#grady travis fanfiction

[mlmxreader]

Scoundrel | Grady Travis x m!reader

Anonymous asked: Great got it!

So i was wondering if i could request a fic whit Grady Travis and a male reader where they are having an argument over a game of cards and while their arguing they get called an old married couple by another member of the Crue, wich they deny profusely but it makes them realize some feelings they have for eachother for the first time.

Thank you sm

-🧷

summary: oh, Grady is a fucking asshole when it comes to card games - but maybe you could live with it.

tws: swearing, smoking, gambling

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Grady cheated. Whenever it came to playing cards with you, he always cheated to try and get one over you, but it never worked as you could see right through him; gambling for cigarettes, gambling just to pass the time while Collier made the tank stop for a while in allied camps. He would try to secure food, fuel, ammunition - pretty much anything he could get his hands on - which always gave you and Grady time to kill.

But he was cheating something awful at the moment, and although you usually just laughed it off and told him to stop, you couldn’t take it anymore, and sighed heavily as you set your cards down, glaring at him; he glared back, those big brown eyes so fucking hard to resist that you nearly shut up immediately and forgot what you were about to say. But then he smiled, a shit eating grin on his face, and you remembered every fucking word that you wanted to say to him; you leaned back, lit a cigarette, and shook your head. 

“You are a fucking awful cheater, Grady.”

“I’m not cheating,” he scoffed. “You’re just a shit player.”

Your glare was harsh, but Grady knew you far too well; he knew you would sit there and seethe and wish that you could rip his throat out, but that you would never do it in a thousand years. You would just shout at him until he made you laugh. He always found it easy to make you laugh, especially when he flirted with you - his secret little weapon. He grinned.

“Don’t fucking look at me like that,” you grumbled. “You’re a fucking cheat.”

Grady scoffed. “You’re just a shit player, I keep telling you that.”

“I’m not even that shit a player,” you bit back. “Or at least, I wouldn’t be if you actually played by the fucking rules.”

“I’m not pulling my fucking punches for you,” he couldn’t help but to laugh a little. “What? Do you think you’re special just ‘cause you’re the hottest guy here?”

“Oh fuck-”

“Quit it,” Collier huffed as he walked past. “You’re acting like a married couple again.”

“Me?” You scoffed. “Married to that cheating bastard? Never!”

“Oh, please,” Grady growled. “You’d fucking love to marry me!”

You shook your head, thinking that your heart was only pounding at the thought solely because you despised him that much. “You’re a scoundrel - I’d despise being married to you!”

“And I’d despise being married to your uptight ass,” he hissed. “Fucking getting all huffy at a card time all the time.”

“I do not get fucking huffy!” You huffed as you turned away from him, shaking your head again as you finished your cigarette and threw the butt at him. “Asshole. I’d hate to marry you.”

Grady quirked a brow, tilting his head to the side as he examined your features for a moment; he had you exactly where he always wanted you. He couldn’t deny that he did find it cute when you bickered with him, when you got so huffy and started to sulk; he knew that you liked his big brown eyes, he had caught you looking enough times to realise that you would always look away when he gave you his attention. He knew that you liked his jokes, always the loudest laugh in the room whenever he told the most disgusting ones. He knew that you had a soft spot for him. 

Of course he didn’t want to admit that, though, as it would mean having to admit that he… kind of felt the same way, he guessed. He liked your eyes, he liked it when you glared at him and he got a really good look of the colour, nearly getting lost in the process every time. He liked that you laughed so loudly whenever he told his grossest jokes, he liked to hear the sound more than anything, as well as the sheer joy on your face. He liked that you had a soft spot for him. He liked a lot of things about you, but those were absolutely his favourite in the world. Especially when you got flustered and ended up storming away when he flirted with you.

But what Grady didn’t know was that you were starting to doubt yourself as you sat there.

Sure, he was funny, with his stupid disgusting jokes. Sure, he had those big brown eyes that you could always get lost in whenever you glared at him for too long, and those far too kissable lips just to make matters even worse. Sure, you liked it when he laughed, and you liked it even more when he spoke with that kind of growl to his voice. You liked it when he teased you, more than you could say, and maybe you did like it when he bickered with you so much and always made you laugh at the end. 

Maybe you wouldn’t mind being married to him so much. Maybe Grady was just the kind of guy that you wanted to be with in the end, even if you would never give him the satisfaction of knowing that. Maybe belonging to Grady wouldn’t be so bad, even if he did cheat at cards whenever he had the chance; even if he was a little gross and he was a little bit of a bastard, but… but maybe you could live with that. 

It wasn’t even like he wasn’t attractive, if anything, he was probably the most attractive man you had ever met in your life. He was still an asshole, though.

“Y’know,” Grady said quietly. “Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.”

“What?”

“Being married,” he murmured, shrugging. “Maybe I could live with a husband who gets huffy at a little bit of cheating.”

You glared at him for a moment, then shook your head. “You wouldn’t settle down.”

“Maybe for the right guy… maybe for a guy who’s uppity.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you tore your gaze away from him again. “Don’t be a teasing asshole.”

“I’m not.”

“Yeah, well…” you shrugged, swiping a hand down your face. “Maybe I could learn to live with a guy who cheats at every fucking poker game.”

“Even if he’s a scoundrel?”

[breserker]

Blink, Snow, Corduroy - SH4 fic - Ch.2

Rated: M (Mature themes, eventual smut, implied/referenced rape, dark canon-typical themes) Pairing (eventually): Eileen/Henry Post-canon, lingering trauma, relationship issues, eventual healing. Eileen-centric for the most part. Asexual (sex indifferent) Henry Townshend

She has not seen Henry in seven years, and in desperation she searches for him to know if life haunts him the way it haunts her.

---

Eileen had not exactly told her parents where she was going or why. There was barely an acknowledgment that she needed to clear her head. Wrought with tunnel vision and a growing disdain for the life her family led—a life she viewed through frosted glass, a stranger in her own room—Eileen had not told them much of anything.

Why should she? She was a problem to be fixed, and when she wasn’t after seven years of cooing and care and effort, they had the audacity to look sad. They looked at her and only saw all of what she could’ve been, all they thought she should’ve been. They mourned a person who wasn’t dead, same as how her mother tightened her grip on her even though she wasn’t yet lost.

Read More on AO3...

