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Me whenever someone writes Remmick as tall even tho he’s 5’8:

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reblog for exposure, donate if u can :))

✅️Vetted by @gazavetters, my number verified on the list is ( #621 )✅️

Today was unlike any other.

We received a few donations and with them, we had our first real meal in over a month. For the first time in so long, we didn’t go to sleep hungry. We cried, not from pain this time, but from overwhelming joy and gratitude.

To everyone who donated, shared, or simply kept us in their thoughts thank you. You didn’t just feed us. You reminded us that we’re not alone. You gave us back a piece of our dignity and hope.

But the struggle isn’t over. We’re still in need of food, support, and a little more light in these hard times.

Please, if you can, continue to help. Every share, every dollar, every act of kindness makes a real difference.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you. And please, stay with us on this journey.

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soft underbelly | remmick

couldnt beat the voices, i had to write smtn for him :p, based off this tiktok kinda, from sammie’s pov but none of that sammick bullshit, you got me? not that much of an x reader, i literally wrote this in one sitting so it’s prob gonna suck, sorryyy. 504 words

!! a little gorey(?) allusions to pagan traditions but it’s very vague lol, readers race is ambiguous but it is suggested that she’s from remmick’s past incase that bothers anyone,

HIS heart was burning.

The bone had caved in, leaving only the fleshy residue of his muscle and inner tissue. Nothing could begin to describe the smell; it was violently tinged with rot and ancient-old pain. Sammie could grasp the idea of it, that long-lasting trauma that spoils the meat. He could taste it whenever his mother had accidentally purchased old catfish, or maybe he also could feel it beneath his own carneous peel.

A profound touch of anguish, prolonged and enduring, generational. Is this what this beast felt in this moment?

Though, he wasn’t a beast just mere moments ago. Before he was a man, with a sly smile and a welcoming voice. However, there was a lack of sense of life in his eyes that anyone could pick up on.

Humanity was lost to this individual, who knows how long he’s been without.

Sunlight peaks out from the horizon, but it does not reach just yet. It’s almost as if the warmth is slenderly out of touch. Then, the beast turns. His body faces out to the forest-covered land, was he planning an escape? To hide away again from the sun? The temptation is suffocating, so Sammie tries to make out what his focus has shifted to.

At the base of an aged willow oak tree, stands a woman. She isn’t visually far from where the three of them stand in the water, but something about her makes it seem she is much further away.

The woman appears to be youthful, with soft eyes and even softer hands that cradle a lamb that sits idly in her clutch. Her garb is unusual, ancestral and sacred. Almost like it’s ceremonial or for religious rituals. Sammie’s never seen anything like it.

A braided cord is tied to her right hand, the one that rests atop the young animal. It’s woven with small wooden beads, decorated with unfamiliar symbols. She locks eyes with him and he gasps. Dread trickles down Sammie’s spine. It’s the same feeling that builds as he looks at the man that stands before him; no life.

The lamb in her hold bleats as she tilts her head to the side. Her gaze shifts from Sammie to the other man, who is now breathing heavily. Thick, black blood pours from his wounds. Though they hold no life, her eyes still feel compelling, as if she was beckoning him forward.

He does so, nearly tripping over completely in the water. When he finally makes it over to her, the difference is stark.

Her presence is foreign, innocent and gentle. Like an angel almost, hidden in between the words of scripture in a bible.

Him, though? A plaguing spirit, something cruel and malicious, yet hollow and agonising. He hovers a blistering hand above her shoulder and it almost appears to phase through it. Maybe she isn’t there, maybe she’s an allusion that has taken both of them by surprise.

She smiles, and an unmatched loving warmth returns to her eyes. Then, the sun rises.

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me when i saw a new fic request in my inbox

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just saw sinners and all i can say is OSCARS SWEEP

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jason/lucia/reader threesome fics gonna be crazy

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i’m planning on writing a bofb fanfic with either character x nurse reader. it’s gonna be a slight slow burn (not really), post-war, with a mix of angst and fluff– i just can’t decide on who 🤷🏻‍♀️

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watch me change my username and theme again

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Hi ,

My name is Shada, I’m 24 years old, a new nurse graduate from Gaza 🇵🇸, and I’m reaching out in the hope that you might take a moment to hear my story.

