#bob: carentan

[airborneinfantry]

BAND OF BROTHERS (2001) ↳ Part Three: Carentan

THE PACIFIC (2010) ↳ Part Eight: Iwo Jima

[rogue-durin-16]

HEAD-TO-HEAD (part IX/?)

Summary: Joe thought she was pretty. Had he just said that, things might have been different for them. Maybe they wouldn't have gone head-to-head at each other for three years like it was a contest.

Pairing: Joseph Liebgott x Reader

Genre: angst splattered with fluff/rivals to lovers

Head-to-head: @derersketnoget @ladystardustfromarss @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @sxalbatf

Band Of Brothers: @fernando-jpg @chubbypotatoepie @tvserie-s-world @clumsy-wonderland @lordndsaviorwinters @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark

Permanent taglist: @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa @comfort-reads

Warnings: PTSD, slight gore (blink and you'll miss it), warfare, language, smoking

A/N: I'm gonna say this once. If you know the gif creator, tell me. Beware of the fact that I nearly didn't post this today bc anons annoyed me THAT much. Anyway, enjoy ig? <3

Head-to-head masterlist

Band Of Brothers masterlist

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

Shoot. Get down. Live grenade. They got us zeroed. Move. Shoot. Move. Keep moving.

Keep moving. Shoot.

Smoke. Blood. Gunshots.

A shell. Move. A blast. Shoot.

Move. Gunshots.

Blood. Death. Pain.

Tipper.

Blood. Blood. Blood gushing.

Y/n.

"Jesus Christ."

There was no training for that part, was it?

We all had heard it from veterans— battle fatigue, shellshock; whatever comes after combat, when the silence is too loud and the peace too stifling. No one in their right mind would toss and turn and sweat and shake here.

After four weeks of nonstop fighting, Regiment had pulled Easy to the camp set at Utah beach. Warm food, beds, hot showers and the soft waves of the ocean lulling us into a deep sleep for a couple of nights. Then, England. A well-deserved rest.

No one was actually resting.

We all pretended we were, though. The few who didn't bother on feigning it had found different activities to busy themselves. Some read, some cleaned their M1s, some polished their boots.

No one spoke.

I turned to lie on my back, stare fixed on the canvas above our heads. A welcomed anomaly, compared to what we had grown accustomed to.

The cot was too soft. I shuffled on it, once, twice. A frustrated puff escaped me. I turned again, this time on my right shoulder, facing the tarp serving as doorway. It flapped with the wind, allowing my view to reach a figure standing by the shore.

Maybe picking out who it was would have been harder if she had been wearing, at the very least, a damn jacket.

If we had learned something from France, it was that the nights weren't warm, and the English channel's influence didn't do us any favors regarding the temperature.

I had a foot set out of the tent before I could think better of it. Toye and Guarnere, standing right outside, spared me a nod of acknowledgment.

"What's she doing?"

Toye quirked a brow. Whether it was at my question or at my tone, I didn't know. "Didn't ask her."

"She's gonna catch something."

"She's a big girl, alright." The Irishman countered.

"She's an idiot."

Guarnere pulled a face and motioned at the dark silhouette of Y/n, contrasting with the refracted moonlight. "you go tell her that, buddy. We'll wait for ya right here."

Instead of exchanging another word with the two men, I turned heel and reached Y/n's bunk in a couple of strides. My fingers curled around the fabric of her jacket, and, after throwing it over my shoulder, I crossed the distance to the beach.

At first, I didn't call her name— didn't speak at all. The last thing we all needed was to get spooked and, although I highly doubted I'd have managed to take her by surprise, I didn't want to tamper with my luck.

The late night hours, the exhaustion from the last weeks, and the way the sand seemed to swallow my footsteps weren't the best combination.

She still noticed —of course she noticed— that she was no longer alone. The slightest change of posture gave her away. By the slight widening of her eyes when she turned to check the source of movement, whoever she had expected to come get her clearly wasn't me.

"You made it through Normandy just so you could catch pneumonia?" I questioned, holding out her jacket.

"It’s not that cold." It was a dismissive whisper. 'You worry too much'. But she took the piece of clothing nonetheless, slipping it on with slow, careful motions.

"You'll thank me later." I shoved my hands into the pockets of my pants, watching her with an inquisitive look. Y/n must have noticed, because she made a point not to spare my a single look, her attention elsewhere. "What are you even doing out here?"

"Couldn't sleep."

"No shit."

"I thought I'd go for a swim."

