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eddiemxnsons · 4 years

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𝐒𝐊𝐘'𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄 — 𝑱.𝑳𝑰𝑬𝑩𝑮𝑶𝑻𝑻

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 @floydtab —

could I request a Liebgott fluff please? xx much love 💘 . A reader insert, Liebgott fluff fic. Maybe the plot to be with the readers birthday? just because mine is on Friday ❤️

POSSIBLE TRIGGERS — blood, language

THE BITTER CRISP OF BASTONGE was an obscurer of time, an infiltrating poison to the concept of days, weeks, months.

Yet, the day of the week wasn’t much of a thought to ponder upon for Easy Company; minds wrapped around a prayer for survival in the next few seconds, legs stinging with an ache from desperate sprints across slippery snow, throats throbbing from a lack of hydration and an overload of grouses pertaining to the lack of winter clothing, the incompetence of a barely present lieutenant. A majority of them were cramped ass to ankles in foxholes to preserve warmth beneath their scraps of outerwear; the subtle tides of heat that graced their bodies were something that was as fleeting as daylight nowadays.

Y/N departed the squish of cold leather in the Jeep, a conscious miles away at the aid station she had just now returned from, hands twitching to reek a sickly penny odor of blood. All she could hear was the obnoxious banging of her heart, of the memories when the sniper shredded the heads of the young boys in her platoon, of her boyfriend shrieking himself raw from a detainment of distressed soldiers. Their blood stroked over her calloused palms in a haunting reminder now, as she focused on the delicate snowfall rather than the devastating melody of moans and grunts that wandered her memories.

She gazed tiredly at the billows of smoke contrasting the blue sky above, it being a beautifully tragic horizon to encapture her admiration for a final time. Her aching back was cradled subtly in the matted snow — it adopting a sickly red hue from spilled blood, a fine mixture of her own and other wounded soldiers. Her legs throbbed with oozing burns on skin that had been exposed by shrapnel from the explosion that had forced her down in the middle of a farmer’s field. Her legs were what made her a remarkable runner, her bloodied body holding the strength that had distinguished her from being a mere daisy of a woman. It all had seemed to crumble at Y/N’s fingertips when a German soldier — in a move fueled by his few huffs of life — propelled a mortar in the direction of the small group she was escorting across the field. The bodies of those soldiers now were scattered like ragdolls around her withered body, all their eyes glassily staring at her in their afterlives, as if mocking her apparent invincibility. You’re supposed to be better.

Eugene pardoned her hands when they absentmindedly extended to pluck the haggard box of supplies they scrounged up at the station, “It’s quiet for now, go and rest, Y/N, before ‘ya open up those stitches.” Stitches that had been meticulously sewn through her torn flesh by him at the aid station whilst they gathered themselves outside the church, hunched near a scanty fire in a metal can.

“I’ll make it just fine without ‘ya, chérie. I’m sure Liebgott will be looking for ‘ya,” he stifled whatever opposition was accumulating on her tongue, a swaying mouth indicating that she was prepared to leap to silence his concern, “Consider it an early Christmas present.”

Y/N’s glazed eyes impossibly widened as the remark registered for her spotty hearing, “What day is it?”

“It’s December 21st,” a rage of winter blast tousled his impossibly dark hair whilst he nonchalantly answered, scarred fingers working through a maze in the box of supplies. His eyes of an alike shade scoured the flicks of his curious hands until the crunch of snow and hastening footsteps of departure provoked a glimpse forward, the hunched silhouette of the female soldier vanishing beneath the rolling blanket of cloud.

Her boots were scathed with a veneer of icy powder as she trudged through the latest brushing of snow that evening, each step a prayer for the warmth of home. The home she perceived in the wisps of wheat in the fields that huddled around Camp Toccoa, the sooty forest path they run to Currahee's peak, the sporadic bursts of lavender amongst that wheat, hell, even in some of the starry-eyed privates mucking about the camp. A home where she’d be with her family, hands scrubbed of the grot and blood of innocents, a greeting of ‘happy birthdays’ from relatives. In a distant memory, a brief glitch of reality, she was amidst Southern warmth and beneath the leafy shadow of palm trees with a party buzzing around her. Where everyone didn't have to drive themselves mad for the sake of surviving another miserable day on the European Front.