I gave birth to my baby boy, Adam , in the middle of this war. He is now 5 months old. We’ve lost everything—our home was destroyed, and my husband’s work as a water truck driver is gone. We have evacuated multiple times, and today we live in a crowded tent camp 🏕️, not knowing where we’ll go next.

On top of everything, Adam was born with clubfoot and needs urgent surgery 🏥 that cannot be done in Gaza—not now, not even before the war. He also needs special medical boots afterward.

We’re trying to raise funds to evacuate to safety and give our son a real chance at life.

If you’re able to donate 💌 or even just share our campaign 🔁, please know it would mean the world to me. I want to live, work, and raise my family in peace. I don’t want to lose my son or my husband.

Thank you so much for reading 🌿

@suppirtadamfil

With hope and gratitude,

Shada 🤍

answering for more exposure, donate if you can :))

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pavlov’s kiss | carwood lipton

switchin up the format of fic intro(?) title thing but i’m too lazy to do it to my other fics… so anyway this kinda sucks, it’s rushed and i didn’t even want to post it but i wanted to finish it before i started any other stories lol. 855 words

!! war-related ptsd, physical trauma (scars), allusions to sex (nothing explicit)

QUIETNESS was something foreign to you now. The long years spent in European lands, a constant buzz of soldiers and nurses around you at all times, the common violence of bombs being dropped overhead. You had grown accustomed to the wild nature of existing.

But now, safe and solitude in a warm bed, thousands of miles away from the horrors you endured, you can’t bring yourself to revel in the absence of noise honestly.

Carwood is hunched over the flower beds now. Fingers dirtied with the flesh of the earth, burrowed beneath his fingernails. Does it remind him of France or Belgium? Once spending his time digging up foxholes or graves, now planting flowers and vegetable seedlings.

You try not to think about it. All the young men and close friends you watched die, or tried to save, only to fail them. But it becomes such a habit, now especially that you have all this time on your hands.

You had contemplated turning to the working world the moment you got back. Picking up a few shifts at the nearest hospital or maybe at a local linen and cotton factory, but Carwood was immediately dismissive about the idea. Questioning you, ‘What kind of husband would I be if I let you work after all you’ve done?’

You had to remind him that you weren’t even married.

So, he married you. A small ceremony, with a good number of the Easy Company boys and your respective families. Joseph Liebgott even showed—that was the last time anyone’s seen him.

Now, you take care of the house—the inside only, though; the gardens are all Carwood’s.

Much has changed over the years. How you went from stopping the blood flowing from dying men to sewing the holes in your husband’s ruined work clothes.

He plucks a lone marigold from the flowerbed and turns on his knees to face you. An invitation. A burning notion brews in your stomach that forces you to bite down on your tongue.

As you make your way down the path to where Carwood sits, you think about the day it happened.

December, 1944. Easy was stationed in the forests of Bastogne, where you were posted in a nearby township, in a church-turned-hospital.

A couple of days before Christmas, you were instructed by a doctor to go and gather some bedsheets from some of the civilian housing to use as bandages. The next second, the church was brought to rubble by German artillery.

One of the warheads that was dropped not far from you was what caused it.

A sizeable amount of shrapnel embedded itself in your left arm, fire burned away at the first layer of skin from your wrist to elbow.

It left a scar. A bad one, one that you became embarrassed by. It wasn’t proper or ladylike, as you’ve been taught to be. The weather had warmed up once you made it to Austria, but even then, you didn’t wear your summer uniform.

Now that the years have passed, you’ve grown accustomed to the cicatrice, but the insecurities still fester whether you want them to or not.

A set of cobblestone steps led to the gardens, you narrowly avoided the mess of water that pooled into the walkway.

With a slow movement, you pluck the delicate flower from his grasp. He smiles up at you warmly, and you can’t help but mirror it.

“Hey.” He whispers, eyes filled with admiration.

“Hey, dollface.” You answer with a cheeky smirk. Carwood chuckles at the term and moves up from his kneeling stance.

