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hell-it-was-you · 2 years ago

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This piece tells the story of Hyacinthus and Lord Apollo. The red bead represents the blood droplet from Hyacinthus that became the hyacinth flower. The gold tendrils show the light of Lord Apollo reaching towards his love. The metal chains and wires move with the wind, to represent Zephyrus, God of the West Wind, over time it will wear down and ruin and tarnish the gold details, the way that Zephyrus harmed Apollo once before. The matte black is the Underworld, ruled by Lord Hades, who now watches over Hyacinthus’ soul.

“Hyacinths For My Love” 2022; mixed media; gold leaf, beads, chains, wrapped wire, and acrylic on canvas.

#Apollon

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hell-it-was-you · 2 years ago

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Why don’t you deal me out of the next hand? What about your money? Are we waiting on him again? Yep.

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hell-it-was-you · 2 years ago

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Band of Brothers | Episode 8 - The Last Patrol

#The most perfect proposal

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hell-it-was-you · 2 years ago

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only you (and you alone)

(i wanted to upload this earlier, but my respiratory allergy has struck again and i am fighting for my life 😂) hi @hell-it-was-you! i'm your assigned writer for the HBO war short story exchange. i've never written a story in English before so this is a first for me, and it was fun! i hope you like it. thank you for participating in this exchange, and thanks to those who organized it! 🫶

show: band of brothers

ship: speirton

word count: 999 words

fanfiction prompts: a private bet at officers poker night. a drunken very sloppy confession of feelings

warnings: none

a/n: they're so silly here. i'm sorry lmao

Ron often wondered about the how's and why's as a puzzle he must resolve at any cost. Most likely, he wondered about those matters that didn't really need a resolution outside the battlefield.

Whenever a dead soldier’s face appeared in his dreams—a name he could barely remember—and Ron’s façade would crumble down, asking himself, ‘Why are we still fighting?’

He had no idea.

Following orders felt natural to him. In and of itself, Speirs belonged to that certainty and what it involved: the rush.

His heart pounding loudly in his ears, and not a single doubt disturbing him. Later, Ron'd think about how in the hell he was still alive.

He wouldn't tell anyone about his thoughts.

Perhaps it was luck. Some people were lucky, and some were not. These questions always got him into an endless spiral, and he dawned on a new, unfair question.

Ron was so far beyond surprise he couldn't even open his mouth. He stared at Carwood, half-heartedly hearing Harry and Nixon, cards strewn all over the table, and drinks of whiskey Nix looted for each of them.

And Speirs wondered and wondered and wondered. Even after losing another hand.

He slumped his shoulders; what a lost cause.

How was it possible that Lieutenant Lipton was able to so easily read all of his moves? Infuriating. And what was more than infuriating? The unsolved why.

Why did he keep waiting for it? To be read by him?

Was it the rush?

Was it the way Lipton, with his lazy smirk and flushed, rosy cheeks, glanced at him like he knew what he was doing?

Probably.

Lip looked back at him through his lidded eyes, and Ron took a deep breath to ground himself.

He was getting sidetracked.

They had been drinking for hours when Harry and Nix called it a night. Ron could tell by Harry’s slurred speech and the unsteadiness of his feet that he was tipsy. Nix stood up, completely unaffected by what he’d drunk, and mocked a cheerful Lipton—the drunkest of them—by telling him to drink more wisely the next time. Nix, of all people.

Ron promised them to take care of him before the officers left.

He began to regret it.

Who would have thought Lipton was the silliest and most talkative drunk?

The room seemed to float around like a boat, making Lipton stumble around when he tried to stand. He was about to take the whole bottle, but Speirs stopped him by his wrist.

"Don't."

Lip read the stern expression on Ron's face and shook his head. "I'm not that drunk, sir."

"You’ve had too much. I can’t give you any more."

Ron placed a hand over Lip's shoulders, and he leaned into his touch. Not a single complaint from Carwood, just following his CO. As usual.

He carried him to their shared billet. Ron squinted at the darkness, swallowing the light, and was careful in his walking. A difficult task when Lipton couldn't stop talking soothingly into his ear.

"Remember when… you ran straight through the German line at Foy… and came back unscathed?"

Ron's eyes crinkled; he couldn't hold his smile for much longer.

"I remember it."

"You were… the bravest man I've ever seen… I’ll never forget that… as long as I live."

Lip did not speak afterward; his eyes were fixed on Speirs. His heart might burst at any moment, mesmerized by the sight.

Ron found he was still staring.

"Like what you see?"

That snapped Lipton out of the trance, blinking in his direction. He laughed, and his hot breath sent shivers down Ron's spine.

"I always do, sir." Lip said, matter-of-factly.

The conviction in Carwood's voice surprised Ron. They have been keeping things professional, but the major breakthrough came almost by accident.

Ron smiled, and controlled by a force outside himself, he whispered, tongue in cheek, "Are you flirting with me, Lieutenant?"

Lipton was silent for a good minute. It was so long that Speirs checked if he was still awake.

"Now that I think of it… I am, sir."

A straightforward answer that caught Ron off guard. Again. His face turned up to Lip in awe as he continued.

"I know… I'm not supposed to want you." Lipton closed his eyes. The words were just too difficult to force out of his own mouth. Finally, he managed to slur, "But I do."

And of course, Speirs wouldn't waste Lip's honesty.

"So you want me?"

Lipton glanced at Ron's lips, unaware that Ron was doing the same.

Carwood didn't bother to consider the consequences. The whiskey was causing him to say things he wouldn't have said otherwise, and he might blame himself for it in the morning, but not tonight.

"Yessir."

Ron hummed in response, amused.

Speirs had to hold himself back from kissing him. He knew by then that he never wanted anything more than to have Carwood's lips over his.