[hermankopusortizorsumshite]

Grady's Homecoming

“Grady! You always talk about bein’ fucked. Fuckin’ all ‘ese German women, you got a woman waitin’ for you?” Bible’s voice crackles through the headset.

Grady’s mind travels to you. You were at home in Arkansas, probably keeping the farm afloat while he fought for your safety. He played the ladies’ man role well these days, because he never wanted anyone to know about you; to hurt you.

“Grady Paul Travis! Git over here!” you shouted as you chased him through the yard. He remembered this memory well; you chasing him around with a wooden spoon in your hand.

“That’s a mighty fine pie, ma’am!” He shouted to egg you on, begging you to keep chasing him. His path lead you through the yard, over a couple fences into muddy, sloppy pens and finally into the barn where he hid from you.

“Grady, hunny, come on out. I ain’t gonna hurt ya.” You called, looking over the hay bales. He had watched you creep through that barn with that spoon at the ready. When he finally could land, he dropped from the hay loft and rolled you into a straw bale. You screeched and smacked his back with that wooden spoon, but he just roared with laughter.

“You make the best pecan pies, my beautiful lady. You also make the best wife.” He smiled, kissed your cheek with a loving smile.

“Yer damn right I do, Grady Paul Travis. You had to stick your grubby little paws into my pie.” You had hissed, letting him pepper your face with kisses as he rolled to keep you from being stabbed with straw. “Hunny? I love you.” You drawled, putting down the spoon on the bench and laying across his body fully.

“I love you too, baby.” He cooed, kissing your face and hugging you against him as his lips got lost with yours on a grand adventure that lead to his dirty, oil covered hands sliding up into your work gown and massaging your breasts. You careened into him and gripped his curls tight in your fists.

“Grady! Grady get down! Jesus christ!” Bible’s voice brings back from his daydream and he ducks hard into the tank.

“Grady are you with us now?” Don shouts, grabbing his coat collar.

“Ye-yeah. Yeah sorry.” He coughs, tears almost spilling over his cheeks.

“Grady, you okay buddy?” Norman calls, looking up at the Coon-Ass with a sad, sorry look in his eyes.

“Yeah, I’m fine, dammit.” He barks, scrubbing away the tears.

Once they get into the crossroads, Grady and Norman head into the building near there and search for parts.

“Grady, listen. Whatever happened back there--” he grabs Norman around the neck and drives him against the wall.

“Nothing happened.” He spits through his clenched teeth. Raising his hands up, Grady lets go and heads to keep looking. “I do got a lady back home. I try not to think about her because she fucks me up. But yeah, she’s my world. I’m sorry you lost your German girl back there, I really am. If I could 'a saved her I woulda. But I couldn’t.” He offers, toeing at the dirt.

“Thanks Grady.” He huffs, deflating the breath he’d been holding.

“Don’t thanks me. I ain’t do nothin’.” He shakes his head as he turns and starts out the door.

After the dust and blood settled, troops came to the Fury team’s rescue. Not single Fury member was dead, wounded, yes. But dead? No. It was a miracle and Bible babbled about it the whole way back as the troopers told them they were heroes. Grady didn’t care to feel like a hero, he hurt and he was ready to see his lady. It’d been a long four years, a few letters, but a long time since he’d seen your face.

“You guys are gettin’ patched up and sent home. You can’t fight in the shape you’re in.” The man had said. Tears filled Grady’s eyes then, as he knew he’d get to see you.

“A broke wing and pure heart, Mister Ass, you get to go home and find you some American ass, aye?” Don cheers, and Grady just nods, giving a wave to him.

“I’mma go home an’ kiss my woman hard and fuck ‘er hard too.” The three men from the Fury, Don, Bible, and Gordo, all looked to Grady with wide eyes.

“Your woman?” Bible asks, looking to his best friend with shock.

“Yeah. I’m a taken man, Boyd.” He chuckles, patting the man on the knee.

“So all this talk about fuckin’ these German women, and you never fucked one did ya?” He asks, punching him in the shoulder. Grady only shakes his head.

The men board the air carrier that flew them into the depths hell and they all hoop and holler as they lift into the air.

“They say the war’s all but done anymore. You boys did a hell of a job out there.” The pilot talks over the intercom as they fly over open water.

“I can’t wait to take a fuckin’ shower.”

“I can’t wait to sleep in a bed.”

“I can’t wait to find me a woman.”

“I can’t wait to see my woman.”

Each man had a different dream, but all the same, they all were excited to go home.

“Wardaddy, Gordo, Coon-Ass, War Machine, I never wanna hear those names again.” Bible cheers as the plane gets close to landing. Women, children, and even men waited cheering as the plane dropped to the ground. The five Fury survivors of war hug tightly, and go their separate ways.

“Grady Paul Travis? Have you seen him? He’s tall, busted up crooked nose, cute, dumb smile, have you seen him? They told me he’d be on this flight.” Bible’s head whips around and his eyes lock with Grady’s as the woman shoves a photo into Bible’s face. He’s sees Bible’s finger point to him and he ducks, his heart racing. He hadn’t seen you in four years, he didn’t even think you’d be here, but he heard you calling for him. When you come around the corner where Bible had pointed you, you don’t see anyone you recognize until you see the man of your dreams rise to his feet above the crowd and you give a screech, letting into a dead run through the crowd, across the lot and springing into his arms.

“Even with a busted wing, he caught her.” Don chuckles to the crew, watching on for a moment as Mister Ass himself sinks to the ground holding this petite little woman against his big, blocky frame like she was the last ass he’d ever see.

“Wow, crazy huh?” Gordo states, his hispanic accent poking through. “Mister Ass had a girlfriend this whole time. They watch a moment longer as she slides a ring from her neck onto his finger.

“I’ll be damned. Mister Ass is a married man.” Bible laughs.

No closer as you got in the door, Grady was driving you into the couch, tugging off your dress as fast as he could.

“I promise, slow later, baby. But fast now.” He grunts, shimmying from his pants. Grabbing his throbbing cock, he gives you a sweet smile and you nod, nails digging into his shoulders as you wiggle your hips closer to him. He slides into you and and rams in deep.

“Grady!” You shriek, nails digging harder into his shoulders as he fucks you hard against the sofa.

“Yes baby. I love you. I love you. I love you. I mis’d ya so much. Shit baby, yes.” He grunts, feeling himself twitch inside you as your walls constrict around his cock.