A pair of calloused hands find familiarity around your waist as he uses the grip to pull you closer. Your hands lay atop the collar of his rumpled shirt, fingers curling around the soft baby hairs at the nape of his neck.

Shit, when was the last time you ironed any of his clothes?

His tender gaze briefly flickered to your upper arm, and an ailing sensation seeps into the back of your mind.

Over the time you’ve spent together, Carwood has never allowed you to feel bad about your scarring. Having no shame in spending a big amount on pretty dresses with short sleeves or thin cotton blouses that showcased the rippled flesh in an almost indecent manner.

For he could not bear to allow you to see yourself as something undesirable, a lot of time was spent in the darkness of your bedroom to make sure that was the case.

A light touch to your shoulder, you look down.

He’s leaning forward now, pressing feathery kisses across the discoloured and warped skin. You shudder as his teeth skim over the surface, and it’s clear that he has to hold in a laugh.

In an attempt to get revenge, you nip lightly at his face. His own scar sits there, a permanent crease embedded into the fat of his cheek.

He lets out a noise, a mix of surprise and humour, but it doesn’t halt his path of kisses down your arm.

“Hey, Lip— First Lieutenant,” You pause, revelling in the feeling of him against you, “Want to take this inside?”

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blood on women is sexy if it’s someone else’s. blood on men is sexy if it’s theirs. hope this helps.

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still am fiending for hbo war reqs but also.. if it’s not too taboo… i’d f heavy with some sopranos reqs as well (there are literally zero fics, pls 🫶🏻 let me be the one to offer u salvation) cuz there ain’t no way i’m the only one wanting some 🤨

i wanna start writing for some of the characters from the hbo war shows (the pacific & band of brothers) pls request 🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

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why is hbo so consistent with either making the most goated shows ever or just completely bombing a good piece of media via adaptions 💀

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Luigi Mangione could be getting the death penalty…

This man is innocent, his appearance and build doesn’t match that of the killers, the only “motive” he had was a convenient written confession showing that he supposedly viewed healthcare companies as “parasitic” and too expensive (which does somewhat contradict the actual killers actions) he had said note and the murder weapon conveniently on him while living his ordinary life, the killer held the gun in his right hand while Luigi is left-handed, Luigi and the Killer were potentially seen simultaneously, they wore slightly different coats.

The NYPD KNOW these are different people, they know the evidence is lacking, this isn’t a mistaken identity, it’s framing, they are trying to make themself appear to still be control by catching this man, humiliating him, killing him, when they know full well that the person they are prosecuting ISNT EVEN THE RIGHT GUY! This is an injustice! This is not a fair trial! This is downright tyranny!

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Hey hey!! I love your bofb writing and I saw you say that you’d write poly bofb x reader, and I was wondering if you’d be interested in writing poly!baberoe/poly! Speirton x reader, maybe about how the duo asks reader to join their relationship during the war?

If not no worries, I love your writing!! <3

antlers

edward babe heffron/male!reader/eugene roe

thank u sm for your request, made this one a male!reader to just for u lol (but for all other ppl requesting i would def appreciate some fem!reader :p) also Ralph Spina erasure :( as an act of forgiveness, someone should probs request a fic for him :(( (830 words)

caution. reader is suggested to be quite tall (taller than most of the other characters) and kinda a scaredy cat, phonetically spelt dialect dialogue btw, so not proper english, also not really what the request was asking for but i think i prefer writing more ambiguous/not established relationships for plots based during the war? if that makes sense lol.

TIME passes slowly in the deep forests of Bastogne. The heavy wind and unforgiving snowfall matched the German onset, and no one on either side could bear the weight.

Your attention is taken by the whispered ticks of your wristwatch, as you watch as the small minute hand moves at a bygone speed.

Babe Heffron sits idly beside you, his forehead resting lightly on your shoulder. You assume that he thinks you haven’t noticed, which is almost certainly endearing. Not that you’d mind it, he knows that anyway. Sergeant Martin once fell asleep on you also, it was the earlier days of the U.S. invasion of Nazi-occupied France. You could bring yourself to wake him, not only because he was clearly exhausted throughout the day, but he also frightened you.

