#THEN HE SAID WANTED TO /TAKE/ /HITLERS/ PLACE

[fantasticgothicpeachsludge]

Watching dial of destiny while having a massive crush on Mads Mikkelsen is a very challenging experience

[edenfenixblogs]

Me: I think I’ll catch up on the Olympics. I’m a former gymnast who loves gymnastics. Let’s see what’s going on there!

Me: Awesome! Way to go team USA and Simone Biles! What an achievement! I’m so proud of them. How cool that two women of color from the USA take gold and silver in the individual all-arounds! And Simone got a record breaking number of awards Olympic medals and took gold at age 27!!!! That’s unheard of in gymnastics!!!!

Olympic YouTube Video: Here is cool stuff about Team USA and Brazil.

Me: this is a hard time for Israelis. I’m so glad we have these Olympic Games—an event specifically about putting aside politics and celebrating individual humans regardless of where they’re from. I think I’ll do a quick search to see if any Israelis are competing in any televised events this time! It’ll be nice to see some apolitical stuff about Israel. I love that Brazil placed, too. And team USA was cheering them on! What good sportsmanship!

YouTube Search Result Video 1: Israelis play SOCCER??? In France???? When GAZA IS GETTING BOMBED???? Sounds like Jews love the GENOCIDE-lympics am I right????

Me: …um. Did you want the athletes in Israel instead? Actively involved in the bombing you said you don’t like? Isn’t it good that young, talented people are here in Paris using their strength and talent for something other than war???

YouTube Search Result Video 2: This is a news report about Houthis threatening to attack Israelis as the Olympics and Israeli olympians needing increased security. Some have had their data breached and also faced threats from Iran.

Me: This is definitely normal and not at all a terrifying memory of the time a bunch of Jews were attacked at a previous Olympic Games.

YouTube Search Result Video 3: Israeli athletes report feeling isolated and threatened at Olympics to the point that they require 24h security.

Me: EverythingIsFine.jpg

Youtube Search Result Video 4: Israelis booed at their soccer game. Protestors shout “Heil Hitler!”

Me: Hmmm, something about the fucking HITLER part makes me think that perhaps this is less about supporting Palestine and more about hating Jews.

YouTube Search Result Video 5: Algerian Olympian refuses to compete against Israeli Olympian in Judo.

Me: …so…he gave Israel the victory in that event? In protest of…Israel? Placing him on the podium? With a bronze medal? After waiting his whole life to be in the Olympics? …that sure will show him…something?

Official Olympics YouTube Channel: There is no war in Ba Sing Se, and I have never heard of this place you call Israel.

Me: (heavy sigh) of course not

Official NBC Sports YouTube Channel: umm???? Israel. Israel? Israel you say? Nope. Doesn’t ring a bell. Are you sure they make athletes there?

Me: Yes.

NBC Sports: Did you mean you want to see Simone Biles?

Me: No, I saw Simone Biles already.

NBC: How about Suni—

Me: Let’s assume I’ve seen all of team USA gymnastics.

NBC: Katie Led—

Me: No, that’s US swimming. Which is very cool. But I have run a search for Israeli Olympians please.

NBC: Ugh. Fine. Best I can do is a video of Qatar winning at volleyball. That feels related to Israel, right?

Me: Not…really what I was going for. But thanks, I guess.

[doberbutts]

Thank you for making the schindler post, it perfectly illustrates why I hate the way people will act like people who hurt others (like active nazis and racists) aren't capable of regular emotion and thought. Second chances are often seen as bad when it comes to violence and crime, but if you never give someone the chance to change, form different opinions, or see the damage they or their associates have caused, they'll just keep taking the path of least resistance, keep following orders. I just want people to take a serious look at a nazi who changed his mind. There is nothing inherently evil about anyone, there are only moral and immoral choices.

It helps, I think, to understand that he did not join the nazi party because he hated Jews. Even what research I did on the real man said that for the most part his reasons for siding with Hitler were purely economical. And, as I've said before, Hitler did not start with "I hate Jews let's kill them all" but with "look how bad the economy sucks! And who is doing well while the economy sucks? The Jews. That means they're the ones behind making the economy suck!" to get people on his side.

