldnât be nearly as fun.Â
âPeachy keen, Sonny, and I appreciate you askinâ.â Youâd managed to drop the gâs at the end of your words that Zipco said made you sound like a spoiled daddyâs money brat, but you hadnât quite adopted the informal, cuss-riddled speak of the Vandals. Youâd tried once or twice, but after getting quizzical looks at best to outright laughs at worst, youâd decided that you couldnât fight nature. Besides, most of the guys seemed to warm up to you, after they got over the shock of seeing their roughest, wildest member with a judgeâs daughter. As Benny had explained to you one night, Zipco was motor oil and you were champagne. You had to give people a little bit of time to get used to seeing opposites paired together.Â
Funny Sonny laughed, shaking his head at your perfectly articulated and sincerely polite response. âAny time, darlinâ, any time. Zip, here, I saved you one.â Funny Sonny tossed your boyfriend an unopened beer, which he caught deftly despite the haze of whiskey that had turned his eyes glassy. As he went to crack the top, you nudged him gently on the shoulder, leaning over to whisper in his ear.
âBaby, arenât you takinâ me home tonight?â He didnât hesitate, but proceeded to open the top of his beer and take a swig.Â
ââCourse,â he replied curtly, turning to face you. He was close enough to kiss, and you could feel his warm, cigarette-and-Canadian-club breath fan over your face. You would have found it sexy, if it wasnât coming from the man that was supposed to drive you over an hour back home in a few short hours.Â
âWell, maybe you should⌠yâknowâŚâ Zip stared at you blankly, waiting for you to finish the sentence. You were acutely aware that several of the guys sitting around the fire were watching your interaction with mild interest, although trying to appear totally oblivious. Even Johnny had his ears craned in your direction. The last thing you wanted to do was embarrass Zipco in front of his MC.Â
Your eyes flicked meaningfully at the beer in his hand. Zipco shrugged. âWhatâre you trynna say?â he asked flatly. You could sense his defenses coming up. This wasnât the first time youâd had this discussion.Â
âI just⌠I think maybe, since you have to drive me home, and itâs a long drive yâknow, maybe you should cool it. On the drinkinâ.âÂ
Zipcoâs eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared. You watched as he struggled to stuff his temper down. The circle had gone awkwardly quiet, and now some of the guys were watching him openly, warily. You knew from talking with Johnny and Benny that Zipco had a reputation in the club of being a hothead with a hair trigger temper. Youâd never seen his temper, at least that was what those guys had told you. And you didnât want to, from the sounds of it.Â
âDidnât know I was datinâ my fuckinâ mother.â Zipco took a loud gulp of beer, downing the rest easily and crushing it in one hand, tossing the crumpled aluminum can over his opposite shoulder.Â
You pursed your lips and ducked your head down as you felt your cheeks stain with humiliation. âIâm not tryinâ to be your mother, Zip, I just-â
âThen quit mindinâ what I do and shut the fuck up.â
If the circle had been quiet before, it was silent now. You willed yourself not to cry, squeezing your eyes shut against the burn of tears. Youâd been trying your best not to embarrass him, and here heâd gone and properly chided you in front of everybody. And based on the tension on his jaw, he wasnât feeling any regret. He avoided your gaze, unlooping his arm from where it had come to rest around your shoulders and leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.Â
Unsure of what to say or do, you stayed still and quiet. After a few long moments, Kathy chimed in quickly that was it Wahoo or Corky who said that they could beat Cockroach in a wrestling match. The ensuing round of laughter and eruption of conversation was louder than necessary, everybody eager to give you and Zipco the illusion of privacy.Â
You didnât talk to anybody for the rest of the evening and you only watched the races with vague interest. Zipco didnât race, for his part. He stayed precisely where he was, by your side. Even though his posture didnât relax or change, you sensed that he was locked in his own head, battling with regret over his harsh words.Â
When you finally whispered that we gotta get home, I have curfew, Zipco practically leapt up from the seat. Youâd been watching carefully, and he hadnât had anything to drink since that beer almost three hours ago. The glassy gleam in his eyes had been replaced by something that smoldered with an intensity that made you squirm. You exchanged brief goodbyes with the rest of the club and with Kathy, who asked you pointedly are you ok, to which you hurriedly nodded yes. Zipco, watching intently from a few paces away, didnât say anything as the two of you walked out of the field and back towards the dirt road where the club had parked their bikes. You hopped on the back of his bike, wrapping your arms around his waist and laying your head against his spine like you always did. You thought you sensed him relax slightly at the feel of you against him, but you couldnât be sure if it was true or just wishful thinking on your part.Â
The two of you drove quietly along dark country roads until he pulled over without warning in the sickly yellow light of a truck stop. He cut the engine on his bike and stood up, ripping off his helmet and turning to face you with a desperate intensity.
