general, your tank is a powerful vehicle

[sab]

For Blow it With Feeling, a Wintersnix panicky blowjob.

This production of the musical "War and Blowjobs" is based loosely on the original text "Damian Lewis and Ron Livingston are pretty" and was sponsored by a charitable grant from the runpunkrun Foundation for Titles Extracted From German Poetry in Translation. RPR did a C-130's worth of fly-by beta and very chivalrously donated the Brechtian title of the most excellent poem to this project, see: From a German War Primer.

Title: General, dein Tank ist ein starker Wagen
Author: Sabine
Email: sabine101@juno.com
Fandom: Band of Brothers
Pairing: Winters/Nixon
Length: 17k
Genre: war and blowjobs, NC-17
Summary: General, your tank is a powerful vehicle. (With due credit to Bertolt
Brecht)
Emotion: panic








You pull back, deeper into the Ardennes. You don’t have to sleep in a foxhole tonight. It’s not going to snow in your hair while you sleep, your toes won’t freeze in your boots.

Not much warmer in the CQ tent but you’ve got a military-issue cot and a Sterno oven to thaw your white knuckles. Lip’s got the men under control. They’re not afraid. You don’t think about Dike.

A military life’s worth less than a civilian one; you worked it out in your head, once, during a training jump. It figured at about five to one – five troopers dead to save one civilian seemed a reasonable and gallant trade. An NCO’s life is worth less than an officer, exchanging at about ten to one or more. But then, an officer’s life is worth less than a civilian too. Two to one, maybe. You haven’t found a theorem for that. A staff sergeant’s not worth a West Point grad, but that’s just the DOAs; you have to figure in casualties, injuries, prisoner trade. One medic is worth three or four NCOs, but only alive. A dead medic is worthless. You remind yourself not to tell Gene Roe.

Up here, they try to tell you officers are pretty much interchangeable, battalion XO for an intelligence officer, major for a captain, field lieutenant for a lieutenant in HQ who’s never seen a day of combat.

Captain Lewis Nixon’s melting snow for coffee. Two officers in one tent, gotta be worth at least a platoon on the line. You warm your hands over the Sterno and wonder which platoon’s gonna go down for you. Buck Compton’s men are top of the line; they’d make a reasonable sacrifice. Lieutenant Peacock’s platoon would be a steal.

You hate this war.

"Coffee?" Nix asks, and you nod. "Lousy-ass coffee," he amends. "I’m just rebrewing from this morning. Not holding out hope for a supply run, you know."

"No, because then we’d have ammo. Maybe winter clothes too."

Nix smiles. "I’d just take the coffee and a couple more bottles of rotgut."

"I know you would," you smile back, and your face cracks in the cold.

Lewis Nixon grins like a sonofagun, and it’s the only thing, these days, that reminds you what you’re worth.

You underwent a weapons upgrade when they gave you this promotion. You’ve got a longer range of sight, but usability was compromised for it, it’s harder for your finger to reach the trigger. You deal in platoons, battalions, regiments now. The soldier’s become nearly too small to see, left to Lieutenant Dike, Sergeant Lipton. Lieutenant Peacock. Compton. Malarkey. Guarnere. Martin. Colonel Sink tells you they’re still your men, but you know. They’re their own men.

You’re your own man, cold as a witch’s kneecap back here, away from the lines, and nothing but Nix to remind you of your worth and pour your coffee.

You hate this damn job. You hate this damn forest.

But it’s quiet, at least. Until it’s not.

Artillery screams through the treeline, taking pine branches like comet tails wheeling into the snow. The boom’s delayed, flash then thunder, you stand up.

"Dick!" Nix grabs your shoulder. "Stay in the tent, man."

Another barrage and the air’s littered with fat chunks of snow and frozen earth, the trees are exploding like they’re mined. Exploding trees. You flinch, damn it, try to steel your face as you watch through the tent flap and another round of artillery explodes fifty yards away and you flinch again and are shocked to find you’ve covered your face with your hand.