“Grady. Grady, yes. Please.. I’m so close. C’mon baby.” You encourage, ramming your hips up to meet his in sloppy thrusts. He leans down, hugging you tight against him as his thrusts get sloppier.

“I love you.” He sobs, cumming as you roll your hips into his once more, orgasming blissfully in his cock. He grabs you tight, holding you against him as he sobs hard against you. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’ll never leave you again.” He assures, his cock still in you as his arms grip tight against you so hard you gasp for breath. You love every minute of him holding you, pressing infinite kisses to your bare skin as he holds you.

“I love you too, Grady. I love you, baby. I love you.” You whisper, gripping his arms.

[cobbssecondbelt]

Chapter 8 of Timeless is up!

[lostinthewiind]

New Tactics

Grady Travis - Fury

Wow, my first time writing something that isn’t Band of Brothers! It’s about time I broadened my horizons, goddamn!

This one is for @warmommy​. I hope you like it Brecken! I love you <3

Warnings: a little bit steamy, a little bit naughty, a lot of fun ;)

Tag List: @warmommy @gottapenny @croatianbagudna @scissorsfordoc @wexhappyxfew @curraheev @mayhem24-7forever @one-who-hunts-eagles @bandofmarvels @i-am-a-lost-girl16 @wildwilliamguarnere @majwinters @theonetryingtolive @higgles123 @those-dusty-jump-wings @medievalfangirl​ @maiden-of-gondor​ @whoabrekker​ @thefricklefracklesin​ @junojelli​ @iamaboojum​

“Hey, Y/N!” you heard the familiar voice of Grady call your name as you started walking away from the tank. You tried to keep moving, hoping maybe he would give up and talk to you about whatever it was he wanted to talk about when you got back. You weren’t so lucky, however. “Y/N!” he called again. “Where are you going?”

Stopping in your tracks, you spun around, the mud beneath your boots squishing as you did so. Holding up your shower bag and change of clothes, you narrowed your eyes at him. “Take a wild fucking guess.”

“Oh.” he nodded, just his head sticking out from the tank. “Okay, it can wait.”

You were surprised that Grady was actually going to let you go without even a little bit of a fight, but then it just sparked your curiosity. Huffing, you placed a hand on your side. “What can wait?”

“I was just hoping you could come to take a look at this damn panel in here,” he answered. “I’ve been at it for hours now and I can’t figure out how to fix it.”

You shook your head slightly and chuckled at his determination even though he had been trying for the past two days to fix the circuit panel inside of the tank with no progress at all. “Well then, it’ll still be fucked up when I get back,” you assured him. “I’ll take a look later.”

“Thanks.”

“Wow, you’re being so nice today.” you chuckled as you turned to leave. “But I know this tactic, and whatever you want from me, the answer is no.”

You heard a slightly defeated huff as you turned again and continued to head toward the showers. With belongings in hand, you slipped past the final few male stragglers as they exited the showering facilities and made your way into the small, dinky building.

It took you a long time before you had your showering situation figured out, but after you worked hard and earned the respect of your male counterparts, you made a collective deal that between six and six-thirty in both the morning and evening, the shower was to be empty so you could use it. Every once in a while there was a new guy or someone just finishing up when you arrived, but for the most part, the rule was followed by all.

Setting your stuff down on the damp counter — because no matter how hard you tried, you could never teach a man (especially an army man) how to clean up after themselves — you dug through the small bad for your soap and began to undress.

Like usual, your eyes kept darting toward the door, but once you were situated in a shower stall and had the warm water running over your body, all worry about being walked in on was rinsed away along with the dirt, sweat, and just general grime on your skin.

Lathering the soap between your hands, you gathered up as much foam as you could before beginning to work over your body quickly but efficiently. As much as you wished you could just stand under the water for hours on end and get away from the stress of the war for a little while, you were well aware that once your allotted half-hour was up, there would be angry men banging on the door if you were still inside.

However, there were still times when your mind began to wander while you were showering, and although you would deny it to anyone who asked, they were often of the same thing. It had been years since you had gotten anything even remotely close to sex and in those few minutes, while you were naked and had your hands running all over your body, the thoughts just came naturally.

Eventually, though, you had to pull your mind out of the gutter and finish up. Rinsing your body off, you lathered up your bar of soap once more and used the suds to wash your tangled, dirty hair.

Stepping directly under the stream, you closed your eyes and let the water wash away the dirt and soap from your hair, some of the runoff running down your face in the process.

While your eyes were closed and your head was under the water, you had missed the sound of the door opening, followed by footsteps that were otherwise pretty noticeable on the wet floor.

You were none the wiser to your visitor until you felt two large, calloused hands on your sides. With a shriek, you jumped forward, your eyes opening as you did so and letting soap into them, which made you hiss with pain. With eyes forced shut, you felt around blindly for your towel before wrapping it tightly around your dripping body. “What the hell?!” you began to use the towel to wipe your eyes. “Who the fuck is that?”

“It’s just me.” you didn’t even need to see the man to know who it was; the voice gave it all away.

Opening your eyes and attempting to ignore the stinging pain from the soap, you glared at him, your arms holding the towel firmly around your otherwise completely nude body. “Grady, what are you doing in here?” you snapped. “You know better than anyone that this is my time to shower! Why can’t I just shower in peace? Half an hour, that’s all I ask.”

“I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay.” his stance and words didn’t falter for even a second as he stood confidently in front of you, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned against the side of the shower stall. “You know, after what happened last week.”

“Oh, Grady, for the last time, he was a new guy, he didn’t know any better!” you felt the pain increase again and wiped them with the corner of the towel once more. “I promise you, I can shower on my own. I’m a big girl.”

“Yeah, well, what if I don’t want you to shower on your own?” he posed the question that confused you to no end.

From the other side of the still-running water stream, you cocked an eyebrow and scrunched up your face with a puzzled look. “What are you talking about?” you frankly weren’t in the mood to play these sorts of games with him. “Like, you wanna stand watch while I shower?”

“Sort of.” he shrugged, his broad shoulders rising ever-so-slightly. “Except, I don’t want to stand out there.” he gestured to the door as he took a single step toward you. “I want to stand in here. With you.”

You attempted to make sense of what he was saying, but after a few seconds of trying, you gave up. “Grady, I have no idea what you’re trying to say to me right now, but if it has anything to do with what I think it does, you already know that the answer is no.”