He thought about catching the nape of Carwood's neck and pulling him forward, cherishing a sweet gasp from his mouth. Ron let his thoughts run wild, Lip's fingers tangled into his curls to hold him closer, and the taste of whiskey in—

That would have to wait.

It was just a moment, but Ron's question had already been answered.

Neither of them said a word, just looking into each other's eyes and knowing the untold truth.

Carwood tilted his head from side to side, frowning. He had started to feel the effects of the alcohol long before he sobered up, so Ron made him drink a full glass of water before allowing him to lie down and sleep.

Settling in for his shut-eye, Lip mumbled.

"Good night, sir."

Ron chuckled unabashedly. How funny. Calling him "sir" after confessing his feelings, drunk and sloppy.

He pondered how Lipton would behave during his inevitable morning hangover.

"It's Ron."

Lip repeated to himself his name, a tender whisper, and he didn't know the effect it had on Speirs.

"Good night, Ron."

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hell-it-was-you · 2 years ago

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Foreigners God

(I'm so sorry that this is getting posted so last minute. Work Really creeped up on me there at the end) Hey @mrs-murder-daddy I'm your lucky writer for the @hbowardaily short story exchange! Thank you so much for the perfect prompts. I had so much fun figuring out what I wanted to do with them and I hope you like the end result

show: band of brothers

ship: Lewis Nixon x Reader

word count: 980-ish words

fanfiction prompts: The vibes of Hozier’s first album / angst

warnings: None

Although your relationship with Lewis Nixon had begun all the way back during your time in England, born among the relative comforts of hustling darts and warm beer, there had always been a mutual sort of causality surrounding your romance, an unspoken lightheartedness that allowed you both to indulge in the luxury of stolen kisses and midnight walks without having to face any pressing thoughts of the impending future and what may lay beyond. It had been carefree, affectionate, and exactly what you both needed at that time. You were always aware that it couldn’t last, of course, but that had never taken away from the value of it. It was a time that you knew you would always carry close to your heart.

You had known at the time that it was going to be harder for you to leave behind than perhaps you were willing to admit to yourself, but that was neither here nor there. Neither you nor Nix had a choice in the matter. This was just the way that it had to be. Your goodbye was unspoken but mutual, and you preferred it that way. The last looks that you shared from across the runway were enough—those brown eyes lingering on you long after you’d had to turn away. You had to switch it off. The only thing that mattered from the moment that you stepped onto the rig was that you focused on your objective with everything you had to give. That was what was important. That was the key to your survival.

You hadn’t really had the opportunity to share any further closeness until your time in Bastogne. The wind was wild that evening, whipping up drifts of snow around your foxhole and making any attempts to use your measly blanket to protect yourself from the bite of the cold fruitless. You were frozen, underfed, and you’d trekked three miles in the fresh snow in an attempt to scrounge whatever supplies you could with little success. In short, you were miserable. You’d actually thought you’d been hiding it well, still making small talk and forcing smiles, but that illusion had shattered the moment that Nix had unceremoniously rolled himself out of the wind and into your foxhole, his elbow very nearly connecting with your sternum as he did. Figures.

His graceful entrance aside, the fact that he had come to check on you wasn’t a good sign. It meant that he must have picked up on the fact that something was amiss. You thought better than to take it personally. Intelligence was his specialty, after all. "Did I ever tell you about the man that pissed off the North Wind?"

It was one hell of an opening sentence, but it certainly got your attention. Not that your attention was anything he ever needed to work to attain, of course, since you had always been happily forthcoming with it, but still, it took you away from your less pleasant thoughts to focus on the absurdity of it.

"I’m guessing that this is an attempt at you putting your prep school knowledge to good use." You’d asked after a moment of watching him attempt to situate himself as comfortably as he could, tucking his knees up against his chest and sticking his gloved hands under his arms for warmth. It was probably far less warm of a greeting than Nix had been expecting, but the amusement in those brown eyes proved that he wasn’t disappointed. You’d missed this. The challenge. The back and forth. You’d almost forgotten how easy it all was. "Sharing is caring. I thought that since you got dragged all the way to Europe, I ought to offer you a little bit of culture. Give you something to take back with you." It was ridiculous but disarming, and whether Nix knew it or not, it was exactly the kind of low-stakes conversation that you needed to offer you some reprieve. For a second, you were worried that he might actually want to address your well-being. Now, that would have been unwelcome.

Once you finally found a spot to nestle down in, your shoulder pressed to Nix’s and your head hovering just next to his, you quickly turned your eyes away from the look he was pinning you with, sensing the concern in his gaze. It was wasted on you. Everyone was suffering. It wasn’t like you were a special case. Still, you let the fact that he still cared warm you just for a moment. You held it close. Let it rest with those memories you held in your heart and fan the flame of your own feelings. Another reprieve. "It has to do with the story of Apollo and Hyacinthus." Nix had finally clarified, shifting his body so that your shoulders were pressed that much more firmly against your own, allowing you to rest on him. You appreciated his subtlety. It was hard to ask for, all things considered. "In the myth, the god Apollo falls for a beautiful Spartan prince named Hyacinthus.." If Lew had heard the yawn that you had attempted to stifle as you drifted, he’d been kind enough not to mention it. You didn’t acknowledge when the arm that had been pressed against your own switched to tuck around you, more than willing to be pressed close. All that you needed was the timbre of his voice to focus on as you relaxed you further, your cheek pressed to his shoulder. You may have lost hope, but you still had Nix, and that was enough. That was enough for you to focus on. That could get you through, if you held on tight enough.

Apollo, I’m so sorry that you lost your love, but please don’t let fates take mine. I can't lose him. I still need him.

#band of brothers #lewis nixon

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hell-it-was-you · 2 years ago

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