"You're full of great ideas, aren't you?" I waited for a comeback; an annoyed response that matched my sarcastic pitch. She didn't take the bait.

Her scoff, barely there, lacked humor and strength. "Well, I'm not getting in the water, if it's any comfort."

"Changed your mind?"

She glanced at me then, skimming over my face before looking past my shoulder. "Guess you could say so."

My gaze exchanged her form for the soft waves. The water stretched out endless in front of us, dark and calmer than it had been when we'd arrived in the morning.

Maybe Y/n was right and I couldn't shut up to save my life, which was why I opened my mouth in the first place. Whatever stupid thought I was about to voice died, transforming into a sucked-in breath I poorly hid by clearing my throat when a busted helmet hit my unlaced boot.

A month had passed since the Normandy landings, yet the tide wasn't done dragging pieces of the dead— gear, guns, torn fabric.

Worse things than torn fabric.

Y/n's back was now to the Atlantic, her arm brushing my own for an instant.

"My ma used to say it's bad luck to turn your back to the ocean, you know?" It was almost an afterthought, my eyes lingering on the half buried helmet.

"I'll take my chances." She muttered uninterested, patting her jacket in search of something she didn't find. "You got a cigarette?"

My hands mimicked her previous actions, with enough luck to find a crumpled pack.

I pulled out two, placing one in her palm. "You got a lighter?"

She snorted, shaking her head as she reached into her pocket. Her fingers set the flame, the amber light illuminating her features for an instant. She held the lighter out to me, her free hand protecting it from the wind, and I leaned in until the end of my cigarette caught the soft glow.

We stood like that for a moment, quiet, Y/n facing the camp and me facing the waves.

The tide rolled in.

"Don't dwell on it, alright?" I said.

She took the cigarette to her lips, still not looking at me. "I'm not."

I didn't even let myself entertain the thought that she was lying. She sounds unbothered, I told myself, she must be.

That surely wasn't a lie of my own, was it? An excuse crafted by my selfish mind, one that would help me sleep better at night after choosing not to dig into it.

But then again, what consolation could I have offered to her, anyway? When, on a good day, we tolerated each other.

Y/n took another drag of the cigarette, then pulled it away to inspect it with a small frown. "What's this?"

I glanced down to pull the pack out of my pocket again. Her fingers clasped my wrist to twist the little box in the camp's lighting direction in order to read the name.

"Chesterfield." Her brows twitched, like that wasn't the answer she expected. "Since when do you smoke Chesterfields?"

"Got a problem with them?" She set me free just as quick as she had gotten a hold of me, allowing me to put the cigarettes back into their assigned spot. "'Cause you can always give it back."

She didn’t say a word, just put the smoke back to her lips and took another drag, slow and pointed. Stubborn.

"You like it?"

Y/n gifted me a tight-lipped smile. "Love it."

Oh, she hated it.

I didn't push it. We shifted slightly, the movement sending our biceps to bump again.

"You did good." She exhaled, watching the smoke dissolve into the air before saying, "Thought you'd get yourself killed before shooting a round."

I blinked. I wasn't sure how to take that from her— something that wasn't sarcastic or backhanded; just an observation, maybe even a compliment of some sort and, for some reason, that made it harder to respond to.

My instinct kicked in. "Yeah, well. You've been decent so far."

She rolled her eyes. A reaction easier to place.

A beat of silence passed, the distant, almost nonexistent murmur inside the tents and the steady rush of the tide filling the space between us.

Too quiet.

"What's in your head?"

Y/n inhaled through her nose, flicking the ashes onto the damp sand. "I'm starting to think I should've stayed home."

It wasn't self-pity, and clearly wasn't looking for a response. Just a thought said aloud.

Just a thought that didn't sit right with me.

"Yeah. I don't think so." It took me a second to meet her gaze. The surprise that simple sentence pulled out of her was almost funny. "What would you be doing at home, anyway?"

"Don't know." Y/n gave me a shrug and a thoughtful pout. "Marrying a good man?"

I gave her an skeptical look.

She squinted her lids. "What's that face, Liebgott?"

"Nothing." I raised my hands in surrender and clicked my tongue. "I just don't think that would've worked for you, since, you know, all the good men are overseas."

"That's not true." Her furrowed brows were a stark contrast to her amused smile. "My brothers are in the States."

Brothers. Plural. Huh. "Why?"

"Two 4Fs, one conscientious objector." The corner of her lips pulled upwards at my blank stare. "You think it's funny, don't you?"

"It is funny." The statement came through a snicker. "You're here to— what? Salvage your family's reputation?"