“The answer with you is always no.” Grady huffed, taking yet another step closer, the only thing separating the two of you being the shower stream now. “Come on, it’ll be fun.”

“Fun isn’t what I’m looking for.”

“Fun is what everyone is looking for.” he gripped the hem of his dirty, grease-stained shirt before pulling it over his head. Then, with a lazy flick of his wrist, he tossed it away. You wanted to tell him to stop, but there were no words as you stood, frozen, watching him. Next, he unbuckled the belt of his pants and let them fall down his legs before stepping out of them.

Your breathing hitched as your eyes drifted down to his final item of clothing, but instead of removing his underwear, Grady simply left them on and stepped under the water.

“What are you doing?” the anger came back for a moment.

Grady cupped his hands before splashing the collected water onto his face. “Showering, what does it look like?”

“Well, yeah, no shit, but it’s still my turn.” you reached out with a single hand and pushed him back. “I still have soap in my hair, so will you please put your clothes back on and get lost so I can finish up here?”

Moving back a few inches, Grady ushered you toward the water. “Go ahead. I’m not stopping you.”

“Grady, please.” you were beginning to feel the undeniable heat and familiar ache between your legs grow. “Please, just let me shower alone. I don’t have much time left.”

“Like I said, I’m not stopping you.” he folded his arms over his chest, his skin slick and wet and very irresistible.

Rolling your eyes, you finally gave in to his stupid games and decided to just rinse your hair and then get the hell out of there. You had no idea what had gotten into Grady. While it wasn’t uncommon for him to try and get you to sleep with him, and it wasn’t unusual for the two of you to jokingly flirt with each other here and there, he had never actually tried this hard before.

Letting out an annoyed sigh, you looked him dead in the eyes. “Fine.” you removed the towel and slung it over the stall partition. “But you stay over there.”

“I can’t make any promises.” his eyes traveled up and down your body as you turned your back to him and continued rinsing the remaining soap out of your hair.

You weren’t surprised when you felt his hands on your waist again, but you did gasp a little when he dipped his head down and pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “I can be very persuasive when I want to,” he whispered into your ear, sending chills down your spine.

“I can tell.” you breathed out, your mind focusing solely on how his hands and mouth were moving on your body. “If this is just yet another tactic to get whatever it is that you want from me, it’s working.”

“Good.” he spun you around and hooked his hands under your ass before picking you up. “But this isn’t about that.”

You furrowed your brows at him. “It isn’t? Then what is it about?” you asked as he pressed your back against the partition and continued pressing kisses to and nipping at the skin on your neck.

“It’s about us.” he began to maneuver his way out of his boxers. “You want sex, I want sex, we’re both here. It just makes sense.”

“Okay.” you wrapped your arms around his neck and let your eyes flutter shut, waiting for whatever pleasure was about to come. “Just be quick.”

“I’ll try my-”

Grady’s words were cut off by banging on the door and shouting. Obviously, your time was up. “No.” you almost whimpered.

A sly smirk spread across Grady’s face as he put you back down and stepped away. “If only you hadn’t fought me so hard.” he started pulling his clothes back on. “Meet me back here tonight at six. We can finish what we started.”

Grabbing for your towel once more, you looked up at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” he snaked his hand up and under your towel and ran a finger over your folds. “See you then.”

Your knees wobbled at his actions and words. “Okay, see you then.”

[fandomshipping]

within your universe

[Summary: Silent Hill doesn’t end with the initial ordeal. But for two of its survivors, it’s a way to heal.]

When Henry Townshend awoke one morning, he was gasping for air. Pausing, he noted the sunlight from the window, kept ajar—the walls, a pastel hue of green—and the radio humming in the background, left open the night before.  There was no static. He couldn’t remember what the dream was all about, or why he felt so agitated, but as soon as he got up, he pried the window wide open, just to make sure that he could.

He sighed as the breeze hit his face. The world was alive around him, and he could hear every chirp, every rev, every sound from his open window. Somehow, knowing this comforted him a little. He wonders if he should call Eileen, but it might not be a good time—she had, after all, just gotten married the week before. He sometimes thinks about what could’ve been, but there’s no time for that now. Instead, he heads to the bathroom for a shower, thinking about the strange dream. Somehow, he had a feeling that his life was about to change. And recalling the last time he felt that way unnerved him.

Today’s assignment was care of a certain Douglas Cartland, thanks to an acquaintance’s referral. He didn’t typically take these assignments. But he was a little short on funds, and the said acquaintance happened to be Frank Sunderland, so he couldn’t help but feel a little bit obligated. Fortunately, it was a dull spot session with no fancy lighting needed. Douglas said he wanted some items photographed for a report, which Henry estimates would take a good two to three hours maximum, had it not been for an unexpected guest.

She had a pleasant face, Heather Mason. She was also busy bombarding Douglas with some anecdotes about her day before noticing he was there. She came up with some choice expletives, and Douglas just chuckled, like he’d seen this happen many times before.

When they made their acquaintance, he felt a certain chill down his spine, as if she was someone familiar. Something was unsettling about it, a hazy reticence at the back of his mind, but he couldn’t think about it too much because he was suddenly dragged to the storage room, preparing for the shoot.  

Wordlessly, Henry watched Heather lay down the items on the table, arranging them by shoot order. He tries to remember what his dream was about.

They stay there in silence as he takes the photos, but the girl is visibly impatient, tapping her feet and fidgeting when things get too monotonous. She tries not to take it out on him, however, and for the most part, she keeps cordial, coming up with ways to mask her boredom.

“So... you’re a photographer,” she says, and it’s apparent that she doesn’t do small talk that much. Usually, he’d brush it away—he wasn’t much of a talker, either—but they were the only people in the room, and it would’ve made things painfully awkward if he didn’t reply.

“Well, yeah,” he said, plainly. 

Eventually, she pries a bit more, seizing the opportunity to keep her boredom at bay. It’s clear to him that she was the precocious type, eyes inquisitive and knowing and voice sharp and smarting. But it was endearing, in a way, and when they actually did talk about the work at hand, she was fully lucid, keeping things brief and professional.

When he holds up a familiar-looking seal, however, he notices the sad look in her eyes, as if it meant something to her.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, and she takes it and cradles it in her palm.

“Just some janky cult,” she says, voice soft. But there’s rancor in her eyes, as if the cult had taken something valuable from her.