âIâm sorry,â he murmured as he wrapped his arms around you, holding your head to his chest. You all but burst into tears as you hugged him back, nodding against his stomach. âI was wrong, I didnât mean it. Iâm sorry. Please, please forgive me.â When his voice broke on the second please, your resolve broke with it. You pulled back, looking up at him with tears clinging to your lashes. He tenderly rubbed the moisture from your cheeks with calloused thumbs.Â
âIts OK, Zip. I shouldnât have said anythinâ in front of the guys-â
âIâm workinâ on it.â His statement brought you up short, and you looked at him with a question in your eyes.Â
âThe drinkinââ, he added by way of clarification. âIâm workinâ on it. I swear. I just⌠I need time.âÂ
You bit back against the impulse to ask him how are you possibly working on it after youâd seen him drunk or almost-drunk for nearly three weeks straight at this point. You swallowed those words and just nodded again, leaning your head against his stomach again. You could hear his heartbeat - strong and racing - against your ear. He smoothed the back of your hair and rocked you softly for a few minutes. Once the hiccuping sobs had subsided, he bent down and pressed a deep, apologetic kiss to your lips before putting his helmet back on and swinging a leg over the seat of his bike.Â
You were late for curfew that night, but even a stern reprimand from your father couldnât steal the small slice of joy you felt every time you spent time with Zipco. You fell asleep with a smile on your faceâŚ
*****
âWhat do you mean you ainât drinkinâ?âÂ
Zipco shrugged off Big Fat Jackâs incredulous question nonchalantly. âI mean I ainât drinkinâ.â Zip slid onto a bar stool and accepted the tonic and lime that the bartender Richie offered him. From the pool table behind him, Big Fat Jack was still flabbergasted.Â
âI ainât never known you not to drink, Zip. What the fuckâs goinâ on here, is it end of days or somethinâ? You dyinâ or somethinâ, got the cancer?âÂ
âYea, Zipâs got somethinâ, I hear itâs terminal too,â Wahoo chimed in noisily, his quip eliciting chuckles from Corky and Cockroach.Â
âOh yea? Whatâs that?â
âZipâs got that hunger.â Zipco tensed against the joke he knew was coming. âThat pussy hunger. Bad case of it.â
Six months ago, Zipco would have been one of the guys laughing at that kind of crass joke. Heâd never understood why guys got their backs up about banter regarding their ladies. But now, he knew it all too well. He sipped on the tonic and lime, fighting with the urge to order a pint and two shots of Canadian Club, down them all and then throw Wahoo across the bar. He tried to picture your face: tears streaked down your face, your precious little lips trembling as youâd cried because heâd made you that way. More than anything else heâd tried, it was that image that had helped him patch together a shaky week of (relative) sobriety. He had hated the sight of you hurt, but more than that he had hated the way he felt to be the one who hurt you. Normally, Zipco would drink away anything he disliked about himself. Heâd had a lot of practice - hell, heâd been drinking since his eleventh birthday, when his dad had given him a beer and a shot of vodka. Heâd never banked on drinking being the thing he disliked. But, then again, he also hadnât banked on having someone like you in his life. And you were worth everything. And maybe, whatever you saw in him was worth it too.Â