In another reality, she would be at home celebrating her birthday today.

There was no celebrating in the crisp hell of Bastogne, not when so many would never see another birthday again. It was a gnawing guilt in her core, a fiery frustration that juxtaposed the bitter snow that entombed those young men. Teenagers. No matter how good she was embellished to be, medic and soldier, no matter how good the medicine, no matter the strategy, boys died. Died in flashes of a sniper, an ambush, red. Streaming tears cleansed her red cheeks, a salty release congealing on the collar of her frayed jacket whilst watery eyes scoured the snow. A few meters before her blurry vision was a stark crimson splotch of blood, nature scorning her wilting soul by not concealing its presence with the dusting of snow. A scorn for her inability to save a starry-eyed replacement, Julian. Her nails were undoubtedly trenched with his dried blood as they curled against her palm in a meek fist.

Limp extremities groused and shattered under the pressure of her gear whilst she kneeled in a tremble against a cracked tree trunk. Her back constrained against the ridges with her rifle trembling in bloodied hands, the ghostly bodies of her platoon crumpled in the field around her. Y/N’s ringing ears were plagued by memories of Richard Winters screaming himself raw from the tree line, allowing Joseph Liebgott, her boyfriend, to despise her in that seemingly perpetual moment as he screeched above their superior.

She had already fled Death’s tendrils once that week, she couldn’t forever, and it was daft to recklessly evade him in a war. And, now, Y/N was okay with having the tendrils asphyxiate her properly, taking her away from bloodied fields littered with the bodies of those she couldn’t save. It’s okay. Nevertheless, she wanted to whimper for help, for a damn sign that someone was there for her.

And then Y/N peered up with her lungs clenching in her chest almost immediately; Joe was trudging furiously through the wasteland of snow, the Bay Area hotspur a volcano amidst the frigid earth beneath his feet, his cigarette bouncing anxiously between his chapped lips. It was almost disquieting with her ignorance of the dark crimson sheen over her uniform and exposed skin that would greet him once he made his way before her, how an accompanying sickly penny odor would hold stagnant in his nostrils. It was just always there nowadays. Yet, it was the agitated churning in her chest, her soul, reminding her that there was some humanity enduring in her and that she was still very much whole and alive - that the man before her made her such.

“Happy birthday,” he muttered with heed for the sound discipline presiding over their company, extinguishing his wrinkle of cigarette in the snow despite the warmth it flooded his bitter blood with.

She didn’t utter any extent of a retort, solely beholding his gaze that expressed a continuing conversation of contempt, ire, and adoration — spared for her in that moment and always. He was suppressing the wrath that had, undoubtedly, festered like a raging crimson welt in his conscious whilst she was away at the aid station. Joseph Liebgott was a man fused with an aura that distanced himself from others, decreed his content with a lack of company, and bombarded the empty crevices with a fiery temper. It was a ripple in his demeanor to care, love someone so fondly as he did with her. Her, the brash female paratrooper of Easy Company, the girl who had long since made a name for herself since Toccoa, got detested for her existence on this very planet by Sobel himself. Her, who led Easy Company as their first lieutenant. Her that could silence them herself by merely entering the room, authority a dark shadow eclipsing the light of her essence. Such silence is what implied that she had secured what she wanted — deserved — after enduring the constant lapses of confidence, the derision, the catcalling.

When Joe first realized he was in love with Y/N, she was the one leading Easy Company — and him —up the dizzying steepness of Currahee, she not even being the commanding officer of the men, but domineering more than the ill-nature of Sobel. She was adorned in the same outfit any male soldier would have been, hardly sweating due to years in track and field and cross country back home, her lips curled into the most seraphic smile he had seen. He remembers the way she nudged his shoulder whenever the exhaustion slipped him and his robust facade up, how she’d flick away the cigarette pendant on his lips, rambling on about her fret over breathing issues and other health complications such a leisure could bring.