I think Schindler did have some internalized antisemitism. How could he not? He thought of the plan to use almost exclusively Jewish slave labor as good business sense. Cheaper than Poles, more desperate for the work and thus less likely to complain about conditions or quit, can't fuss about wanting wages or better hours, what's not to like? Supposedly his workers were treated well. I don't know if that makes it particularly better. I wonder how his workers felt, staring at the emblem proudly pinned to his jacket, knowing it stood for the extermination of their entire people.

I wonder if any of them ever considered it might be a trick. An elaborate long game to get them to trust and slip up. To get them to reveal the hiding places and secret messages and the others striving to find or make a way out.

I think the movie played with that concept a little bit, when the character of Stern (who apparently was 3 different real guys rolled into 1) is portrayed as always being a little standoffish and cold to Schindler until close to the very end. He was afraid of him. Schindler held not only his life but the lives of all of the people working there (plus more, irl) in his hands. He rubbed shoulders with high ranked officials and knew personally more than one known sadistic bastard that actively got off on murdering Jews. All it would take is a single word and it would be more than just those in the factory who died.

But then the ghetto was cleansed. In history, Schindler had advance warning and made his workers lock themselves in the factory overnight to spare them. In the movie, Schindler did not have warning, and saw the chaos from atop a vantage point as he'd meant to pass by.

Either way, both in life and in film, that was the line. He was, at minimum, willfully blind and passive to the evidence of what was happening up to that point. Once he couldn't deny it, he put his foot down and said, no more. I'm not doing this. I can't save everybody but you aren't getting your hands on anyone in my charge. Put me in jail if you have to. This is wrong.

He had everything to gain by continuing to look away. In the movie, Stern says something to the tune of "you'll have to hire Hungarians and Poles. They cost a little more but you'll still be rich" when they're both faced with Hitler's final solution. No more cheap Jewish labor when they're all dead, after all. It is at that point that they come up with the list- to get as many Jews as possible out of Germany before they're all sent to their deaths. He could have just said "yeah, sorry. I tried". Stern even more or less gave him permission to do so, like he was expecting it.

But he didn't. He said no fuck that, it's bullshit. It's not happening. I'm not letting it happen. They can arrest me or kill me if they want but if I'm alive for it I'm not just going to stand back and watch.

But I think it is difficult for people to grapple with that level of complexity. Not everyone he saved thinks he was overall a good person. His motives were not always pure. In fact many times his motives were just about lining his own pockets. But when he saw atrocities happen, he put his foot down and refused to participate. Even at his own cost- he had the equivalent amount of money back then as would be needed to retire early nowadays from his factory labor. He spent it on bribes and rations to keep them safe. He went to jail several times for refusing to back down. He risked his own neck by networking with other factory owners to get them to do the same. He could have been executed for this at any point. Nazis loved public spectacle executions for traitors and for collusion with Jews.

He wasn't a perfect ally. But I think I'd rather an imperfect ally do whatever they can to help, than no allies at all.

[daydreamtofiction]

The Feature XXI // Benedict Cumberbatch x Reader

Series Overview | Previous Part | First Part

Chapter Summary: (Female Reader) While on assignment at another glamorous event, Quinn takes the opportunity to have some fun. Though it doesn't quite go the way she'd hoped.

Chapter Word Count: 8K

Chapter Warnings: Morally-grey reader, strong language, adult and sexual themes, tones of jealousy and possessiveness, fake event, op-ed excerpts contain graphic imagery. Quinn back at it again with her nightmarish antics. Readers must be 18+

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Julia would bounce her knee when she sat at her desk; one leg crossed over the other, the heel of her Louboutin slingback clinking against the table leg with an irritating rhythm. You were sitting across from her as she read your final draft, your gaze focused on the blood red sole of her shoe, the remnants of the discount sticker she hadn’t fully peeled off. 

She placed the papers on the desk and cleared her throat. You looked up at her, only then realising you’d been making a face; eyes narrowed, lip curled disdainfully. It wasn’t intentional, your face just settled that way sometimes. So you softened your edges, rounding your eyes and relaxing your jaw as you waited for her to speak.