That earned me a lazy kick of her boot. "Yeah, 'cause me being here is gonna do a lot for their reputation."

The cigarette burned between my fingers, and the question I had been dying to ask her itched at the tip of my tongue.

If there was a time to ask, it was now.

"How the hell did you even get into the Airborne?"

Y/n turned her head slightly, just enough to give me a side glance. She was weighing her possibilities.

"You've been holding onto that one for long?"

Of course. I quirked my brow at her, prompting her to give me something real. A sly grin escaped her before she could look away again.

It was strange. For a moment, the war felt a world away. No mud, no rain, no dead bodies washing up on shore. Just a woman with sharp eyes, standing too close and not moving away. It almost felt like San Francisco again, like she was just another pretty girl at my local bar.

Wishful thinking, worth nothing.

Just when I thought I wouldn't get a reply, she settled for, "Lying, bribing, and being stubborn."

"Sounds about right." I scrunched my nose, losing my gaze to the ocean momentarily. "You sure you'd be equipped to stay at home and marry a good man?"

That got a laugh out of her. Short, but real. The stitches on her face pulled, making her wince slightly, and I caught myself looking a second too long.

I smirked, tilting my head at her and teased, "Thought you couldn't laugh.", because asking if it hurt meant I cared.

Y/n halfheartedly glared at me, her fingertips pressing the soreness away from her scarred cheek. "Thought you weren't funny."

It was meant to be a comeback, but it didn't land like that. She noticed a bit too late, with the grin spreading over my face. Too late to take it back.

"You think I’m funny?"

The thought of doing a u-turn flashed so obviously across her face, but to my surprise, she doubled down. "Sometimes."

"Sometimes?"

Y/n scoffed, her body already angled toward camp as if to shield herself from the teasing. "When you're not an absolute dick."

"Aren't you sweet." I flicked my cigarette, glancing away.

"I am being sweet." She took a long drag, the smoke curling above her when she exhaled it.

"Right."

The tide rolled in, dragged back out. I gently kicked the helmet back into the sea. She looked over her shoulder at the waves; her profile cut against the vastness of the clear night sky from were I stood.

For an instant, the quiet wasn't so bad.

[balladofthe101st]

no fraternization between an officer member and an enlisted member??????? what the fuck was going on between speirs and more then????????

[rockpaperscissuhs]

HISPANIC HERITAGE MONTH + BAND OF BROTHERS:

JOSEPH "JOE" RAMIREZ

Born October 5th, 1921, in Nebraska

Died April 8th, 1988 (age 66), in Martinez, California

Joe Ramirez enlisted in September 1942 (age 20) in San Francisco, CA, and he trained with Easy Company at Toccoa. Holding the rank of Private, he served in Normandy, Holland, and Bastogne. He was hospitalized in January 1945, and discharged in July 1945. After the war, he was married for many years, and had children and grandchildren. When he passed away he was buried with his wife, who had passed away 11 years earlier. Further information about him is scarce, but the brief character profile in the Band of Brothers series bible describes him as Mexican-American, and his personality as "sensitive and nervous."

Appears in Episodes 1, 3-8, and 10; portrayed by actor Rene L. Moreno

Sources below

A million thanks to @bleedingcoffee42 for tracking down this info for me!

[bleedingcoffee42]

Do you know who wouldn't have had an issue with destroying property to take out a tank just because he couldn't see it?

Carentan Tank Guy.

[aliciax3]

[dontirrigateme]

I lied, I have more from the outskirts. And more after this. Probably one of my favorite battles from the series, so there's a lot.....

@1waveshortofashipwreck

[randlemartin]

every bob video is about how accurate it is or whatever. where's the video essay about how good it looks

[iceman-kazansky]

4 times Donald Malarkey Wanted to kiss you , the one time he did.

Pairings: Donald Malarkey x f!reader

Requested by: none, just an idea I had :)

Warnings: Bastogne, Mentions of depression, character death, Donald being flustered, uhh tons of switches of POV's but just read it and be happy.

A/n: reallllyyy didn't like this. I mean, I like the Toccoa part (#1) but I felt like it gradually decreased in quality as it went on. Also, my first ever band of brothers fic so be weary.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

1. Close call in Toccoa

Malarkey, shamefully, had noticed how much his thoughts were about you. He found you occupying his mind about anything and everything. Something you said yesterday, your smile when Luz had mocked Coronel sink, your eyes and how they shined in the dark moonlight during the notorious night march, your hands when you'd accidentally brushed your knuckles against his during breakfast this morning.