The boys of Easy had bestowed a nickname on you during the training days at Toccoa. Moose. Large, often quite terrifying creatures, yet who are easily spooked at sudden movements or noises.

It was initially a joke, something to ruffle feathers, but over the months spent in Europe; it became your second name. Even the likes of Winters and Lipton have fallen into the habit of using it as your calling instead of your rank or surname.

Wasn’t much of a bother to you though, being the only Moose in Western Europe was enough to make you feel prideful. Those Axis grunts across the frozen range won’t know what’s hit them.

A quick gush of wind bellows into the dug-out foxhole you’re burrowed in, causing a shiver to rack your body. Heffron takes the opportunity to shift closer to your form, the surface of his helmet now secure under the curve of your jaw.

You breathe heavily through your nose as Babe responds with a smug-sounding snicker.

“Babe- what the hell are you doing?” You snipped, pushing lightly at his helmet with your cheek.

He tuts, “Quit it! I’m freezing—keep your antlers outta my face.”

You relent with a sigh and move slightly to rest yourself against him better. It wasn’t uncommon for the men out here to gather warmth where they could. Though it was discouraged to a great extent, some of the foot soldiers decided to start small fires in the area of their foxholes. Some tended to linger further back down the line where the cook was, not only to fill their bellies with whatever mash and paste he could conjure up but also because of the fire.

But most tended to get cozy with each other, you can’t count the number of times you’ve been out on scouting duty and seen Lieutenant Speirs, not where he was supposed to be with Dog Company, instead saddled up right beside Lipton. Though a simple dead-eyed stare from him was enough to keep you quiet about it.

A shuffle of boots from behind made you sit up swiftly, fingers already leaden on the hilt of your weapon. Your eyes dart around amidst the darkness of the snowy night—before landing on Eugene Roe.

The medic shuffles into the dugout before seating himself on your other side. “Sorry. Didn’t mean’tuh scare you.”

Babe guffaws again and you glare at him from above where he can see. “The goddamn birds in the trees ain’t mean to scare him either.”

You poke at his rib cage and he yelps. Eugene smiles a bit at your playfulness before scanning over the both of you with curious eyes.

“Y’all alright out here? Heffron, how’s yer hand?”

“It’s fine, Doc. Nothing you need to worry ‘bout now.”

He nods, leaning back against the dirt and closer to you. Babe’s cheekbone lingers not far from your nape now, his nose fleetingly touching the vein at your neck.

“Goddamn, you- you know what would be real swell right now?” Babe piped, breaking the warm silence. “A fuckin’ hot meal. A fresh hoagie roll or a soft pretzel, something American-made. Hey, Eugene? You ever had a cheesesteak before?”

The man in question shook his head with a soft no and you verbalised that pretzels were not American.

“Oh shut it, Antlers.” Babe mocked with a subtle grin. In response, you knocked your chin against the top of his helmet.

"I done had Po'boys before, though. You had one? With the fried shrimp an' the crawfish.”

“Would you boys quit it, you’re making me hungry now.” You breathed out, chest heavy with the presence of the two foot-soldiers. Heffron scoffed.

“Relax would you, Moose? Once we all get home, I’ll get you some pretzels—and Doc here will have to fry us up some catfish.”

Us? He meant the three of you to not only survive the hellhole but to, do it together?

You turn slightly to make eye contact with Eugene, to make sense of what exactly Heffron is saying. He appears to be anything but confused, an almost eager or anticipatory look on his face.

Right, how could you possibly expect otherwise? Together is the best possible way.

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kneecap-pilled

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Hii! I saw your post that you wanna write for Band of Brothers and that you also write for poly. So, I wanna request (if it is okay) speirton with a male sniper? Or Martin with a male engineer after the war?

recognition in strife

ronald spiers/male!reader/carwood lipton

thank u for your request! i’ve never written for a male!reader, i have reread this piece several times to make sure i didn’t mess up anywhere and like write the wrong pronouns or smtn but if i did pls tell me and i’ll change it straight away 🙏🏻 and i really hope it doesn’t come across as fetish-y or anything as i am a girl and can understand that the sheer idea of me writing something with mlm themes might be mistaken for that. (1,613 words)

caution. angsty, internal conflict, reader lowkey has daddy issues, subliminal praise kink too, Lipton is a flirty drunk lololl, period accurate conformity to homosexuality (?) ending is shit cuz I didn’t know how to finish it sorry 😢

BRANCHES snapping caught attention, hairs at the back of your neck stood proud, prouder than you could ever feel inside. 

