#eugene angst

[rhmis-user-2020]

Moon Eugene

[drewsephrry]

I-

[brokenpieces-72]

Railed

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TW: Character death, exhaustion and some grief, let me know if there is more.

Task Force 141's journey into the island wasn’t one they were unused to, coming in via a rowboat though was a little different. That and wearing bullet-proof vests under more civilian attire. Price was wearing his beanie, with a brown jacket, a sweater underneath. Soap had his dark jacket on, zipped up all the way, room only at the collar. Gaz had on his coat and a grey shirt. Ghost had his hood up, wearing both a hoodie and coat, along with his balaclava. Each of them had basic hunting rifles and packs with standard gear inside. John had been under prepared before but never felt like it. They were going in with minimal knowledge and a guide or two somewhere on the island. This was more blind than any of them wanted. But it was all they had… time to clean up this disaster.

Once they reached the shore the boat was hauled on to the land, and hidden with what they could find. The boat was the only way back, and if it came down to it, they would need someway of getting back and hopefully getting proper evacuation measures. For now though too much commotion would lead to national involvement. Find the girl or the old man, eliminate the threat, and let the rest carry out. That was their mission.

“Where do we start?” Kyle asked his captain.

“Right now we’re four men on a hunting trip. We ask around for the girl.” Price said. If only it could have been that easy.

“Steaming Jesus.” Johnny breathed looking at the old man’s body. He had been taking them to find the girl when they’d witnessed Charles first hand. The monster was a thing of twisted nightmares. Despite their efforts to rid themselves of the thing then and there, taking pot shots and firing with the mounted weapon. Didn’t stop the thing from getting a hold of the man, Eugene and taking a bite before scurrying off to Satan knows where. If any of them had any doubts, they were gone now. The men had reached him as he breathed his last words, telling them to find the eggs, find his son and the girl.

Kyle crouched next to him and shut Eugene’s eyes. The hole in the body was huge. Simon got down on the other side getting Eugene’s arm around his shoulder. “Kyle.”

No more instruction was needed as Kyle assisted the lieutenant with moving Eugene off the tracks. Price and Johnny both keep an eye out weapons posted, ready for the monster if it decided to come storming back for another mouthful. Branches and leaves covered the dead man.

“Laswell’s intel was spot on.” Price said, sounding almost disappointed. “Right let’s go find the girl.”

The men followed their captain back to the train, and surprisingly it still ran. Simon took the controls, moving the train forward. Kyle stuck near the gun at the back with Soap close by and Price sitting on a small bench inside. The reality, if you could even call it that, was sinking in. A reality that shouldn't even be a reality. The question that remained was whether to contact Laswell to get evacuation ready or to try and kill the damn thing. The girl had already sent it to a number of big names, ones that wouldn't hesitate to come in with heavy fire power. Laswell was trying to reduce the damage that could be done.

The four men continue moving in silence, while Simon periodically checks the map to ensure they're headed where Eugene was taking them. The old man had been glad to see them, almost excited. Finally some help had come, and he was more than willing to tell them everything they needed to know, answer their questions, give them names that would help them on the island. Walked and talked like he was a veteran monster hunter or something. Showed them respect. When Charles attacked, he was calling shots.

Death was something the 141 were familiar with but the monster… that fucking monster. It was a death that would stick with them.

They made it to the train shed, stopping it just outside the shut door. There was an old house nearby likely where someone lived. Price got out and pounded on the door of the shed. There was a bit of rustling inside. Probably you, reaching for a weapon. The rest of his men stayed back, hovering around the train. John overheard a gun reloading as he was looking to his men for a moment. He tensed and had his hand on the trigger of his own gun. Then he heard your voice

“Steven King.” He heard you say through the door.

“Dark Tower?” Price replied. It sounded almost like a question. There was quiet, and then the creaking of the door opening a crack. It was chained up on the other side, leaving only a couple inches for him to see some young eyes peering through.

“…who are you?” You asked.

“Captain John Price, SAS.” John answered. The door shut and the chains were removed on the other side while his men came a little closer. The door opened slowly and Price looked down to see a teenager with bandages on her arms and a rifle… pointed at him. Seeing his men behind him, you pointed the rifle towards them, eyes looking startled. Price stepped back out, arms out from his sides. You looked between him and his men. No, you was looking for something, someone.

“Stand down.” He called back. The men lowered their own weapons and you followed suit. After a long breath dropping the gun, you shouldered the rifle. Likely been holding your breath that whole time.

“They sent help.” You said, looking at Price and then the rest of the 141, then back at Price. “Come in.”

The all four filed in, their clothes dotted with rain. The pattering of drops could be heard above them on the old roof. Inside was another train engine, but it was in a repaired state. You shut the door looping the chain around it, but leaving it unlocked. On one of the walls was another series of photos, notes and rough drawings. You came over to them, ready to get started.

“Can’t believe it worked. Won’t lie, it’s was like a 10% chance someone might actually check the videos. Even Eugene wasn’t sure, he wanted to contact an archivist on the mainland. He should be on his way here soon.” You said, the men went very quiet. You had been through some shit, under those long pants they expected was the cause of your limp, and who knows what else.

“He’s dead.” Simon stated. Not an emotional man but there was sympathy in his voice.

“What…” your face plummeted. Never an easy part of the job. Their silence confirmed their truth. You started to wander around the room, as if you might find a different answer. Your fingers picked at your bandages and nails, even your hair. “How?”

“That fuckin nightmare.” Johnny said. There was a hard “fuck” heard from you. You paused and looked between the four men. You wiped your nose with your arm. You straightened your back to attention, focusing on the objective.

“Right. I’m just finishing repairs on this one, you have the one from Eugene, there’s parts and pieces around the islands but unfortunately I’m public enemy number two, so in order to get them it requires running errands. Sorry to say. Uh… some of them may have weapons we could also use, and there is a final plan but it’s flawed so…yeah that’s all I got.” You said ending with a shrug.

“What’s the plan?” Simon asked. You gestured to map on the wall.

“There’s a wooden bridge, I’ve gone over it more than once but Charles never follows, he runs off. He knows it won’t hold his weight, and below is… a tiger trap.”

“Tiger trap?” Kyle asked. This was certainly primitive.

“Yeah like in the most dangerous game, but instead of sticks its broken rails, rocks and some other debris. The plan is to try and get him on the bridge, detonate it, blowing him sky high and let gravity do the rest.” You explained. “The only problem is getting him across. We… I think if we get the eggs and put them in this sort of altar temple thing it might get him enraged and pursue anything moving across that bridge… getting the eggs is a whole other story.”

The sound of your voice wasn’t positive. It sounded defeated throughout the plan. Even with the extra help there were limitations, limitations they were intent on overcoming. But you. You were tired and had lost your friend. By the sounds of it everyone on the island knew how to avoid Charles. That gave them time and less to worry about. There the masked mob but that could be dealt with later. It was pouring and you needed to finish up some repairs.

“How long will the rest of those repairs take?” Price asked.

“…an hour, maybe.” you replied. “If you need somewhere to rest or… something my place is up the way, it’s not locked. I’ll be along shortly.”

“And your name?” He asked.

“Everyone calls me brat…” you answered. Seeing the unwavering expressions of the men you cleared your throat. “Y/N. Call me Y/N.”

Taglist @yourlovely-moon @kaoyamamegami @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @sans-chara @1mommyrose4ever29 @smitten-haematite-quartz @talia-the-gemini @yuki2129 @whitetiger846 @graystorm444 @chibiduck @reaperxxxxzz @danielle143 @sobbingnshtting @cringeycookies @cryingpages @dcnocap207 @reaper-chan666 @bestbookfriends @thriving-n-jiving

[luckyreds]

Thinking about post-war baberoe… like I always have a thought in the back of my mind that it would lead to an unhappy ending. Not because they don’t work, because they do. But because I can’t imagine Babe moving anywhere but a 30 minute drive away from Bill, and I can’t see Gene being truly happy in philly.

I can see them trying, desperately to make it work, but eventually they will have to decide what is most important to them. Their own happiness or each others happiness. The worst thing is, I can see them both sacrificing their own happiness so the other can be happy. Then realising it trying to correct it, fail and come to a standstill.

Anyways, much to consider…

[rogue-durin-16]

LUCKY LUZ

Request: omg you are my favourite writer, and I read your bob stuff weekly again and again ! If you feel like it, I was thinking prompt 7? With George Luz ? I’m a sucker for angst so like anything angsty with my boo George Luz.

Summary: Bastogne took a serious toll on Easy Company. At the loss of so many friends, George Luz started to tamper with his luck a bit too much for a certain medic's liking.

Prompt/s:

"We have a problem." "No— you have a problem. I have an idiot who keeps getting in trouble."

Pairing: George Luz x medic!Reader

Genre: angst

Tags:

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

Permanent taglist: @elia-the-bibliophile @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa @comfort-reads

Warnings: mentions of death, survivor's guilt, self-destructive behavior, depressed George Luz (YES THIS IS A WARNING I'M GENUINELY SORRY)

A/N: you asked for angst? I'll give you angst. Also, it's been SOOO long idek if I'm gonna write the BoB boys right/as I used to, so bear with me while I try to get the hang of this again. Enjoy this request and remember they're open so feel free to send ideas <3.

Band of Brothers masterlist

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

In war, much like in any aspect of life, there would always be recklessness.

Little did it matter whether it was on the XO's, the Privates' or the civilians'. There would always be recklessness causing avoc amongst the carefully detailed strategies. It wasn't an excuse for whatever the outcome was, but it was expected and one could somewhat prepare to counteract it— to balance it out.

George Luz's behavior during our last days in the Bois Jaques was not recklessness.

No, it wasn't something as simple, so easily justified by inexperience, pride or short-temper. It was darker, more complicated, and way much worrying than recklessness.

'you think he's tryna kill himself?'

Spina's question, the one he had whispered to me in our foxhole a few nights prior, echoed in the back of my mind every day since then.

'Don't say that.' I had responded at the time.

Now George Luz laid before me, unconscious, with bandages under his winter uniform and I asked myself the same damn question.

Twenty Hours Earlier

"INCOMING!"

Lip's shouts were barely audible, muffled under the thunderous shelling of our position.

We had just managed to advance further into the Bois Jaques and towards the town of Foy, which seemed more and more unreachable each passing day, when that dreadful whistling hovered over us.

Foxholes barely dug and low morale after the loses we had endured the past couple of days, made it harder than usual to react on time.

Thankfully, German artillery hadn't zeroed us yet, so most of us managed to take cover.

If most of us managed, why was George still standing out in the open?

"LUZ! GET DOWN!" Someone yelled, but it didn't reach him.

"GEORGE!! DOWN!!" Lipton's throat sounded sore, but it did the trick and soon the Technician was crouching, yards away from me, helmet secured with one hand and his rifle up on the other.

Lucky Luz, an ominous, abrupt silence followed his delayed reaction as the shelling seemed to come to a halt.

"Woah," as if everything was fine, he snapped back into his carefree demeanor with a breathy laugh. "That was a close one, huh, Y/n?"

My immediate, impulse-driven reaction was to yell at him, although not even I could hear it.

Another deafening whistle.

Another explosion.

Maybe Luz was lucky himself, or maybe, just maybe, he was lucky we were willing to risk our lives for him.

Maybe he was just lucky I jumped out of my foxhole to pull him into it.

Maybe he was just lucky I wrapped him in a tight embrace to shield him from possible shrapnel the best I could.

Maybe, just maybe, he was lucky enough for me to feel his yelp despite not hearing him due to the explosions— lucky enough to have been dragged on his back instead of his tummy.