So, with that image of you crying and that extremely tenuous hope for his own redemption, Zipco brushed off Wahooâs and Big Fat Jackâs chirping until they lost interest. One of many things Zip had learned since heâd been sober enough to notice was that drunk people generally lost interest quickly. Thankfully, Wahoo and Big Fat Jack were no exceptions.Â
âSpeaking of your lady, where is she?â Johnny joined Zipco at the bar with a Budweiser in hand. Zip noticed the way Johnnyâs eyes flickered to the lime and tonic with a note of interest. Zip knew there were drinks out there that probably looked identical to what he had in his right hand at that moment, but he wasnât the type of guy to drink fancy cocktails. If he was drinking,it was a beer, it was a shot, or it was straight from the bottle. Johnny knew that too.Â
âStudyinâ,â Zip replied simply.Â
âYou got yourself a schoolgirl, eh?â Johnny elbowed Zipco teasingly, the double entendre not lost on either of them. Against himself, Zipco smiled and shook his head.Â
âGot âer beauticianâs test tomorrow,â Zipco added, raising his now empty glass towards Richie and shaking it. Richie nodded and started prepping a second glass.Â
âYea, ok. And you? Fat Jackâs right, Zip, I ainât known you to pass on a drink in our whole friendship.â Unlike Wahoo and Big Fat Jack, Johnnyâs statement sounded impressed and curious.Â
Zip nodded, running his tongue over his teeth thoughtfully. âTryinâ to better myself, I guess,â he said after a few moments. Johnny nodded, sipping his Budweiser and sizing Zipco up.Â
âGood womanâll do that to a man.â Zip smiled softly. Johnny knew, after all. Johnny had Becky and two kids at home. Something Zipco had found himself dreaming about more and more these days, since meeting you. The idea of having a warm smile and a house all his own to come home to was beginning to sound mighty nice.Â
âReckon so,â Zip agreed. Richie appeared with Zipcoâs fresh drink, prompting Johnny to raise his bottle for a toast. Zip followed suit.Â
âTo good women,â Johnny declared. âTo good bikes. And to the men who ride âem!âÂ
With a hearty laugh, Zipco clinked glasses with his club President as he let Johnnyâs toast paint wanton pictures in his mindâŚ
Benny Cross X Female Reader
part 1 is here! part 2 is here! part 3 is here! part 4 is here!
A/n: ahhh it's always so hard to write a satisfying ending. i rlly hope you enjoy it, and i want to thank everyone for reading this series!! i am officially taking Bikeriders requests, so if this story got your mind thinking about what other Benny/Vandals boys content you'd like, feel free to send it my way!
Word Count: 3683
Warnings: none for this chapter
You woke up the next morning with a split lip, a black eye, and a hangover. Before even opening your eyes, you knew you were back at Zipcoâs house based on the strong Patchouli-incense-over-bourbon smell. Not on the lumpy couch though - you were in his bed. You opened one eye and instantly regretted it: the world started to spin and you barely managed to grab at the wastebasket someone had left by the bedside before you emptied your stomach. You wretched until there was nothing left to come up, just bile and bloody spit. Unwilling to test your vertigo by standing up and walking down the hall to the bathroom, you called out for Zipco in a watery-thin rasp.