"That’s way too close, Nix," you say. "I have to make sure the men have cover, that they’ve dug the foxholes deep enough –"

"Not your job anymore, Dick, listen to me. That’s Lieutenant Dike’s job. And the platoon leaders. The platoon leaders can handle it."

"Staff Sergeant Lipton’s a good soldier," you say.

"Yep," Nix agrees. "And so’s Buck Compton and the rest of the men. E Company’s trained for this. They’ll do just fine. You’ve got to stay off the line, so –"

Turns out you can’t hear him over the screaming artillery. You sit down and you cover your head because there's nothing else you can do. An officer's life is worth more than an NCO's. A major's life is worth more than a field lieutenant's. Colonel Sink's built an expensive weapon in you, and Lewis Nixon's protecting it like it's a case of Vat 69.

"Why are you here, anyway?" You ask Lew, more shrewish than you'd meant to sound.

"It was here or back in Bastogne with the goddamned paper pushers, and you've got better coffee."

Another explosion. The tent shakes. Little bits of dirt and snow fall into your tin mug. You drink the coffee anyway. You're a weapon and it doesn't matter.

Nix is in the doorway, standing cockeyed with his back on the support beam, looking out at the shrapnel and the snow.

"What a goddamned mess," he says, but not to you. He doesn't swear when he talks to you. "What a goddamned fucking mess, Dick."

"It's war," you agree.

You signed your life over when you entered officer's training. You never expected to live this long or get this far. You're dead, obsolete, just taking up space for the next field-tested weapon in the next field-tested war. It doesn't bother you.

"I'll tell you one thing," Nix says. "I'm glad you're here. I mean, saves me from having to worry about your ass on the line."

You smile at your coffee again. "Since when have you worried about my ass?"

"It's a very important ass," Nix cocks an eyebrow. "A Major ass."

You laugh and a tree explodes somewhere. Your stomach hurts.

"Major Winters -- excuse me, Captain -- Major Winters?" Eugene Roe nods at Nixon and enters the tent. His hands are covered with blood and he's trying to wipe them on his pants but his pants are covered with blood and snow too.

You stand up. "Yeah?"

"Either of you guys got bandages, morphine?"

You check your kit and come up with a single bandage wrapped around a cardboard square. You toss it to Roe.

"Captain Nixon?" Nix is in his kit too, comes back with two syrettes of morphine and a bottle of iodine.

Roe stashes the haul, salutes, leaves in a crunch of thunder and snow as somewhere German artillery erupts. You get to your feet again.

"I need to talk to Lieutenant Dike," you say, handing your tin cup to Nix. He shoots out an arm and bars the tent flap.

"Sit down, Dick," he says. More artillery. You look at him, not moving. "You gonna pull rank on me? You're gonna have to."

"The men --"

"They're not your men anymore," Nixon says, not for the first time, not for the last time. "Trust the noncoms, and sit your Major ass down."

Nix's face is half obscured in shadow, and his beard's thicker now that it's too cold to shave. His eyes are steeled, trained on you. He looks dark. He takes his helmet off and scrapes his fingers through his hair and it falls shaggy on his forehead. You shiver.

"I'll sit if you sit," you say, sitting. Nix looks away, out the tent flap, out into the snow. He tugs at his scarf. "That's an order, Captain." Nix grins with half his mouth.

He leans out of the tent as a mortar goes off somewhere, comes back inside with a helmet full of snow which he brings over to the Sterno fire and jiggles. You warm your hands and watch.

"Coffee goes cold too damned fast," Nix says, mostly to his helmet. "You want?"

He's solid beside you, hip against yours, and you think it's strange you can feel him radiating heat until you realize you are too. Your fingers and nose are cold. You can't figure it out. You shift a little in your seat.