Lucky enough to be in a medic's foxhole.

The shelling stopped, this time for good. I halfheartedly let go of Luz, my gloves now crimson-stained.

My heart skipped a beat.

" 'M hit—"

"Christ— I got it." My covered palms instinctively found the left side of his ribcage, but failed to reach his wounded upper thigh.

"—fuck-" he hissed, jolting his head up in pain and consequently bumping it on my shoulder.

"LIP!" Before I could yell anything else, our Sergeant slid into the foxhole.

"WE NEED A JEEP OVER HERE! PERCONTE!" He shouted, pulling George towards him so I could move aside and properly fix him up. "It's alright, George, you're okay— right Y/n?"

Luz was not okay. We knew it.

But I couldn't exactly say that, specially just after he had been hit.

"Right, Y/n?" Lipton insisted intently, holding George in place while I ripped his jacket to have an easier access to the main wound. "Y/n?"

"Yeah- yeah, right." I mumbled, dusting the sulfa powder where he had been hit. "Sarge, I need that jeep."

Lipton sighed and looked over his shoulder. "Perco?!"

"They're comin', Lip!"

George was awfully quiet as he tried not to recoil due to the pressure put over his open wounds.

"It's alright." Lipton repeated, more to himself than to Luz.

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

GEORGE'S P. O. V.

"You're awake." She stated even before I could open my eyelids to see her standing by me, arms crossed and a frown on her face.

"How'd you know?" I question, squinting and blinking a few times before propping myself up in the poor excuse of a bed in which I had been laid to recover.

" 'Cause I know you."

"Where are we?"

"You got hit."

"I know."

"Then why on earth did you ask—"

"Dunno, I was hoping we'd be in heaven." I winked at her before completing my sentence. "Since you're my own personal angel."

Silence.

"You think it's funny?" I opened my mouth in agape, not knowing which was the right answer to that —because there was always a right answer with her— but I had no time to choose. "You think it's funny that I had to put myself in harm's way to drag your ass to safety?"

I furrowed my brows with a puzzled half smile and a sort of anger I couldn't describe brewing inside me. "You're kiddin' right?" A single breathy laugh escaped my throat. "C'mon Y/n/n, I thought you knew what you were signing up for when you volunteered to be a medic."

"Excuse me?"

"I mean if you don't know you have to 'put yourself in harm's way'," I mimicked her voice, which left her stunned. "Then, we have a problem."

"No. You have a problem." oh, she was mad. "I have an idiot who keeps getting in trouble." The medic was quite obviously trying not to yell at me.

"Okay, if you say so." I shrugged, trying not to let the turmoil of emotions the conversation was triggering inside me show through my careless facade.

"What are you trying to do here, George?"

"Nothin'?"

"Why are you trying to get under my skin?"

"It's just what I do best, sweetheart."

And it was true. For two years, I had been an awfully insufferable piece of shit.

How could I not? When that was the only way to get her attention back in Toccoa; the only way to stand up in the eyes of the prettiest woman I had ever seen amongst an entire Battalion of men.

Not that it took me anywhere per se, but at least we had forged a friendship based on sweet bickering, muffled laughs and knowing glances.

She used to laugh all the time.

Maybe I was no longer funny. Had I lost the one thing I was useful for?

Or maybe she was tired of me.

She did seem tired then, staring at me with a saddened, wornout visage.

"You're not okay." She nearly whispered. "I'm done letting you pretend you are."

"I'm not pretending—"

"You think I don't know what means being medic?" Her tone told me I had crossed the line. "You think I don't know I gotta get out there if someone cries for help, no matter how scared am I or how slim my chances of survival are?" Y/n tried to stay gentle, but she had had enough, which somehow scared me. "But no one screamed 'medic', George. You weren't down. But I still got out there to get you. It was not my job, do you understand?"

Shut up shut up shut up.

"Well if you're gonna complain this much then you should've left me there—"

"To die?"

Despite the crazing chaos that surrounded our little corner in the aid station, I somehow heard nothing but a deafening silence and the pounding of my heart.

"Do you wanna die, George?" I went livid, trying to look for a reply that wouldn't make me crack. "Is that what you're trying to do? Kill yourself?"

"Are you nuts?"

"Answer my question."

"I-" Scoff. "what d'you even—"

"Luz."

"I'm tired! I'm just tired and didn't react on time, okay? Is that what you wanna hear?"

"What I wanna hear is a good reason not to get you pulled off the line!" She shouted, stomping on the cold ground beneath us.

Oh, now people were staring.

She used to become so self-conscious about that; people giving her looks for raising her tone.

As she stood straight by my side, towering over my bed, there was not a single ounce of self-consciousness in her frame.

She was mad. Mad and hurt.

Hurt because I wasn't being honest with her. Hurt because she had been sticking up for me for an entire week because I just wasn't there; because I was, like she had just said, I was an idiot getting in trouble.

"So? Go on, then." The medic spurred me, gradually lowering her voice again. "Give me a good reason."

"You can't get the XO'S to pull me off the line, Y/n." I chose to respond, almost daring the girl.

She was holding back. I didn't quite know from what exactly but I knew she was holding back, and a part of me wanted Y/n to lash out.

I'm sure a part of her wanted, too.

Tension could be cut with a knife, and deep down I wanted to give her an answer but the truth was I couldn't find it, and if I was damn good at something, it was dodging the bullet.

"Listen if you don't have anythin' else to say," I shrugged with my brows raised. "Guess it's better for you to head out."

"Y'know what? I still have something to say." She spat through gritted teeth, yanking a stool that stood alone by a blooded stretcher. With a deep breath, she sat down beside me, which was the last thing I expected her to do. "You're a fuckin' moron. You've always been. But you've never been an asshole." She spoke intently, trying to get her point across despite me not being in the best place to listen. "You're not an asshole, George."

No matter how angry or frustrated she was, there was always an inherent sweetness in her tone whenever she talked to me, one that shook me to the core because how could someone be so lovely in such horrific setting? How could she be so lovely to me?

"And you're not gonna convince me otherwise." She firmly stated, staring straight into my soul to make herself clear.

'I see through your bullshit'.

"So quit it."

She remained expectant, waiting for me to say something —anything.

I couldn't.

She knew it.

With a defeated sigh, she reached out for my hand and gave it a gentle squeeze before getting up and out of the tent. It was her way to apologize because she had to leave. I knew that gesture too well.

Aldbourne, Early September

Laughter and soft music kept the good spirits high inside the crowded pub in Aldbourne; our small safe haven. The only place where I had seen Y/n loosen up completely.

She lit up the place, dancing with Penkala, telling stories with Guarnere, cracking jokes with Martin —her dry humor matched his perfectly.

It was, I think, while she held onto my arm, throwing her head back in a fit of laughter due to something Babe had said, that I knew I loved her.

Even with her head on my shoulder and my arm lazily wrapped around her waist, she remembered to check her watch. Ever the dutiful one.

"Jesus! Would you look at that?" She pulled away from me, her fingers gently clasping my forearm before giving me an apologetic smile. "Gotta head out already, boys."

"Oh, c'mon Y/n" Buck complained, but she repeated the gesture with him and he knew no amount of convincing would get her to stay.

"But we're just getting started!" Babe complained.

"Sorry, Heffron. I really gotta head out." She squeezed his bicep briefly when she walked past him. "You better not be late, Compton!" She yelled as a form of goodbye before waving at the boys filling the English bar, now a bit less merry. At least for me.

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

READER'S P. O. V.

"M'kay what else do we need?" I asked Gene, my trusted pencil in hand to write down the supplies needed on the back of a photograph.

"What d'you have so far?"

"Uhm... Morphine," I listed, raising a finger. "bandages, three pairs of scissors,"

"Sulfa powder." He added, going through the boxes we had left.

"Sulfa... powder..." I muttered with knitted eyebrows while I noted the words. "Anything else?"

"Let me check—" The medic stood up in his foxhole, his attention caught on a particular voice coming from our left. "Ain't that—"

"Yes it is. Fuck." I handed Eugene the photograph and climbed out the dug out patch on the frozen ground. A part of us expected to be wrong, but of course not. What had initially been tentative steps turned into fast stalking. "Are you kidding me?"

George's laugh died down and a wave of 'shit's came out of the group of veterans surrounding him, who quickly spread out.

"Missed me much?" The attempted playfulness was charged with masked fear. He let out a yelp when I grasped his forearm and dragged him away from curious ears. "What's that for?"

"Don't you dare act stupid." I hissed with a menacing index finger up at his face.

"Okay, Y/n, listen—"

"You went AWOL in this state. I'm not listening to any bullshit."

"Oh, c'mon" the dismissive eye roll only made me fume even more. "We've all done that."

"It's not the same."

"How."

"You're. Not. Okay. George."

"Oh and you are?!" I sushed him when he inevitably rose his tone at me, clearly forgetting we didn't know exactly how close we were to the Germans. "Breaking news, Y/n/n!" The belligerent tone in which my nickname had come out sounded so unnatural. "no one's okay!"

"Winters is expecting my final advice."

"On what?"

"On whether to pull you back or not." His mouth opened in agape, betrayal reflected all over him. "I wasn't bluffing when I said I'd get you out." There was a finality in my words, one that neither of us liked.

Since the current situation seemed to be leading to the one which had place in the aid station a couple of days prior, I turned heel and attempted to leave.

"Y/n wait—" George's digits yanked back the sleeve of my coat. "I don't want out!" His throat suffered from the rasping.

"Then why does it look like you do?"

I should have stopped pushing.

"YOU DIDN'T SEE IT!" He exchanged the whisper-shouts for a loud cry filled with anger and frustration and something that made his chocolate brown irises water.

"SHHHH!"

"DON'T SHUSH ME!" He was losing it. It wasn't the yelling that gave it away, but the push on my shoulder.

I shouldn't have, but I myself didn't have much patience left in me. Against better judgement, My gloves found the lapels of his coat and shoved him back against a nearby tree. "I don't wanna get shot, George, so tone it down." The softness in my pitch came out as a hard contrast to my actions.

It did the trick, though. After a gulp and a deep breath, George's tone lowered. "You didn't see it? Okay? No one saw— I- They- " My hands abandoned him in order to offer some space, hoping that would help him articulate his thoughts better. "There was noth- nothing left!"

"What's-" I tilted my head to the side, trying to make sense out of the unfinished sentences. "What d'you mean w—"

"And I was right there!" He pushed himself off the tree, an index pointing at his chest violently. "I had to see it! Right in front of me!"

"George, you need to slow down-" my palms raised in surrender, ready to grab the technician if necessary.

The tension he was building up made both of our hearts pound faster each passing second for more than one reason.

"First Toye and... And then that happened and I-I had to dig out the fuckin'- the goddamn cross! I was- There were... Parts of 'em—"

Oh.

"It was... I was looking for it all over and... it was all mushy and I don't know if it was... Dirt or... Jesus..." The man took a step back, consciously or not and his legs seemed to falter ever so slightly.

"Okay, I got you." clasping his forearms with all my might, I helped him hold himself upright, not without some staggering. "I need you to breathe, okay?" My eyes searched for his, unwilling to meet mines. So that was what had been happening.

"I don't want out." He stated with a shake of his head, making a single strand of hair wobble over his forehead. "I don't get to leave."

Sigh.

"Muck and Penkala," he flinched at the mention of their names. "They'd want you to leave."

"You don't know that." It was a murmur, much less intended to be said out loud than the question that followed it. "Do you want me to leave?"

No.

"I just don't want you dead."

"That wasn't the question."

