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crackinthecup · 3 days

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Throwback Thursday Tuesday

Tagged by the incredibly lovely and incredibly talented @gardensofthemoon and @cilil <3 Thank you so much!

I've gone with what might just be my favourite bit in Yield to the Moment (Angbang modern AU). NSFW under the cut.

Tagging @elevenelvenswords, @tarmairons, @sauron-kraut, @gerardspuppy, @markedasinfernal (only if you fancy! no pressure)

The days roll on. Snow falls down from leaden clouds, draping the landscape in white.

They go out walking, kicking up sprays of glittering snow, Melkor with his cane, bundled up in shirt, jumper, scarf, gloves, and Aulë’s thick sheepskin coat, while Mairon floats about in a thin top and an unzipped puffer jacket.

They take the horses out for hacks through the fields and woods. A bright, silent world. A world that feels newly made, all theirs to explore, to mark with footprints in the snow and say I am here where no one else has been before. They kiss under bare branches glistening with frost. They laugh and laugh, endlessly, like children, the cold air making their lungs ache. They ride for hours, until the sun sinks down into the west and the snow burns red-gold with its passing. Mairon tells Melkor what to do, when to pull on the reins, when to tap his heels against the horse’s flanks; Melkor listens.

They have snowball fights.

They find big daddy longlegs chilled into near perfect stillness in dark corners of the house. Melkor screams when he sees the first one. Mairon doesn’t quite manage not to laugh, but he does so while trapping the offending spider inside a glass and relocating it to the barn.

They take their meals with Aulë and Yavanna, all together round the kitchen table, like a family. Yavanna is a talker, chattering away like wind through leaves, easy on the ears. She tells Melkor about the patterns of farm life: the secrets of the sheep, the joy of a crisp apple plucked right off the branch, a feeling like new life in her old bones when she wakes up with the first shivering light of dawn and she looks at her land, her animals, the seeds planted by her hands grown tall and made eternal. Aulë, on the other hand, remains as quiet as the day Melkor met him. His thoughts are thoughts of stone, slow in their forming but sturdy, unshakeable. One night, during dinner, he asks Melkor to pass the salt. Pass the salt, son, that is what he says. Son. Melkor half-convinces himself he didn’t hear right.

Mairon takes him to his father’s workshop. Puts on gloves, a thick leather apron. Pulls out a chair for Melkor to sit, and watch. Metal hisses, sparks fly, and they bathe Mairon in a deep-red glow, the colour of blood, of coals flickering in the belly of a fire. His hands work, deft, strong, wielding the power of creation. Unmaking, remaking.

Melkor falls to his knees. Willingly, helplessly, he falls. Lust burns in his heart; worship trembles in his fingers. Mairon’s cock cage clatters to the floor. The door is unlocked, so they must be quick, they must be stealthy, silken flesh across Melkor’s tongue, filling his mouth, nudging down his throat; Mairon’s hands so large in their gloves clamped to the back of his skull; desperate, half-stifled moans, and Melkor’s own wet slurping sounds, and then, then—

Mairon comes with his name like a prayer on his lips, and Melkor swallows, sucks him dry, laps at him till he’s twitching, whimpering, maddened by his taste, by the glory of his pleasure.

Every day, Melkor falls in love all over again.

#memes #crackinthecup's writing #angbang #melkor #mairon #sauron #YTTM

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ww2yaoi · 2 months

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tagged by @oatflatwhite to share some of my wip! thank you this is fun

I'm gonna tag @avonne-writes and anyone else who wants to do this

taking my stab at the buck(y) reunion scene and subsequent aftermath

Nine days. John thinks Gale is dead for nine excruciating days. No pain compares, not a wooden beam to the temple, nor the bitter forest floor he collapses upon. He prays for a quick death as he feels the barrel of a rifle dig into his back, but it never comes. By the time he’s being marched to the Stalag, his body is screaming all over. He probably has a concussion, some broken ribs, a skull fracture or two. His hair is matted with blood and his legs are throbbing. He can barely keep himself upright. He’s a dead man walking.

But then, there are familiar faces peeking out from behind barbed wire: Crank, Murph, Glen. John feels a dangerous glimmer of hope. His eyes search the crowd.

Buck, where the hell are you?

And then he hears it, just to his right. “John Egan! Your two o’clock.”

By some miracle, Buck is smirking at him, leaning against the fence with his sheepskin characteristically pulled up around his neck. John is swept up in the great undertow of relief. He smiles, suddenly alive again, and the aching in his heart abates, if just for a moment.

“What took you so long?” Gale asks and bites back a grin.

John wants to run over and kiss the breath out of his lungs, but the Krauts would probably shoot him dead if he tried. He falls into formation again, marching past the open gates and into the camp. His body pumps with adrenaline, his quick beating heart thwacking against his ribcage. He makes it a few more steps before the world suddenly blurs. Inkblots dot his vision and he collapses right there in the dirt. Gale’s ensuing shout rings hollowly in his ears as he loses consciousness, everything going blank.

John dreams of the mob like he has every night since the massacre happened. Sometimes he’s the first to get picked off, a swift gunshot to the temple and he crumples to the ground, blood oozing out of his ears. Sometimes the crowd descends on him like a pack of hungry dogs, tearing him open with dirty fingernails, ripping him limb from limb. This time, he watches each man die, their whey-faced corpses falling at his feet one by one. He wants to scream, but his voice expires in his throat. Then, the mob is on him again. He thrashes. Hands encircle his wrists to pin him down in the mud, viscous with blood.

Then, Gale is calling to him through the dark. “John, you’re okay. You’re gonna be all right.”

John chases his voice, his eyes opening. Soft light floods his vision as he tries to orient himself. He’s in a small, unfamiliar room, lying supine on a thin cot. His head swims as a deep ache shoots down the back of his neck. His vision is still blurry and his skin is burning all over. Voices he doesn’t recognize break up the quiet, and panic rises in his chest. He goes to sit up, but a hand gently presses him back down onto the cot. He has no strength to resist it. He can barely flinch away from its touch.

“Buck?” John musters after a moment, and his voice is a faint rasp.

“Hey, I’m here.” John feels warm, calloused fingers interlock with his own. “This is Doc, he’s gonna help fix you up.”

John lifts his head slightly to look at the man hunched over him, but keeping his eyes open for very long is hard. The man is older, with rounded glasses sliding down his hawkish nose. The bridge of them is held together with medical tape, and he’s dressed in the same holey clothes and burlap coat as the other prisoners.