People don't touch, where you come from. Your father never touched you. You can count the times your mother hugged you on one hand. You don't have girlfriends, and they used to call you a queer but they also used to call you a Quaker and you've learned to ignore it. Nix likes to touch.

He'll grab your arm, lean in close with his whiskey breath and whisper laughter at you. He'll nap on your shoulder on the train. At first it made you stiffen, made you uncomfortable. Now it makes you generate heat from your armpits, your neck, your thighs, and outside it's blowing snow and ammunition. You scoot away. Need to keep focused. You're military-issue. You're a Major, for Pete's sake.

"Lew," you say. "Thanks for coming out here."

"War is hell," he shrugs. You laugh. You put a hand on his knee, experimentally. He doesn't seem to notice.

"Really, I'd be out of my mind if I were stuck here alone with the men out there."

"You'd be in a foxhole somewhere about to get your legs blown off," Nixon says. "And who do you think Colonel Sink would blame?"

"You're not my babysitter," you smile. "Remember, I outrank you."

"Don't get too comfortable resting on those clusters," he says. "I'm right behind you, you know."

You know Colonel Sink has no intention of promoting Captain Nixon, that his drinking is a problem, his cocky disregard for authority, his limited field experience, the fact that he's never once fired his weapon in combat. You cling to Nixon for all those reasons, those and his cockeyed, scruffy smile. His eyes are inky, and you can see yourself in them, twin ruddy blurs. You take off your helmet. You like yourself in his eyes.

"Lew?" He blinks at you. "Can you feel your toes?"

He shakes his head. "Not really, no."

"Me neither."

You sit in silence a minute and watch the snow melt in Nixon's helmet. You're chilled again.

You scoot back, just another inch, and there's Nix's hip again, warm and solid and you realize your hand's still on his knee and you slide it up his thigh, something warm and solid, not military issue at all. You turn a few degrees toward him and he looks at you expectantly, lips pursed.

You lean in and kiss him on his scruffy whiskey mouth.

He pushes you away, drops his helmet, laughing. "Whoa, Dick, man, listen --"

You inhale icy air through your nostrils but you're not nearly as embarrassed as you thought you'd be. You're a Major, for Pete's sake. "I've been wanting to do that since Toccoa," you say, cleanly.

"Uh, yeah. Okay. You feel better now?"

You nod. He's such a man, such a little boy sometimes, all booze and machismo, all East Coast hyperintellectual, the brooding, marrying kind. His wife's a shrew. He's trembling and you don't want him to be trembling so you kiss him again and this time he doesn't push you away, not immediately.

"Di-- Major Winters," he stands up, stumbles backward and kicks the Sterno jar into the snow and the flame sizzles out.

"Captain Nixon," you say, still surprised at your own calm. He digs in his pocket, pulls out the omnipresent flask and takes a long draw.

"Seriously? You're an attractive guy and, I mean, who am I to challenge the authority of the XO of this whole goddamn battalion, but-- what, you're a fag?"

You're less calm. "As far as the Army's concerned, I'm a Panzer tank," you say. "I'm an expensively trained fighting tool and I'm stuck here behind the lines because those boys out there --" you jerk a thumb toward the tent flap-- "are worth less than I am."

"Oh, god, Dick, is that what you--" he crouches in front of you, balanced on the toes of his military issue boots, puts a hand on your knee. "Look, I know this promotion's a pain in the ass --"

"Whether this promotion's a pain in the--" you stumble over the word. "A pain in my valuable Major ass or not is moot, Lew. I'm here. And I -- " you sigh. "It's just so cold."

"It's just so fucking cold, Dick, say it. Trust me, you'll feel better. This war's a fucking joke --" he knocks back some more Vat 69 -- "E company's getting the shit kicked out of them and it's so fucking cold your balls are hiding out behind your spastic colon."