He’s waiting for her, counting the minutes since her last phone call. Cheryl, he thinks, They’re here. They’ve found us. Please don’t come home so soon.

The memory—if he could call it that—feels so raw and vivid that he almost drops his camera.

“Hey, are you alright?” Heather asks, and he looks at her, painfully, like he’s seen her for the first time. My darling. My baby girl. My Cheryl.

“I’m... fine,” he says, maintaining composure. “I guess I just got a little light-headed.”

“I’ll get some water,” she says, urgently. Before she turns to leave the room, however, Henry calls out to her, without really knowing why. 

“Heather,” he says, and she turns around like a gracious host.

“Yeah?”

“Have we,” he says, trying to eke out the words out of his mouth. “... have we met before?”

The conversation after that turns his three-hour maximum into five.

He sees her again a few days after he dropped off the prints. He doesn’t know how she found him, but she’s trying to play it cool, trying to not make a scene. Their eyes meet, and she sits across from him, macchiato in hand.

“Hey,” she says, like everything's perfectly fine. Henry’s pretty sure everything isn’t, because the last time they met she had stomped out of the storage room and Douglas politely asked him to leave. He nonetheless greets her back, and she’s fiddling with the cup before taking a sip out of it.

“So... how have you been?” she says, and at this point, he knows this is probably her way of apologizing. 

 “Um, fine, I guess?” he replies. “You?”

“Good. Uh, very good.”

The silence is awkward and deafening and heavy.

“So, um, about last week...”

“Yeah?”

She fiddles with the cup again, nervousness notwithstanding. Suddenly, she bursts, and the words spill out of her mouth and stumble over each other

“I’m super sorry I freaked out,” she said. “It’s just... you know? My dad’s kinda a touchy topic, since... you know...”

She gestures wildly as she rambles on, and  Henry finds it cute, if not a little sad. Because if what she says is true, then the fact of Harry Mason’s death is a trauma she could never entirely escape from.

“Hey, it’s fine, really,” he says, in his usual soft-spoken way, giving her a small half-smile. 

At this point, she’s hiding in her hair, feeling a little embarrassed. “Yeah?” she says, looking through her bangs.

“Yeah.”

“Well, sorry again for last time,” she says, picking up her posture. “It’s just... it’s been years since he died, and I thought I would’ve been over it by now. I guess I wasn’t.” 

“I guess not.”

Death never felt as nice as knowing she’d still have her chance at life.

“But he’s happy, you know?”

She snorted. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. That you’re alive. Safe.”

A few tears managed to stray from her eyes, which she flicked instantly. She gave a mangled chuckle. “Well, that’s dad for you.”

It’s nice to see Heather feel better, he thinks to himself, noting the curve of her smile and how her eyes dance beyond the tears. It somehow calms the nagging behind his head, something that extends beyond his previous night’s nightmare.

“And what about you?” she says, suddenly, and he finds himself at a loss for words again.

“... me?”

“Yeah,” she said, spunk coming through her words. “Frank said you were quite the tenant back in South Ashfield.”

Chains. Blood on the wall, Walter’s crucified corpse. “He did?” Henry says, stuttering a bit.  “How do you guys know Frank?” 

“That’s mostly Douglas, actually. Some years ago he was hired to look for Frank’s son and daughter-in-law in Silent Hill.”

Right, he heard about that. “Did he ever find them?”

“Well,” she said, eyes shifting.”He did, eventually. I helped him a bit with the investigation.”

“And?”

“We kinda found their car at the bottom of Toluca Lake.”

“Oh,” said Henry, and for a while they remained silent, sipping their drinks in between.

“Well,” he said again. “It’s good to know Frank doesn’t have to wonder anymore. He was a pretty nice guy.”

“Yeah,” she echoed. “I guess so.”

Another round of silence. Henry wonders if this was always the case when it came to talking to her, but he reckoned it was just him. He suddenly hears a muffled ringtone, and Heather takes her phone out of her bag, quirking her lip. “I guess that’s my cue to leave,” she says, grabbing the macchiato and waving her fingers at him. “See you when I see you!”

“Um, bye,” he muttered, close to a whisper, before watching her walk away. As she leaves, he wonders if they’ll meet again.

He somehow hopes they do.

He gets another assignment from Douglas. This time, he meets him at a convenience store where a robbery took place. He also sees Heather again, looking a little tired.

He too felt a little sleepy, in no small part thanks to today’s nightmare. In the days following the Walter incident, they were always so hazy, an unnamed terror that eluded definition. Now, they were clear as day, eking into his senses as if he had lived them.

She’s in the backseat, but he doesn’t know for how long, exactly. Maybe days. Maybe years. All he knows is that a life without her is a life not worth living.

He could see the lake amidst the setting sun. It’s absolutely breathtaking, a sight she would’ve loved. But she can’t see it now, and it’s all his fault, but at least it’s a beautiful place to die.

Eventually, he readies the stick, readies his acceleration. He closes his eyes right before they hit the water.

“Hello there, the angel from my nightmare,” comes a voice, and it’s Heather, smiling cheekily. She’s cupping a cup of hot coffee and handing it to him, yawning as she does so. “Here. You might need this.”

“Thanks,” he says with a smile, taking up the coffee. It’s surprisingly okay for convenience store coffee, and he sips it with gusto. Henry wonders if he should tell Heather about his latest nightmare, or if he should keep it for later, but then Douglas calls him and gives him a brief and before long he’s taking photos everywhere. 

In the background, he could hear the older man converse with the store manager, asking questions about the crime scene. Heather’s there too, keeping tabs, sometimes wandering around the store taking notes. When their eyes meet, however, she gives him a playful wink—and suddenly he’s out of breath, and he doesn’t know why. 

Henry tries not to show how flustered he is as he moves to the next location. He starts to negotiate with himself—maybe he should tell Heather about the dream, he’s told her the one before—but in the middle of his worrying Douglas taps him on the shoulder, asking if he’s done taking pictures. When he stutters a yes, he notices Heather chuckling at how startled he is, and relaxes himself a bit.

As they prepare to leave, she nudges him in the ribs. “You doing anything later?”

He briefly looks at his watch. It’s 11:21 in the evening.

“No...?”

“Wanna go to the cemetery with me?”