I don't want you to leave me here. Alone.

"For god's sake George—"

"Why do you want me away so badly?" There was a sort of plea in the question, one that was breaking my heart. "Did you get tired of me?"

I love you.

"That's not—"

"If you're done with my bullshit I can just ask to switch platoons."

I love you.

"George I'm telling you—" I groaned, letting go of him. "it's not about that."

"Well whatever it is, I can just switch to second,"

"George."

I love you.

"they're short on people anyway."

I love you.

"I don't need you to switch platoons."

"Then what the hell do you need?"

I love you.

"I need you to be careful!" Now it was me who needed to be sushed. "You're gonna get yourself killed. And you're gonna get me killed!"

That hit a nerve.

With regained strength, George shortened the distance I had just put between us in order to try and breathe, a task that seemed to become more difficult each passing second.

"Then stop sticking out for me!"

I love you.

"It's not that simple!"

"Why not?"

"I love you! You idiot." Lucky me, Luz was way too perplexed to tease me about the red tinge bringing life to my cheeks. "I can't just... look away if you're doing something stupid."

Maybe I would have preferred the teasing over his unresponsive behavior. Yeah, I would have rather had a cheeky grin lighting up his face, instead of the lividness washing him out.

"I don't need you moved to another platoon," I attempted to redirect the conversation to a less pathetic outcome, and George didn't seem to oppose. "I just need you to be careful and take care of yourself." Still no response; my heart sunk deeper if that was even possible. "I've lost too many friends already. Can't lose another one."

"How long?"

"What'd you mean?"

"How long have you known?"

"I don't know." I folded my arms and recoiled from the man in front of me, actively avoiding to meet his gaze. "I think... Maybe Normandy. When we regrouped."

Normandy, D-Day plus 3

"Look who decided to show up, Floyd!" Luz and Liebgott went straight to the Sergeant walking a few steps ahead of me and Shifty, ready to compare their trophies and souvenirs.

It wasn't until Talbert folded his newly acquired poncho that the boys became aware of us.

"Well, would you look at that." Lieb smacked George's shoulder with the back of his hand before nodding in my direction.

"Sorry fellas," Floyd feigned an apology. "But I figured I just couldn't show up without our medic. Right, Luz?"

If there was a situation in which George would not match the banter thrown at him, that was the one. Instead, he stood still with widened eyes.

"What? Cat's got your tongue?" I questioned, approaching the group with the sniper trailing after me.

"Oh, she bites now." Lieb snickered. "That's fun."

Still no response from Luz, apart from the shocked expression. I was about to taunt him again when he shoved Tab aside and engulfed me in a hug, one that took me a hot second to reciprocate.

"Where the hell have you been?" He limited himself to ask, breath fanning on the crook of my neck.

"Missed the DZ by four miles." My explanation sounded restrained due to the tight embrace. "Took a while to walk 'em."

"Thought you didn't make it." He murmured, this time only for me to hear. "If you scare me like that again I'll kill ya."

Peeking over his shoulder, I caught the knowing eyes of our comrades. Either Luz was unaware or didn't care enough. I myself had other things to focus on, such as the butterflies in my tummy or the scary feeling swelling up my heart.

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

"Why didn't you tell me?" His question hid something I couldn't quite decipher, although the gleam in his eyes could be worked out as a clue.

I shrugged, trying to play off the conversation I had been avoiding for months due to fear. "Why would I?"

He shrugged too, and, after opening his mouth a couple of times without getting a word out, I assume he was at a loss for words.

"I feel like we went off the topic here." I stated, once more trying to redirect the conversation, and once more failing to do so.

"Did you mean it?"

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I inhaled deeply. George Luz really had a gift for driving me mad. "Can we move on from that? 'Cause at this point we're dragging the conversation and I'm-"

"You should've told me earlier."

I finally met his eyes with an exasperated look.

"Would that change anything?"

"I could've done something about it."

"Like what?"

He hesitated for a moment, darting a quick glance at my lips I nearly didn't catch before closing the space between us, his hands cupping my cheeks with a featherlight touch.

Just like in Normandy, it took me a moment to react; only that this time I wasn't fast enough and George slipped away from my grasp and took a step back.

"Where d'you think you're going?" I snapped, once again clutching his coat, this time for a very different purpose than minutes ago.

As my mouth found his again, deepening the kiss with my fingers entangled in his unusually long locks and the sides of my coat bunched up in his fists, I wondered if I had really found out I loved him in Normandy.

All from sudden, the feeling that I had known it from the very first corny pick-up line he had thrown at me back in Toccoa washed over me.

Either by the long awaited kiss or by the overwhelming emotions, it was my turn to pull away in order to catch my breath.

"Could've saved me a lot of teasing, y'know?" He mumbled, letting his forehead rest on mine for an instant. "Having everyone and their mother poking fun at me was pretty embarrassing."

"You really are an idiot."

That tore a quiet laugh out of him. A genuine one. It seemed to be so long since that had happened.

"I love you too, by the way."

"Oh, I think I got the memo."

Another laugh. His stupid grin. His cheeky demeanor. All of it made him lit up a little bit. My thumb caressed his face, and it occurred to me that maybe what George Luz really needed was to feel loved.

Lucky him, I wouldn't be going anywhere any time soon.

[kawaiiiuniverssse]

Just watched Tangled for the first time in a while and now I can’t stop thinking about HuskerDust in their roles.

[hardbeingcasual]

heyyyy, i read your carl fic and was wondering if you would write another one but with Rosita this time? One where its angsty and based in s11 where she dies 🫶

THE WAY THINGS GO! / R. ESPINOSA

♪ THE WAY THINGS GO, BEABADOOBEE / TWD MASTERLIST / MASTERLIST

summary — when rosita gets bit, the reader can’t help but wish it was her in rosita’s place.

warnings — death, normal stuff for twd, short story

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You never took the news well, finding out Rosita was bit, it hit you like a ton of bricks.

You never got to tell her how you really feel.

You couldn’t help but wish you were in her place, she had her whole life ahead of her still, she had to raise Coco, she can’t grow up without her mother, she already lost her father.

Then theres you, you had nothing, your family was dead. All you had left was Rosita, she was your purpose.

There she lay, almost lifeless. You couldn’t help but get teary eye as you looked at her. She insisted you sat next to her, so you did.

“Don’t cry.” She tells you, but you can’t help it, how do you gain the courage to tell her how you feel when shes on her death bed?

She grabs your hand and rubs her thumb over your palm, her bloodshot eyes meet with yours, her tears falling down her cheeks, you lift your hand to wipe them.

“You know I love you, right?” She says with such sincerity, her voice hoarse.

Your lip quivers at that moment, your tears falling like a storm, you shake your head “I didn’t think you’d feel the same.”

“Of course I do.” She sits up a bit, leaning her forehead against yours, her hand fully connecting with yours now. “Take care of Coco for me okay?”

“Rosita I can’t.” You dismiss her but she wasn’t having it.

“Please, I want to know shes in good hands, I trust you.” You catch her eye, before nodding, letting out an agreement.

“I’ll protect her, my life depends on it.” You promise her. After loosing Rosita, you cannot let Coco get hurt. She’s your priority now, no matter what. She’s the last piece of Rosita you have.

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#TAGS @icebergiounge @nfrvampire

[lamialamia]

Sledgefu + a Song that is written for Them (3/3)

spotify template made by @danesdehaan

[ithinkabouttzu]

Hi there! I was wondering if I could request some of your amazing headcanons? How would Easy Company react to you telling them that you can't have kids/can't have a family with them? Totally okay if you don't feel comfortable with it. Thank you either way, and have a great day! 😁♥️

Easy co. reacting to you not wanting/not being able to have children.

A/n: Hi! Thank you so much for your request my love! I’m so sorry this took so long to write, but i hope you enjoy! 💝

genre: angsty, comfort to fluff!

warnings: TW: Infertility, sadness, depression, relationship difficulties, swearing.

description: Some of the men reacting to their s/o (you) not being able or not wanting to have kids.

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

BoB masterlist

Dick Winters: When you break the news to him, the first thing he’s doing is making sure you are okay. It probably took a lot to tell him, especially if you and he both wanted kids. “Well, are you alright?” He might feel a little sad at first but he quickly changes his perspective on it. As long as you aren’t saddened by it then he isn’t either. Besides he knows there are probably tons of little ones in the adoption system that could use an amazing home like yours and his.

Lewis Nixon: “That’s all right, doll.” When you tell him he's very soft and understanding around you. It doesn’t bother him one bit that you can’t have kids. If you really wanted them though, he would comfort you for as long as you needed. If kids weren’t something you really wanted anyway he would still make sure and ask if you were alright. He tries his best to make some positive of the situation by saying stuff like, “Well at least we won’t be having to change blowout diapers or swim in college debt anytime soon.”

Carwood Lipton: “Oh honey, I'm sorry.” The first thing he’s doing when you tell him the news is wrapping you up in a big warm hug. Whether you wanted kids or not, he's going to be comforting you and making sure that you are okay no matter what. He would be a little sad just because he would love to have family with you, but he knows IVF and surrogacy are options also, plus adoption. If you didn’t want kids at all he would 100% support your decision, he just wants you to be happy.

Joe Toye: When you let him know that you aren’t able to have kids, he’s honestly crushed. He would never tell you that or show that to you, but he dreams of having a family with you. (Mans literally forgot adoption was a thing) He wants to console you by gifting you a bunch of things or taking you on lots or dates, just to take your mind off of it. He loves you so much, having kids doesn’t even really matter when it comes down to it. As long as he’s your man, he’s happy.

Joe Liebgott: He knows if he’s sad about the news, you would be sad too, even more than he was. “It’s alright sweet thing. I’ll always be here for you.” If you really wanted kids he would remind you that you guys still could have a perfect little family together, surrogacy or adoption are both great options. He reminds you over and over again that there was nothing you or could change about it and you are completely perfect the way you are.

Bill Guarnere: In his way of thinking, he would rather have his significant other and no kids, than kids and no significant other. He would hate to ever lose you in any way. So when you tell him that you can’t have kids it doesn’t affect your relationship with him a whole lot. As long as you are okay with it, then he is okay with it too. If you were saddened by it he would hold you and tell you everythings gonna be okay, “We’re gonna figure this out honey, don’t worry.”

George Luz: He wraps you up in a big hug when you tell him. This sweet baby doesn’t even really understand the details of it all, but he knows that he’s gonna love you matter what, kids or not. He would choose you over and over again even if kids were off the table. If children was something you wanted I think he would kinda be like nix, saying stuff like, “Well at least we won’t have to stay up all night with screaming and dirty diapers?” He tries to make everything as positive as possible. He’s gonna love you no matter what.

Bull Randleman: “Well how do you feel about all this?” He kinda bases his emotions on what you’re feeling at the moment and if you’re okay with no kids or if you aren’t. He would feel sad only a little at first but then he realizes you guys could always adopt and isn’t really sad after that. He is the sweetest guy ever about the whole thing. He just wants to hold you and promise you that everything will and is going to be okay. “It’s all gonna work itself just out, don’t worry about you and me sweetheart.”

Eugene Roe: Gene is kinda similar to Winters in this case. In his way of thinking, he took vows to love you and be there for you no matter what. He would never think of you any differently. He just wants to make sure you are alright about the whole thing. “I’m sorry. Cheri. Is there anything I can do?” If you are sad he will do just about anything to make you feel better, he loves you so much.