His face is flushed and you think he's the most alive thing you've ever seen. Outside the Germans are back from hiatus with a vengeance and you can feel your bones ache with every tree-splitting crack of incoming fire. You reach for Lewis's shoulders and he's generating heat too. You put a cold hand on his cheek where he's flushed and he's warm to the touch and you know he needs you, he wants it, he wants you too.

"You're warm," you say.

"I'm freezing my ass off," he says, but he's still and he's shuddering and he doesn't move and he stares at you with those crazy eyes.

"You're hot. You're radiating heat."

"I'm not," he says, all low and scared. "Really, it's so --"

This time he kisses you back.

The tent is shaking with each blast of distant fire in the Ardennes, and Nixon's shaking too, blind scared out of his mind but free, for a minute, from the Army, from ritual, from the terror of real life, and you're free too. He runs a hand down your chest, unbuttons your canvas jacket -- too thin to be any good in this weather but that's the quartermaster's problem because you're warm enough now -- scrapes a thumb across the fly of your canvas trousers where you're straining and hard and he closes his eyes for longer than a blink and you can see him swallow.

He unzips your fly, pushes away the grey-green flap of your boxer shorts. Cannon fire somewhere and you throw your head back and his mouth is hot, wet, he knows what he's doing and he's warm around you. You shove a pale, freckled hand into his mop of dirty blackish hair and he slides his fingers up your thigh.

"Jesus Christ, Dick," he says, pulling back a minute, looking up. You don't begrudge him the profanity and you can hear screams of "get down!" amid the mortar fire. "What the hell are we doing? I can't -- oh, god -- "

You pull his face toward yours and you kiss his wet mouth and he kisses you too, hands everywhere, clawing your shoulders, dragging you down off the bench and into the snow and when you let a hand accidentally brush his thigh you know he's hard too.

"Ah, fuck," he says, finding your cock with a hand and then his mouth again. "Ah, fuck," this time with his mouth full.

"It's all right," you say, but your voice hitches as he rolls his tongue around and you know the Army didn't have this in mind when they promoted you and here with Lewis Nixon reminding you what it is to be alive you don't care about the damned Army. "It's -- oh. Lew, oh."

Nix pulls back again and shakes his head and laughs, that gravelly laugh you've held on to like a talisman since Georgia. "Fucking A, Dick, I swear to god this is fucking insane, I must be out of my mind -- "

"You want to --" you're going to say "stop" but Nix cuts you off --

"I swear to god I'm gonna come even before you do, fucking, fucking A, what the fuck is this about?"

There's an explosion out there somewhere, then a breeze and you twitch. Nix shimmies in closer beside you, wraps his hand around your cock and holds steady for a moment, sheer panic in his eyes as he searches your face. You prop your head against the bench and breathe a little, and an explosion rocks the woods again. You don't know whether to come or to cry. Neither, it seems, does Lewis, and his eyes are closed tight again but his hand's warm and solid around you and this is worth something, maybe. This moment, this man.

He laughs again. "You're a crazy sonofabitch, Dick," he says. "And holy shit I don't know why but you're the sexiest bastard -- why -- Jesus! I am so fucking hot this is -- I swear to god I've never been this turned on in my life."

"War is hell," you say, and he smiles, and you've thawed enough you don't feel like a weapon anymore.

"War is hell," he agrees. "Fucking A." And you're still dangerously hard but you breathe a little and curl a couple fingers into the waistband of Nix's pants. He shakes his head.

"Nah, let me just --" but his words are lost in mortar fire and there's screaming out there and you close your eyes and Lewis Nixon goes down on you again.

Comments

[halfnorn.livejournal.com]

I should holler 'I WANT SOME GOOD WINTERSNIXON PORN, GODDAMMIT!' to the sky more often. It seems to work. It's all atmospheric and shit but down to earth at the same time, good work.

[iamsab.livejournal.com]

Hey, thanks! I like both "atmospheric" and "down to earth" so I'm duly flattered.

