prop blast

writing: my fic | drabbles | recs edits: gifs | mp4s | pngs 101st airborne: real guys archives | bob archives | easy company dynamics etc: answered asks

“Hit me.” “What?” “You heard me the first time,” Joe doesn’t move, only cocks his head to the side and hooks a thumb into his snow-damp belt loops. “Hit me.” “I don’t want to.” “Sure about that, Web? You been looking at me like you want to.” “I haven’t been looking at you at all.” The clenched bone of his jaw betrays the blankness on his face. “Yeah, okay. You sound real stupid when you lie.” It barely comes out of him before Web’s hands push him over. Joe swallows a gasp when he feels the force of it in his lungs. So he was strong, Joe knew that. Those arms are indication enough. The back of his head slams against the wall, torn wallpaper brushing against his cheek, gentle and quivering like a fingertip, and Web’s palms press over his chest like a fever. It’s almost too much to feel. But he can take a lot more. “Hey, do that good enough and I might get to experience that replacement depot you’re so hot about.”

The sound of a gunshot burrows the face of Hoobler like a burr in his mind before Nix wakes. There’s shouting outside his foxhole, all pleas and bargains against the deaf yowls of flak. Then the quiet. So absolute, it bears down on Nix's head, thick and cold. His hand unconsciously presses down on the ground beside him only Dick isn’t there to insist against it. “Stay here, Dick,” Nix hisses at the empty foxhole. Bright white light sears his vision when he throws open the tarpaulin cover. Something twitches in Nix’s periphery, a flash of copper. His body swivels, responding before he can think better of it. Before he can remind himself that Dick is lying in that blood-drenched, flesh-choked aid station. When his eyes refocus, it’s only Heffron, belly flat on the ground, eyes too wide. “Julian?” whispers Heffron, torn lips resting on the rear of his M1. He tilts his head, frowning as if trying to listen for a voice. The safety clicks when he points it at the tree line. Nix is on the ground with a hand over Babe’s mouth before he can scream. He feels faint heat on his skin when the syllables of the dead soldier’s name are shouted into his palm. “Calm down.” Nix sees it. There in the tree line, something shakes the trunks, slow and deliberate. Nix has to tear his eyes away, gripping Heffron harder when he twists from under him. “I heard him. Captain we have to—” “That isn’t him, Heffron. Not him," Nix grinds out, eyes still following the movement in the trees, and tries to sound convincing.

He thinks about DeEtta, if his body would ever make room for her hands. Maybe it will at peacetime, when the divots on his body don’t speak of discarded k-rations and missed bullets. He doesn’t know how to sand away the swells and curves on his body that make room for Nix, that were pressed and pushed by his fingers on his shoulder, his hip against Dick’s own, his knee on his thigh. “What are you doing.” He’s not proud of the way his voice trips. “You have to relax, Dick. Here, maybe this’ll make it easier.” Nix starts moving up from where he was kneeling and Dick restrains himself from pushing his friend back down. Nix's fingers hook on DeEtta’s dog tags, dragging them off Dick’s neck, leaving behind a trail of gooseflesh. “Look down for me.”  When Dick lets his chin fall on his chest, it feels almost involuntary. The tags are removed completely, and Nix fixes them around his own neck. Dick watches the way light catches on the few spots on Deetta’s tags that haven’t dulled from constant exposure with his sweat and salt. The muted silver is a stark contrast against Nix’s chest hair, dark and curled underneath his faded ODs. Nix leans back on the desk amused and says, “I’ll be your wave, how’s that?”

rules: make a new post with the names of all the files in your wip folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. tag as many people as you have wips. people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, then post a little snippet or tell them something about it!

• deetta dog tags
• theres something in the forest that feeds
• reasons for aggression
• ocs service club

“You got him,” Sink said. “Hell, every time I need him he’s always here with you anyway. He may as well stay.” - From Biggest Brother by Larry Alexander