Floyd Talbert: “It’s okay Angel, everything is gonna be okay.” I think when you tell him he wouldn’t be sad or anything, mostly just surprised. He wants to make sure you aren’t sad about it before he says or does anything else. He would try to cheer you up on the situation if you were sad about it, reminding you adoption is always a good option and just you and him would be perfect as it is now. I could see him surprising you with a nice vacation somewhere to cheer you up.

Skip Muck: He doesn’t say anything really, just because he fears he might fuck something up if he does. The look on his face explains everything for you. You can tell he’s sad, sad for you and him. That’s during the initial reaction, if you still wanted kids though, he would love to adopt with you or start some sort of surrogacy. If you didn’t want a family at all he would be crushed at first but he would move on eventually.

Don Malarkey: If you and him were having fertility issues, he would feel like it’s his fault the entire time, he just wants to give you that perfect little family you guys have always dreamed of. It’s easy to say that when he finds out about you not being able to have/don’t want to have children he would just feel terrible about the whole thing. If you didn’t want kids he would feel like maybe he pressured you somehow about it and would also feel terrible about that. He’s totally encouraging and caring of you though.

Shifty Powers: “Don’t worry about it all right now, we’re still young, we've got our whole lives to figure this stuff out.” He’s so validating during the whole process of baby stuff. Constantly telling you not to worry about it, if it's meant to be that you guys have children, then let it be. If it isn’t, then it just isn’t. But whatever decision you make, he's going to support you 100%.

Babe Heffron: He’s silent. So fucking silent. “So what do you want to do now, honey?” He wants you to decide any further options as far as children go, whether you want to adopt, or not have any kids at all, it’s completely up to you. He would sit there and rub your back softly, whispering soft words of affirmations to you (and himself too) if you were sad about the situation. “It’s gonna be okay, it will all workout doll.”

Ronald Speirs: He’s a bit like Gene here. He promised you to be there “In sickness and in health” and he’s completely sticking to that. You’re his girl/boy, nothing comes between that. If you had felt saddened by the situation he would offer to buy you comfort food, or take you out on a nice date, anything to get it off of your mind. “It’s alright honey. We’re gonna be a-okay.” He’s so soft and patient with you during this time, it’s sweet enough to make you cry.

Johnny Martin: “Oh sweetheart, don’t be sad. We will figure this all out.” He might be just a tad bit snappy at times, but when you tell him the news he is as gentle as a sheep. He will stay there with you, hold your hand softly and take care of you for as long as need be. It absolutely breaks his heart to see you sad and he wants to do anything to make you feel better.

Skinny Sisk: He looks like a sad puppy dog when you tell him the news. He feels sad for you mostly. If you had wanted to be a parent he would hug you so tight and tell you how sorry he is about all of this. He would try taking you out and do all sorts of things to cheer you up (even if that meant making himself look like an absolute fool). He’s the most supportive s/o ever so it just makes your guys’ relationship stronger in the end.

David Webster: He doesn’t really even know what to think about the whole situation. All he knows is that he needs to be there by your side and support you through it all. If you do get really saddened by it, I think he would try and read to you to help make you feel better. Just hearing his soft voice tumble through the words is enough to make you feel better than you were before.

Chuck Grant: He gives you the most “I'm sorry” look ever. He doesn’t say a word to you, just takes you in and holds you close, making sure to plant soft little kisses on your head while you let out all of your emotions. “We’re gonna get through this baby, you and me together.” He keeps close to you for the next couple of weeks, watching you almost like a hawk because he just wants to take care of you and make sure you are okay.

Buck Compton: “I'm so sorry sweet girl/boy. Is there anything I can do?” He doesn’t even really care for kids at the moment, just making sure you are okay is his top priority. If you had wanted kids, he would keep apologizing to you over and over about how sorry he was. He would give you some of his famous bear hugs when you’re feeling sad about it. If you didn’t want kids or a family he would be understanding of it, bc I mean kids are a LOT of work.

Thank you again for your request and support! If you enjoyed this, please like or reblog if you can! Love you all! 🥹🤍

[tatarella]

Eugavus Angst AU - Gavus „The Mourning Mage“ Re-Awakening / SSP

Putting the pictures behind the cut due to potentially triggering content, please mind the tags if you are uncomfortable with mild(ish) body horror.

This is based on some light lore theorycrafting spun up by users on the GaGene Nation Discord server after discussing what the new hero Adrian might have done or not have done with his partner, Elyse. How would the dads react in a similar situation?

For some reason I wanted to do a fun little concept for a corrupted Gavus based on this and got way too into it. 🙈

Scenario: Eugene passes away and leaves a mentally broken Gavus and his cube behind. Knowing that the cube offers endless possibilities in the hands of a capable holder, Gavus tries to use it to bring Eugene back from the dead. Due to his incompatibility with the cube‘s power however, his already fragile mind and body get corrupted, turning Gavus into a Hypogean abomination with just one goal in mind: finding a way to return his love to him.

Initial sketch:

„After having no tears left to cry, he sought to become one with what remained of his love. Maybe with this newfound power, he could bring him back?“

The idea was that Gavus body struggled to contain the power of the cube, hence his skin slowly cracking like porcelain. Behind it is a black void with the red markings of the cube swirling within.

Costume/Weapon concept (including a full version without the noisy background):

The red scarf is Eugene‘s cape which Gavus took with him after Eugene died.

He embedded the Trickster‘s Cube into his chest where his heart is, hence the corruption spreading.

His Celestial body and clothes are incompatible with the magic of the cube, this is why it corrupts his limbs and burns his clothes. Eugene‘s cape is not affected because it still has Eugene‘s compatibility. (I found out that the program I‘m using for digital art actually has a very neat brush for a cloud/stain effect AFTER painstakingly painting the burn marks on his clothes by hand. 😂 )

SSP Gavus‘ weapon is a merged version of Eugene‘s Weapon and his own, broken SP ring. Including more cube corruption, OF COURSE.

Gavus actually succeeds in bringing Eugene back from the dead, but at the cost of his sanity and becoming a Hypogean himself.

Eugene is NOT happy about what Gavus did and somehow finds a way to wake Dura (and in the progress ascending as a Celestial himself), just to ask her to return his husband to the status as Celestial.

Bonus picture: Celestial Eugene (whom I accidentally outlined on the sketch layer because I‘m very slow of brain, so you gotta live with my red sketchy lines 🥲).

I took the chance and gave him a cute little low ponytail!

Now I need some fluff.

[drewsephrry]

💐

[evanesce-origin]

when i die (which i must do)

speirsroe have a good time during the war and nothing goes wrong (lying)

ao3 link

CW: major character death, canon-typical injuries, canon divergence. apologies in advance for the things ive written. blasphemy??? (religion as a consistent metaphor)

Speirs had long grown used to the incessant prickling of cold at his fingers, like thousands of pins finding a home in his skin. He paid little mind to it; whether he was in the foxholes or wandering aboveground, it was rare that any presence of warmth showed him what he was missing. It was another aspect of war that faded to background noise; the static of loss and gunfire rang somewhere in between. He flexed his fingers and shifted his weight as he stood overlooking the quiet forest ahead of him.

The thick blanket of snow muffled any sound that wasn’t one of impending violence.There was no movement from the rest of Dog company— most had long dug into their foxholes for the night. Whether they slept or not was another story. Sleep didn’t come easy to any of them anymore.

Speirs moved through the trees like a ghost. His afterimage haunted the forest with the footsteps he left behind, breath whisking itself into the air when it escaped from behind the scarf he hid his face behind. Stoicism was a facade he knew all too well, like holding a mirror to the suffocating cold that surrounded him and donning it as a sort of camouflage. It was comfortable there, in the stiff lines of his braced shoulders and the rigid curve of his spine.There was an unfortunate ease that came to him exploring the line, one that had arrived long before Bastogne. Somewhere just before Taccoa, when he’d accepted he was a dead man walking and had little reason to protest otherwise, the calm had settled in his veins like ice and hadn’t been shaken since.

In the space between Dog company and Easy company’s lines, it could’ve been easy to forget there was a war going on. If he wanted to, he could’ve pretended he was the only man in the world, surrounded by the bright light that reflected off the snow from the moon like a system of funhouse mirrors guiding the sunlight back to Earth. If he wanted to, he could’ve imagined a world of peace that wasn’t so harsh as to take the men he walked amongst, body and spirit. He didn’t, though.

The time for reflection was one Speirs cherished more than anyone else would ever know. He mulled over his experiences from the last few years and the way his heart had changed. A novel concept, the heart of Lieutenant Ronald Speirs; its existence a myth that the paratroopers often made jokes about. Hell, if he were anyone but himself, he’d be cracking the same jokes.

With this time, he thought of the first time he saw Eugene Roe. It’d been a sweltering summer, midday sometime in August, and Dog company had just finished running drills. Easy company, contrary to their name, wasn’t granted the opportunity for a break like they should’ve been. Sobel was running them into the ground, figuratively and literally, as he did often. Incessantly. Shouted orders, insults, and curses poured out of Sobel’s mouth so loudly they rang in the ears of men halfway across the fields. Most of the men in Easy company had at least some level of exasperation on their face, if not pure outrage and murder in their eyes. 

Roe’s face was a facade of calm, even when Sobel began arguing with Winters. He stood at attention as if he had been born to, familiarity and ease in the posture. It was only when Sobel said something blatantly wrong about code and a tactical decision Winters had apparently made earlier that week that Speirs saw a crack in that expression; a brief twinge of annoyance and fury that escaped as Roe’s gaze flickered from straight ahead of him to where Sobel stood. He set his jaw and raised his chin slightly.

There was an urge like a gut-punch that Speirs felt, nearly taking his breath away. The urge to dig at that crack, to unearth whatever was behind it and revel in it. The cold fire in Roe’s eyes had sparked something in his curiosity, and that was bad enough; Speirs didn’t get curious about the other men. He had no urge to know the others, not in the way that they seemed to intimately make friends despite their impending march to certain death, one he had accepted.

There was a part of his subconscious that had always kept track of Roe throughout their separate time at Toccoa. To be fair, he kept track of everyone. It was a force of habit, a way of keeping aware of his surroundings in a sense. Besides, he wanted to know the men he was going into the war with and their skill sets. There was no denying that his curiosity was far more than professional, however, and that ate at him like nothing else had.

Time in Europe before they officially dropped in Normandy had been a blessing, like the miracle of lightning striking a church. The first time they were in Aldbourne, there was much revelry to be had in the bars that remained standing, something all of the companies participated in without hesitation. Speirs didn’t find himself amongst them often, but on the rare occasions he did, there were a further few that overlapped with “Doc” Roe participating. The curiosity turned into a soul-felt hunger, one he tried his very best to ignore. This was one of few things Speirs wasn’t successful at, despite putting his mind to it.

Introductions were made eventually, casual and brief as they were between passing companies as a paratrooper brought Roe’s name up as an afterthought. Speirs refused to acknowledge the delighted twinge he felt at Roe’s accent, the low pitch of his voice bleeding into his thoughts like ink spilled upon a page, dark and all-encompassing as it clung to whatever it could reach. It was soft, something he didn’t often find comfort in, but the low rumble of Roe’s introduction and the subsequent way he shifted in his seat, grasping at his drink to avoid eye contact but not drinking, had Speirs settling in the chair across from him. Perhaps a conversation would satiate his curiosity, if he could just get a glimpse through the crack of his demeanor.

Looking back, this would be the moment that Speirs would declare everything had gone so very right and so horrifyingly wrong. He had never been a man of self control, though, and this characterisation would follow him to both of their graves. He was doomed from the very beginning, marching toward devastation as he followed the pure warmth of that Cajun accent. He would’ve followed it to the end of the war, too. 