“Thanks,” she mumbled with a puzzling dip of her brow, a numb mind obscuring any response of depth. Not much else would suffice - not much else made sense.

Glancing up, Y/N could see Joe with horror petrified amidst the dirt on his face, a very foreign guise on his chiseled features; there was so much blood and dirt on her baggy uniform and what skin was exposed, one would assume she was dancing with the devil. Her pale face was blemished with a mix of the dirt that had been flung up by the explosion and blood that belonged to her and those that laid not too far now. Her eyes were just as remarkably expanded as his as they steadied eye contact with one another.

“You’re ass will freeze to the ground if ‘ya don’t get up, doll,” he quipped to shatter the anchor of forebode bobbing in his core, extending a pale hand towards her. Dubiously, Y/N set a bloodied, scraped hand onto the chilled crook of his palm, him plucking her from the disturbed dirt as if she was nothing.

“They’re all dead, Joe,” Y/N breathed out, hands trembling and legs cramping painfully. There was no coaxing herself into composure now as the shock of it all was registering once death wasn’t looming over her to seize her away anymore. She had denied it had happened to her - had happened at all - for days now.

“Nobody could’ve expected that to happen,” Joe reasoned, and winced like he was in anguish yet was swarmed with forced composure at the same time. He cracked a smirk her way, even though she stared at him blankly, so lifelessly, slipping ever so slightly right before him, “I wish I could do more for you, doll. I can’t patch up your wounds and sure as hell can’t give you comfort. Hell, it’s your birthday and you’re all glum. You did everything anyone else would have, ‘ya know.”

A hollow feeling bloomed at the center of her chest; she is a categorical victim of war, constantly drowned in tidal waves of guilt, regret, pain, anger. She did everything she could have.

Y/N absentmindedly tread a few fingers through his messy, disheveled hair, his breathing almost instantaneously steadying with the slight yanks at the tufts of his hair brushing his neck, as her havoced mind eased, “Twenty-three.”

His dark brows solidified into a furrow, shifting down his chin to gaze in inquiry towards her.

“I’m twenty-three today,” she clarified, a crooked smile emerged amidst her pallid features.

Joe chuckled wryly; her eyes may have been horribly bloodshot from burst blood vessels, her lips chapped with blood in the crevices, and her entire uniform resembling the aftermath of an animal mauling, yet she was still there with him, smiling fondly from beneath the layers of destruction. Still beautiful.

"Dance with me," he spurted out, surely without much contemplation, eyes traveling along the lines of her face, the bold and free moon haloing her disheveled hair.

“Joseph Liebgott asking me to dance? You’ve certainly lost your senses now,” Y/N rolled her eyes and shook her head.

Crimson rose to the apple of his cheeks, “Shut up.”

His own exasperation challenged hers, not deliberately, but it was fair competition as it sought to bleed from him through gripes and cusses. He was humiliated enough that the words had dared leave a giddy thought.

Joe glowered teasingly at Y/N, who was a chaotic mess of stifled laughs, the fire and gold in her eyes dripping as her mind wandered away from the woe of the day. The moon’s expanding rays entangled with perfect molds in the curves of her hair, a kink of hair brushing her forehead teasingly. His chiseled jaw lifted with a hubristic yet pleasant smile after a few moments of wading in feigned irritation.

“Well, fuck me, I've managed to shut Joseph Liebgott up!" There emerged a meager pout of a smirk on her mouth, shedding a subtle shadow beneath the pinkish swell of lip. Y/N rolled her eyes when Joe bit his tongue, a playful scoff spurting from her parted lips, similar to a wisp of cigarette smoke, “Fine. I’ll dance with you.”

Her hand was tightly encompassed in his own as he hastily yanked her toward the shadow of a tree, more earnestness than the step before, and she kept good pace with his urgency. The second his foot securely adjusted onto the snow, he was facing her with his eyes sparkling with mischief and an almost melodic laugh cascading from his mouth, setting her heart a flutter. There he was, standing in his familiar army green uniform on a contrasting quartz floor of snow, grinning at her like she was the source of his content and life.