All the little things nobody else would care to notice Malarky cherished like it was religion. Of course, Malarkey's best friends, Muck and Penkala, had caught wind of his obsession when he spoke just a little too much of the woman within the company.

They teased him for it, as all friends do when they learn their best bud is crushing a little too hard on a girl.

Sitting in the cafeteria, Malarkey was subject to that teasing. "Whatcha dreaming about larkey'?" Warren asked, a cheeky smile stretched across his face.

"You already know it's Y/n, so why'd you ask?" Alex was quick to respond, Warren nodding in fake thoughtfulness.

"I imagine Malarky sits and dreams all about kissing Y/n. I saw him staring at her yesterday. Ain't that right Malarky? What were you thinking about then?" Warren's smile grows even larger and he puckers his lips, "mhmm" He groans with a mock high-pitch voice, "y/n, Please kiss me! You're so pretty! I really, really love you y'know!"

The ginger flushes red from embarrassment, Although, Donald won't lie to himself, he does think of the softness of your lips more than he'd like to admit… but that wasn't the point. He thinks to himself while he swats his friend harshly from across the table, trying to shut him up before the whole company learns his secret. "Can it, will you?" He whisper-yells, kicking Warren in the shins full force to which causes the blond haired boy to exclaim in agony.

"It's true! I swear, you probably think about kissing her–" Warren is cut off by a very familiar voice and Malarkey's stomach drops in fear.

"Who's thinking about kissing who?" You say, plopping down in the seat next to Malarky innocently, while the poor ginger turns as red in the face as his hair on his head.

Theres a few beats of stunned, awkward silence before finally Alex answers "Malarky thinks about kissing-" Donald shoots him a warning glare and a hard nudge of his foot, "-Margaret. Yeah, a girl back home whom he knew. A real broad, that one."

Malarkey doesn't notice the way your face falls at the mention of someone at home, "Y-yeah" He stutters out. "Margaret. Real pretty." Or the way you go silent and your shoulders slump.

"Sounds real nice." You half mumble while you shovel a spoon of oatmeal in your mouth.

Muck and Penkala glance at each other with looks that say 'oh fuck' while everyone resumes eating breakfast in an awkward silence.

Oh fuck was right.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

2. Thunder and flash

Malarkey hit the ground with a thud, his white parachute settling on the ground behind him while he worked on cutting himself free and condensing the fabric into a tight roll.

It was dark, with sounds of gunfire in the distance. A rustle in the bushes caused Malarkey's head to snap in that direction. "Thunder?" He called out hesitantly, cautious not to be too loud.

The bush moved, followed by "flash" in response and a silhouette stepped out.

With the limited lighting Malarkey was squinting to see who he had reunited with. Was it Liebgott? Toye? Winters? Was it you?

It didn't take long to get an answer when the person made themselves known, stepping into a thick beam of moonlight, face illuminated by the white light.

Malarkey was beyond relieved. He had found you. Even better, still alive and breathing. He doesn’t know what he would've done had it been your body, strung up in the branches of a tree.

"You're alive." He all but whispered.

"What'd you think was gonna happen? Really thought the Krauts got the better of me?" You chuckle, a warm smile on your face, "Have a little faith, will you?"

Oh how he wanted to cup your cheeks and kiss you.

Malarkey wanted to reach forwards, grab your face with his hands, and plant his lips on yours. He wanted to show you how worried he was. How sickeningly scared he had been that you were dead before he'd even jumped from the plane.

There is a silence while you move to embrace each other, eyes staring into one another's in an emotion you both can't quite name, something you'll find out later when feelings unravel themselves.

Malarkey doesn't notice the way you both subconsciously had begun leaning into each other, faces inching closer. A thought flashed across Malarkey's mind. He could kiss you. He could ruin his friendship.

Little did he know, none of that would need to be decided as A voice calls from the bushes "Thunder?" immediately met with you calling out a quick 'flash!' And pulling away.

Begrudgingly, Malarkey realizes he must find easy company, there's no time to sulk, he finishes packing his parachute into a tight ball and stands to join you and the new soldier they joined with.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

3. Drunken confession in the times after Carentan

The bar was deafening and unorderly. Soldiers of all ranks and ages were drinking, a golden yellow ale were being thrust into the air in cheer over the recent win in Carentan.

Malarkey and his best friends, Warren Muck and Alex Penkala were seated in a small booth towards the back of the bar with each of them having an ale on the table.