Quiet, sparse conversations punctuated with mutual, easy silence over drinks that were rarely alcoholic gave a foundation to acknowledgement of each other outside the little dark corners they spent their time in. It was hard to reconcile with, though; the moments Speirs spent studying the intricacies of Roe’s face, with the dancing firelight shifting and giving a further brilliance to all the softest and sharpest parts of his features. The angle of his brows, the thin purse of his mouth as he contemplated something in their mutual silence, the abrupt yet rounded lines of his cheekbones.

And Jesus Christ, his eyes held storms Speirs would dive headfirst into if given the chance. They were dark, like the farside of the moon and just as enticing. He didn’t catch them often, as Roe preferred to stare down at the surface of their rickety table or glance around the bar with a paranoia troopers didn’t often acquire before dropping for the first time, but Speirs didn’t mind much. Roe asked Speirs occasional questions about the version of himself he’d left behind in the States, one that he’d slaughtered without hesitation in preparation for their upcoming conflicts. He didn’t mind taking those old bones out once in a while, though, and showing them off for Roe if he asked. Roe did the same on occasion too, giving little quips of Louisiana tales that felt distant to them both.

Roe told him about the church he went to and a fondness he had for his “Ma’s cookin’” and the simple delights of walking down the street to a local bakery. The little details were gifts, wrapped by Roe and sent over with tentative hesitation and a wariness in his eyes that gave way to something else if pried upon.

The cold in Speirs’ voice never seemed to put Roe off any, nor did the uneasy way he smiled or the haunting of his eyes that trailed around the room boring holes into the backs of the other men. His Cheshire cat smile did send a shiver down Roe’s back once or twice, but it didn’t seem to be a negative reaction from what Speirs could gather. Speirs wasn’t insecure about the way he was perceived, the demeanor he held so naturally that unsettled the others, but at the time he thought it would’ve been a shame if Roe was the type to be scared off so easily. He wasn’t.

When they caught each other outside of their little corner, it was brief and in passing, but no less appreciated. Once, Speirs had even caught a glimpse of the quirk of the corner of Roe’s mouth, and felt a sense of nonsensical accomplishment. The preparation and anticipation had left them all a bit haggard; drawing a smile out of Doc Roe meant he was doing something right. There weren’t many more opportunities for quiet conversations left before something was bound to happen; they were awaiting further orders from the chain of command. The energy around Aldbourne felt much like the lighting of a fuse, waiting for the bomb to go off. Speirs awaited it eagerly, Roe with a sense of God-fearing dread.

There were bags under those half-moon eyes the last time Speirs saw Roe before the drop on Normandy, more prominent than they usually were, and he felt an irritating itch in his fingertips to smooth them away. At no point had Speirs accounted for any sort of desire, in any sense of the word, rearing its ugly head and drawing his attention somewhere other than the immediate pressing matter of the war ahead of them. He wanted to call out reassurances, make a comment about comforts Roe would find in the rosary beads that hung around his neck, but that wasn’t something that came naturally to him. Instead, across the airfield, their eyes caught on each other; a momentary eclipse. Speirs nodded. Roe nodded. The moment ended.

Accounts from his memory of catching glimpses of Roe during D-Day and the days after were hazy at best. He wasn’t sure if they were accurate or simply his mind filling in the blanks of soldiers passing by in the heat of battle and maybe it didn’t matter. Having caught a flash of his dark eyes and darker hair as he sprinted across the field in Carentan, Roe felt much like an omen. The moon caught his eye in the same way overnight, in passing with a glowing reassurance Speirs didn’t have the time nor the energy to consider. 

The air in Aldbourne was different when they returned. Heavier, smokier, weighed down with the breath of devastation and heartache at what the military called a “mighty-successful mission.” Speirs could agree with that, and with the firm feeling of experience lodged in his chest at what he and D-company had accomplished. The familiar nagging of curiosity pushed him to find out what Roe thought about the whole matter, what he had emerged from the other side of D-Day with. If it had cracked him further, if he still clung to those rosary beads like they were the answer to the wreckage they’d been through.

They found each other eventually, coming together in an easy silence that provided some familiarity despite the fact that everything had changed with their first taste of combat. Speirs had flourished under the pressures and stress while Roe looked as if he were clinging to the semblances of normalcy, his hard eyes crinkled under the pressing crease of his downturned brows. Roe never volunteered tales of what he had been through and Speirs never asked. He could see them written on the creases of Roe’s face and oh God was it beautiful. The unease decorated Roe’s face like a veil and the horrors he had seen adorned his demeanor like the armor he wore to battle. Speirs found resolve in himself to dig himself under that armor, to work out the weak spots and dig his fingernails in until he drew blood.

The first few drinks Roe ordered were stronger than anything Speirs had ever smelt on his breath, but that didn’t last long. Roe just wasn’t a drinking man and that was one of the little quirks that made Speirs even more desperate to know him. One of the nights, after the other troopers got a bit too rowdy for his liking, Roe slammed his glass on the table and considered Speirs for a moment, eyelids heavy. “I’m gonna go on a walk.” He announced quietly, though he didn’t move.

It was an invitation. Speirs accepted it without a word, swinging his legs over his chair and yanking his coat off the back of it. Roe’s movements followed afterward, albeit with less gusto, which gave Speirs the time to shrug on his jacket and remove Roe’s from his own chair-back for him. Roe’s hands were tucked deep in the sleeves of his sweater, so Speirs simply draped his light jacket over his shoulders and struggled not to admire the way it hung over him. Roe mumbled a quiet thank you and they departed the little pub.

There was relative quiet in the streets. The distant shouts of drunk men clambering around the sidewalks hardly compared to the gunfire that had rang through their ears through the past few months. If a passerby were to guess by sound, they’d assume Roe was alone; Speirs’ footsteps were entirely silent, even and sure like a prowling cat. Roe fumbled for the pocket on his coat, unsuccessful as he battled his oversized sweater and the awkward settling of his coat where it was draped over his shoulders. “What are you looking for?” Speirs asked, amused.

“Smokes.”

Speirs obliged without another word, digging into his own pockets to retrieve a carton of cigarettes. “Not a drinker, but a smoker?”

“Yessir.”

Speirs chuckled and withdrew a lighter. He handed Roe a cigarette, which he promptly tucked between his lips. They paused in their steps, turning toward each other as Roe looked up at Speirs expectantly. Speirs raised the lighter to Roe’s mouth, crowding forward to block the wind from blowing the flame around as he lit it for him. For a long moment, Speirs’ eyes were locked in concentration on Roe’s mouth. He felt Roe startle slightly as he glanced up, sharp gaze boring holes into those storms like the sun breaking through clouds, before he looked back down to make sure the light caught. It had.

He moved away and they continued walking as Speirs began to fish out another cigarette for himself. “Uh, I don' mind sharin’. I’d hate for you to waste two at a time since you gave me one.” Roe’s voice was thick with…something.

That sharp pitch of delight returned tenfold and Speirs grinned down at Roe. “Alright.”

They continued their walk to anywhere and nowhere in the quiet amongst the stars. Roe’s fingers had escaped from the sweater to pinch at the cigarette, hands shaking from a nonexistent chill, skin calloused and warm as it brushed against Speirs’ hand when he passed it over. Speirs lingered for a moment. The thought of slipping his hand up the sleeves of Roe’s sweater and touching skin invaded his vision, enticing and unbearable. He wondered what he would find— what scars Roe was hiding, old and new. 

Their hands pulled apart and Speirs took the cigarette into his mouth. It was slightly damp with Roe’s saliva and Speirs relished in the way inhaling burned. When he glanced over at Roe, he was watching him, eyes transfixed on Speirs mouth. That Cheshire cat grin returned as he parted his lips to let the smoke escape his mouth like the gasp of a prayer, head tilted back to the starry sky. When his eyes caught Roe’s figure again, his hand had fumbled for his rosary beads in the absence of the cigarette. 

Speirs plucked the cigarette from his own lips after a few puffs, content to coast on what little nicotine he had gotten just to see it return to Roe. The medic stopped his fussing over the beads and accepted the cigarette graciously, with another brushing of hands and Speirs’ eyes tracking it as Roe put it back in his mouth. He closed his eyes when he inhaled, feather-light lashes fluttering against the rolling hills of his cheekbones.

A few blocks down the road, after contemplating in the silence, Speirs spoke again. “Do you pray often, Roe?”

“For my company, yes. For my patients.”

How honorable. “Do you have a favorite prayer?”

Roe recites it into the night and the ink bleeds through the folds of Speirs’ brain— he can feel it enter his bloodstream and crackle electricity through his bones. The rolling tone, the thick accent, “With all my heart.”

Perhaps, Speirs can understand the allure of worship. Vulnerability on the knees. This thought spurs on contemplation in him and he decides that maybe he does need that cigarette after all. Roe doesn’t comment as he fishes another out, but stops and turns to offer to light it for Speirs. He takes the invitation readily, though he goes about it differently; he tucks the cigarette into his mouth and dips his head to light it against Roe’s. The ember in Roe’s cigarette flares as he exhales sharply, those creases creeping out to dance across his skin as he furrows his brow and finds fascination in the tops of his shoes. “Thank you.” Speirs says, straightening his posture.

He takes a step to continue walking and it takes Roe a moment to catch up, taking a few large strides to walk beside Speirs again. They listen to the whooping of paratroopers down the road, a clattering, and the shattering of glass and Roe rolls his eyes. There are no screams of agony to indicate some sort of accident he has to attend to, and so he simply ignores the antics.

Speirs walks Roe back to the house he was assigned to, the family he’s bunking with long asleep at this point with all the lights off in the house. “Hope I didn’t keep you out past your curfew.” Speirs comments, teasing, as they pause at the door.

The corner of Roe’s mouth quirks up and he shakes his head. “No, sir. Somethin’ muss’ve convinced them that I’m capable. Maybe they heard there’s a war on.”

Speirs grinned and dug into his pocket once again. He grasped the lighter and dropped it into Roe’s pocket, knuckles brushing against his chest through the fabric of Roe’s shirt. “In case you need to light your own cigarettes next time.”

Roe opened his mouth to protest as Speirs spun on his heel to walk away, but Speirs raised a hand and, not too loudly, called out, “Get some rest, Doc. There’s a war on.”

Market-Garden is a resounding defeat. Nuenen more closely resembles Easy and Dog company being shot at like fish in a barrel than any military movement being executed. The death and destruction leaves bodies scattered in the streets that Roe is loath to ignore; the idea that a man can look dead but is still alive enough to be saved if he’d paid just a second more attention haunts him at night. He wonders how many men he’s left behind to die already, despite his oaths to leave no man behind. He wonders if the bloodstains will ever wash from his hands— he’s spent far too long over basins scrubbing his hands raw to not have an answer for that. He thinks he’ll feel it for the rest of his life. He wonders if the rosary around his neck is meaningless now with the ghost of a coating of blood preventing him from truly grasping it again. He wonders if he’ll ever feel clean again, if anyone will ever consider him clean again.

There’s plenty to do when they settle in one place after retreating. There were countless men injured, a limitless supply of bodies to keep Roe’s hands busy. He’s stitched more wounds than he can keep track of, soothed burns, removed shrapnel, and thrown sheets over the faces of men whose names he can’t even remember. And by God, despite all the bodies, it’s the loneliest work Doc Roe has ever done.

It isn’t until nightfall that he eventually gets a break, fully reliant on whatever amalgamation of supply crates stacked behind him to keep him up. He’d propped himself against them not five minutes ago, head tilted back against the harsh corners as he tried to breathe past the iron scent that clung to the inside of his nose. Back in his training days the smell of blood made him nauseous. The first three days he had real patients he couldn’t eat a single meal, couldn’t even bear the smell of food. Those days had passed and there was no other option than to push past the way his stomach turned if given the opportunity for a meal.