“Quinn…” she sighed.

Your thorns quickly returned; lids turning heavy with indignation as you rolled your shoulders and pressed your back into the chair.

“You know what I’m going to say,” she continued with a patronising smile. “It’s well written, there’s no denying that, but it’s not going in the mag.”

“Why not?” you asked bluntly. 

She picked up the papers and licked her thumb, using it to flick to the second page where she began to read aloud. “I just wanted those men to stop looking at me. I wanted to erase myself, piece by piece, I imagined my face sloughing away, then my arms, my breasts, until there was nothing left but a pool of flesh and marrow where I’d once stood. But then, I thought, would they even care? Or would they still find pleasure in my remains; dig their hands into the slurry and let it slip between their fingers. And that scared me more than disappearing altogether...”

You blinked at her, waiting for her to explain the problem. But the way she was looking at you made it seem like you should have already known. 

“It’s quite graphic,” she said.

“It’s a metaphor.” 

“Yes, obviously I understand that. But it’s not the most pleasant of visuals, is it? Really, the topic of the op ed on a whole, it’s- It’s dark, heavy-”

“It’s about gender, sex, inequality, how I’ve learned to navigate society as a woman, it’s not meant to be all bubblegum and rainbows. And it’s not like the magazine hasn’t shed light on these kinds of topics before.” You shrugged.

“Yes but not this… Brutally.” 

You furrowed your brow. 

She sighed, flicking to another page. “I thought sex was supposed to make me human, make me whole. But in the end, he was just a prop, an object. They all were. I could always tell they wanted me to love them, and they thought I might if they gave me everything. But nothing ever seemed worth taking.” She looked at me. “You can’t seriously think Draft would publish this?”

“It’s an op ed,” you said, your tone growing snippy. “It’s supposed to be personal, subjective, opinionated-”

“But there’s a fine line, Quinn, between sharing your views and experiences on important topics and oversharing to the point where it becomes disturbing and completely indigestible for readers.”

“Disturbing?” You breathed out a laugh. “So this, a woman’s real, lived experience of men and sexuality and emotional connection is ‘disturbing’, but the piece we let that dick head comedian write back in August where he said Hitler ‘wasn’t such a bad guy’ was okay?” 

“It was a joke he made in poor taste and a retraction was published almost immediately.”

“Still made it to print though.” 

She pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling slowly. “Look, I’m not saying this isn’t a good piece of writing. Because it is. I know you’ve been working on it for months and it shows. It’s important and it’s relevant, I get that. But we have to give readers balance; some escapism, y’know. And that’s the job of our staff writers, to uplift the magazine with stories about celebrities and fashion and lifestyle and-” She sighed. “We have the hard hitting stuff covered. What we need from you is-”

“Fluff.” You inhaled sharply through your nose and crossed your arms over your chest. “I just thought after the Benedict Cumberbatch interview and how well it was received I might finally get to write something with more… substance.” 

She let out a single, clipped laugh, shaking her head at you condescendingly. “Quinn, one feature on a big name celeb doesn’t fast track you to serious journalism. You wrote about his films, his love life, what he does in his spare time. It wasn’t exactly an exposé.” 

You bit back a retort, crossing one leg over the other and glancing out at the office through the glass wall. “What did Ellen Ford say about it? The op ed.”

“I haven’t shown her. And I’m not going to.”

“Julia-”

“I’m not having this conversation anymore, Quinn. I was given this position permanently because I know what I’m doing. Ellen trusts my judgement and my judgement is that this piece is a no go. If you want to write something for the next issue then you can cover the London Arts and Culture Gala tonight. Kate was supposed to be going but she just called to say she’s sick.”

You groaned, pressing your fingers into your eyes. “Why do you keep sending me to fucking galas?” 

She tutted sarcastically, pushing out her bottom lip. “Getting dressed up to have free food and drink while rubbing shoulders with celebrities all night, how evil of me.” 

You glared at her. 

“I hear Benedict Cumberbatch is on the guest list,” she said, a slight snarkiness in her tone. “Maybe you can cosy up to him, get yourself a follow up interview. Not exactly Pullitzer material but hey, it’s another step towards those doors you’re so desperate to open.” 