âZip?âÂ
Silence. It seemed like the house was empty. Zipco was many things, but a quiet housemate was not among them. Wherever he went, he was slamming doors, knocking furniture, thumping on the rickety floorboards.Â
âZip ainât here.â
The voice startled you and you whipped your head around - another immediate regret, as it renewed your nausea. Benny was sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, smoking a cigarette and watching you closely. He must have slept here, you realized, as you took in the wrinkled tshirt stained with your mascara and blood and his mussed hair.Â
âWhereâs Zip?â you groaned, shutting your eyes in a vain attempt to stop the spinning.Â
Benny stood up and walked out of the bedroom as he called back to you. âHe took Kathy home. I asked him to stay with her for the night, keep an eye on things.â
Kathy. Last night. The memory of that awful night came back to you hard and with a vengeance. You whimpered, pressing your face down on the pillow as if you could blot it out. From down the hall, you heard the sound of Benny rummaging around in the kitchen for a few moments. You willed yourself to focus on that noise and breathe deeply through your nose and out through your mouth.Â
You felt the mattress give under his weight as he came back and perched on the edge of the bed. âHere.â He handed you a bag of ice, coaxing you to lift your head and place the ice against your swollen lip. He brushed back strands of your hair out of your face with a tenderness youâd never seen from him before.Â
âThank you,â you croaked, voice cracking. âFor last night. Helping me. For everything.âÂ
He nodded softly and offered you a cup of water. âTry to drink it,â he encouraged. You obeyed, wincing at the bad taste in your mouth and the soreness in your throat as you swallowed. The water settled in your stomach with a cooling rush, and it helped lessen your headache marginally. Benny just kept sitting there, fussing over you like a nursemaid. It was achingly touching, but surprising and strangely intimate. After a few moments, you cleared your throat and forced yourself to sit upright, moving slowly and deliberately so as not to set off the spins again. He helped you prop yourself up against the headboard, one of Zipâs pillows tucked at the small of your back.
âHowâs Kathy?â Why you asked that question was anyoneâs guess. You were grasping at straws, overwhelmed by Bennyâs presence and his assiduous attention to you. You couldnât care less how Kathy was doing, and you knew you were risking the moment between you two - whatever it was - by bringing her up.Â
Predictably, Bennyâs face crumpled from concern to something harder. He held your gaze with a wary seriousness. âYou really wanna know how my wife is right now?âÂ
Wife.Â
You pursed your lips - bad move, you felt the split open up and fresh blood coat your tongue - and looked down at the water glass in your hand so he couldnât see the tears in your eyes. You hadnât known Kathy was that to him. Youâd never really considered the possibility. Four years is a hell of a long time, a reprimanding voice in your head reminded you. What did you expect?
Why didnât the guys tell you? A flash of anger at Zipco and Cal and Johnny flared in your chest. It was irrational, you knew, and a displacement of your real pain. The anger fizzled out as quickly as it had come up, leaving you alone with a sinking grief.Â
Benny must have noticed your reaction. âYou didnât know.â Not a question, an observation. One he must have suspected because you heard the sound of confirmation in his voice. His words didnât sound unkind, although there was an edge of pity there that you hated. Unable to meet his eyes, you simply shook your head.Â
âI figured one of the guys told you.âÂ
âYea, I wouldâve figured that too.âÂ
You ran a finger along the lip of the water glass. Anything for a distraction. A thick silence that threatened to bloom into something permanent settled between you.Â
âCongrats,â you managed with a small, bitter laugh. âHow long?â
Benny turned away from you, bracing his hands on his knees and looking at the wall. âY/n, donât do this.â
âDo what?â you demanded, embarrassment staining your cheeks. Not only had he just dropped this hundred pound disappointment on you, but now he expected you not to struggle with its weight?