Captain Winters handed him something edible as he passed by, commenting on Roe’s good work. It didn’t feel much like good work but he nodded and thanked Winters nonetheless— at least with Winters he knew he wasn’t being bullshitted for encouragement, and that meant something to Roe. He ate whatever it was, lukewarm and stale-tasting, slowly as he tried to cycle through the casualties he confronted that day. There were far too many bodies, nameless bodies, for him to pray for them all, and it had become far more realistic for him to pray for the ones he could still protect. Captain Winters and Nixon. The rest of Easy company. A few faces outside of it. The nurses on the frontlines. He could pray for them.

Like a prayer answered, one of the faces outside Easy company materialized through the dark. Speirs was led by what Roe could only assume was one of his men, a strip of fabric pressed to the side of his face. A strip of fabric soaked in blood.

Roe’s dinner was tossed aside, dish and utensil clattering to the ground as he darted up from where he was sitting and stalked toward them, adrenaline running cold through his veins. “Get ‘m in here.” Roe commanded, voice louder than it had been in weeks.

Speirs seemed to perk up at the familiarity of Roe’s voice, though that disoriented glaze to his eyes and movements never shook off. The man assisted Speirs into the medic’s tent and promptly scattered when Roe pointed to the flap, stony-faced. The moment the man left Roe shifted his full attention to Speirs and covered the hand Speirs was using to hold the cloth to his face. “I’ve gotta take a look.” He said softly.

Speirs looked up at him, hazy and unsure, the amber of his eyes scanning Roe’s face. Despite what seemed to be a form of trauma—mental or physical, Roe wasn’t sure yet—Speirs was still on guard with rigid posture and his muscles locked into place as he sat before him. Roe dug into his pants pocket and produced the lighter Speirs had given him, holding it close to Speirs face so he could get a good look. “Figure it’s about time I return this to you.” 

When Speirs finally focused on the lighter, his posture relaxed slightly. He said nothing, but allowed Roe to finally pull his hand and the cloth away from his face. It was an active fight to quell the rise of panic that struck Roe when he got a good look at Speirs; there wasn’t a part of the left side of his face that wasn’t covered in blood, parts of it thickening and turning dark. For once, it seemed the sharp horror had made itself evident on Roe’s face as Speirs finally spoke, “You gonna pray for me, Eugene?” His voice was breathless from previous exertion.

“No need, sir, you’re gon’ be just fine.”

“What if I ask nicely?”

The lilt of his smile showed the blood on his teeth and Roe did his very best not to stare at the man’s canines, their sharpness giving him the image of a cottonmouth waiting to strike. Roe swallowed and looked away, finding reassurance in the fact that Speirs’ left eye seemed to be working just fine judging by the way he was staring down Roe. “I’m gonna start cleanin’ this up and you let me know if any parts hurt worse than others.” 

“Sure thing, doc.”

Roe retrieves a clean-ish cloth and some fresh water and begins swiping the blood off Speirs’ face, starting with the line of his jaw where the blood had begun trailing down his neck. The running hypothesis was that Speirs’ had a shallow head injury and was more concussed than anything; head wounds bleed like hell and if Roe had kept any sort of grip on himself when Speirs came in, he would’ve remembered much faster. It wasn’t until he began swiping up close to Speirs’ temple, along his hairline, that Speirs flinched away from his pressing hand. “There.” Speirs announced through gritted teeth.

“Gotta clean it up to get a good look at it. Sit tight.”

The previously clean bucket of water was turning a murky pink with every dip Roe made. He did his best to ignore the way Speirs sucked air in between his teeth every time Roe got a touch too close to the gash. He would need stitches, but it wasn’t dire, much to Roe’s relief. “The hell happened out there?” He asked, not sure if he wanted the answer.

“Couple men couldn’t make the retreat from Nuenen. Had to go back and get them.” Speirs answered.

“Any others injured?”

“It was just me.”

“Lucky you.”

“I was the only one who went.”

Roe’s hand froze mid-swipe, resting against the sharp cliff of Speirs’ cheekbone as he stared down at him. The eclipse of their eyes left Roe vulnerable, open for Speirs being able to watch every emotion cross his face at the same time. Finally, Roe settled on one and worked his jaw, grinding his teeth together before he began cleaning again. There was a beat of silence, and then, “You’re angry with me.” Speirs said, his voice breathy again, this time with awe.

He stared up at Roe with a sort of delight in his eyes that would send any other man running with horror, that grin plastered firmly on his face. “No, sir.” Roe said firmly, dragging the washcloth along the water a little too aggressively— water sloshed over his shoe and he paid it no mind.

“Why are you angry with me, Eugene?”

He was prying. “Permission to speak, sir?” Roe asked, teeth still gritted.

Speirs waved him off with a lazy hand, though he was paying rapt attention. “Never had to ask before.”

“I just think we’ve lost a lot of damn good men today, sir. And I understand you need’ta do right by your men, and it’s an honorable thing, but what if you had died?” Roe tossed down the cloth with a force that sent the bucket reeling, refusing to look Speirs in the eye again.

Speirs shrugged. “And what if I die? We’re already dead.”

The fury blazing in Roe’s eye as he looked up again left Speirs delightfully cold, his head tilted back as he basked in it. “Not to me.” He paused. “Not to me, sir.”

With that finality, he turned and began prepping the needle and thread for Speirs’ sutures. Speirs slid off the makeshift stretcher he’d been sitting on, taking the few steps he needed to stand behind Roe. Roe could feel his presence looming over him as he worked, it was hard not to, but he ignored him. Sure it was petty, but if the man could go run behind enemy lines on a solo-suicide mission, he could be a little petty. “Eugene.” Speirs said quietly as he placed a hand on Roe’s shoulder.

Roe turned with a ferocity he wasn’t aware he possessed, indignant. “You coulda died!” 

“I know.”

Roe gripped his jacket, rising to inches from Speirs’ face. “You coulda died and then what?”

“What do you mean, ‘gene?” Speirs’ tone was soothing, the way you spoke to a stray you’d hit with your car before you put it out of its misery.

“What the hell was I supposed to do if you’da died?”

Roe punctuated his sentence with halfhearted shoves to Speirs shoulder and chest, damp with his blood. Speirs caught Roe by his shoulders and pulled him into his chest, wrapping his arms around Roe’s biceps to stop his protesting. Roe folded into him immediately, accepting defeat as his body shuddered against his will. Muffled by Speirs’ uniform, “What the hell was I supposed t’ do?”

“I’m sorry, ‘gene.”

The reckoning that ran through Roe’s body was like an earthquake, the kind of world-shattering event that sent prayers to the lips of atheists and Speirs just held him like he never considered any other option. When the fear subsided, Roe pulled back and ducked away from Speirs, shoving his fists across his eyes. “Still have to stitch that.”

“Alright, Eugene.”

Speirs sat patiently in place as Roe prepped his materials. He wordlessly handed the lighter back as Roe mindlessly searched for it to sterilize the needle, something he’d done countless other times that day with the same lighter. There was an irony in the concept. Roe used the lighter to sterilize needles to save mens’ lives, while Speirs had used it to light cigarettes before taking lives. Perhaps it was all about balance.

The stitching went smoothly, yet uneasily, as Roe tried not to flinch every time Speirs grunted in pain. The morphine had long run out— if Roe had known this was going to happen, he would’ve stashed just a little, but he hadn’t known Speirs would be so stupid as to do what he’d done. When it was finally clean and bandaged, Roe stepped back and looked him up and down. “Anything else?”

“Nah, ‘gene, I’m okay. A few bumps and bruises, but that’s all.”

Roe rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, I’ve gotta make sure you don’ have a concussion. You gettin’ back to Dog company?”

Speirs hesitates, sly. “I could leave before daylight to get back.”

Roe nodded. “Alright. Stay here, then. I’ll wake you up every coupl’a hours, make sure you’re not gettin’ worse.”

“Anything you say.”

Roe began cleaning up and as he passed Speirs to dispose of the bloodied cloth, Speirs caught him by the bicep. “Hey, we okay?”

“Yessi— yeah. Yeah, we’re— yeah.”

“Good.”

“I should let Captain Winters know y’here for the night. He’ll be wanting to know what happened.”

“Alright. I’ll be here.”

Roe nodded and ducked out of the tent.The moment the canvas flap fell closed, Roe’s hand darted out to shove it back aside. He crossed the space in a few quick strides and his mouth pressed hard against Speirs’, chapped and cold as he lifted his rosary beads over his neck and placed them around Speirs’ instead. When he pulled back, huffing, he said, “So you think twice about gettin’ your damn self killed.” And he ducked back out of the tent.

The time they got in Mourmelon-le-Grand was bliss. Speirs had nothing but Roe wrapped up in blankets. He pulled sighs from his mouth and swallowed them whole, spent his nights pressing his lips to every inch of the medics skin, and played his hand at worship that was foreign to him but felt so familiar nonetheless. They had never been so efficient in the few duties they did have, eager to get back to each other at the end of the day.

As Speirs leaned over Roe, propped up on his side in the bed they shared, Roe’s rosary beads dangled from Speirs’ neck and skimmed lightly over Roe’s chest. Roe reached up and touched them, stormy eyes fascinated by the way they reflected the light from the setting sun in the window. “Jesus fucking Christ.” Speirs uttered, his palm coming up to rest against Roe’s cheek.

Roe leaned into it, “What?”

“You.”

A flush spread across Roe’s face like the reds of the aurora borealis, painting him with watercolors Speirs would kill to see over and over again. Speirs ducked his head to capture Roe’s mouth with his, as he’d found the taste of Eugene Roe was the only thing that satiated that nagging curiosity he’d held for so long. Speirs’ fingertips skimmed over a smattering of scars on Roe’s side, dancing over the taut skin of his stomach that seized at his attention— he was slightly ticklish, Speirs had learned. God above he was soft, too, where the war hadn’t gotten to him and Speirs especially loved to prod at those places, to dig in and find a home there. Roe invited him in with the warmth of his arms and the plush of his thighs and the bruised bones of his knees as they folded together, Speirs’ face buried in Roe’s neck.

“Y’ comfy, there, Ron?”

Speirs’ reply was indecipherable, his mouth pressed against the warmth of Roe’s shoulder. There wasn’t anything in the world that could drag him out, not even the man himself, and Roe laughed. It was a sound that Speirs would’ve marched through hell and back a million times to hear, rolling like thunder and just as deep. Roe was a storm in the sweltering summer, all dark clouds and warm rain and Speirs had dove in and he was drowning. It was the easiest thing he had ever done.

Roe’s hands held firm against Speirs’ back, the tips of his fingers calloused from all the suturing needles and the rough handle of his knife. Speirs groaned at the feeling, one he prayed he’d never grow used to for fear of it becoming unremarkable to him. A foreign concept, sure, but he still hoped it would never happen. “Could stay here forever.” Speirs mumbled.

“What? Y’ gotta—” Roe pushed his face to the side slightly so as to hear him.

“Could stay here forever.”

Roe sighed wistfully and stared up at the ceiling. “Well, there’s a war on, y’know.”