You already knew Ben was going to be there. You wanted to tell her that you knew; that he’d told you about it as you lay together in bed last night - still not having sex, to your utter dismay - and that you’d scoffed when he asked if you were covering it for the magazine. You wanted to punch her for suggesting you cosy up to him, as though he was nothing more than a rung in the ladder of your career. 

“The last editorial assistant that suggested I get ‘cosy’ for a story ended up escorted out of here by security,” you said with a cold, flat smile.

She held your gaze, her foot bouncing more quickly now. “I know you like to think the world’s against you, Quinn. But I actually think you’re a good journalist. Hence why I keep sending you to fucking galas…” 

You paused a moment before finally giving in and standing up with a huff. “Can I get another dress?” 

 “I’m sure you have something at the back of your wardrobe you could wear.” 

You rolled your eyes, leaning over and snatching your papers off the desk before turning to leave her office. 

The back of your wardrobe had provided you two options: the first was a short, bright chartreuse dress with a boned bodice and sparkly straps. It was awful. So awful that you grimaced when you pulled it out, wondering what kind of fugue state you’d been in when you bought it. But then you noticed the tag was still attached, realising you must have come to your senses and decided to never let it touch your body or see the light of day again. 

The second option was plain, black, high neck and sleeveless. It hugged your figure like a second skin, skimming just above your ankles as you stood on your tiptoes in front of the mirror. You wondered why you’d never worn it before. Then you remembered you’d bought it for a funeral, only to get it home and realise your dead uncle’s family probably wouldn’t appreciate being able to see the outline of your arse at his wake. 

You put your hair up and did your makeup, feeling pangs of excitement in your stomach at the thought of seeing Ben’s face when you arrived. You hadn’t told him you were coming, much preferring the idea of him spotting you from across a crowded room, having to hide his surprise and keep his cool, to pretend he barely remembered your name. You slipped into a pair of heels, stuffing your ticket and press pass into your bag alongside a notepad and pen, your fully charged phone and the perfume he always complimented. 

When you arrived at the Claridge’s hotel, you stepped out of the cab to a mob of flashing cameras lining the carpeted entrance. There was something humbling about being unimportant, being able to weave through a sea of celebrities and influential figures like a ghost as paparazzi screamed for them to stop and pose for photos. It was comforting, almost, to be overlooked. 

You made your way inside, the grand hall warmly lit with ornate chandeliers, large round tables covered in pristine tablecloths and floral centrepieces. The room buzzed with the sound of clinking glasses and reserved conversation, servers weaving between guests with trays of champagne and dainty canapés. You took a glass from a waiter with the most dazzling smile you’d ever seen, unable to resist a glance at his backside as he walked away. 

The press table was at the other end of the hall. You took a large swig of champagne and began the long walk, meandering through tables and crowds of famous faces you never got used to seeing in person. Olivia Colman was at a table to your left, close enough for you to reach out and touch her - and you thought about it, just for a moment - but you resisted. 

You hadn’t been watching where you were going, an elbow almost knocking the drink from your hand as you walked right into it. You looked up to see an actor you recognised but couldn’t remember the name of, his surprise softening to a friendly laugh as he placed his hands on your arms to steady you.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Sorry,” you said. “I was distracted by Olivia Colman.” 

“Ah, we’ve all been there,” he replied. 

He was tall, smartly dressed, with a crooked smile and reddish hair. He’d been in a TV show you watched. Or was it a movie? God, what the hell was his name? 

You gave an awkward laugh. “Sorry again.” 

He waved his hand, as if telling you not to worry. You smiled appreciatively and turned to walk away, but his voice suddenly made you halt.

“Benedict! How’ve you been, man?” 

You glanced back over your shoulder to see him pulling another tall, suited man into a hug, the pair smacking each other hard on the back in that weird way only men ever seemed to do. The corner of your mouth curled, threatening a smirk when you saw the side of Ben’s face.