âHurt yourself,â he replied sadly, turning back to you. His eyes drank you in and caused your breath to tangle in your throat. Once again, you couldnât hold his gaze, and let your eyes drop to your hands. You knocked that one set of your knuckles were scraped and bruised, and a snippet of memory - men dragging you up a stairwell, you thrashing against them and screaming out for help - smacked you like a freight train. The sob that bubbled in your lungs refused to be stifled.Â
At the sound of it, Benny stiffened. âIâm sorry. I shouldâve left. I just wanted to make sure you were alright. Iâll go, send Zip back over.âÂ
You looked back up at him and found you could look through him. Talking to the wall behind Benny, you felt your mouth moving as words came pouring out before you fully knew what you wanted to say. âAight then, Benny, you best get your stuff and get out, then.â
It was the exact same line youâd said to him four years ago when heâd made you tell yourself that he was in love with someone else. Unlike then, this time your words dripped with poison.Â
He flinched slightly at your words, and you figured that was about as much as you could hope for. Benny Cross was many things, but he would never be the kind of guy who would collapse for a woman. Especially not one that he didnât love.Â
For a heartbeat or two, he looked at you while you looked through him. It was a test. Who would break first. Both of you knew the answer. Benny was incapable of breaking. Youâd been craving that from him for too long and had been disappointed too many times before to delude yourself now. Benny was going to leave, exactly like youâd told him to. He wasnât going to argue, or apologize, or ask why you were angry, or stubbornly ignore your dismissal in an attempt to get through to you. He was going to leave because thatâs what he did. Although not with Kathy, that vicious inner voice reminded you. Just you.Â
Right on cue, Benny broke eye contact, hesitating momentarily before standing up from the edge of the bed. Your eyes followed him as he walked over to the chair heâd been sitting in, picked up his leather jacket and threw it on over his shoulders. The icy shell around your heart threatened to thaw as the realization that this might be the last moment you ever saw him overtook you.Â
He moved to leave without looking back to you, although he did stop at the door.
âWhyâd you come back?â he asked, his voice low and full of something approaching emotion.Â
âFor Brucieâs funeral,â you replied robotically.Â
You both knew it was a lie. Benny waited, turning slightly so his body was angled towards you, but still not looking up at you.Â
âWhat do you want me to say, Benny? That I came back for you? That I stayed away for so long because of you? You already know all that shit.â
He fidgeted with his leather riding gloves methodically, tucking them into the sleeves of his jacket. Youâd never known Benny to care about stuff like that. You had the fleeting thought that he was stalling against what you both sensed would be your last goodbye.Â
âIâm sorry,â he mumbled heavily. âIâm sorry for everything.âÂ
And with that, Benny vanished once again from your life, leaving behind that all too familiar ache like a gaping hole in your chest.Â
***********************
Benny was riding back to Kathyâs apartment when he realized that he didnât want to. The last thing he wanted was to get an earful from Kathy, although he knew precisely thatâs what was waiting for him. An earful for getting involved in another fight over the club, for getting involved with you, and for leaving her behind. He deserved it, but he didnât want it.
He also didnât want to turn around and back towards the girl heâd just left, with her face busted up and her spirit broken. All because sheâd come back hoping for something from him. All she was going to get was disappointment. Thatâs all Benny had for anybody else. Heâd disappointed Kathy by not being a good husband. Heâd disappointed Johnny by not being a good Vandal, not being willing to take over the charter. And heâd disappointed y/n simply by not being good. Most of all, Benny was his own biggest disappointment. He realized, sitting on the back of his bike idling at a light that had long ago turned from red to green, that he wasnât sure what heâd imagined for his life, but it sure as hell wasnât this. It wasnât watching the people around you get hurt, time and time again, all behind your own failures.Â
So, instead of turning left on 53rd St. to head home, Benny kept going straight on 55th until it linked up with Rte 34 in Naperville. He gassed up in Wyanet and didnât stop until he hit the Nebraska line. Benny rode west until he got tired of staring at sunsets, and then turned north, meandering up into colder country.Â
Epilogue
At first, the running theory about what happened was that one of the guys from the night before had found Benny, somehow, on the way back from Zipcoâs place and jumped him. Beat the shit out of him, took his bike, dumped him on the side of a road somewhere. Maybe even killed him. But, as weeks turned into months without any news and without a body, a different understanding took hold: Benny Cross had simply left.Â