The rifle strapped to your shoulder was heavy, and cold now under your steady grasp. It’s aged as much as you have these past few months, bared with enough scratches and dents to pass with a Purple Heart. 

Lieutenant Winters stands further up from the rest of the troop, hand raised in command of standstill. His head turns slowly as he scans for the enemy. Germans. Europe. Paratroopers. 506th. What the hell were you doing here?

The enlistment was entirely at no charge. You chose to volunteer, completely at your discretion. Even if there was this pressing need in your mind to leave a positive mark on your father’s reputation as the man of the house. 

He hadn’t said anything explicitly, but you could see it in his eyes. It was the same look you had received when you brought home bad grades or tracked in mud from outside in the backyard: disappointment, a breach of social etiquette, a faux pas. You couldn’t not help in the fight, what would that make of you in the years to come? What would he think of you then?

This was implemented in your mind throughout training, you thought of it more as a way of convincing yourself that you belonged here, that you were in fact fighting in favour of the freedom of the country. 

Though, you can’t lie to yourself forever. 

Winters’ gestures with a quick hand to continue. 

The troop makes it to a brief cliffside, before spotting the location of the enemy forces. Winters turns to you now and lowly whispers your surname, Father’s name. With another hand signal, he informs you to find higher ground. A better location for accuracy. You do so with a nod and begin a light jog over to a hill landscape to the left. 

Scaling it with ease, you lie down in a prone position and check the sight of the rifle. It had become a habit during your youth to clamber up trees and climb over rocks in the forest close to your childhood home, which came in handy during your training as you were often first place during the obstacle course runs in Toccoa—and then on European soil. 

1st Sergeant Lipton watches you now, though it goes unnoticed. He squints as you slip into a worthy position and nods once to himself before turning back to the task at hand. 

Now set with the ambience of a guardian angel, Easy Company moves forward. It doesn’t take long for the Germans to notice this advancement. 

Gun shellings start to sound out into the evening air as yet another attack proceeds. You crack two shots into the officers manning one of the MG42s as Staff Sergeant Joe Toye and T-5 Joe Liebgott push in to destroy the gun. 

Further gunshots ring out from the right and you take a moment to briefly look over. Soldiers of Dog Company move with haste from out the edge of the eastern forest line, guns blazing and led by no other than Lieutenant Speirs. 

Speirs was an enigma to you and many others of the company, you’ve heard the rumours, that he supposedly gunned down a dozen German POWs after offering them cigarettes. A Trojan horse, a calm before the storm, a betrayal even the worst of men couldn’t expect. In battle, it was clear that he was a man well-adapted to war, and even thrived in it. 

In all honesty, deep down you think he frightened you. Not in the way Father did but in a more chaotic, animalistic way. Years spent under the roof of your father’s house had led you to conform to his ways of life, you knew how he functioned, probably better than he did himself. 

Lieutenant Speirs, you couldn’t make out a man like him. Certainly not whilst on a bloodied field of war. 

As the conflict down below continued, you couldn’t help but watch over him, the way he moved, not in parallel to his fellow soldiers, but in an entirely dedicated and avid manner of combat. 

When silence envelopes this space of French land, you finally can breathe. The fight is over for this moment until orders come in to move forward into occupied territory. 

Winters and Speirs meet up in the middle, surrounded by the bodies of American and German soldiers alike, who have all succumbed to the same fate. It’s only then when you see it. 

A movement. A shuffle of something. A collapsed soldier that hasn’t fallen yet. Is it one of yours, or one of theirs. 

You can’t let your judgment fail you now, so as he moves upwards you aim and pull the trigger. 