It’s then that John realizes he’s naked from the waist up. Doc is examining his ribs, the skin surrounding them so deeply purple the bruises almost appear black. Doc runs his hands over his ribcage, gently pressing his fingers into the flesh as if to test its integrity. John groans in pain and Gale squeezes his hand.

It’s Crank’s voice that John hears next. “What the fuck happened to him?”

“I don’t know,” Doc says, “but his orbital socket is broken, and he has two or three fractured ribs, at least. We should bind them. There’s some aspirin in my kit, Gale. It should help with the pain and lower his fever.”

John is reluctant to let go of Gale’s hand, but he has to when Gale leans over to rummage around in Doc’s medical bag. He produces a small bottle. Crank hands Doc a tin mug of muddy-looking water.

“Come on, sit him up.”

John tries not to cry out in pain as Crank and Gale help prop him up against the wall. The only thing that stops him is Gale’s hands on his bare back. He wraps his arms around John’s middle and gently lifts him into a sitting position. Doc unwinds a spool of bandages around John’s abdomen and fastens them tightly. Then, Gale is pressing an aspirin pill into John’s mouth, fingertips nudging against his tongue.

“Take this,” Gale says and brings the tin mug to John’s lips. He tips it forward and John drinks gratefully, even though the water tastes strangely sour. “That’s it. Do you want to lay back down?”

John nods weakly.

“I’ve got him,” Gale says to Crank before lowering John back down on the cot.

He pulls the thin blanket up to John’s chin.

“Buck,” John mumbles, and it seems to be the only word he can say.

He feels half insane, like maybe he’s still dreaming. Maybe the mob really did kill him, and heaven just looks an awful lot like a Kraut prison camp. John forces his eyes open again and looks over at Gale. His face is soft but scarred, a bit thinner than he last remembers it. He peers over at John with such open worry that it knocks the breath out of his lungs.

Doc collects his things and closes his medical bag, standing up from his chair. “If his fever gets any worse, we can move him to the sick quarters. Until then, I think it’s best that you monitor him closely.”

Gale nods. “Will do, Doc. Thank you.”

“Thanks, Doc,” Crank says, then goes to walk him out.

Alone now, Gale’s hand finds John’s again. He raises it to his face and presses his cheek into John’s palm. John cradles his head with the little strength he has, fingers splaying out into his hair.

“Buck,” he says again and smiles. “You’re alive.”

“So are you,” Gale replies. He turns his head and plants a kiss on John’s dirty palm. “God, John, what happened to you?”

“Krauts,” John deadpans. “You’re the first pretty face I’ve seen in a while.”

Gale smiles softly at that, but it doesn’t seem to comfort him much. “When Crank and Brady and the others showed up without you, I thought the worst.”

“Can’t get rid of me that easy.” John laughs, but it makes his ribs cry out in response. He groans. “You don’t have anything stronger than aspirin, do you?”

“Afraid not,” Gale says. “You’re gonna have to dry out in here.”

John hadn’t even thought of that. “Christ, every bone in my body is broken and I can’t even get a stiff drink?”

“You’ll be okay,” Gale says, patting the hand resting against his cheek. “You seem better already. Enough to complain, at least.”

John rolls his eyes. He wants to playfully shove Gale, but he doesn’t think he could lift his arm if he tried.

“Get some rest,” Gale says. “I’ll wake you up in a few hours. You’ll need to eat something.”

He removes John’s hand from his cheek and tucks it against his side underneath the blanket.

“You’re not going anywhere, are you?” John asks.

Gale shakes his head. “I’ll be right here.”

He leans over and presses a kiss to John’s hot forehead, then sits back down in the chair by John’s cot. John closes his eyes, and it doesn’t take long for him to fall into another fitful sleep.

#masters of the air #my fic

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gardensofthemoon · 12 hours

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WIP Whateverday

Many thanks to the amazingly talented @tobermoriansass, @melestasflight and @zealouswerewolfcollector for tagging me!

I’ve been slacking on my silm fic wips as there’s another fandom and another ship that has me in a chokehold right now, but I searched through my google docs and this is the beginning of yet another new fic. Amnesia, this time! I, uh, have at least 15 wips opened at the moment and I can feel them eating me alive.

He wakes.

Sunlight spills inside through a window facing east. The room is sparsely furnished, though the few pieces are masterfully crafted. Made of good wood, too. Timber from a rare breed of cedar, that grows in—a rare breed of cedar. On the bedside table, a pair of golden-wire glasses rests atop a stack of books, neatly bound in leather. The covers are stained vaguely with greasy marks, as if read time and time again by someone with oily fingers.

His are clean, when he checks.

Not sure who’s done this already (I see this challenge popping up every week), but tagging @swanhild, @thescrapwitch, @sauron-kraut, @elevenelvenswords. Zero pressure.

#silm fic #tumblr games #elio writes

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dcyllom · 4 months

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What's Your Name?

Hey @lovememadly92, merry Christmas!! I'm your secret santa for the hbowar fic exchange! I'm sorry this is a few days late but I had some major technical difficulties with the Google Doc I was writing on which stopped me from posting earlier. There's also going to be another part to this that I'm still trying to recover, so I'm sorry for the wait 😅 🎄

Request: one of the men falling in love with an SOE agent and vice versa for either enemies to lovers or friends to lovers.

Pairings: Lewis Nixon x OFC (Rosemary Young)

I hope you like this, Merry Christmas! :)

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

A branch snapped. Rosie stiffened, glancing around the clearing she was in. There was a rustling to her left, perhaps ten metres away.

A voice called out, shaky in the uncertainty of the night. “Flash!”

Rosie exhaled sharply, relief flooding her body before answering in kind. “Thunder.” There was a pause after she spoke, followed by hurried whispers, as the Americans she’d been addressing registered the feminine tone of her voice.

She waited patiently. Branches were pushed apart as a face streaked with black appeared, eyes shining in the moonlight under thick brows. Rosie and the man stared at each other, before the quiet was broken by a nasal voice.

“Hey Lieutenant, can we move out? My foot’s cramping.” The Lieutenant glanced behind him, one brow raised, before shifting forwards. Several khaki-clad figures holding rifles stepped out cautiously, all aiming their guns at her head. There were four of them, with eagles emblazoned on their jackets. 101st Airborne, then. Just who she was looking for.