Speirs, decidedly over the turn the brief conversation had taken, dug his fingers into Roe’s hip and pulled them both backwards. At this angle, he could admire the man in a new light and hell it was a glorious one. Roe’s hair looked best mussed up with no regard to regulations, dark strands hanging in his face as a curtain of black clouds to the eye of the storm. The light caught his features much like it had back in Aldbourne, the first night they had met and Speirs had been cautiously intrigued by the sullen medic. Roe kissed him again and he breathed deep, memorizing every level to the way he smelled. Clean, of soap since they’d gotten to Mourmelon-le-Grand. There was a tinge of sweat from their activities an hour earlier. And hours before that. And there was a note of petrichor, so distinctly Roe that it put an ache in Speirs’ heart.

Yes, Speirs’ heart was something that had never before been seen by the rest of Dog company or Easy company. A novel concept, indeed. The rosary beads that hung around his neck and the cross that fell just above his heart would’ve been frozen from the cold if not for the way his body heat compensated for the ever-persistent chill. He wondered often if Roe was keeping warm. Where he was. From what Speirs had gathered, he spent his time deep within a foxhole or busy on his feet trying to keep men alive that seemed so determined to die in this frozen hellhole. Speirs mulled over the last time he’d been given the opportunity to press a kiss to those frozen hands, praying that the brief contact had breathed a warmth into Roe that wasn’t physical.

In the limbo between Dog and Easy company, Speirs paused and breathed. At this point, if any head of raven hair popped above the ground, he’d see it in easy contrast against the landscape as it suffocated in snow. He was smart enough to promise himself not to wait long. It would do no one any good if he were to get distracted, waiting in the tundra of the woods freezing to death in the search for a glimpse of his medic. The one saving grace for his lack of excuse to be out there was the fact that not many people would be willing to question Speirs on his actions.

He thought over, ever so briefly, what they’d do if they got back. There’d be a ring, most likely. They’d never discussed kids, but that seemed to be the sort of thing Roe might like if they could sort out all the shit in their head first. Before anything, though, Speirs wanted a year of uninterrupted nights with Roe trapped within his arms. Peace. Warmth. He’d follow Roe anywhere in the world if he could get a glimpse of peace in the man’s eyes.

Speirs felt the urge to fumble with the rosary beads and was reaching toward his neckline when a shifting caught his attention. There was a stirring along Easy’s line, men poking their heads aboveground— likely relieving themselves with others on watch. No one wanted to die in the snowy Bastogne woods with their dick out. He paid no mind to their stirring until a whistle sounded out and, “Incoming!” was shouted.

There was no Eugene or Ron in that moment, when Speirs ducked below ground into one of the scattered foxholes that stretched between the two lines. The cover was hardly adequate, but it was better than being stuck above ground as the artillery rained down. The rattling of the Earth had felt like the end of days the first handful of times he’d experienced it, but Speirs was jaded and simply focused on keeping track of himself and not dying. Hunched in that foxhole, he escaped without injury. The assault slowed to a stop, the telltale whistle of incoming missiles vanishing just as quickly as it came.

Speirs hauled himself aboveground and did a quick check of his own personal inventory. He didn’t appear to be missing anything, literally or metaphorically, and straightened up as he prepared to march back to Dog company line and take account of his men. It was as easy as breathing, to begin that march. And then someone called, “Medic!” and, “He is the fucking medic, you dumbass!” and Speirs realized he had never experienced anything close to Earth shattering before that moment.

He was sprinting before he could realize what his body was doing. It was possible that it wasn’t Eugene— Easy company had more than one medic. He could be senselessly charging into a different company’s lines like the entire German army was on his heels for no reason. Not to be crass, but he didn’t much care if it wasn’t Roe, and it was entirely possible it wasn’t Roe. The medic was probably hustling around his own company taking care of those injured and would greet Speirs with an incredulous look of, what are you doing here?

There was so much blood. The snow soaked it up like a sponge, accepting the neon red dye like it was a right, and Speirs had never been so angry in his life. Sharp pain careened through his knees as he crashed to the ground. “Eugene. Eug— fuck, Eugene!” He didn’t know what to do with his hands, hovering them above the medic. Useless.

Eugene was sprawled in the snow, jaw slightly ajar as he stared up through the canopy of trees at the falling snow. It wasn’t a direct hit or an amputation, he knew, but something had gone so terribly wrong as he’d rushed to help a member of Easy company that had tripped on their way to a foxhole. It was somewhere in the cacophony of a falling tree, and he was distantly aware that he was surrounded by his men as they stared down at him. Useless. “Where the fuck is Spina!”

Spina. Hm. Resigned, Roe put his energy into turning his head, fumbling his hand with the fabric of Speirs’ pants where he kneeled beside him. Useless. “Hi.” His voice was garbled, not his own.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Eugene. Someone get Spina over here right-fucking-now!”

The other Easy company members had sat back in horror. They knew what Roe would say if he weren’t the one on the ground at that very moment. There was no point. No one survived having a tree branch launched through their middle, impaling them to the ground. “What’re y’ doin’ here?” Roe asked Speirs, confused.

All Speirs could summon were curses and the horror of tears. His eyes were wide and wild, sending Easy company members scattering backwards as he looked up and around. “Where the fuck is the other medic?” He yelled.

“Speirs.” A voice came from behind him. “Speirs. S— Ron.” 

It was Winters, a hand on Speirs shoulder as he forced himself not to look away from the state of Doc Roe. “There’s morphine in his jacket.”

“Fuck.”

The exhale of the curse breathed out any of Speirs’ hope with it, the pit in his chest growing by the second as the blood around Eugene pooled further and dissipated into the snow. “It’s—” Roe’s inhale was rattling. “S‘kay. Don’... feel it.”

Speirs hated the calming storm. He hated the way Roe’s grasp on his pant leg felt feeble at best, hated the way his own hand shook as he took Roe’s hand carefully and resigned himself to a new form of death, one he had never considered but a thousand times worse. Speirs descended into the bloodbath as he lowered himself onto his side beside Roe, desperate to see his face, unmarred by blood. Roe’s eyes were rolling in his head, unclear and unfocused, but he was doing his goddamn best as Speirs’ face hovered over his own.

Speirs’ icy hand found its place on Roe’s cheek once again and he leaned down to press a frozen kiss to Roe’s furrowed brow bone. Roe groaned as he tried to shift and failed. “‘m sorry.” He exhaled.

“Fucking hell, ‘gene, don’t you dare apologize. You’ve got nothin’ to be sorry for, baby.”

Roe’s laugh was more of a wheeze as his eyes roamed Speirs face. “Baby. Tha’s new.”

“Thought I’d try it out.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Another wheeze. The rattling of Roe’s breath was a horror Speirs had become familiar with over their time at war. He’d heard it a million times before and this was the only instance in which it’d haunt him for the rest of his goddamn life. His throat felt raw from screams he was hardly holding back, the wrenching of his gut urging him to upend his insides until it all stopped hurting. Roe’s hands traced upward, fumbling and weak, before they reached the base of Speirs’ neck. The beads hardly poked above his collar but Roe found them anyway and tangled his fingers in them, blood coating the rosary. “Christ above, Roe, you should’ve kept them.” Speirs choked out, wanting to be angry. Angry was better than this. 

Roe attempted some approximation of shaking his head. “No. They’re yours.” came out more along the lines of “N… th’yers.”

Speirs fumbled his own hand upward and captured Roe’s, bringing it to his lips. He kissed each bloody knuckle, ignoring the iron taste in his mouth and the stain it’d leave on his skin before he leaned down and pressed his lips to Roe’s forehead. His brows. His cheeks. Like lipstick marks, Roe’s blood planted itself on his face with each press of Speirs lips. “I’ve got you, ‘gene. You’re alright, baby.” His voice was softer than it had ever been, softer than it ever would be again.

“Lo’...” The exhale Roe let out was final.

Speirs hands shook so badly he couldn't grasp properly. The fight to get the scarf off his neck was one he nearly lost; it seemed all he could do in that moment was lose, over and over again. Carefully, gingerly, he pushed it under Roe's head and wound it around him. Winters spoke up, “Speirs, he's…”

“I know.” Speirs bit out. “I just—I don't want him to be cold.”

“Okay. That's— that's good, then. You did good by him.”

The Earth shattered apart below their feet.

Speirs wore that rosary through the rest of the war and beyond. His eyes stayed wild, his tactics unimaginable, the rumors crass and vicious. He was no man of religion, but he was a man of storms. Other troopers pointed out just how crazy he was, considering he took every chance to stand out in thundering rain, gasping as the rain pelted his skin and washed him anew. Even with the weight of the rosary and two sets of dog tags, it was never enough. He’d left his heart in the frozen ground of Bastogne, under a Sycamore with E.R. carved into it. None of it would ever be enough again.

[lllivia]

roadtrip, baby!!

Jenna ortega x fem!reader

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°★.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°★.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆

Jenna's pov

After working myself to exhaustion for months on end without a stop, it's good to finally have some time off to be with my beautiful girlfriend. We were thinking of going on a road trip with no decided destination, just seeing where we would end up. After prepping Y/N's car with everything we were going to need, we set off.

About an hour into the ride I put my hand on Y/N's thigh getting bored of just looking at the road, I could feel her glancing at me for a second before looking at the road again, I pretended like I didn't notice anything just continuing to watch my phone.

"Where do you want to stop first" Y/N's voice said being muffled my my headphones, taking them off I thought. "Well I am kinda hungry... Maybe some kind of gas station? I've been craving a salmon wrap" I said thinking out loud "Ooo that sounds nice" Y/N responded while pulling into the parking lot of a gas station, I couldn't help but find it attractive at how focused she was. "Come on then" she said opening the car door for me and pecking me on the lips. We walked inside holding hands, my face covered in some sunglasses and a hoodie in case some fan noticed me, don't get me wrong I love my fans but right now it's my time off and I only want my gorgeous girlfriend fawning over me, and not thousands of strangers.

I walked around looking for some yummy snacks for me and Y/N to share when I noticed her laughing at something someone said to her over the phone, I picked the snacks I liked before walking over to her waiting for her to pick what she liked. "Aww that's so adorable" she giggled barely paying attention to me as I grabbed onto her arm leaning against her. "What are you talking about?" I asked slightly irritated at not being able to hear what was being said on the other side of the phone. "Oh nothing dw, just something Natasha did" she smiled before laughing again at something Natasha said. Does that mean she just called her adorable? Why the fuck would she do that in front of her own girlfriend. I put my things down before storming out to the car sitting down in my seat, and locking the doors, my frustration about Y/N already hanging too much out with Nat rising at the fact that she decided to talk when it was our alone time together.

Y/N's pov

I looked over my shoulder shocked, why did Jenna just storm out like that, one minute she was talking about how much she was craving a salmon wrap and wanting snacks for the ride and the next moment she's looking like she wants to kill someone? What is her problem, she's been working in Romania for months and then when she's finally off work she acts like this?

I went and bought everything she was craving before heading out back to the car. I walked over to the driver's side trying to smile and lifting up my arms showing her what I got, Jenna only looked for a second before turning back to her phone, I tried pulling the door handle only for it to be locked. "Are you serious Jenna?? What'd I even do to you oh my god" I said with my voice slightly raised hurt that she was being like this. She only opened the door for me in response never lifting her gaze from the screen in front of her.

Jenna's pov

We drove in silence, the only sound to be heard was the traffic outside. I wanted to talk to her, but at the same time I was too pissed to utter anything, so I just turned up the volume on my music and closed my eyes hoping to fall asleep.