Malarkey excuses himself, going to grab another drink, he blows a sigh through his lips and begins pushing himself through the mass of people and to the bar.

When he finally got to the counter, two bartenders were rushing between calls for another beer. He was going to be here for awhile.

While standing patiently waiting for a drink, a figure approaches. Malarkey recognizes it as Lieutenant Winters and immediately is straightening himself out when he approaches. "Sir?" He questions when the red-headed lieutenant stops in front of him.

"Malarkey. I think it'd be best for sergeant Y/n to be off for the night. Except, she won't listen to me."

Donald smiles at the Lieutenant, peeking over his shoulder in the direction he came, sure enough seeing a drunken you, half asleep and nearly falling off your chair. "Will do, lieutenant."

"Have a good evening, Malarkey." And with that the man was off.

Making his way over to you, the ginger tapped you on the shoulder gently, prompting a grunt in response. "C'mon y/n, we gotta get you to bed."

Attempting to stand you nearly topple over, Malarkey's hand reaching out to grip your forearm, a giggle escaping your drunken lips. After stumbling out into the warm summer air and across camp, Malarkey had you nearly in bed and was ready to leave you to your own.

He draws in a deep breath and leans down hesitantly. Malarkey places his lips lightly on your cheek for a moment, hunched over your half-asleep form.

Moments pass where you stay like that before he whispers a soft "good night" and exits the room promptly.

when he leaves he can feel the giddiness running through his veins, a smile pulling itself onto his lips.

Oh god he was in for it.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

4. Bastogne; frozen hell

Malarkey wasn’t sure what to do anymore. There was a dull ache that filled his chest, a sensation that he could only describe as a leech sucking the life straight from the organ that pumped blood throughout his body. He was a man stranded on an island, unable to get off.

Muck was gone. Penkala was gone too. Gone as in, He’d never talk to them again. Bodies blown into oblivion by a direct hit of a mortar. If he’d known the last words he had spoken to them would've been so soon, he would have told them a whole lot more. Told them how good of friends they had become and how dear they had become to him. But he'd never get that chance because they had been taken from him all too soon. Like a bandaid being pulled off a fresh wound, much to early to fend off the infectious depression threatening to poison him from the brain. Kill him with his own emotions.

Oh god, he wanted to break down. He wanted to be held in the arms of the person he loved. Wanted to cry so hard all his worries went away. But Malarkey wasn’t supposed to do that; wasn't allowed for he was a man in a time of war.

Malarkey was perched on the edge of the cot he was assigned, elbows resting on tired knees and supporting his head while he stared meaninglessly at the floor. His eyes traced over the brown cracks etched into worn floorboards, following each individual splinter and fissure, curious to where they ended up.

“Malarkey?”

He knew it was you, in the back of his mind your voice clicked, but he didn’t have it in himself to look up or respond in fear he would break down. He didn’t want to seem so vulnerable in front of you.

“Don?”

Malarkey could feel a piece of his cold, lifeless gaze peel away with the soft mention of his name, the syllables falling delicately from your perfect mouth. And when he looked up, his crestfallen gaze meeting your concerned one, he felt the strong want to cry. The emotion must've crossed his face more prominently than he’d have liked, as something flashed in your gaze and immediately you were ready to comfort the grief-stricken man.

“Oh, Malarkey.” You say, breath no louder than a whisper, immediately seating yourself beside him on the bed and wrapping your arms around him, pulling him into the most delicate hug he’s ever had.

He finds it comforting how it reminds him of his mother back home. How she used to wrap him up in her arms and whisper sweet nothings into his ear when he would cry. Malarkey thinks about a lot of things while lying in your arms. He thinks about Muck, teasing him about something stupid he had done while Alex laughs from the side, adding on to the playful mocking they induce. He thinks about home, about his brothers John and Bob and his sister, Marilyn, or his mother and father, how they were all waiting patiently for his return to the states.

“I’m so so sorry.” You mumble into his hair, rocking the boy gently, “I know how much they meant to you.”

Malarkey doesn’t respond, he just cries silently into the comfort of your shoulder. He weeps onto your clothed arm, snot and wet tears soaking into the worn green fabric of your tunic– not like you mind.

When he feels like he's had enough, he's pulling away, red eyes puffy with tears and staring at you. "Thanks." It's quiet, such a low whisper before Malarkey is pulling away and standing up, leaving the tent.

˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊·̩̩̥͙

5. A broad named Margaret

Malarkey was done with war, done with the horrors forever etched into the fabrics of his very brain, done with firing a hot round of smoking gunpowder and bronze metal into a German's body and watching them fall to the ground.