Rosie spoke as reassuringly as she could. “Bonjour, les Américains. I am with the French Resistance, and have been ordered to aid the Americans with their landings for Operation Overlord. I have a message for your Colonel Sink.” She knew her French accent was impeccable, but she didn’t like how it made the man in front of her grin so smugly.

The Americans looked between each other for a moment. Rosie caught movement in her peripheral vision, seeing a young, clearly uneasy Private on the left of the rag-tag group of soldiers fiddling with the safety catch of his gun. The Lieutenant noticed her gaze move, and followed her line of sight.

“Put the damn gun down, Penkala. She look like a Kraut to you?”

Rosie let her shoulders relax as Penkala lowered the gun, and the Lieutenant strode forward, hand outstretched and smirking. “Pleasure to meet you, miss. I’m Lieutenant Nixon, intelligence officer with the 101st Airborne.” Well, that explained the smug grin. This officer had likely been briefed on the SOE agents who would be joining their little adventure back in England. He had a smooth, self-assured voice, and was clearly well-educated. He also happened to be quite handsome, and he looked like he knew it too if the gleam in his eye was anything to go by.

Rosie gripped his hand firmly and shook it, hoping the flush in her cheeks would go unnoticed in the low light. “Call me Thérèse. You are five miles from your drop zone, Lieutenant Nixon. I have been searching for your men and your Colonel for the better part of the night.”

“Well, mind telling us where we actually are, Thérèse? We’re in a bit of a hurry.” His tone was light, but Rosie heard an edge to it all the same. Her mouth thinned.

“Take out your map, Lieutenant, and I will show you where you are.” Nixon looked a bit ruffled at the change in her attitude, but did what she asked all the same, pulling the scarf from around his neck. Rosie watched curiously as he shook it out, and then shone her flashlight on the silk to reveal a detailed map of Omaha and Utah beach, and the surrounding countryside.

The other Americans crowded around them at the behest of their Lieutenant, and she pointed to a point just east of a little French village on the outskirts of Saint-Marie-du-Mont, the silk slippery under her finger. The Lieutenant swore under his breath, something Rosie privately thought the village of Pouppeville did not deserve. The words drawn from his superior’s lips also caused Private Penkala to look at him askance, twisting his shocked face to stare very hard at Rosie with beseeching eyes in what she assumed was supposed to be an apology on Nixon’s behalf. He needn't have bothered. Rosie’s good opinion of Lieutenant Nixon had not been very high to begin with anyway.

The trek to Drop Zone C, where the paratroopers she was accompanying were meant to have landed before hell opened up on them, was made quick by Rosie’s knowledge of the hedgerows they were skirting around. To his credit, Lieutenant Nixon did not question her competence as she led them through the Normandy fields, but he did tail annoyingly close, his arm brushing her shoulder occasionally. Rosie would’ve been tempted to stop abruptly so he would run into her back, if the commotion wouldn’t have put them at risk of alerting any nearby Germans. Rosie cast a look at Nixon, only to find him already staring at her and unnervingly close. But before she could do more than lift an eyebrow they heard noises from the hedgerow on the opposite side of the road they were on.

Nixon held up a hand and the Americans were silent, watching, waiting, to see if they’d been spotted. Rosie crept forward, only to be stopped by a hand grasping her wrist. She gritted her teeth and wrenched her arm out of Nixon’s grip, moving silently across the road to lie in the ditch just in front of the hedge. Rosie reached behind her, aware of the brown eyes burning a hole in her skull, and pulled out her pistol before shifting forwards to peer through a small hole in the leaves.

A few tired looking Wermarcht soldiers were walking along the path, talking quietly amongst themselves as they came back from what must have been a patrol.

She turned around slowly, meeting Lieutenant Nixon’s frantic eyes, and held up her fingers to show the number of Germans there were. The Lieutenant motioned something to her, but he was using US Army hand signals and was therefore being quite useless. She could see him mouthing ‘Thérèse’ at her, but she ignored him, throwing up a hand to halt any movement the Americans might make. She took aim, and fired, dropping the German closest to her with a neat shot to the head, before taking out the other two in quick succession. They barely even had time to shout in pain and shock, unaware of their fate due to the silencer attached to her pistol.

Only the crickets buzzing in the grass could be heard for a fraught second, before a loud “What the fuck!” came from the nasally soldier, who was apparently called Liebgott. Rosie slipped back to the Americans, stuffing her pistol in her pocket, only to be met by Lieutenant Nixon’s slack jaw.

His gaze became tense, hands flexing at his side. “Don’t take a risk like that again. Let us handle it. It’s our job.”

She stared at him. “It is also mine, and that I am far more experienced at this than you, Lieutenant. I would expect an intelligence officer to already know this, but apparently not. Now follow, unless you want me to leave you at the hands of the next Germans who decide to wander through here.” She walked away, leaving the disgruntled but mollified soldiers to trail in her wake towards the sounds and conversation of the American base.

Rosie earned a lot of sideways glances as she strode through the crowd of soldiers, with their harsh accents and loud voices. Eventually, however, just when she was losing hope that she’d ever find an officer amongst the men scattered around the Normandy village where they’d set up a base, Lieutenant Nixon surged forwards from behind her to greet a harried but kind looking man who made himself known as Captain Hester, and Rosie was able to leave the aggravating Lieutenant behind in order to find Colonel Sink.

But, before she could slip into the crowd, a hand wrapped itself around her wrist once again and she was pulled back to face Lieutenant Nixon.

“Hey, Thérèse, before you run off–” He stopped as she attempted to rip her arm out of his hold, but he’d clearly expected this as he simply adjusted his grip as she glared at him.

“Before you run away, I wanted to say thanks.” Rosie stayed silent, not trusting herself to speak. For a moment, he didn’t speak either, just looked at her. “Your name’s not really Thérèse, is it?”.

Rosie’s answering smile was smug.

“What’s your name?” Nixon pressed.

“Call me Rosie, Lieutenant Nixon. My apologies, but I really must be going. I have a job to do,” and with that she slipped out of his loosened grip and darted through the mess of soldiers, dodging as she went and ignoring the shout from Nixon after her

“Hey, hey! Is that even your real name?!”

But Rosie had already vanished into the night.

#band of brothers #lewis nixon #easy company #band of brothers fanfic #hbowarsanta23 #hbo war #lewis nixon x oc

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swanhild · 3 days

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Get to Know Me

Tagged for this by @grey-gazania! Thank you! Rules: Answer the questions and tag 9 people you want to know more about.