It was a strange request, but he’s seen stranger things, and somehow going to a cemetery with a new acquaintance seemed better than waiting for a new nightmare to come. 

He says yes, and Heather makes a short fist pump while trying to contain her enthusiasm.

Harry Mason’s grave is a little hard to spot, but Heather breezes through like clockwork, knowing exactly where to go. She moves so fast that Henry sometimes stops to catch his breath, a little exhausted. 

When he arrives at the grave, she’s already sitting down, patting the patch of grass next to her. “This is dad,” she says, voice in a little singsong before motioning for him to sit. He does so a little cautiously, stumbling as he wills his creaky limbs to move.

“Hey dad! This is Henry, he’s a photographer,” she says to the gravestone, smiling. “Remember how you were looking for a photographer for your new book? Too bad we didn’t meet him then, huh?”

He’s a little confused but understands it’s her own personal ritual, a way to cope with her father’s death. “New book?” he asks, and she gives him a smile.

“Yeah! Dad was this big crime novelist before he...” she says, the smile disappearing. He could hear the rustling of leaves, the incoming breeze. 

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” she says, sitting up again. “But how about you? You never did answer me back at the café.”

“Me?” he says. “There’s nothing really... much to be said...”

She gave him a light punch on the shoulder. “Oh, come on! Silent, reserved type with a mysterious past? I’m pretty sure you’ve got some stories to tell.”

He rubbed his shoulder a bit. “Really, I’m not that interesting of a person.”

Her eyes held an impish glint. “I don’t believe you.”

He sighed, looking at the landscape. The cemetery looked beautiful under the blue light, the moon.

“Well, I...” he started. “There was that one time. I was locked in my apartment, and I didn’t know why.”

“Yeah, Frank told us about that one, ” Heather said, resting her chin on her knees. “Did you try calling a locksmith or something?”

“No, I mean...” Damn, why was it so hard for him to speak? “It was a little more than that. There were chains on the wall, and nobody could hear me when I called for help.”

This time Heather kept silent, entranced.

“Then there was this hole... it kept getting bigger and bigger, and every time I entered it, I was in a strange world, like our world but different.”

“Different?” Heather said.

“Yeah. Dirtier, and a little rusty. There were monsters there. I saw people getting killed,” he continued, feeling his heart beat a little faster. Why was he feeling this way? It's been years, hasn’t it? “And there was this guy, Walter Sullivan. He... he was the one killing people. He was trying to complete this ritual so he could get to his mother.”

“The 21 Sacraments,” she said, gasping. He looked at her in astonishment.

“How did you know?”

“It’s... kinda a weird story,” she said, cupping her cheek in her hand. “But then you have your own weird story, so I guess it’s fair if I tell you mine. Well,” she continued, sighing. “Remember the janky cult I was talking about? There was a girl there, once—her mother was the high priestess of one of its sects, who believed that God would come through a heavenly birth. But there’s another sect that apparently believed that God would come through a sacred ritual. I think your guy comes from the latter.”

“I see,” Henry said. “But what does any of this have to do with you?”

“You won’t believe me, but,” she said, hugging her legs. “I was the girl, once. Or at least, a part of her. So sometimes I remember the things she’s seen, the things she experienced.” She turned to look at him. “Does that make sense?”

It did, strangely enough. Henry still couldn’t wrap his head around everything that’s happened, or why it had to happen to them in the first place, but for now it was enough to understand. To know neither of them were going crazy.

“Yeah, it does,” he said, and she smiles.

“Thanks,” she said, resting a hand on his shoulder. “And yours... yours makes complete sense too. I hope you know that.”

“Yeah.”

They fall into silence once more, but this time it’s the pleasant type, a kind of unspoken understanding. Rain eventually came to the cemetery, making the tombstones glisten in the moonlight.

They then found themselves walking in the drizzle, flashlights in hand, talking a little more about their experiences. Sometimes Henry finds himself a bit conscious of how he speaks, hoping he doesn’t slip up, but Heather doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, she’s listening, nodding, helping him out with the tricky parts.

Eventually, they hitch a ride with a late-night morgue driver when the rainfall got too intense. He called himself Travis, and when Heather saw him, she held an odd look of astonishment and wistfulness. He said he drives hearses when he doesn’t have truck assignments. Sometimes he has the craziest dreams. But he’s charming enough to trust, and Heather seems to get a kick out of his jokes, so Henry tries to relax in the man’s presence.

“So you’ve got bad dreams too, boy?” Travis asks him, and Henry just nods, a little shyly. The trucker laughs.

“Yep, they’re a dime a dozen, those dreams. You should hear about the one last night,” Travis says, making a turn. “Crazy, I tell you. Dreamt I was locked up in this apartment and some Kurt Cobain look-alike was trying to kill me. Weird, innit?”

The two paused, sharing a look. “An apartment?” Heather asks.

“Yeah. With all those chains and shit. But hey, they’re just dreams. I’ve heard somewhere they’re actually parts of your subconscious trying to tell you something,” said Travis. He chuckled. “Maybe I just don’t like Nirvana.”

Heather gave the trucker a responsive smile, before looking over to Henry. She finds him staring out the window.

“Yeah, just a dream,” he muttered.

It’s been some time since he last heard from Douglas—Heather told him he’d been busy working on an exposé of some sort—so, for the most part, he’d been staying at home, developing pictures in his own personal darkroom. Every now and then he’d be called to do some fashion shoots, but they were few and away, usually taking one day every two weeks before he had time to develop them. Fortunately, they paid well, so he didn’t have to worry too much about his budget.

The only problem was that the extended resting period often brought the nightmares back again. Eventually, Henry found himself once more in fits of listless sleep, haunted by specters he couldn’t comprehend.

It’s also given him terrible bouts of panic attacks, palpitations in the middle of the night that just won’t go. He considers seeing a shrink, but he’s not so sure if his budget would allow him—he had three more payments to make that week alone.

The thought of it just suffocates him further.

It’s in the middle of this paralyzing stupor that he hears his doorbell ring, which jolts him up a bit. Maybe he should ignore it? He looks at his clock and raises an eyebrow. Who could possibly be visiting at this hour?

He eventually hears the door open, and he starts getting goosebumps, breaths becoming more ragged and shallow. He wonders if it’s Room 302 all over again, if Walter isn’t actually dead, if the figure happens to be him waiting to kill him out of spite and revenge. But that would mean he got Eileen, and oh god, what if he got Eileen—

“Henry?” came a voice, and his breaths began to relax a bit. “Open up, it’s Heather. Sorry if it’s super late, but Douglas wanted me to give you something, so I hope you don’t mind...”