He never thought he could have been happier when he received the news that the last of the German army surrendered.

The first thing he did was go looking for you, asking his fellow easy company boys if they'd seen you. After many, 'I Don't know, sir,' Liebgott was his savior and pointed out you were in a building just across the street.

Malarkey, bursting with joy, raced across the street and into the house, nearly running into you as he threw open the door.

He didn't even think, he just grabbed you and kissed you out of glee. He pulled away shortly after, barely recognizing the fact he probably ruined a good friendship out of his own moments of joy, and you looked like you were about to short circuit, pure surprise painting your face, "The Germans surrendered, the war's over!"

Malarkey is smiling down at you when your fist grab his collar harshly and yank him back down into a kiss.

He blinks in surprise, taken aback by your boldness, before melting into the kiss.

Yours and his lips move in sync, the world muted around the both of you, and the only sound was the beat of your hearts. The kiss was sweet as honey, soft and gentle, but full of love and affection. The taste of his lips lingered on yours, like a memory etched in your soul that you would never forget.

"Im sorry-" you splutter out shortly after.

"Sorry? About what?" Malarkey asks, a look of shock melting into his features.

"About Margaret– you love her, not me, and I just ruined that.. oh my God you probably hate me right now! Im just–"

Malarkey smiles and crashes his lips onto yours to silence your rambling, "You don't know how long I've wanted that." He whispers when he pulls away and leans his forehead against yours.

"B-but Margaret?"

"Oh silly," He chuckles, "Margaret was never real. We were talking about you."

"You were… thinking about kissing me?" A look of confusion paints your face while Malarkey laughs.

"Yes, sweetheart." He says before kissing you again.

If Malarkey thought he was happy about the end of the war, boy was he wrong. This made his whole life a greater place that he'd describe as a sunny meadow with white clouds scuttling across a vast blue sky and a colorful array of daisies and red eyed-susan's that blow gently in a breeze tainted with a smell of salt that wafts from the nearby ocean. That was his dream. To live there, in that place, with you. Luckily for him, the war was over, and you were both going home, together.

[airborneinfantry]

Jesus, Harry, I never would've guessed. - What? That I'm so sentimental? No, that you think we're gonna make it back to England.

Ron Livingston as Lewis Nixon in BAND OF BROTHERS (2001) ↳ Part Three: Carentan

[rogue-durin-16]

HEAD-TO-HEAD (part VIII/?)

Summary: Joe thought she was pretty. Had he just said that, things might have been different for them. Maybe they wouldn't have gone head-to-head at each other for three years like it was a contest.

Pairing: Joseph Liebgott x Reader

Genre: angst splattered with fluff/rivals to lovers

Tags:

Head-to-head: @derersketnoget @ladystardustfromarss @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark

Band Of Brothers: @fernando-jpg @chubbypotatoepie @tvserie-s-world @clumsy-wonderland @lordndsaviorwinters @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark

Permanent taglist: @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa @comfort-reads

Warnings: language, blood & gore, warfare

A/N: a bit shorter than the last one but I might have some little treat ready to post in a few days. Let me know if you wanna be added to the taglist through the askbox or the comments. Enjoy<3

Head-to-head masterlist

Band of Brothers masterlist

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

The squelch of my boots stepping on the mud alerted the three soldiers huddled in the hedgerow, trying with nearly no fruition to get some rest. Whether it was due to the constant drizzle or the German division waiting for dawn on the higher side of the french field, I didn't know.

"Flash!"

"Thunder." My voice was flat as I slid down by Luz's side, careful to keep my rifle away from the damp hole turned trench. "McGrath," I motioned vaguely behind me, gaze fixed on the man who sat in front of me. "you're up."

"Already?" I nodded, already making myself as comfortable as possible. McGrath mumbled a complaint and climbed out, shoving his helmet back on.

Luz, who I had most likely been shaken out of a light sleep with my irruption, gave me a wary up-and-down. "What the hell are you doing here?"

That made my brows draw. "What?"

"She probably got stitched up and busted out the aid station." Joe replied, as if I was not sitting right across from him.

"I didn't bust out." My tone, although low, denoted irritation, which was what Joe was aiming for by the satisfied smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. "I just left. Doc gave me the green light."

George's eyes squinted in the dark, searching my profile. "I was half-expecting them to pull you back after that stunt in Carentan."

"Why would they?" sigh. "I can shoot, I can fight, I can run. They're not gonna pull me back for a little shrapnel on my face." I tugged off my own helmet and let it drop with a dull thud before running a hand through my wet hair, slicking it back. "This damn rain."