You tilted your head, waiting for him to notice you. And when he did, it was as delicious as you’d imagined it would be. It began with a flicker of recognition, followed by the slow widening of realisation, his expression changing so subtly that only someone who knew him as well as you did would notice.

He composed himself quickly, giving the man he’d been hugging a final, firm pat on the back before stepping away with a slight smile. You kept your face neutral as you stood in his eyeline, as if seeing him was no big deal, as if you hadn’t spent the majority of your evening fantasising about this very moment; the way his eyes travelled down your body, his jaw clenching as he lingered on your curves. You brought the glass to your lips, taking a slow sip of champagne, never looking away from him as he tried to engage in polite conversation. 

It didn’t take long for him to excuse himself, squeezing the man’s shoulder as he stepped around him and made his way towards you, his long strides closing the distance far too quickly. You’d wanted to make the moment last, to savour it, make him sweat a little while longer.

“Quinn,” he said, his voice low and warm as he came to a stop in front of you. 

“Benedict,” you replied coolly, giving a slight nod.

He glanced around before returning his gaze to you. “You said you weren’t coming.”

You smiled, giving a casual shrug. “Didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”

He gave you a look, one that told you he wasn’t buying it. Then his eyes flitted down again, taking you in once more. “You…” He trailed off, his gaze returning to your face, and for a second you thought he might lose his composure. “You look… Nice.”

“Nice?” you repeated, feigning offence. 

His mouth twitched, his voice darkening. “Very nice.”

You could feel his restraint, the effort it was taking for him not to touch you, to close the distance between you.

“So.” He cleared his throat. “I take it you’re here for the magazine?” 

You rolled your eyes dramatically, taking another sip of champagne. “Mhm. Julia, the editorial assistant, completely shat all over my piece, decided I was more useful rubbing shoulders than writing anything of actual substance.” 

His brows came together for a moment with a sympathetic smile. “Well clearly she’s an idiot.”

“Tell her that.” 

He leaned in slightly. “I’ll tell her, if you want.” 

You laughed and rolled your eyes again. “Yeah, that’ll go down well; getting the guy I’m fucking- sorry, not fucking, to pull strings for me at work.” 

He smirked, dropping his head and fixing the cuff of his blazer. “Just say the word.”

“Stop it,” you laughed, holding back the urge to push him playfully in the chest. 

“Well I suppose there’s worse assignments you could’ve ended up with.” 

“Yeah.” You looked around at the glitzy hall, the man he’d been talking to finding his seat at a table. “Oh my god, what’s his name by the way? It’s been driving me mad.” 

He looked over to where you’d pointed before turning back and opening his mouth to speak. But before he could, a sudden presence appeared at his side. 

“Benedict, good to see you again!”

You recognised Leo McGrath immediately. He was a documentary filmmaker, award winner, known philanthropist. Yet it was his recent appearance at the Oscars that had shot him to sudden, unexpected internet fame. You wondered what it must feel like, to be so unbelievably attractive that just standing there on a red carpet could send the whole world into a frenzy. To have millions of people suddenly know you, not because of your work, but because they fancied you. 

It was true, he was undeniably stunning; green eyes framed by masses of dark lashes, full lips and thick wavy hair long enough to tuck behind his ears. When he smiled, his cheeks dimpled, his imperfect teeth giving him a charm that made it hard not to swoon, even just for a second. 

“Ah, Leo,” said Ben as he shook his hand. “It’s good to see you too. How’ve you been?” 

“Good, yeah, it’s been… intense.” He breathed out a laugh, running a hand through his hair. 

“I can imagine.” 

“Well I suppose you don’t need to imagine, you’ve been there too. What did they call you? The Internet’s Boyfriend?” 

Ben rolled his eyes, nodding with a laugh.

Leo’s gaze shifted to you, his eyes lighting up as if he hadn’t noticed you until now. “Sorry, I’m so rude!” he said, reaching out to shake your hand.

“Oh, of course, sorry. Leo, this is Quinn Armitage. She’s a writer for Draft.” 

“Pleasure to meet you, Quinn,” he said, looking you up and down, far less subtly than Ben had.

You shook his hand with a smile, catching a fleck of irritation on Ben’s face. “Likewise. And congratulations on your Oscar win.” 