Kathy stuck around but drifted steadily further away from the MC. She stopped showing up to Junkerâs on Friday nights, stopped hanging out at the Vandalsâ house parties, stopped asking Johnny if heâd heard from Benny. You saw her a few times in the years after Benny left, usually at the laundromat or the corner store, somewhere neutral. She never acknowledged you, and you figured that was probably the smart thing to do. There werenât any words the two of you could exchange that would do anything for either of you. Better just to let sleeping dogs lie. At some point, you saw Kathy Cross for the last time, although you didnât know it would be the last. Word reached the MC that sheâd met some wealthy Cincinnati lawyer in a pop shop and had moved in with him a few weeks later, into some swanky highrise overlooking the Ohio River. You had a suspicion that Kathyâs days of logging time on the back of a bike were over.Â
While Kathy exited the Vandalsâ scene, you found yourself quickly at the center of the club. You and Zipco decided after a few months that you made great friends, but shit roommates. You moved into your own place a few blocks down from Junkerâs and opened a body shop for bikes with the money your daddy left you in the will. Your first employee was Cal, and your first customer was Johnny. From that day forward, the Vandals MC kept your business buzzing and your books balanced. You named the shop Cross Roads Bikes. Customers who didnât know you asked why âcross roadsâ was two separate words; usually, you just told them that youâd been drunk when you filled out the business license application and had put a space in there by accident. Customers who knew you didnât need to ask what happened.Â
In spite of that, somewhere along the way you woke up one day and realized that this was the closest youâd been to happy in a long long time, maybe ever. It struck you as strange, because since the day youâd met him, youâd only seen happiness as part of your future if Benny was in it. Yet, here you were: happy (ish) and Benny-less. Funny how the world works. Â
You didnât know why Benny took off or where heâd gone, but you did know one thing: Benny broke three hearts the day he left McCook. Johnny took Bennyâs absence harder than the woman who married him and the woman who loved him. Johnny changed the day Benny left. He seemed to age two days for every one that passed. His laughter dried up and his leadership got sour. Between Cal, Zipco, and a few of the other old guard, the Vandals held themselves together, but everyone could see that the winds of change were brewing, and the MC was on the edge of a permanent change. All that was left to do was to hold your breath and wait.
You were with Johnny Davis the day he died. You remembered the way that young kid had shot him, point blank, in some old abandoned parking lot on the western edge of town. All the light was gone from Johnnyâs eyes by the time you reached him. The Vandals you knew died with him in that weedy parking lot that night.Â
Zipco left about a month later for Texas. He sent you a few postcards, called you a couple times. After a while, there wasnât anything left to say. You never stopped sending him his favorite bottle of bourbon at Christmas. Every once in a while, a customer would come in from out of town and tell you that your shop was personally recommended to them by a drunk, grouchy old Latvian who worked on a shrimping boat outside of Corpus Christi.Â
One by one, the new Vandals stopped coming into your shop for their repairs and tune-ups. That was fine with you. You didnât recognize any of the newcomers, and you doubted they recognized you, apart from vague memories of seeing you drinking and laughing in Junkerâs next to the guys that they considered to be the past. Cross Roads Bikes was about four years old at that point, and youâd built enough of a non-MC customer base to survive the turnover. The day Cal came in and told you heâd turned in his patch and was planning to head back out to California, you knew that your last tie with the club had been cut. In some ways, it was relieving, in other ways, terrifying. You and Cal got shitfaced together that night and told old war stories about all the guys youâd known and lost. You cried like a baby when, two weeks later, you were standing on the sidewalk, watching Calâs taillight fade into the Illinois dark as he headed out to the West Coast for the next chapter of his life.Â
Much to your surprise, it was Sheila and Becky, Johnnyâs widow, who became your new club. They took to bringing you sandwiches at the shop and sitting on the counter with you for lunch breaks, telling the did you hear? kind of stories that bond people with a loose circle of mutual acquaintances together. It was easy and fun and all three of you seemed to know that this was it. If you all let yourselves drift away, who was going to tell stories about the guys youâd all known? About the Vandalsâ early days, the glory days? You three were all that was left. Ironic, you thought. A menâs club, survived by three women.Â
Your life fell into a pattern. Productive, purposeful, content with little stains of sadness at the edges. But mostly, a good life. You were happy, and getting used to it every day. At some point, your life became predictable.