Joe turned his head to watch me, his tone sarcastic when he quipped, "Thought you liked the rain."

I huffed, locating my rifle strategically for it not to get soaked. "I also like sleeping in a bed, but here we are."

The soil had turned to slush, the rain making sure we felt every inch of our fatigues sticking to our bodies like a second skin. By how unbothered the two men seemed despite the droplets plastering their hair to their skulls, I figured they had given up on caring.

"Ah, fuck." Luz grimaced, staring at his wristwatch.

"What now?" Joe's annoyance was a telltale sign that George had done his fair share of complaining already.

"My watch starts in three hours." The Portuguese clicked his tongue. "Can't a guy get some sleep without a pretty girl dropping beside him?"

"Oh, God." Joe groaned, tilting his head back against the compacted dirt.

George's cheeky grin earned him a light smack on the back of his neck from me. "Go to sleep then."

"Yes, ma'am."

Joe shook his head at our friend's demeanor but refrained himself from speaking up.

George, to his credit, did as he was told and soon enough, he was out cold, his head slumped over my shoulder as his breathing evened out.

Joe and I sat in the quiet, only filled by the soft ricocheting of the water. It was almost eery —the lack of gunfire, mortars and tracers.

"Anything happen while I was on watch?" I whispered in an attempt to break through the unusual silence.

Joe exhaled. "Talbert got stabbed."

"What?"

"Smith got spooked. Talbert was wearing that Kraut poncho—" he rubbed a hand over his face. That damn poncho. "guess it looked wrong in the dark. Smith panicked and stuck him with his bayonet."

My fingers tapped on my thigh in a quick, anxious rhythm. "Is he—?"

"Doc got to him." He waved his hand as a dismissal. "He'll be alright."

I let out a slow breath. We sat with that for a second before I glanced at him again. "You hear anything about Tipper?"

Joe shrugged, jaw tight. "Nothing."

I swallowed. My throat felt dry despite the humidity. "He'll be okay." The words left my mouth without permission.

Joe nodded, his attention fixed on his restless hands. I didn't mention I hadn't seen Tipper at the aid station. Joe didn't ask, either.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

A deafening whistle, a white-hot flash, a crack of thunder that didn't come from the sky breaking through the roof. The blast swallowed the world whole.

Look away. An instinct-driven thought.

The pressure slammed into me nonetheless, flinging me back, out the door I had barely set a foot across, dragging something sharp across my skin.

I made a sound—something strangled that didn't reach anyone's ears over the constant gunfire. Not mine, not Tipper's. My hands were on my face before I even thought to move them, warm and slick.

Blood.

My blood.

My fingertips trembled against my cheek, my jaw, my throat.

Not fatal. It couldn't be. Yet the word medic teared harshly at my throat.

I barely had time to register the pain; the sensation of hot shrapnel gnawing through my profile, digging deeper into the flesh with every move of my jaw, before the ringing in my ears cleared just enough to hear it.

"TIP?!"

Joe's voice, sharp and loud. They must have seen the shell diving into the building Tipper had cleared. They must have heard me yelling for medical aid.

"Tipper!! Answer me, Tip!"

I caught a glimpse of Joe and Strohl rounding the corner, feet scraping the gravel in the streets. They both stood frozen in front of the doorway, too shocked pay any attention to me.

I saw why.

Tipper dragged himself out the dim ruin of the building, silhouetted against dust and rubble. His leg —or what was left of it— was soaked through with red, his foot unrecognizable despite him still planting it. One side of his face was a nasty mix of blood and debris, his eye —Jesus Christ, his eye—

I stopped breathing, the crimson dripping down my face momentarily forgotten.

Joe was the first to move. He dropped his rifle against better judgement and stepped forward. Slow. Careful. Bullets were still cutting through the air all around us, but at Tipper's broken mumble calling Joe's name, his voice slipped into something soft. Too soft for a battlefield.

"Lookin' real good, Tip," he murmured. "Alright, you gotta sit down, c'mon."

Tipper barely reacted, too dazed, too wrecked. Too scared. Joe caught him anyway, guiding him down like he was handling fine porcelain. He forced his hands to be steady, to be gentle, trying not to hurt the battered man further.

"Y/l/n— Jesus..." It took Strohl's panicked grip on my shoulders for me to snap out of it. "Where—" His digits, hasty, pressed on my cheek first, then my forehead; they stayed on neck, drawing a pained breath out of me. They were cold compared to the liquid soaking my face.