“Ah, thank you very much.” He took a step back, his eyes bouncing between the two of you. “So are you here together, or?” 

“No,” Ben replied, and you couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the speed of his response. “Quinn wrote a piece on me at the end of last year. We were just catching up.”  

“Oh right.” He seemed pleased to learn you were there alone, his interest in you piquing, attention lingering on your face. “So you’re here for work then?”

You nodded, watching Ben’s jaw tighten from the corner of your eye, like he was grinding his teeth. You held back a grin; the sight of him ruffled was a rarity, and you couldn’t help but take some pleasure in it.

“Well you should join me at my table,” said Leo. “It’s near the front, a much better spot for you to get some good material.” 

You glanced up at Ben, the slight flush in his cheeks, how hard he was having to work to stay calm. He was jealous. You liked it. 

“Yeah,” you said with a smile. “That sounds good, I’ll take you up on that offer.”

He gestured for you to follow him, and you did, meeting Ben’s gaze as you stepped aside and began to walk away. You couldn’t hold back the smirk as you watched his eyes darken, a silent warning etched on his stony, unamused face. 

You followed Leo to his table, the weight of Ben’s eyes heavy on the back of your neck. You couldn’t help but feel excited, perhaps even satisfied; Leo’s sudden interest in you was undeniably flattering, and Ben’s barely contained jealousy made it all the more enjoyable.

He pulled out a chair for you and you thanked him as you sat down. The view was indeed better from here; the stage only feet away, every guest visible with the turn of your head. He took a seat beside you, getting comfortable as he chatted casually to the other people around the table. 

Then he turned to you, snatching you out of a daze.

 “So is this what you do for Draft then?” he asked. “Report on parties and events and stuff?” 

“Well I’m a staff writer, so I pretty much just do what I’m told,” you said, your voice laced with cynicism. 

He smiled. “I sense some… unrest.” 

“You could say that.” You drank down the dregs of your champagne, twirling the stem of the flute between your fingers.

He leaned back in his chair, cocking his head as he looked at you with narrowed eyes, an amused smirk creating a deep dimple in his cheek. “Let me guess, you’re trying to work your way into serious journalism, but all they’re giving you is celebrity gossip and… listicles.” 

You pressed your lips together, exhaling a laugh through your nose. “I wrote this piece - it’s my best work to date - put it forward for an op ed but they weren’t interested. Sent me here instead.”

“Y’know, this industry is… brutal. You fight to be heard, to have your work taken seriously, amplified, given the platform you know it deserves. Then you finally get recognised for that work after years and years of graft, and yet somehow it still ends up overshadowed by how fuckable women on the internet think you are.”

“You are quite fuckable though, to be fair,” you replied bluntly.

He dropped his head to disguise a laugh, before composing himself again, lifting his head to meet your gaze. He stretched his arm along the back of your chair to lean in closer, speaking quietly. “What I’m saying is that no one in this industry gets anything without going over heads and stepping on toes. It’s a fight. And even when you get to the top, you have to claw at it if you want to stay there. It’s like… the Hunger Games but for losers who watched the news too much as kids.”

You gave a slight smile, allowing a quick glance over your shoulder to Ben’s table where he sat fidgeting with his hands, watching you beneath a heavy brow. You looked down at Leo’s arm draped behind you, your smile quickly turning into a smirk. 

You leaned in closer to Leo, mirroring the intensity of his gaze. “So you’re saying the only way I’m going to transition to serious journalism is if I… play dirty?” 

“Exactly,” he replied in a low, husky voice.

“How do you suggest I do that?” 

He thought for a moment, running his tongue across his top teeth. “When I first started making docs, I got turned down by every production company, every channel and network. No one would give me a penny, wouldn’t even agree to broadcast. So I said fuck it, went out there with my camera, whatever money I had in my account and I made them anyway. Then when these companies saw that people actually gave a shit about the things I was documenting, they came running to me.”

“So you’re saying I just go rogue?”

“Potentially.” 

“Hm. There’s just one problem with that; there’s this thing called rent, and erm… needing to eat…” you said sarcastically.