Plus, any excuse to use my OTP of the ETO icon, you know -- I can see writing some more Wintersnix for just that reason. *g*

[ratcreature]

I have no clue about Band of Brothers, still liked the story as a stand alone though.

Also I wanted to point out that Bertolt Brecht is written with a "t" in Bertolt. (Sorry to be nitpicky that way, it's just I always used to write his first name wrong in school, either with a "d" or putting in a "h" or sometimes both, but it finally stuck after a couple of years, so now I notice... *g*)

I'm so embarrassed!

[iamsab.livejournal.com]

Thanks for pointing it out, it's fixed now. And glad you liked the story!

[untitled06.livejournal.com]

DAMN, sabine, write MORE, dammit, this was really great, really really -- the first story i've read since coming home (yesterday) and it's such a treat to come home to some good BoB. Wintersnixon is like the fandom's otp (how can you NOT feel the wintersnixon) but it's something i can't seem to get my head around to write, and here you are, making a killing of it, making a killing of winters.

you're writing in second person a character i can't fathom and it's really different from all the other winters characterizations i've ever read. winters is such a stoic character, but instead of something distant or static, you've written a whirlwind inside of him that's dynamic in a bitter, humorous way. (i'm not sure that's come out the way i meant it, but your winter's voice is just. i love it.)

A military life’s worth less than a civilian one; you worked it out in your head, once, during a training jump. It figured at about five to one – five troopers dead to save one civilian seemed a reasonable and gallant trade. An NCO’s life is worth less than an officer, exchanging at about ten to one or more. But then, an officer’s life is worth less than a civilian too. Two to one, maybe. You haven’t found a theorem for that. A staff sergeant’s not worth a West Point grad, but that’s just the DOAs; you have to figure in casualties, injuries, prisoner trade. One medic is worth three or four NCOs, but only alive. A dead medic is worthless. You remind yourself not to tell Gene Roe.

Up here, they try to tell you officers are pretty much interchangeable, battalion XO for an intelligence officer, major for a captain, field lieutenant for a lieutenant in HQ who’s never seen a day of combat.

...

You underwent a weapons upgrade when they gave you this promotion. You’ve got a longer range of sight, but usability was compromised for it, it’s harder for your finger to reach the trigger. You deal in platoons, battalions, regiments now. The soldier’s become nearly too small to see, left to Lieutenant Dike, Sergeant Lipton. Lieutenant Peacock. Compton. Malarkey. Guarnere. Martin. Colonel Sink tells you they’re still your men, but you know. They’re their own men.

and on top of this, you've written good ol' fashion smut. but rooted in some amazing characterizations.

thanks so much for this, for writing it and sharing with us -- it's an amAZING first foray into BoBslash and i say, forpetessake, foray AGAIN.

ten points, sabine, someone give the girl a gold star. *grin*

subliminalmessagestartshere:
WRITE MORE WRITE MORE.

this man's army

[iamsab.livejournal.com]

Yeah, see. Winters IS complicated, I think, and most comfortable when he's in control and taking charge because then he doesn't have to face his doubts. We see it in "Crossroads" where his promotion is tied so intensely to his feelings of guilt for killing the SS man -- the ARMY tells him he's worth something and that HAS to be good enough, otherwise he'd be forced to figure out what he's worth for himself.

We see it again in "Points" (?) when he wants to leave for the PTO and headquarters won't let him go -- "I think your men have earned the right to keep you around" -- he's so sure he's only got worth as a killing machine; he never stops to consider the possibility he's worth something as a MAN.

But Nix, of course, ONLY sees Dick's worth as a man -- Dick's rank in the army is almost meaningless to Nixon's respect for him and love for him.

So, anyway. That's what I tried to play with in Dick's head, and I love that you saw it too, and that it worked for you. Winters' characterization is HARD, yo. Even Damian Lewis agreed he's a tough egg to crack.

But mmmm, worth it.