Soaking Tipper's uniform.

God.

"We gotta move 'em, Lieb!"

For a brief second, Joe looked at me. Just a flicker of movement darting to my face, now smeared in hot blood.

I wouldn't have known the sight he met with, but he looked away just as quickly.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

More silence.

A part of me wondered if it was just the battlefield's call for sound discipline, or if our dynamic had somehow shifted irreversibly after landing in Normandy.

An exhausted puff of air. My palm rubbing the water off my eyes. Joe's knife tracing pattern into the dirt.

I glanced over my shoulder at the treeline. Just dark shapes against darker shadows; nothing moving, nothing out of place.

When I turned back, Joe was staring. His eyes dragged over my face, lingering too long at my cheek, my jaw, my neck. My skin prickled.

I didn't have the chance to call him out on it. "It's not that bad."

He got a huff as a response. My mind fished for a smart remark, but I wasn't able to find anything that matched his comment.

Joe tilted his chin up. "Does it hurt?"

"The stitches pull when I laugh."

He snorted, just barely audible over the steady drum of rain. "Then it's a good thing I ain't funny."

My lips parted, but no quips came out, just a careful half smile. Joe didn't mirror the gesture, his narrowed stare tracing the small ridges of stitches. My fingers twitched around my rifle.

"Not that bad." He muttered again, more to himself.

"Not that bad." I echoed even quieter. There wasn't much more to say on my part, yet the silence was begging to be broken.

"I thought you got your face blown off."

I blinked, thrown off by his frankness.

Say something.

"Disappointed?"

Wrong something.

"It's not fucking funny." Joe hissed, shoulders squared up. "You didn't see it. It looked..."

His face subconsciously pulled into a grimace at the mere memory of it, bringing back to my mind the way he had averted his eyes.

I didn't even try to stop myself, the words spilling bitter, pointed and accusatory. "Is that why you wouldn't look at me?"

"What?"

"'Cause you were disgusted?"

Joe's expression twitched, caught between irritation and offense. "Jesus, give me a fuckin' break, alright?"

"No, you give me a break."

"I was busy." The phrase cut its way out like it was meant to be shouted instead of hushed. "Kinda had a guy missing half his goddamn leg in front of me." He leaned forward, forearms draped on his knees. "So excuse me if I didn't have time to worry about your" His wrist flicked, vaguely gesturing at me. "little scratches."

"Don't make it sound like—"

"Like what?"

I narrowed my eyes, mentally taking a step back. We can't do this here. "Tell you what, you're so full of shit."

His mouth twitched like he wanted to argue; instead, he just turned his head away with a moue. The conversation had hit a dead end, but I didn't miss the way his fingers tapped rapidly against his knee.

Maybe that was his way of restraining the verbal retaliation which had become second nature between us at that point in time.

I shifted against the damp earth ever so slightly.

Luz mumbled something in his sleep, head heavy against my shoulder.

Joe didn't look at me again.

[balladofthe101st]

The Night of the Bayonet

The night was filled with dark and cold

When Sergeant Talbert, the story’s told

Pulled on his poncho and headed out

To check the lines dressed like a Kraut.

Upon a trooper, our hero came

Fast asleep, he called his name

Smith! Oh, Smith! Get up! It’s time

To take your place out on the line.

And Private Smith, so very weary

Cracked an eye all read and bleary

Then grabbed his gun, he did not tarry

Hearing Floyd but seeing Jerry.

Don't! cried Tab, It's me! and yet,

Smith charged, tout suite with bayonet.

He lunged, he thrust, both high and low

And skewered the boy from Kokomo.

[glendylucasthree]

The Pacific 3rd cover will be the dead of me because I need to draw 5 characters full body for some reason (reason : Leckie's hareem)

[dontirrigateme]

Last of the battle from the outskirts of Carentan

@1waveshortofashipwreck

[lesbiandarvey]

i think the way to watch bob is

night 1: currahee + day of days. feels like a part 1 and part 2 episode rhyming couplet

night 2: carentan. standalone episode

night 3: replacements + crossroads my favorite band of brothers double feature

night 4: bastogne + the breaking point thats like one cohesive story

night 5: the last patrol. the other standalone episode

night 6: wwf + points. theyre in germany and the war is ending

but if you want to get really creative you could stack the episodes like watch replacements and then the last patrol those are ensemble pieces. or the dick winters supercut watch currahee + crossroads + points

[randlemartin]

i never noticed bull was in this scene <3