Favorite color: Black if we're talking about clothes since I mostly wear black, but in general I also like various shades of blue and green.

Last song: Because the Night by Patti Smith

Last movie: Can't remember. Probably the Hunger Games prequel.

Currently reading: I started reading The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss recently since someone at work has been trying to talk me into reading it for a long time, but it's... not really my thing so far.

Currently watching: Random stuff on Youtube that interests me, I often listen to various things while working on my laptop or while drawing.

Currently craving: A prolonged break from work.

Coffee or tea: I don't like either. Hot chocolate I guess (though I prefer cold chocolate milk).

And I have the same problem as @grey-gazania in that Tumblr refuses to let me tag more than a handful of people, so I'll just tag the most recent people in my notes @theredkingandthesea @aotearoa20 @sauron-kraut @aniseandspearmint and anyone else who wants to do this - you can @ me and say I tagged you if you want to!

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yeahcurrahhe-e · 10 months

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𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐀𝐘 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒

〚 𝐑. 𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐈𝐑𝐒 〛

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ➛ language

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓 ➛ hi! I saw that your requests are open and I absolutely adore your writing so I was wondering if I could get eight from the angst prompts and/or two from the happy prompts with Ron Speirs? thanks love! — prompts used: “I can’t do this without you” and “wait for me, will you?”

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐇 𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃 was swathed in silence, throngs of paratroopers not yet roused from anxious slumbers — there was still an hour spared for their innocence before they’d be careening feet-first into Hell.

Her own innocence was ticking away on a doomsday clock as she, being a commanding officer, had to secure final preparatory measures, a task that warranted her presence far before the remainder of Easy.

A compact arrangement of maps, stock lists, and company rosters was pinned against her chest as she sat beneath a breadth of one of the numerous stationed C-47’s; Winters and Nixon had ventured off to retrieve more cases of air sickness pills after Roe realized they were short about fifty. Their absence waded a lull into her restless high she had been entertaining for the previous few hours, and she could appreciate the silence before it was tarnished by crossfire, screams, and the other destructive symphonies of war.

She begrudgingly relaxed her back to the towering landing gear of the transport aircraft, absentminded fingers poking and prodding at her dog tags; it was a fine coolness on her skin in the tepid morning. Her languid gaze peered out to the bony black horizon, as the sunrise hadn’t yet drowned out the stark darkness with a bar of radiant gold. She wondered if she had already seen her last sunrise; they’d be descending into Normandy far before any vivid hues could bloom in the sky.

Before her overwrought mind could spin anymore macabre notions, she became abruptly aware that she no longer was alone amidst the sea of planes.

“Come to join in on the contemplation of our impending doom?” Y/N mused, intuition already discerning who had accompanied her there beneath the plane’s shadow.

The subtle gleam of a kindled cigarette and subdued oomph confirmed her instinct as Ron Speirs sat himself alongside her on the tarmac.

“You really shouldn’t be smoking next a plane that’s gassed up to the nines,” she chided, plucking the simmering stick from the bow of his lips, the tip of her boot prompt to extinguish it on the ground.

Ron sputtered out a merge of a scoff and a chuckle, “Well, then I would’ve gone out a way I wanted — before any Kraut got the chance.”

The vexation of being fleeced of his Lucky Strike, naturally vanished at the sight of his childhood best friend’s subtle simper. At how it didn’t quite reach her eyes; at how she may physically be there, yet her mind was already at the mercy of Ares.

“You and your theatrics,” she muttered, sportively nudging against his shin with the round edge of her boot.

Their few exchange of words was sobering enough to allow her from not skidding entirely a rabbit hole, one that seemed to be configured with quicksand. Almost as if they were kids again, the day's grot lacking on their sun-kissed skin as they laid side-by-side on her porch, summer air saturated with their laughter and banter.

It was a memory that lingered like a tattoo in her subconscious, may even come to haunt her the day Death greeted her on some European knoll or a village alleyway.

“I consider it more my last will and testament,” his tone reflected her previous murmur, deliberately filtered agitation manifesting in his fumbling of his crumpled Lucky Strikes carton. Y/N’s awakening forebode hung around like smoke now, and yet he couldn’t kick one indication of empathy out from beneath his toxic pride; their friendship had forever been constructed upon an implicit understanding that Ron wasn’t an overwrought displayer of emotion, and that Y/N was at peace with that. That same concrete pride wouldn’t allow for even war to crack it.

“A real sign of the times,” she halfheartedly stoked the airy banter further, mindful that Ron’s dry humor was a mustered effort to comfort her. Nothing new.

A grumble of obstinance blared in Ron’s head not even seconds later, a reminder from the world that everything beyond this airfield was decaying in destruction and blood, and all they may have eventually is each other — uncomfortable ‘what if’s’ be damned.

Yet, he just let it be, allowed the woman to brood alongside him like a forlorn spirit, though his conscious morally throbbed to do something.

And, by some divine intervention (at least in his perception), Winters and Nixon strode towards them with boxes of pills secured beneath their arms. The redhead part of the duo murmured like a prayer to himself a memorized index of all they had packed, the concise whispers flooding out when Nixon beckoned to Ron and her,

“Hey, Speirs, ‘ya know Dog Company’s plane is all the way down the strip, right?”

Despite Ron’s notoriety of being the toughest and most cutthroat son of a bitch in the Airborne, Lewis Nixon still treated him with an unchanging — yet characteristic — sardonic wit.

“Yes, Captain Nixon, I’m aware,” Ron curtly retorted, dour gaze pinned on the intelligence officer, one entirely disregarded by its recipient but recognized by the young woman at his side. For Y/N, it was amusing to see Ron fuss in a hardly stifled bate of frustration every interaction she witnessed between the two.

“Good. We should actually start to wake up the rest of the company here, Captain Y/L/N. If Speirs doesn’t mind, of course,” Nixon’s brazenness wasn’t cowardly as he spoke to the fellow officer, a trait that had Winters unamused, Y/N smiling subtly, and Ron essentially burning gradually like a furnace.

“Never would hold an officer from their duties,” the Dog Company officer attempted indifference in his response, an altogether miserable effort from where Y/N stood. Ron then nodded towards her, subtle on the fronts that counted in the presence of Winters and Nixon, only meaningful to her; an implicit, ‘wait for me, will you?’ — a trademark of their friendship as their clashing recklessness typically had one of them careening head-first into danger. Now, it was nearly a plea; ‘don’t go dying before I get to you again’.