I will write more. *g*

[-maayan.livejournal.com]

It wasn't the panicky blowjob I expected (Methos/Hoynes! Methos/Lex! Lex/Hoynes/Methos?), but it's hot and touching all the same.

Even if I've never watched BoB.

[iamsab.livejournal.com]

Two things!

Check out kormantic's journal for some tantalizing Methos/QaF snippets as a present for meeeee (and therefore, by extension, you), and check out princessgolux's journal for an interesting observation on SG:1 and Farscape.

And Lex/Hoynes/Methos is, surprisingly, very appealing.

[sorlklewis.livejournal.com]

Damn, Sab, that was good. Really, really good.

[iamsab.livejournal.com]

Hey, thanks!

[septicemic.livejournal.com]

Oh SAB.

That ROCKED.

I am WITHOUT WORDS.

(Except a quibble--I don't think Winters was a major until Haguenau.)

[iamsab.livejournal.com]

Really! How embarrassing. He's made battalion XO in "Crossroads," of course, but you're saying he's still a Captain?

Are you sure?

Anyway, I'm pretending he's not.

And, so glad I've rendered you speechless -- and now that you've got the screencaps up perhaps there'll be a new shot of inspiration to the c_t girls. MORE FIC.

[wearemany.livejournal.com]

you are so fucking brilliant it makes my heart hurt, some days. i don't know these men. i know this place. i know you.

last night at dinner, nicole was talking about teaching the things they carried for school, and steve said, who's that? who's tim o'brien? and then -- yeah. i pretty much avoided all those kind of books when i got home.

there's no panic like the great panic. and a dead medic is worthless. xoxoxox.

[iamsab.livejournal.com]

there's no panic like the great panic.

See. I knew you'd know. xoxox

[logovo.livejournal.com]

Wonferful to read this on a Monday morning.
Love, love your Winters. Hot and beautiful.

[logovo.livejournal.com]

Wonferful? Sheesh, what running around does. Wonderful, of course I meant to say wonderful.

[brightest-blue.livejournal.com]

Ho-ly shit! I love this! Love the way you got inside Winters' head; all those things roiling around because of the shelling, the cold, the fatigue, and how close Nixon is. It's gorgeous. Goes off to pimp.

Oh, and love that icon, btw.

[iamsab.livejournal.com]

Any excuse to use this icon... *g*

So glad you like. Pimp away, please. The more BoB the better, no? And, yeah, Winters' head. It's a busy, crazy place in there, despite his steely exterior.

Thanks!

[alethialia.livejournal.com]

Colonel Sink's built an expensive weapon in you, and Lewis Nixon's protecting it like it's a case of Vat 69.

Favorite line. And wow. He's so--bitter. This is quite a different look at Winters. I like it. And second person is ridiculously hard to write, but you pulled it off beautifully. Wonderful job.

[iamsab.livejournal.com]

See. Like I said above to untitled06. I think Winters *is* sort of bitter, which is what makes him both such a good leader and so closed off. We know he's *got* a storm inside there, but we don't get to see it because he won't show vulnerability, won't drink, won't swear.

So the Army promotes him, but, meanwhile, he becomes more and more emotionally crippled.

I love that line too. Thanks so much for the feedback!

[marinwood.livejournal.com]

This? Is perfect. I loved everything about it - the use of present tense and the second person, the analysis of the worth of officers versus enlsted men, the description of Nixon's scruffy face and the body heat coming off the two in the freezing Ardenne forest, and especially the following passage:

You prop your head against the bench and breathe a little, and an explosion rocks the woods again. You don't know whether to come or to cry. Neither, it seems, does Lewis, and his eyes are closed tight again but his hand's warm and solid around you and this is worth something, maybe. This moment, this man.

Bravo. I bow down to your Winnix prowess.

[iamsab.livejournal.com]

See, and here I just thought they were pretty. *g*

Mmmm, Wintersnix....