And she couldn’t refuse when his hands drew her head into the crook of his neck, embracing her tight to make her cracks remain together, a sway naturally falling between them. A tentative shiver poured over her spine at the warm breath flittering against her skin, it vanishing just as abruptly as it manifested, and a desire blazing beneath indifference for more — more of the closeness.

“Too bad this is just for tonight,” she cracked one of her smiles, pushing off the warmth of his shoulder.

“Too bad,” he agreed in a mutter, eyes traveling along the lines of her face. He dared to think of a life after this war, where blood and grime wouldn’t be a typical concoction for people to have tarnishing their faces, where the two of them would always be physically clean of any remnant of war. This didn’t just have to be for tonight. “Come home with me to San Francisco, or wherever the fuck ‘ya want to go, I don’t care...give you all the best birthday’s I fucking can-”

Her chapped lips were pressed against his before he could continue his nervous bout of rambles, showing just how hastily she could move and shut him up. She could feel his lips form the bow of smirk, it being a rush in the tenderness of the kiss, his hands toying with the hem of her shirt.

“My oh my, Joseph, you’ve gone soft,” Y/N tsked when their lips temporarily wavered in a few inch distance, “But, I’m in. I’ll go home with you, just as long as a ring is put on my finger eventually.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

#hbowar #band of brothers #band of brothers imagines #joeliegbottimagine joeliegbott

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eddiemxnsons · 4 years

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𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐀𝐂 —𝑱.𝑳𝑰𝑬𝑩𝑮𝑶𝑻𝑻

𝐑𝐄𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘 @i-am-a-lost-girl16 —

Hi! Could I ask for a Joe Liebgott imagine with the prompt "Bite me" "If you say so"? Reader insert is fine for me :) I love your work and super excited requests are open!

POSSIBLE TRIGGERS — blood, language

IT WAS BEWILDERING how many soldiers could be jostled into a transport car, not much concern paid by superiors or by the men themselves if they all were coerced into a position of ass to ankles; the men of Easy were just grateful to be released from the frozen prison of Bastogne.

Staff Sergeant Y/N Y/L/N, Easy’s only female member, relished shortly in the relief from a bitter pang that resonated to her very bones, yet blighted with a fleeting glimpse to the hands clutching the rail of the truck bed; dried blood was stagnant in the divets of her nails, grot from clawing at the earth to scramble over bodies as German artillery sparked across the stars. The hands that gripped the greyish, cold ones of dying boys as they bled out in a cradle of snow, their lips that once mingled with laughter imploring for their mothers or their lives. The hands that would numbly extract the dog tags amidst wounds, pat their shoulders in a silent prayer for salvation. But she doubted God was listening.

She was suffocated with far more irritation than sadness, cheeks flushed a subtle crimson to ward off conversation from all the chattering men encompassing her, flicking cigarette cartons about to earnest clutches, passing about chuckles through discussion. The irritation wasn’t to be pinpointed on any man before her, them just being accidental victims absorbing the contempt for another man; the man who she had disputed with well into a brisk evening a week prior about a night patrol, about leaving out Eugene Jackson, only to have it hacked down by a fraught Johnny Martin. Now, Jackson, a young man who fibbed to enlist, was in a shallow alley grave hollowed out by replacements.

A skimming glimpse among the beaming, starry-eyed soldiers ached her head, imagining the missing young men in their midst, the ones in frivolous, makeshift graves within foreign dirt. None of them seemed to regard the dour gaze being pinned on them by her.

“Sergeant Y/L/N,” the voice shot through her dourness, trembled the contempt that snagged her in an iron clasp, soothed subtly the ache in her chest as it always did, yet piqued her irritation.

“Don’t,” Y/N bit lowly, hindering the provocation from the Bay Area hotspur alongside her, her boyfriend. She didn't much mind the aggression of her response, fury a metaphorical fire scuttling around her head, her fingertips kneading at the stress of her temple.

Her other hand tossed with the swaying metal of her dog tags absentmindedly. She wished to a devastating extent that she was still in her icy foxhole. She didn’t much wish to be cradled in a life where she was broken and bruised, wrecked from the inside out by war. And that’s why Y/N wished that she remained crouched against the icy soil of Bastogne, alright with letting the falling bullets take her away, take her away from the death and dying men.