She nodded back: I will wait if you will.

Then, he’s gone in a tense ballad of footsteps, beckoning down to one of Dog Company’s other leading officers, already delving into the other business demanding his attention. Her own back turns from him a beat later, individual footsteps crooning an uneasy tune as she followed Nixon and Winters to Easy’s billet.

And she’d never know how he turned around, garnering a fleeting glimpse of her silhouette amidst the graphite gloom of the June morning. The what-if’s were ever more haunting as he did, so with a whisper of anxiety bobbing in his stomach, he forced himself to continue on down the strip.

—

SHE HAD LANDED somewhere in Normandy’s far-reaching countryside.

Her heels are what landed roughly first into the crumbly dirt, legs nearly jamming at the jolt of pressure against them. With a haphazard lean on her thigh, then side, she halted her chaotic pace. The abrupt halt had her skidding a few feet in shell casings, shredded pine needles, and rocky sand before a slash of silver liberated her from its burdensome strings.

Replacing her knife to her utility belt, there was the realization of her saturated GI-issued uniform as it adhered oppressively to her skin with sweat. In frustration, she jostled away the puff of white cloth from her already worn body, her sour disposition stoked by the concoction of smells that billowed around her: gun powder, blood, and cow manure.

Despite the overwhelm of misery, she had to continue on. Easy was waiting for her. Ron was waiting for her.

Her legs burned horridly as she bolstered the mingled weight of her gear and herself onto them.

And, as the start of dawn’s sunlit hues split across the gun-powdered air, she recognized that she was alone in the wheat field. Her mind forfeited counting the few snagged paratroopers strung up like rag dolls in the towering trees, subtly swaying by their parachute’s strings when the branch was stirred by the summer breeze.

One branch lamented underneath the dead weight of its unwelcome ornament as she trekked beneath it, the soles of his boots nearly scathing the crown of her head. Y/N suppressed the gag that ached in her throat, jabbing her tongue into her cheek. Just keep going.

She did, even as the bloodcurdling sensation of boot heels almost taunted her down the dirt trail. Even as she knew that the very image of their marionette bodies would forever be dented into her mind. That she’d continue on towards possible salvation, whilst they would forever remain ghostly adornments on a foreign land’s tree, reminders of the price of war.

She hated this.

—

SALVATION — or the best substitute for it — greeted her in a near death scare. It was quick; one moment, she was traipsing through concentrations of mud, then a fleeting whoosh of a bush’s dry ends, accompanied by a purposeful hand on her forearm plucking her behind the shrub, an inherent gasp forced from her as she couldn’t position her weapon quick enough.

And now she was ankle deep in the muck with Ronald Speirs pressing a finger to her mouth, an insinuation that the enemy was nearby.

Something akin to a grunt rumbled at the back of her throat, remnants of shock from presuming she’d be greeting Death rather than him.

His smell of cigarettes and pine swirled around as he then shifted to crouch in front of her, easing her down with him, gesturing to still remain silent.

Both were tainted with the colors of the earth, blood — neither knew if it was their own — and sweat. Their rifles were hoisted by its strap against the subtle heave of their chests, minds pondering in the stern silence if either had to fire them — if either had killed.

A cacophony of disturbed dirt and pebbles then shot through the tension, a chorus of flustered German mingling with it, as the lurking enemy hastened off to a different position; undoubtedly hunting the thousands of paratroopers across the French terrain.

Ron idled, finger still urgently against her lips, keen on assuring that they were genuinely safe. With a reckless glance above the shrub’s bristled top, and all but exposing his head, he confirmed their absence and settled back beneath the hedge’s sanctuary.

“I could have shot you, you know,” Y/N blurted in a coarse whisper, palm pushing away his hand from her mouth, “I still might.”

“You almost walked right into a nest of Krauts. I saved you from having your ass shot to Hell,” he touted, leaning forward with elbows braced on his knees, finger poised for emphasis at her, “You’re welcome.”

The irritation that then irked amidst the camo paint on her face, made him aware that in his cruel attempt to inflict a cut into her recklessness, he had opened Pandora’s Box. And he didn’t like that look.

Therefore Ron Speirs mentally prepared himself for the reprimanding of his life.

“And if I had, you would’ve still bounded out of fucking Timbuktu, pumped them full of bullets and declared yourself a hero,” she muttered, her hushed tone more of a menace that it should be in the silence demanded by being in enemy territory; she was pissed at the world and Ron was unintentionally caught in the crossfire.

She gave a low, humorless whistle, considering him with a vexed tilt of her head,

“Believe it or not,” she continued, “But I can actually handle myself.”

“Y/N—”

She stifled him alarmingly quick, gesturing irately towards herself, “I went through all the same training you did.”

“I know-”

His words fell lame against his tongue once more as she interjected, “I’ve made it miles from whatever shit-filled field I was dropped into all by myself — without backup, without Ron Speirs in his shining armor, and I’m looking a whole lot better off than those who weren’t alone. I know because I walked underneath their strung up corpses on my way here.”

A dull thwack resounded against the earth as she bolstered herself up with aid of her rifle. She exhaled lightly, “I have to go find my company. I’m sure Dog and Easy will link up at some point-”

Ron interrupted her now, fluidly standing to mirror her stance, “I can’t do this without you. That’s why I did what I did — said what I did.”

And replacing all his cocky glory, is now a frown — she wonders if it was a blunder in his typically careful disposition. She wonders if his words are as well.

Y/N rolled her eyes, nearly too belligerently, and sobered the temptation to just walk away with a drawn inhale, “You’re joking, right? Making yourself feel better? I have twenty years of experience to know that you can stand just fine on your own—”

A hand plucked her beneath the flinty gaze of Ron Speirs, chests essentially against the flush of the others.

She twisted around furiously so she could push him away, the essence of a scowl on her face.

Yet, he swiftly thwarted her mid-shove, muttering harshly, “I’ve seen enough shit today to realize that maybe I can’t.”

Y/N then cocked her head, creases at the contours of her eyes as if thinking whilst they glimpsed away from him, and he knew he wouldn’t like whatever response was about to spew out from her, “Cause you need someone to kiss your ass?”

“Maybe if you pulled your head out of your ass, you'd realize that there are some people that give a shit about whether or not you live or die,” Ron essentially snarled in her face, his gaze fervid with fluttering chaos and madness, whetting the edge of his eyes.