[mace-m.livejournal.com]

I'm awed. Yeah, I think that's the word for it. Awed. That was a truly wonderful, beautiful story. You've managed to capture the voice of Winters amazingly well, and incorporated it with the bleak and cold of Bastogne. Congratulations! Hoping to see more fiction from you in due time!

[iamsab.livejournal.com]

Love your icon, btw. And I'm so glad you liked this, because Winters is a tough cookie and getting inside that freckled head was no picnic; there's a lot going on in there, yo.

Gory, gory, what a helluva way to die.

[http://users.livejournal.com/_snafu/]

I laughed. I cried. I lusted. That's all I ask for. And you brought. And it's not easy, too, I'm not an easy person to please, and just damn, that was good.

Going to reread now.

[iamsab.livejournal.com]

Mmm, lust.

More lust in the next one, I think. One can never have too much Wintersnix lust. Because, I said it before, I'll say it again. Damian. Ron. TOO FUCKING PRETTY.

So glad I pleased a tough critic like you! Thanks!

[lcsbanana.livejournal.com]

oh *man.* This is unbelievably fantastic. I am all shivery, and your Nixon--he's just--BOTH of them--the dialogue is astonishing, and the awkward moment isn't awkward at all, and it's so sexy and so sad and exhilarating and eeeeeeeeee LOVE. I adore it. To PIECES.

[iamsab.livejournal.com]

See! Nix! I mean -- I had to grapple harder with Winters for this because I was in his head, and also because he's sort of enigmatic and steely and tough, but as it turns out, Nix is really just as complicated in his own way.

I mean, Nix is the one we see falling on his sword (the scene where he's drunk off his ass and demoted and the only thing he's worried about is what to write in the letters to the parents of the dead soldiers, I've got the chills now just thinking about it) for the Army, the Army beats the shit out of him, sucks the life out of him, loses him his sanity and sobriety, his wife and his goddamned dog -- I think Nix might even be MORE afraid to go after what he wants/needs than Winters. So here, he's faced with what he (so OBVIOUSLY) wants and he's, in true Nixon fashion, half freaking out and half obsessively addicted.

I was really hoping that would come across, and the fact that you commented makes me think/hope it did. Thank you so much.

May I friend you?

[illiterate.livejournal.com]

Pardon the scary stalker overtones of this, but I was reading your fic when I was a Phile, and I was reading it when I was watching The West Wing and holy God am I pleased to be reading it now that you're writing BoB. I even remember being sad that none of your M*A*S*H fic was Hawk/Beej. You are a really, really fab writer. Okay then -- now that I've fangirled a bit....

I love that this is second person, it's my all-time favorite point-of-view, and it works really well as Winters, because in some ways the series is seen through his eyes and I really appreciate it here. It makes sentences like "You're still dangerously hard..." possible and not the slightest bit cheesy and it brings the reader so much closer to the character-- so yea! two thumbs up on that account.

Nixon is wonderful. Everything he says is perfectly in character, and the ways Winters sees him is so perfect as well. Also, their banter is perfect. There always has to be banter. I fucking love banter. I'm fond of his dark eyes and dirty hair, and that he asks Winters if he's a fag. Just so damn good, man.

The sort of soul searching inner monologue that Winters has going on lends the serious note needed for the setting, because otherwise it would just be a good blow-job during a battle scene. It's really wonderful that you have him musing on his self-worth and the price the army holds them at, etc during the beginning because as I believe someone said above it lends the whole thing a very real feeling. It makes the entire thing more believable.

Okay. Right. This is really good. I'm going to go FF.net on you and ask for more, please. Anything at all, really.

Re: May I friend you?

[iamsab.livejournal.com]

Mmm, howdy! Glad you dropped by!

So first -- the second person POV is totally the fault of runpunkrun, who's writing a really ass-kicking SV story in 2nd person that I've had the privilege to beta, and I realized the unique perspective you get in that voice and just HAD to apply it to Winters. Because he IS the focus of the series, but it's less like we're looking through his eyes and more like we're beside him -- like Nixon -- looking AT him, watching him steeled, watching him try not to crack. So 2nd person allowed that kind of distance while still giving me the chance to get inside Winters' head and figure out what was behind that stoic exterior.