“Jesus, you’ve been quiet ever since we got on here, just making sure you’re fucking alright,” Joseph Liebgott grunted with a tasteless amount of frustration radiating from him, a prompt wind rumpling about his mussed hair that he evidently had passed a hand through numerous times.

“And?” She inquired of her sinking silence, hands trembling ever slightly, not as hard as they should’ve been with all the resentment surging in her veins.

“Lighten up for once,” Joe muttered, evocative of someone desperate and urgent, rather than the typical warmth of blandness in his voice; he had shared a foxhole with her for the entirety of their defense in Bastogne, gazed numerously upon her face blemished with a mix of the dirt that had been flung up by the explosion and blood that belonged to her and those that laid not too far from their carve in the earth, only for her to juxtapose it with a bout of melodic laughter.

Such laughter lingered in the crisp, deathly air for the first few weeks, it dissipating with their breath as more men died, more artillery cascaded down in ashy rainfall, and more supplies were spent in a desperate strife for survival. He hadn’t seen a drawing of a smile on her lips for weeks, her throat dry of laughter, her eyes absorbing the light of the day with a dip of her head in weeks.

Y/N shifted to face him, almost amused at his selection of words; their gazes were now fervid with fluttering chaos and madness, a sharp ache in their expressions from either a twist of irritation or guilt. Her radiating dismay and frustration could be felt in the confined truck bed, as if she was burning it off like a furnace for all to absorb. How dare he? Lighten up?! He was welcome to be the one to bury Jackson, pen letters of condolence to the Muck and Penkala families.

“You’re kidding me,” she had a sneer in her voice that extended to her eyes, their exasperation standing equal now, black marks on their consciousnesses, “I’ve gone through goddamn shit, taken on more tragedy than a person could in their whole life, there’s no recovering from it just because they’re buried and gone.”

“Goddammit, we all fucking have, but ‘ya still have to be happy. Why give the Kraut assholes the satisfaction of killing you inside out?” Joe asserted firmly, words slicing rather than tumbling through the dry air, “Don’t go and tell me to shut up; you think Muck, Jackson, or Penkala would want you to throw yourself in the shitter? You, the only female staff sergeant in the goddamn military? You, the one who spent every evening checking on each foxhole in Bastogne? If you give up, we all are fucked, doll.”

“You’re right,” there was no agitation in her voice as if her heart beat so steadily now, as if wearied with this casting of rather familiar words - as if knowing an argument would be fruitless and merely miserable. Y/N knew the extent to which he loved her, and how parallel her love for him burned in return.

He worshipped her, the ground that her boots graced, her eyes that scattered the nascent rays of dawn, her body that was flawlessly lined with muscles from physical undertakings, her light skin decorated by subtle freckles, her hair a beam of light if could weave itself into a strand. And her mind, that remarkable brain of hers that solved problems that thwarted military geniuses, and those of any age and more. Hell, she may even selfishly conclude that he fights solely for her at this point. And she fought for him too. “Fuck. You’re too good at saving your ass, Liebgott.”

The lull of his name of her tongue had his eyes drowning with something deviating between satisfaction and lust, nearly vulnerable, novel territory for Joseph Liebgott to venture into.

“You give me a lot of experience,” he tsked with a curl of a smirk, a crafty murmur passing by her ear.

“Bite me,” Y/N rolled her eyes, a scoff spurting from parted lips, similar to a wisp of cigarette smoke; a dense proximity was between them now, a sensory overload kindled by her simper of scorn, his none too gentle murmur, and an intense stare bridged between their eyes.

“If you say so,” he chided, aware when her pupils dilate after a drawn moment of silence.

A tentative shiver poured over her spine at the warm breath flittering against her skin, it vanishing just as abruptly as it manifested, and a desire blazing beneath indifference for more — more of the closeness. Yet, all he warranted from her was a scuff on the rear of his head with the heel of her palm.

#hbowar #band of brothers #band of brothers imagines #joeliegbottimagine joeliegbott

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