Shivering, he takes a shaky hand and pushes his bangs out of his eyes, trying to breathe a little easier. He finds that it’s a lot harder than it seems, and eventually he’s still heaving as he opens the door to the blonde woman.

“Hey, Heather,” he says, in between breaths. “I... wasn’t expecting you...” 

She notices this and immediately looks concerned. “Hey, what’s up? You don’t look too good.”

“N-Nightmares,” he says, barely pulling out the words from his mouth. Heather holds his shoulder and guides him to the bed, turning back to the door.

“I’ll get some water,” she says, but as she’s about to leave he grabs her wrist, almost pleadingly.

“No, please,” he says, and he’s wondering why he’s so agitated, so on edge. He’s expecting a sharp reply from her, but instead, Heather holds his hand, smiling reassuringly.

“Alright, I’ll stay here. Do you want me to sit beside you?”

He can’t say it directly, so he nods instead, muscles rigid and stiff. Heather helps him lie down and sits beside him, back against the headboard and fingers folded into her lap.

He turns away from her as a little private courtesy, but he still shivers, still breathes doggedly. The room feels colder than he knows it to be, and he wonders if it’s all part of his attack or if he’s being haunted by the past.

He hears her slide down the headboard until she’s lying down, turning to him gently. “Henry?” she says.

It takes a while before he could manage a reply. “Yeah?”

“Do you need a hug?”

He feels himself retreat into himself, growing smaller, curling tighter. It’s weird enough to have Heather here, on his bed, at such an odd hour. But his ragged breath makes it hard to breathe, and everything feels unreal, and perhaps some human warmth wouldn’t hurt him one bit. 

He nods from where he’s at, and Heather reaches out to him, sliding her arms around his torso in a soft embrace. 

He feels a bit of relief, feeling her forehead on his nape and how close she is. A thought agitates him once more, however—in his wildest imaginings she turns into Walter, Walter with his arms around his throat, Walter ready to gouge his eyes out—

Immediately he turns to face her, and she’s there, she’s real; he could tell by the freckles on her face and her hazel eyes. They lock eyes momentarily, and Heather could tell how scared he is, how deep Room 302 had scarred him. He was at the wrong place at the wrong time, this Henry Townshend. He never meant for it to happen. And for such a solitary individual, it must’ve been hard keeping all of those demons to himself.

She lets him lean into her shoulder, keeping her arms as light as possible. She makes sure he doesn’t feel like he’s suffocating, like he could hallucinate Walter Sullivan at any given moment. She feels his arms limp, hanging on either side of him, unsure of what to do. “You can touch me, Henry,” she says, reassuringly, and he freezes a bit at the suggestion. 

Should he? Would he? What was he afraid of, anyway? Perhaps he had been so deprived of contact for so long that he couldn’t entirely trust himself with it. Maybe he was unsure of whether it was what he needed.

But eventually, he lets himself hug her back, arms clumsily finding their way around her body. He tries to breathe a bit more, his erratic breaths against her shoulder, and closes his eyes. Perhaps this time he’ll be able to sleep. Maybe he’ll finally wake up from this living nightmare.

Heather holds him until the break of dawn.

She finds him at the café, a different one this time, and Henry wonders how she manages to see him at the right time. But then again, he was a predictable person, and Heather had been helping with Douglas’ investigations for quite some time.

She notices that he’s a little worse for wear, dark circles sinking into his sockets.

“Hey,” she says, and Henry looks at her slowly, as if in a daze.

“Hey,” he says, a little softer than usual. Heather notices the three empty coffee cups right next to him.  

“You know,” she says, sitting down and grabbing one of the cups. “If you keep this up you’re never going to sleep.”

“That’s okay,” he says, still dazed and disoriented. “It's not like I really want to, anyway.”

She folds her hands and rests her chin on them. “Nightmares again?”

He yawns and rubs an eye. “Yeah. Kinda. I don’t... I don’t think I can stay alone in my apartment for too long.”

They stare down for a moment, neither one saying a word.

“That Travis guy,” Henry starts, breaking the ice. “Did you know him?”

“Hm?” Heather says, looking up to meet his eyes. They look so glossy, almost like he’s dreaming. “Yeah. In a way. He saved me from burning to death.”

“As Alessa?”

“Yeah."

“So he knows about Silent Hill?” he asks, extending vowels in between words.

“I guess? I think I—well, she—was guiding him then. Back when she was trying to prevent the first attempt to birth the god.”

“I guess that’s how he knows about the room,” Henry said, placing his elbows on the table. Groaning, he rested his head on his arms and ran his fingers through his hair, slightly tugging on the roots.

Heather looks at him in concern. “It must be getting to you really bad.”

He groaned again in response, and for a moment they sat there in silence. “I sometimes wonder if it’s the nightmares,” Henry said, softly. “Or if it’s the fact that I can’t seem to move on from them.”

“Hey,” Heather says, a little forcefully. “Don’t put yourself down like that.”

Henry sighed, resting his cheek on the table. “But it’s true. You’re okay. Travis is okay. I feel like I’m the only one who can’t move past this. And I don’t know why.”

“Henry...” she starts, although the words seem to fumble in her mouth. She isn’t sure what to say exactly—besides Douglas, she’s never really been in a place to comfort another survivor this way. And Douglas being Douglas, he didn’t really count, either.  

“I guess we just process things differently, you know? Like, for the most part, I was just really pissed when everything happened... happened. And Travis might look okay, but even I don’t know what he went through after he saved me,” she said, reassuringly.

He continued to bury his face into his arms. Heather wonders if he’s sleeping, but at that point, it’s apparent they’re at a standstill.

“I watched them die.”

She pressed her lips together. “Don’t say that,” she said, weakly.

“Not just them, though. The others. Your dad. Frank’s son.” He looked up at her from his resting position, and she could see the red veins reaching across his sclera. “Did I tell you about that? I dreamt of James the other night. Right before he killed himself.”

She kept silent, feeling a little helpless as she observed him further. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, quietly. “I don’t know what to say.”

They just looked at each other in silence for a while. Henry exhaled, sharply. “It’s fine,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “I guess there’s nothing that can be done, anyway.”