YOU are welcome to fangirl as much as you want; I'll just sit here and preen and go all Sally Field. *g*

So glad you liked it! Have a beer! Stay a while!

[damson.livejournal.com]

Oh dude. Find me breathless over here --> O_O

That was so so so good I can't think of what to say first.

I bow to your Wintersnixon prowess.

Slightly sardonic Winters. All that jazz of him rating the worth of the men.

In the words of your Nixon. Fucking A.

[iamsab.livejournal.com]

Fucking A, yo. *g*

And to think, I just wanted to get two pretty boys into each others' pants.

Glad you liked!

[castalianspring.livejournal.com]

God, this is so hot. Amazing fic. I love your Winters and your Nix, and the 2nd person POV which I have a thing for and is just so well done.

Plus, your icon rocks like a great big rocking thing.

[iamsab.livejournal.com]

Hey, thanks. I'm partial to this brand new one, because Nix! And goggles! Mmmmm, binoculars.

And thanks so much, so glad you liked it. You gotta come join camp_toccoa, yo.

[pollitt.livejournal.com]

Holy wow. That was just wonderful. After having re-watched parts of BoB just this weekend, you have the voices and atmosphere down, and man did you hit the Winters/Nixon jones I've had lately.

Wonderful job.

[iamsab.livejournal.com]

Mmmm, thanks!

And be careful of that Winters/Nixon jones. You let your mind wander and you look at a screencap like this and next thing you know you're a full on BoBslash crackhead. *g*

*sigh*

Thanks thanks thanks! Plus you say holy wow. I do too.

[snicket-fm.livejournal.com]

It took me ages to comment on this, because I swear I was pretty much bowled over with it and couldn't think of anything to say that the above haven't said. Had to go and print it out, also. SO good.

I have to add that your characterization of both guys is different from what I've read until now, which was disorienting at first, but I can see them behaving like that. I'm so glad you posted it. And THIS MUCH LOVE for the Bertolt Brecht nod, too.

[iamsab.livejournal.com]

! I'm so flattered! Thank you! Printing out a story is high praise in the online world, really, thank you. Glad you liked it.

[laterose.livejournal.com]

Katherine insisted I read this story, and I'm glad she did! It is very very good.

[iamsab.livejournal.com]

Hey, thanks. Any friend of Katherine's is a friend of mine -- have you read her postwar Wintersnix? Great stuff.

[umbo.livejournal.com]

I know nothing about this fandom, but this is one hell of a story. Good job.

[iamsab.livejournal.com]

Thanks! And as for the fandom...come on in, the water's fine, hot and cold running slash and pretty boys as far as the eye can see!

[silk-noir.livejournal.com]

That was hot. Tense and loving and miserable and confused and erotic. One thing I love about the Winters/Nix is that it's never just about sex in this slash-dom--it's got a wealth of emotion that makes all the sex even hotter.

[semielliptical]

Oh - wow! Winters is amazing - confused, but then calm under pressure and that's so right for him.

So many great details! I love this:

Now it makes you generate heat from your armpits, your neck, your thighs, and outside it's blowing snow and ammunition.

Nixons's cursing is so hot. Amazing, wonderful tension. What a memorable story!

[cunien.livejournal.com]

Ooh - I thought I'd read all the BoB fic there was, but this came before I really got into the fandom - so yay! This is probably the first Wintersnix fic I've read where he isn't the one to initiate it! Anyway, brilliant, hot, well written - I loved it. Thanks for sharing!
x.

[desire-of-mind.livejournal.com]

Beautiful, just...gorgeous. The second person perspective really worked here and you captured both Nix and Winters' voices perfectly.

*am in love, love, love with this story*