He falls as fast as he stood up. A German officer, one that had evaded the assault and had masked himself as a fallen soldier. The shot rings out deafeningly, the two lieutenants act accordingly with their weapons aimed at the now-dead man. 

Somehow over the roughy twenty-yard distance, you lock eyes with Speirs. 

The contact makes you freeze, head hovering just above the scope sight, shaking fingers still unyielding on the trigger. 

It’s as if you were a prey animal, and he a predator waiting for a chance to catch. Unnerving and bone-chilling as you’re locked in a haze with someone so haunting. 

You don’t know how to respond, your heart is hammering inside your chest matched with a blush on your face. It’s as if he’d managed to peel away the muscle protecting your chest and now is toying with the beat of your organs. 

This staring contest is broken, only when a replacement taps at your shoulder. You flinch and look at him wide-eyed, and he informs you that the troops are returning to the outpost where you previously were. 

As you turn back one more time to look at Speirs, he’s vanished from the battlefield. 

THE air in the pub was heavy, men from Easy and Dog Company singing out loud in a clamorous fashion. The two troops had taken up residency in a local village and appropriately decided to keep their pandemonium away from the houses they’d been assigned to. However, that didn’t amount to much appreciation from the locals as you could still feel the judging eyes of the usual bargoers. 

You had chosen to stray away from the chaos and sat yourself in a corner booth, nursing a now lukewarm beer. 

Sergeant Lipton had joined you at some point, sitting half on the booth seat opposite you with a warm smile on his face as he watched the men sing. Anyone would admit that they in fact sound terrible but it was no less entertaining. 

His eyes briefly flicker to yours in the haze and your heart skips a beat. 

You watch the slight movements as he juts out his chin, his proud and slightly tipsy smile turning into a sly grin. He coaxed your name with squinting eyes, you can’t help but internally keen at the way he said it. 

“Sir?” You reply earnestly, fingertips now fringing over the lip of your drink.

“Did good today, you know that? Lieutenant Winters and Lieutenant Speirs were very impressed.” 

A lump forms in your throat, you can’t trust your voice right now so you respond with a nod. 

“They might even let Colonel Sink know, a medal might just be on your chest before we hit further inland.” He adds with a gesture of his head to your uniform. You weren’t nearly as decorated as some of the other men with their shining golds of honour or purple hearts. You hadn’t even been granted the Easy Company tradition with a bullet to the ass, but you were less concerned about that. 

Your heart can’t take it anymore, you shuffle your feet before standing quickly. “Sorry– sir, I’ll uh- if you’ll excuse me.”

Before you can even turn up and out of the booth, Lieutenant Speirs stands right in front of you, blocking the way out. 

The warning signals are blaring in your ears, but you don’t move. You can’t move, it’s an illusion of a choice and the shivers that rack over your form can’t be stopped. He senses most likely, they both can. This forlorn battle you fight solo in your mind, it’s killing you. 

Speirs moves over to the other side and urges Lipton to move over to make room for himself. The sergeant does so without question and shuffles further into the booth with his drink in hand. 

You have the opportunity to flee now, to save yourself. But for some reason you refuse to. You can’t. You don’t want to. 

They both sit across from you now, Lipton hunched over to the side battling the fog of inebriation, Speirs observing you with a fine-drawn expression. 

“I have to express my gratitude to you, sergeant. If you hadn’t taken out that camouflaged grunt, I probably wouldn’t be here.”

“Of course, sir.” You hum, swallowing down the fervent noise that was heavy in your chest. “It’s what we’re here to do.”

He nods, tensing his jaw with an enticing yet brief smirk. He’s playing you— they both are. Lipton with his soft and encouraging smiles, and Lieutenant Speirs with his incomprehensible words of supposed motivation. 

“You were goin’ to grab a second drink? Wouldn’t mind grabbing me something, would you sergeant?”

If it was on purpose or not, you couldn’t tell, but everything that Speirs said somehow came out as a command. You didn’t mind it that much though, not even if you tried. 

an. i also wanted to add that i don’t mind writing for male!readers, it just isn’t something i think i’m all that good at and i just can’t relate to it as well to compared to writing for fem!readers, so ultimately i do prefer writing fem!reader inserts :))