“Hey, now that just hurts my feelings,” Heather said, attempting a smile. “I was the Holy Mother for a while, after all. It’s an insult to my sacredness.”

Henry then paused for a moment, taking in words slowly. He felt his mouth quirk on impulse, chuckling softly as he ran his fingers through his bangs. “Right,” he said, looking a little lighter than he was a while ago. “I keep forgetting. Twice reincarnated.”

“And a saint,” she said, folding her arms in mock condescension. “Bitches from Silent Hill grovel at my feet.”

He’s smiling a bit more now, and she’s glad, really, because she didn’t think she’d see him as jovial as he did in the short period they’ve known each other. 

“Though, honestly,” she says, folding her fingers on the table and leaning a little closer to him. “I get scared sometimes, too. Like, every now and then I feel like someone’s watching me, and it’s fucking terrifying. I sometimes worry I’ll just wake up one morning and see a creepy-ass letter from Stanley Coleman.” She reached out to touch his arm reassuringly. “So you’re not alone in this, okay?”

There’s a glint of hope in his eyes, and she finds it pretty—real pretty—though she reserves the thought in case it turns into something more.

“Okay,” he says, and despite his disheveled self there seems to be a weight off his shoulders. “Thank you, Heather.” Then, a little quietly, “And, you know. For two nights ago.”

She smiled back. “No biggie. And,” she added. “You can call me Cheryl."

A pause.

“I think I might need to find somewhere else to live,” said Henry. Heather let herself laugh.

“You sure do.”

There’s something uncanny about seeing the walls bare, thinks Henry. He’s not entirely sure if it’s the hue or the fact that he’d been used to seeing them strewn with pictures, but seeing them barren felt bittersweet. And necessary.

Sighing, he bent to pick another box off the floor, contents peeking out of the flaps. It’s the Crimson Tome, and it’s funny how some time ago he couldn’t spare so much a glance at its direction. Slowly, however, it’s beginning to feel more like a part of him, and he thinks he should just allow it.

There are a few more boxes left over, but at least he has help this time. He meets Heather—or Cheryl, rather—at the lobby, bringing a pushcart. She spies the tome as he carries the box.

“Ooh,” she says, fascinated. “So that’s the tome, huh?”

“Yeah,” he says, and she pulls it out swiftly, thumbing through the pages.

“But this isn’t part of God’s will! It’s heretical,” she says, affecting Claudia’s voice and pointing upward. He laughs in spite of himself, and noting this accomplishment, Heather smiles and closes the book, placing it back into the box. “Douglas is going to have a field day if you give that to him, though.”

He nodded. Apparently, the exposé Douglas had been working hard on was about the Order.

“Douglas isn’t coming today?” Henry asks.

“Nah, still busy with the thing. Also, he’s been complaining about his back since yesterday, so I doubt he’ll be able to help out with the moving.”

“You sure he won’t mind?”

Heather smiled, giving him a light punch to the shoulder. “Come on, we’ve discussed this already! You’re totally welcome with us. Plus, we kinda need someone to split the rent with,” she says, a little coyly. “Also, the moving van’s here. Guess who’s driving.”

Before he could respond, they’re right next to the van, with a smiling Travis Grady at the driver’s seat.

“Travis,” he said, incredulous. “What are you doing here?”

The trucker chuckled. “Serendipity called, I guess. And I owe you an apology,” he said. “Frank told me about what happened. I guess the Nirvana joke wasn’t as funny as I thought it’d be.”

Henry gave him a small smile. “It’s fine, really,” he said, leading with a nervous chuckle. “I didn’t know you and Frank were acquainted, though.”

“Boy, in my line of work, you get to meet all kinds of people,” he said in good nature.  

“You got any boxes left to pack, Henry?” came Heather, arms wrapped around another box. She loads it into the van, emptying the pushcart before dusting her hands on her pants.

“Just a few more in the room,” he said. He turned to Travis. “Sorry. I’ve got to— “

Travis dismissed him with the wave of a hand. “Say no more, son. Can’t keep a lady waiting.”

“Henry!”

“Coming,” he said, giving the trucker a nod and heading to where Heather was.

Before he brought down the last of the boxes, he gave the room one last look, gazing at its hollow glory. He still remembers the time he boarded out Room 302 —that tingling sensation as he packed, answering baffled questions from the police and Frank as they searched the storeroom—and wonders what’s changed. The pastel room, after all, had been home to a number of nightmares as well, although they were not as crazy as his ordeal with Walter.

But that wasn’t it, however. There was something else, something in the air, in the atmosphere. Or maybe it was something in himself. Nonetheless, as Henry loaded the rest of his things into the van—boarding along with Heather and Travis, who were already making light banter—he felt, for the first time in a long time, that things were finally normal.

[A/N: I was initially planning to post this after completing The Hydra, but it seems like all my edits were being digested the longer I kept this as a draft, so... here ya go lol! Looking to finish the last of The Hydra saga next, but for now enjoy this little ficlet~]

[anna-hawk]

Top 5 Jon roles?

@darlingshane and @roguesandsaviors asked the same question so I went with the first who asked 😉. Thanks guys!

Hmm... I haven't seen all his movies so I'm sure I'm missing out but let's see.

Frank Castle - He'll always be number one because Frank is who got me into the Jon fandom. I will forever hate Disney for taking The Punisher from us. I'll forgive them if they pic the show up... WITH JON. There is no other Punisher for me.

Sam Rossi - I've only seen Sweet Virginia once, but it was exceptionally good and Sam's character is so sweet and soft. He just gets to you.

Shane Walsh - I re-watched the first two seasons of The Walking Dead when I started writing fanfiction for Shane. And saw him with heart eyes this time 😆. Like many of us, I didn't like Shane the first time watching. He is the bad guy of S2. BUT, I still enjoyed his character a lot because if an actor can make me hate a character, it's a show of their talent. Even before getting to know Jon more, at home, Shane was one of the only characters we remembered even years later. He was simply that good.

The Mute - the fact that Jon gave so much strength to a mute character was incredible. He gave me chills. Does he look hot, hell yeah, but the power vs softness when it comes to protecting Diarmuid was the best part.

Grady Travis - Fury is an excellent war movie. Again a movie I saw before being interested in Jon. He gave me the creeps but he was a great character.

I was debating putting Braxton in number 5, but Grady was a better role.