The humidity of the summer rain seemed torrid in her lungs now, goosebumps washed across her exposed skin, and she wished she had walked away.

"Like who?" she beckoned in challenge, true to her haughty disposition, and arms folded across her chest.

The one small question had stirred the hurricane in the both of them and their blazing eyes strung in a tightrope in the biting air. Their steady breaths canopied in front of their faces as they glowered at each other, a verbal silence prevailing beneath the din of nearby crossfire.

“Like who, Ron?" she pressed after a beat of silence between them, the fire and gold of frustration in her eyes dripping away as her mind relented to the anticipation of his response.

“Like me," he admitted with his mouth abandoning all moisture for an arid wasteland of desert.

His whole mewl of a rant moments prior had fucked things up for sure. Even as he was blustering and calling into question her competence, he was aware how he was stirring an unspoken pot of exasperation between them. But she had scared him that morning. And Ron Speirs thought himself a fool whenever he fussed in fright over something - someone.

But, as he flanked position behind the dense shrub, and caught her approaching without the wherewithal for the Germans skulking beyond the stretch of greenery, he had felt cornered into a decision to interfere.

“I, uh, have to go — Winters and Nix will be waiting,” she more or less mumbled to herself, nearly as if to shroud the response that yearned on the tip of her tongue. She promptly shifted away from him, stifling a festering fuss that mapped a constellation in her mind.

He was agile — desperate — to snatch onto her hand before she vanished into the grotty cloud of action beyond their makeshift sanctuary.

Then, he squeezed; a precise gesture: wait for me, will you?

Boot still poised to traipse onto the path to the village poking upon the horizon, she squeezed back: I will if you will, because I can’t do this without you, either.

And perhaps, on this day of days, this wouldn’t be another what-if.

#hbo war #hbo war imagine #hbowar #band of brothers #band of brothers imagine #ron speirs

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arcielee · 1 year

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Dancing in the Dark

Tom Bennett x OFC Summary: War is spilling over Europe and a route is being created to help POWs escape occupied France. Sometimes love does not last forever, but lasts long enough. Warnings: Smut/NSFW later on, some misogyny cause it’s the 1940s Author’s Note: The elongated back-and-forth German is in italics because I do not to wish to disappoint my oma more than I already do. ♥ Enjoy!

Chapter 2

The follow shifts extended into the night and the workload now required to keep the hospital functioning seemed ceaseless. The worst was the fear and agitation every patient held in their demeanor and their eyes, the palpable fear that the Gestapo would arrive at any moment and take them away, not to be seen or heard from again.

The nursing staff did their best for comfort and even Vera used the last of her lipstick to pinken her lips when she offered a sweet smile, but it did not fool anyone. The only one who did not seem deterred and could offer her the slightest reprieve in her rounds was when she stopped at Bennett’s bed.

She found him aggravating, with his nicknames for her and his snide comments. He seemed to enjoy prodding to get a rise from her and her temper outlet was a sharp look and sharper tongue, but even with their back-and-forth could not help her forget the new reality of the German administration settling into France. Vera knew her time in Paris was nearing its end; she had a fear overhead of the fabricated identity that Nancy provided her to slip away from Berlin two years prior that was now a detriment to her freedom.

She confessed her concern with the doctor and Henriette; the nurse, in turn, also confessed that she was Jewish and her burden of fear that she now carried with her every shift.

The doctor listened to them with a somber expression on his face, learning two of his nurses stayed afloat in Paris with forged papers. “I promise I will think of something,” was all he said to them, his smile not as bright as before. “Just try and act as if everything is fine.”

Henriette nodded, but her dark eyes were fearful, and Vera chewed her bottom lip, her eyes glancing over the doctor and landed on his desk. She spotted a télégramme with the words type, “Major Sieber arrivera le 28 Juin.”

The Germans would be in by the end of the week.

She continued her shifts, as Dr. O’Connor asked, acting as though everything was fine. She grabbed her tin basin, stopping at a mirror glass to look over her features; her dark curls were braided back and already spilling to frame her face, and she paused to use her free hand to pinch her cheeks for a flushed look. She had no lip blush left, but still kept her feign smile posted with every bed visit until she came to Bennett’s bed.

He was on the mend, with the bruising on his shoulder fading away to muted purples and greens. The gash on the left side of his face had scabbed over and now showed the soft pink of scarring that, she begrudgingly admitted to herself, added to his almost roguish handsomeness.

He laid back in the bed, his arms tucked behind his head, waiting. “Guten Tag, Fräulein.” He said, his perpetual smirk playing on his lips.

Her green eyes narrowed on him in return. “Stop that, Bennett,” she hissed. “I do not wish to frighten my patients any more than they already are.”

“I cannot imagine anyone being fearful of you, Mein lieber kraut,” his lips curled with his words. My little kraut.

She scoffed at the nickname. “Stop that.”

“Is the feeling not returned? Here I lay, pining all day for our moments together-” “Sit up, Bennett,” Vera said as she sat on the bed edge, the bin on her lap.

He pushed himself upright, his eyes focused to watch her hands flit over the supplies, trying to ignore how close he was. She found him both aggravating and charming, finding herself to feel a slight excitement when she came to his bed. Here, she was able to take a moment and chat with him. He shared about his life in Manchester with his sister and dad, before he had enlisted, and he would pry for details about Vera, determined to understand her and what passions she held outside the hospital.

“I enjoy reading,” she shared one day.

“Reading what?”

Her brow quirked to his question. “Anything.”

“Everything?” He pressed, his own brow raised in response.

“I like…” she hesitated. “I prefer fiction at this time. It is something that allows me to escape.”

He pursed his lips, his head bobbed in agreement. “I can understand that,” his expression was playful once again. “Will you read to me?”

“Can you not read?” His laugh was short, then he realized she was serious. “Christ, I’m not some ill-educated Manc who enlisted out of desperation–”

“You did enlist out of desperation,” she replied with a smirk. “And I apologize for assuming you were illiterate. I just thought…”

“You thought wrong,” he cut in. “Maybe I just enjoy hearing your voice.”

She did not respond. With every passing day, his recovery now brought on an imperious audacity that she was unsure how to handle, finding him to be aggravatingly cocksure and flirtatious. Her tight-knit composure would crack, her frustration spill for a moment, and she would see his lips curl into his puerile grin and he would ask, “But you still like me, right?”