"Jenna? Jenna wake up, we're at the hotel" I heard Y/N's voice say, fluttering my eyes open I turned down the sound of the music and stepped out of the car. "Come on we've already reserved a room for us to stay in tonight" Y/N said carrying both of our baggage inside of the fancy hotel, after getting our keys and entering our room I opened my bag finding my toothbrush. "Are you ready to talk about why you're acting like such a brat now?" I just rolled my eyes walking into the bathroom. "You know what, this is so stupid, I'm leaving" I flinched slightly at the door slamming behind her, already regretting acting like such a bitch, I looked at myself in the mirror before running out the doors after chipping my shoes on. I looked down the hallway before speed walking down the stairs and into the lobby, I started to worry slightly she must have already gone out. I walked out slowly as to not attract too much attention. After walking by the water next to the hotel for about fifteen minutes I finally spotted my girlfriend sitting at a bench looking out at the water. I walked over as fast as I could before sitting down next to her turning and saying "I'm sorry" silence. "I'm sorry for ignoring you and not telling you why, I was honestly just jealous of that girl, you're just so close to her and it just, it makes me kinda insecure, and I couldn't get the image of you two out of my head, and then you calling her adorable was the last straw, also my work has been stressing me out lately and I haven't been sleeping enough." I admitted ashamed of myself. "Then you should have just told me Jenna, I could have just stopped talking to her, you're the love of my life and I would do anything for you. Also I wasn't calling Natasha adorable, she had learned her puppy how to high five" Y/N smiled, finally getting why I was so mad. "Oh well you could of just said so" I grinned wrapping my arms around her, than pecking her on the cheek. "But we should get back to our room now, it's getting cold out here and it's late"

💗 Masterlist 💗

will most likely rewrite

- also might make a part 2 of them continuing the road trip

[dreepy-draws]

i think this ones a given due to ur bio but SLAMS HANDS ON DESK

sire… give me,,,, ur eugavus + liberta & lucilla headcanons please (it can be one, two or all of them idm, i just want yummies)

OKAY SRRY THIS TOOK A MIN BSHHJAS. here's some happy ones about like hobbies and stuff. I have some angsty ones typed out I'll post separetly later :P

Eugene hand made a diary just for Liberta once bc Liberta had said offhand that he would like to write like he does

Eugene spent HOURS making it perfect so now it's one of Liberta's prized possesions

Eugene and Gavus sometimes go back to the old hut they lived in. they aren't sure why they do it, but they enjoy seeing the place where their little family had lived, and find it soothing to just sit in each other's presence by the little area Liberta and Lucilla used to run around

Liberta actually made friends with Tamrus at some point, and they hang out together often. Tamrus taught Liberta how to pick the sweetest berries to make treats with

Liberta took up baking, and frequently makes treats to share with his family (as well as Tamrus when they hang out ofc)

Lucilla takes up wood carving as a hobby, like Liberta did with baking. She finds it soothing, and she makes little sculptures for her family

Eugene actually knows how to make clothes, and made new outfits for Liberta and Lucilla so they could change up their clothes (and not just be stuck in what the celestials/hypogeans had them wearing before

Gavus does the cooking. Not because he's good it (he's painfully mediocre at it actually), but because Eugene is just that awful at it

Liberta knows how to play the harp, and Eugene can play the flute. They both play songs together and Gavus and Lucilla could sit there for hours listening

I actually think Lucilla would be more helpful with chores than Liberta. Liberta isn't unhelpful (like a certain fool of chaos), but Lucilla gets literally angry when there's dust and stuff so she cleans pretty often

srsly, sometimes Eugene will walk in the room while she's cleaning and just hear her using all the swears under the sun at a speck of dirt that won't come off (Eugene thinks its so funny just the amount of swears she actually knows, Gavus hates it)

Gavus and Liberta will often read the same book at the same time so they can have long discussions about it (like a book club or something). Eugene will read a book with them on occasion if it's interesting. Lucilla refuses every time

[joe-fuckingtwice-toye]

girl, look the other way sometimes, just for the sake of decency. i understand u found crush, but there is a war going on here. no, it's just ridiculous, every time we see snafu, he looks at eugene 🤭

[captain-lessship]

Creepy Pt. 5

You yawned as you rolled over, eyes barely open when you noticed it: a hand.

“What the fu- Oh. Hello, Thing.” 

You had met Thing a few days earlier when Wednesday asked if you could fix his favorite nail polish bottle that he couldn’t get the brush out of. 

The hand signed an apology, before pushing a small note to you.

“It’s alright and thank you. Also, did you do something new with your cuticles?”

Thing signed a ‘Yes, thank you for noticing’ before dropping off your pillow. 

“Oh, let me get that for you.”

You hopped up and opened the door for him, “Tell Wednesday I hope she enjoys Out Reach Day and that hopefully we get put together, if you could?”

Thing gave a thumbs up and tapped and tipped down the hall. You walked to the note, stretching as you went to pick up the note and read it. 

You grinned as you read it, you took it with you as you got your uniform, which was slightly wrinkled. Ironing wasn’t your strong suit. 

As you got dressed, you thought about the note. All it asked was to be listening for any information about the case but how she opened it was odd: It had a tone of endearment. Finally, after brushing your teeth and hair, you were completely ready. 

You found Wednesday and Enid in the courtyard, you smiled as you walked up to them. 

“What do you think your jobs will be?” You asked.

Wednesday looked at you, “I think this is rather stupid that we are expected to work for free.”

Enid sighed, “it’s called volunteering.”

“Not when you’re volun-told.” Wednesday said. You laughed lightly. 

Enid looked at you two, a smile growing on her face and a glimmer appearing in her eyes. She knew. You looked at Wednesday, who looked back. 

Enid was suddenly jerked away by a few of her other friends. Opening a conversation between just you and Wednesday.

“I got your note from Thing this morning.” You whispered.

“I say we skip the jobs and go to the library.”

“Typically, they hand out jobs at the library and those are the first offered up as trades. That way no one would suspect a thing.”

“Very deceptive. It will be easier without interference.”

You thanked Mrs. Thornhill as she handed you your envelope. You opened yours. 

“I guess I got lucky.” You showed it to her. Library. 

She showed hers to you and your eyes lit up. “You got my favorite store!” You told Wednesday about it. “Honestly, I will find information and you see if anything out of place is in there. Maybe something could trigger a vision.”

Wednesday nodded, “Divide and conquer.”

Wednesday was walking with Enid when she began to think about how she said she’d never be like her mother. She felt a odd sour sense but pride could be pushed slightly down the list of her priorities if it meant that she got to be around you. 

Wednesday sighed when she turned, “Enid, trade with me.”

“What? No way!”

“Ajax is working at the antique shop.”

Enid sighed, “Oh you so owe me one.” She grabbed the envelope and turned around. Off to Pilgrim World. 

You walked into the library, checked in for your job and began scanning the books for anything that looked like it might help. You quickly found several old history books and you pulled them from the shelves. Walking to a quiet corner, you sat down and began reading. You grabbed out your notebook from your backpack and turned to a new page. 

You had hit a interesting piece of Crackstone history. Burning witches? Could be just plain puritan bull but you had a feeling. You thought it best to take the book to Wednesday and ask her about it. 

After ripping the pages from your notebook, You looked around before grabbing up the books and putting the ones you didn’t need back. You then breathed in and slowly change the now half used notebook into the book that you were essentially stealing. 

You walked to the front to see the head librarian asleep. You simply walked right out the door and off you ran to Uriah’s Heap.

You flung open the door to the shop and looked for her but you saw Enid and Ajax, staring at you.

“Where’s Wednesday?”

Enid looked at Ajax, then at you. “Pilgrim World. We traded.”

You nodded, “Alright well. I guess I will be seeing you two.”

Now you had to break into the only moderately interesting thing this town had. You scanned the wall, thinking about how you could get up and in there. 

You took a few steps back and took a running go at it, jumping as high as you could, your hand slapping into the wood pillar. It worked! You got the idea from remembering when you and Ajax went indoor rock climbing. You’d have to thank him again later. 

You did this interchangeably as you scaled the wall. When you got to the top you saw a house that you could probably jump onto. Your ego was too inflated by your success on the wall, causing you to recklessly jump.

You missed it by two feet, landing on the ground, air getting knocked from your lungs. Your back and pride would be bruised. 

“Hey, there’s your boyfriend.”

You looked to your left to see a boy, outfit stained a brown color and Wednesday cleaning whatever it was off of him.

“Ticker?”

“Wednesday.” You smiled, “I brought you something. Nice outfit.”

“Hush. Is it in your backpack?”

“Yeah just give me minute to grab it. I think I slipped a disk.”

Wednesday shook her head in slight endearment, “I will get it for you.” She took your backpack from beside you and slowly helped you up. You th asked her before looking at the boy.

“Who are you?”

“Eugene.”

“Ohh. Okay, your the guy with the bees?”

“Yea!” 

“Cool, um. What’s on your shirt?”

“I threw up. I ate too much fudge.”

“Three pilgrims boys tried to humiliate him. I made them change their minds.” Wednesday said, flipping through the book and scanning the note book pages. “We have a meeting house to break into.”

Wednesday, you and Eugene snuck to the closed off meeting house, went around the back to see it locked it up. 

“Give me your retainer.” Wednesday said to the boy.

“Why? Your teeth are really good. Not as straight or white as Eni-“

“Now.”

The boy handed over the retainer and Wednesday picked the lock with it, then handed it back to the boy. After telling the boy to keep watch, you both went in. 

You instantly got weird vibes and the smell of staleness nearly gagged you. Wednesday looked around before stopping at a painting that looked very familiar. She noticed the book and then saw it in a display case.

When she looked at it, you opened it. She grabbed the book, disappointment radiated off her when she opened it and flipped through the pages. She said something about Etsy when the door was opened. 

You all were caught. Some super sleuthing on your all’s part. 

With more information and the knowledge that the meeting house was not the original, Wednesday and you walked to the Weathervane for her to ask someone about it. You opened the door for her, hearing the bell chime as you two walked in. Wednesday walked to the map brochure stand and pulled one from it, looking for something when you heard a familiar voice.

“I thought you were supposed to be at Pilgrim World.”

It was Xavier, dressed in a uniform.

“I deserted it while my sanity was still intact.”

He offered her a cup, ignoring you.

“I am actually here for Tyler.”

Tyler? He sounded familiar but then again, it was a basic name.

“I told you he was bad news.”

Wednesday responded, then rang a bell. Another boy appeared, “You rang?”

Xavier scoffed and you stared at him. Wednesday asked for help, putting down the map, asking where the original meeting house is.

“There.” The boy said. You had to admit that he made you feel a touch insecure.

“Thank you for the help.” She said before turning to you, “Ticker.”

You both started walking away before he stopped you both. “The ruins are kinda tricky to find. I could take you when my shift ends at two.”

“We need to be back before two. Principal Weems would hang us by the ankles.” You said, annoyed tone coming out, causing Wednesday and Tyler to look at you. 

“That sounds enticing. We need to keep a low profile. I know my way around the great outdoors.”

“Don’t tell me you were a Girl Scout?”

“I could eat Girl Scouts for breakfast. I actually have an uncle who went to prison for that.”

You walked a few steps behind her, thinking about the coffee shop guy. 

“As much as I love the storm cloud demeanor, what is wrong?” She asked.

“It’s nothing.” 

She stopped and looked at you. In only a few seconds, her cool eyes broke you.

“He was flirting with you. And I had a strong temptation to punch him.” 

“Be more creative and don’t worry, I have no interest in him in any fashion. He is simply a Jericho encyclopedia. “ 

You sighed, “I know. I am sorry.”

“There is no need for an apology. I think it would been a rather interesting sight to see you lunge at a barista.” 

You smiled, “Crack his coffee pot.” You joked mainly to yourself. You saw a small, so small upturn of the corner of her lips.