He laughed. “I’m not saying you go and quit Draft and start a fucking blog or something. I’m saying… check out. Quietly quit, as they say. Attend the fancy events, write the fluffy articles, do whatever you need to do to keep your affiliation with the magazine and use it to your advantage.” He reached up and took your chin between his finger and thumb, turning your head towards the sea of tables behind you. “See all of these people? Actors, producers, investors. You have direct access to them all right now. You could charm and persuade and get numbers in your phone and your name on people’s radars. And all you have to do in exchange is write a silly little article about their clothes and how they spend their evening.” 

You turned your head back to him slowly; his insight like an epiphany, turning the banality of your surroundings to an abundance of possibility. Ten minutes ago this man was a stranger, yet now here he was with his face inches from yours, giving you the best advice you’d ever heard.

“Let me interview you,” you said.

He leaned back, brow furrowed in curiosity. 

“What? I’ve made a connection and I’m using it to my advantage.” You shrugged. “Isn’t that what you told me to do?” 

The corner of his mouth curved into a smile. “Fair play. Though, an interview… with Draft…” He scrunched his nose with scepticism.

“I won’t write anything about your looks. Won’t ask a single question about anything other than your work.” 

“It’s tempting,” he replied with a hum. 

The lights of the hall dimmed as a single, bright spotlight illuminated the stage. A woman stepped up to the microphone holding a stack of cue cards and clearing her throat. Leo turned away from you to listen, and you felt your chest heave with a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding. He was intense. Beguiling, even. 

“Welcome everybody,” said the woman, her voice creating a screech of feedback through the speaker. She took a step away from the mic with an embarrassed laugh. “Thank you so much for coming…” 

Your phone buzzed inside the clutch bag on your lap as the woman continued to speak. You dug it out and opened the message waiting on the screen. 

I know what you’re doing. 

You subtly turned your head, giving Ben a mischievous wink from across the dark hall. 

What am I doing? you replied. 

Flirting. Stop it. Now. 

Your stomach fluttered as you pictured the tension in his fingers as he typed each word, the firmness of his jaw as he grit his teeth.

Flirting??? 

Quinn. I’m serious.

Not my fault he fancies me. I’m actually quite enjoying the attention. 

As if on cue, Leo turned his attention back to you, leaning in to speak directly into your ear. “What’s so interesting on your phone?” His breath was warm against your skin, his hushed tone filled with playful curiosity. 

You looked over at Ben again, smiling as you put the phone face down on the table, turning your attention back to Leo. “Nothing.” 

“Good. I’d hate to think I was losing your attention so soon.”

The woman on stage continued her speech, her words fading to a muffled hum as you lost yourself in the game you couldn’t resist playing. 

“You haven’t lost my attention,” you said, keeping your voice low. “I still want that interview.”

He chuckled. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that.” He leaned in again, his lips almost brushing your ear. “But I don’t think a formal interview is what you really want from me…”

Your heart began to race, his proximity sending shivers down your spine. You could sense the shift in his demeanour, the hunger in his eyes. If this had been a year earlier, you were sure you’d have ended up in Leo’s bed by the end of the night. But instead, you found yourself more thrilled by the idea of Ben watching you; the power you wielded to make his blood boil from across a crowded room.   

“What else could I possibly want?” you murmured, tilting your head slightly towards Leo, your lips nearly grazing his cheek. 

He let out a low, throaty laugh, his hand sliding from the back of your chair to your thigh. You wondered how far you could take things before your actions became indefensible, before the flirting verged beyond a game and evolved into something less playful.

“I have a feeling there’s a lot of things you want.” His touch was soft yet bold, his fingers tracing swirls that tickled, even through the material of your dress. “Some I might be able to… help you with.” 

You bit your lip, unable to hold back a smirk, before leaning in close. “And here I was, thinking you invited me to sit at your table because you wanted to do a good deed for a struggling journalist.” You pressed your lips to his ear. “Turns out you just wanted to fuck me.” 

He turned his head to look at you, his face so close you could feel his breath. “Can I not want both?” 

“You can,” you replied simply. “Doesn’t mean you’re going to get it though.” 