Vera would refuse to reply, but he noted the flush to her cheeks and would decide to drop it.

Today, he sat obedient as she checked him over, her fingertips touched his jawline as she turned his head. “Your face is healing, but it will be scarred–”

“Adds a bit of mystery to my rugged good looks,” his eyes peered at her, searching for a response.

She did not stop her smile in time and his expression was victorious. “Bennett–” her tone warned, but she saw his eyes look past her.

Her hands dropped to her side and she turned to see German soldiers making their way down the hallway and one stopping to watch their interaction. She looked back at him, his jaw clenched and nostrils flared, with a passion that brimmed in his beautiful eyes and threatened to spill onto his lips. “Bitte, Bennett,” her voice was low with her exhale and his eyes flitted to her for a moment, watching as she pushed from the bed to retrieve her items and tucking his clipboard under her arm. “What are you doing with that prisoner?” The soldier asked with a scathing Berlinerisch dialect, squaring towards her and causing another soldier to stop to watch them both.

She swallowed thickly, debating to feign ignorance to the German he spoke before deciding to return his burning gaze. “I am tending to our prisoners of war, soldier.”

“Really,” he scoffed. “It seems more to me as if you were sweet on him. You remember he is the enemy? Every bed in this hospital holds an enemy to our cause.”

“I am very aware,” she replied, her eyes narrowed onto him. “Which is why I take pride in my work, to ensure our great leader will have healthy prisoners of war to serve him in the camps. But you have decided to hold up my rounds.”

The soldier ran his tongue over his front teeth, sucking as he processed her reply. Without warning, he raised his arm and struck her across the jaw with the back of his hand.

Her head jerked to the side, losing her hold on the supplies and the tin echoed as it crashed to the floor. From the corner of her eyes, she saw Bennett pressed to stand but saw her focused on him, her look warning him to remain where he was.

The white stars dissipated in front of her eyes and Vera rightened her posture, returning to face the soldier straight on, daring to step towards him. “Does our great leader condone striking members of the Party?” Her tone was cold. “You come to your assignment with the assumption that I am working against his plans, when in fact,” her eyes went back and forth between the two soldiers, “I have been sent here by Major Sieber, to help prepare for our conquest of France.”

They jerked to attention with the name drop and the second soldier now spoke. “Forgive him, my lady. He is new and ignorant to our final solution. We will not bother you again.” His hand planted onto the offending officer and he pulled him to follow the rest of the passing soldiers.

Vera turned away from them, gripping the clipboard and taking deep, shaky breaths. “Did they hurt you?” She looked up to see Bennett, his brow scrunched with concern, giving a softness to his features she had not seen before.

“I am fine,” she replied, dropping to her knees to gather the gauze and her tools, returning them with soft plinks into the basin.

“Christ, I’m not blind! I saw how hard he–”

Her head shot up, her eyes bore into him and stopped him from talking. “I said I am fine.” Her voice was harsher than she wished it would sound, but she did not dare to risk catching the attention of someone else in uniform, especially since she boldly proclaimed a Major’s name from a telegram she saw, claiming he assigned her, personally, to this hospital.

Stupid, you literally risk yourself, the hospital, Henriette, the doctor… Her thoughts were rushed and she ignored the scowl on his face, turning to walk towards the back office and cursing herself with every step. Vera pushed open the door and found Henriette and Dr. O’Connor seated at his desk, sharing a sandwich.

“Vera?” The doctor pushed to stand up the second he saw her face. “What happened?”

“I… fucked up.” The adrenaline left her and it was only when she spoke did she notice how tender her upper lip felt. She moved to where her purse hung and pulled out a compact mirror to check the damage done; there was split to her lip line and a smear of blood, with the beginning of a bruise to her jaw. “The Germans are here and they questioned me while I was with Bennett.”

“Oh, Vera,” Henriette was quick to retrieve a cotton swab and some alcohol.

She allowed her friend to dab at the small cut, wincing from the burn. “I was stupid. I remembered the telegram on your desk and I said that Major Sieber had personally assigned me to work here…” she saw his grimace and for a moment, felt tears threaten her eyes. “I panicked, Webster. I did not know what else to say!”

He sat back down at his desk, searching for a piece of paper and handing her a telegram. Her eyes read over the words and she passed it to Henriette. “This is not the same one I saw before…”

“Do you ladies remember Lyam?” He asked instead.

The girls nodded, for they remembered him fondly. Lyam was an old French man with a full head of silver hair and ice blue eyes that twinkled when he spoke. He had been admitted one night with a broken toe months ago and made little complaint when Dr. O’Connor set it; his gay tone was infectious and he teased Henriette and Vera to leave the hospital when he was discharged. “I have a son for each of you lovely ladies,” he had told them.

“What about Lyam?” Henriette asked.

“Well,” his tone lowered and they moved closer to the desk. “Lyam and his sons are no Nazi sympathizers and have been working on an escape route to smuggle the soldiers from the hospital. They are setting up a route through the Pyrenees and into Spain, his sons currently reside in Pamplona, and then finally to Gibraltar where they can go to Britain.”

“Webster,” Henriette paled and she bit the corner of her lip for a moment, careful with her words. “This is dangerous to speak. Can we be certain to trust these men…?”

Vera remembered the warmth of Lyam’s eyes, the passion that brimmed when they spoke over his distaste for the German dictatorship and his empathy towards her. You were brave to escape, he had said to her. “I believe we can,” she said, looking at them both. “What must we do to help?”

The doctor exhaled. “Well, we need to check and see if this route can work. We would also need to open a bank account in Great Britain so we can wire funding back and forth, as well as finding someone willing to meet at the checkpoints.”

“I can do this,” she nodded and when she saw how the doctor looked at her, she added, “This is something that must be done and I can do it, Webster.”

Over the months they had all worked together, the doctor and Henriette never pressed to ask what made Vera decide to leave her folks in Berlin. She voiced her vague distaste for the NSDAP ideals, but nothing more. However, whatever the determination she brought from Berlin now clearly showed itself in this office.

Dr. O’Connor nodded his head, a small smile to his lips. “Very well, Vera,” he cleared his throat. “I have some business to attend to, but I will find a soldier willing to offer themselves as a guinea pig.” He saw her brow furrow and explained, “We need someone who will test this. We would need them to register as a prisoner of war, then we can forge a death certificate, assuming the Germans won’t be as adamant to search for a dead man-” “What if they wish to see a body?” His chuckle was dark, “That is something we have in abundance.”