Thatâs why, one crisp fall morning as you stumbled out of bed at 6:00am to the waiting pot of Zipco-strong coffee and the stack of yesterdayâs mail on the counter, the last thing you were expecting to see was the outline of a man sitting on your front porch steps. The black leather jacket with an original Vandals patch on the back, the Harley parked across the street, the tousled blonde hair. It was a ghost of a memory.Â
You opened the front door a crack and looked down on the profile of Benny Cross. He was looking up at the neon Cross Roads Bike sign that Johnny and the rest of the club had gifted to you for your one-year anniversary at the shop. When he looked up at you with those same old blue eyes, it was like stepping into a dream.
âHey.â
You closed the door behind you, offering him your mug of coffee as you wrapped your robe around you against the chill. âHey.â
He scooched over to make room for you to join him. You did, tucking your knees up against your chest for warmth. The cold concrete of your porch steps bit into your backside.Â
âLooks good,â Benny commented softly, gesturing up at the Cross Roads sign. The text was superimposed over an image of a motorcycle - an all-black 1965 Harley Electra-Glide, to be exact. The same bike that happened to be sitting across the street from you, where Benny had parked it.Â
âYea, yea,â you agreed gently, looking up at the sign with a sad smile. âHope you donât mind, I stole your bike. And your name.âÂ
When you looked back at Benny, a half-smirk was spreading across his face. He looked the same, although you could see that the road had been riding him just as much as the other way around. You knew that life.Â
The two of you sat in silence for a while, sharing the same cup of coffee and a cigarette, letting the sun rise above the rooftops across the street. It was a comfortable, companionable quiet. It was the first time since youâd met Benny that you didnât have the burning desire to try and put your feelings into words. After almost ten years of your heart orbiting his, you realized in the cold November morning that you had finally learned how to let him go. It was a bittersweet feeling, and you knew youâd never be able to put it into words, even if you tried. So the two of you were quiet together.Â
When the city began to wake up around you and the demands of another day couldnât be ignored any longer, you rose from your seat - cursing the way the cold made your hips stiff - and offered him a hand to help him up. He took it, thick calluses on his palm from years of riding. He stood up, still tall enough to tower over you, his jacket thick with the smell of the road - leather, diesel fuel, sweat, and cigarettes.Â
âHow long you in town for?â you asked as you held the door open for him behind you. He followed you in, kicking off his dirty boots at the door.Â
âNot sure,â he replied with a note of nervousness. âDepends on how long youâll let me stay.â
You smiled to yourself, your back turned to him as you refilled your coffee mug and poured a fresh one for him.Â
âI got plenty of room, and plenty of work for ya, Benny. Long as you promise that you wonât leave without sayinâ goodbye this time.â He accepted the coffee in your outstretched hand with a heartbreakersâ smile.Â
âFunny you mention it. I hadnât planned on leavinâ this time.â He looked at you with a question in his eyes. You werenât entirely sure what the question was. Do you forgive me? Is this ok? Are you alright? Did you miss me?
Whatever he was asking, your answer was yes. A very simple word, and easily one you could have said. But, just like moments before, you found that words just wouldnât suffice, even such a simple one.Â
So you crossed the kitchen, dropping your coffee mug and letting it splinter into pieces on the tile floor, splashing hot coffee on your ankles, and wrapped your arms around him. Bennyâs mouth tasted exactly how you remembered, and when he folded his arms around you, you swore your feet no longer touched the ground. He was warm and strong against you, and for every question he pressed through that kiss into your lips, you answered with an enthusiastic yes.Â
As you floated away into the sky towards what youâd heard others call âcloud nineâ from your kitchen, the rest of the words of that old poem came drifting back to you:
Of all the things that can create, love is the one I most appreciate.
One thing Iâve come to know, nothing kills you slower than letting someone go.
But I will also tell you this, coming back to life can happen in the space of a single kiss.