----

previous | Chapter 3

#tom bennett #tom bennett x ofc #we need more tom bennett fanfic #world on fire #fanfiction #ao3 #thanks for reading #♥#dancing in the dark

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confield · 1 year

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rules: 🎵 when you get this, list 5 songs you've been listening to. tag 5-10 followers to do the same 🎵 WEEE I WAS TAGGED BY @djmiffy YAAAY

Faidra - The Depths (WONDERFUL MINIMAL BLACK METAL)

Severed Heads - Cyflea, Rated R (Early industrial/tape dance-ish music!)

Waajeed - Motor City Madness (Detroit jazz/acid house/techno... so lovely)

CAN - Vitamin C (Actually this whole album! CRAZY COOL KRAUT CLASSICS)

Drexciya - Black Sea (Old favorite!! Experimental Detroit techno/electro)

I TAG @blackricelady @blastbeatbutch @lovewhatsurvives @lobsterwall @miss-ereignis @drumandbassdoll YAAAAY

#music

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struggling-bee · 2 years

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Fine - Hugo Stiglitz x Reader

@redrosewritingsstuff tagging you like you asked >:)

----------------------------------------------

Gunshots rang through your ears, and your eyes widened. It wasn’t just one shot either, it was many, lasting too long. You and The Basterds all looked at each other during the following silence. No one was saying anything. Nothing else could be heard from the basement, no more yelling, no shattering…

You bolted for the door but two sets of arms held you back as you struggled

“Let me go Aldo! Donny! Let me go!” Donny’s grip on your arm stayed the same, but Aldo’s only tightened.

“Give ‘em a damn minute!”

You stopped struggling, but quietly counted 60 seconds in your head. Aldo thought you’d calmed down so he let you go and went to talk to Donny, hoping to act quickly.

You knew you needed to be cautious and patient, but when sixty came, you burst out the door with your superiors calling after you.

Later on, it would come to mind that there were to be serious consequences, but right now all you could think about was Hugo. You whispered his name over and over, trying not to trip down the stairs to the bar.

Once you came to the doorway, you were shot at. Luckily you had fallen (miraculously, actually) and dodged the first bullet. One of your strengths was reaction time, so in only a matter of seconds you had knocked out the kraut who had tried to shoot. With him laying on the bar, unconscious and bleeding, you surveyed the room. You couldn’t hear well as you were still pumping with adrenaline, but your eyesight was fine. You didn’t see any movement at all, besides some smoke still blowing.

“Hugo?” you said, now walking around and looking at bodies “Wicki? Archie?” no answer.

“Hammersmark?”

Her name rolled off your tongue with distaste, and you were glad you didn’t hear a response from her. You didn’t know her and you didn’t trust her, and she was the reason this happened, she was the reason Hugo might be d-

You heard a groan from across the room.

“My god, Wicki?” you dashed towards him, not without trampling some corpses. Wicki was standing up, swaying and groaning. You were by his side, holding him up as best as you could.

“Wicki, what in the hell happened? Where’s Hugo?”

It was hard, not yelling, but Wicki didn’t need to be shouted at right now.

He cleared his throat and tried to talk, but couldn’t. You helped him into a chair and turned to the direction he nodded towards.

Hugo was on the ground, eyes closed, bleeding.

Breathing? Not breathing?

Breathing. Barely.

“My god, no. Hugo.”

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

He didn’t die, nor did Wicki or Hammersmark. Archie didn’t die either but he was out of sight out of mind for you. They were all being treated (as best as a vet could) and lying in cots. You weren’t allowed in the room.

Once Aldo and the others had made it down, they were immediately helping Wicki stand up himself and figuring out how to move Hugo safely. It wasn’t until later that you noticed Hammersmark was there, and alive, but as soon as you did you couldn't stop yelling at her. You knew many languages, and she had been cursed at in all of them. Aldo had to detain you for the second time that day.

So you weren’t allowed in the room with them, with Hugo. You felt you were being treated like a child in time-out. In the very back of your head, you understood, but you were not in the mood to be understanding.

Hugo was your best friend. Aldo had sent your best friend into a basement because a German stranger said to. You respected Aldo, but this...you wouldn’t be able to forgive him if it had gone any worse.

Stewing in your thoughts, you didn’t notice footsteps coming towards you. You didn’t even notice anyone else was in the room until you were making eye contact with Aldo, your knife in your hand and ready, gripping his shoulder and keeping him a distance away. Reflexes, he must have tapped you on the shoulder.

He stared at you unblinkingly. You pulled away.

“Sir.”

He sighed.

“You can go in now, but you and me,” he stopped you for a second “We’re gon’ have a talk later.”

You kept walking, trying not to run.

“No we’re not going to talk, you’re just going to yell at me.”

He’d laugh about that later to himself.

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

When you walked in, you saw Wicki laying and staring at the ceiling, Archie, asleep, and Hugo was sitting up. Of course he was sharpening his knife too…That thing was his baby. Nothing could keep him away from it.

“Hey Hugo.” You said softly, walking towards the chair next to his bed.

He looked up at you for a second, then his eyes dropped back down to his work.

“Hello.”

You dragged a chair over to his bed and sat down. “How’re you feeling?”

“Drugged.”

You rolled your eyes and looked behind you.

“How about you Wicki? In a lot of pain?”

“You don’t need to pretend you’re here to see both of us.”

“Thanks.”

You turned back around, your frontside facing the back of your chair, chin resting on your crossed arms.

Hugo opened up best if you mentioned one of his interests…and you wanted him to open up.

“Can you sharpen my knife later, Hugo?”

He looked up at you, his face slightly relaxed.

“Sure.”

You smiled and muttered thanks, but kept watching him.

He glanced up at you, briefly.

“I’m going to be fine.”

You smiled a little, but…

“Hugo, I don’t trust anyone. That guys just a vet, how am I supposed to believe him? And don’t get me started on Hammersmark”

“You trust me.” Hugo said curtly. His eye contact was a bit intense.

You actually smiled this time.

“Yeah, I trust you.” You sighed a little, resigned. “If you say you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine…”

Hugo nodded. “Yeah.”

It only lasted a second, but you saw him smile at you.

He’d be fine.

#My writing #inglorious basterds #Inglourious Basterds #Quentin Tarantino #xreader #x reader #reader insert #reader #hugo #hugo stiglitz #fanfiction #fanfiction x reader #fanfic

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