The room erupted with applause, quelling the tension between you as you turned your attention to the stage. A young woman made her way to the microphone with a guitar in hand. She smiled shyly as she waited for the clapping to fade, before pressing her fingers to the strings and beginning to play. 

Your palms were beginning to itch; every speech and performance receiving a lengthier round of applause than the last. You had no choice but to join in with it, no matter how boring or mediocre you thought it was, putting down your little notebook and pen with a quiet groan to bring your hands together in feigned appreciation.    

You’d been nursing your second glass of champagne for most of the evening, knowing it was your last and taking small sips to savour it. Julia warned you not to get drunk, and you’d taken offence to the insinuation that you couldn’t be trusted to stay professional. But when you realised Leo’s arm was still draped along the back of your chair, you thought perhaps she’d had a point.

The last wave of applause rippled across the room as the host made her way offstage; the spotlight dimming, chandeliers regaining their warm glow as the atmosphere began to relax, the hum of conversation drifting through the air like a sigh of relief. You skimmed over the pages in your book, trying to decipher the chaotic notes you’d scrawled in the dark when Leo turned to look at you. 

“Get everything you need?” he asked, nodding to your notebook.

“Eh, I’ll probably have to employ some creative writing here and there,” you replied as you looked up at him. 

He smirked. “You weren’t paying attention to any of it, were you.”  

“More than I would have if I were back there at the press table.” 

“Well it’s a good job I had a spare seat.”

“Mm.” You allowed your gaze to flit from his eyes to his lips and back again, just enough to keep him interested. “I better do a few rounds, get some quotes from people before they start to leave.” 

Mingling had never been your thing, the idea of approaching strangers or interrupting conversations creating a pit of dread in your stomach that made your skin clammy and your mouth dry. Usually you came with someone else; dragged Nick along or found yourself on assignment with another writer who would do most of the talking. This time, you had no choice. . 

You moved around the hall, weaving through a maze of tables as you searched for targets. And with each interaction, it became easier. You took quotes from a table of theatre directors, had surreal conversations with celebrities, and when you finally plucked up the courage to speak to Olivia Colman, the only thing you managed to write down was ‘aaahhhh’. 

You took a moment to breathe, scanning the room to see Ben still at his table, deep in conversation with another actor you vaguely recognised. You watched him for a moment, noticing how his usually easy smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, how he kept brushing the tips of his fingers over his bottom lip. To anyone else, he seemed happy, comfortable. But to you, it was clear he wasn’t nearly as composed as he appeared.

You made your way over, navigating the scattered chairs and waiters topping up champagne until you were close enough to hear their voices. 

“...and everyone I’ve spoken to about it has said I should do it,” the other man was saying. “But it’s just such a big commitment.”

Ben nodded, his eyes flickering in your direction for just a moment. “It is a lot. But you’ve just got to weigh up the pros and cons…” 

He trailed off as you finally made it to their table, turning his attention to you as though he hadn’t known you were coming. 

“Sorry for interrupting,” you said as you cleared your throat and held up your notebook. “My name’s Quinn, I’m a writer for Draft Magazine. I was hoping I could steal you for a second to ask a few questions?”

His eyes stayed on you for a moment before returning to the actor beside him. “Sorry.” 

“Ah no worries, duty calls.”  

“But if you want my honest opinion, I think you should go for it.” 

The man smiled appreciatively as he rose to his feet, raising his glass in a mock salute before walking away.

You quickly sat in his place; the seat was still warm, turned towards Ben at an awkward angle. You shifted it further to face him, leaning back with the notebook in your lap. 

“Hi,” you finally said, holding back a smile.

“Hi,” he replied, his face calm, tone unreadable.

“So, the question I have for you is…” you flicked to another page. “Do you have any thoughts on how we as a society, and as individuals, can foster the arts in ways that don’t involve funding or monetary-”  

“What the fuck was that?” he interrupted quietly, gesturing subtly towards Leo’s table across the hall. 

“What was what?” you replied casually, defiantly.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead he mirrored your posture, leaning back in his chair and lowering his chin slightly, his eyes darkening beneath the shadow of his brow. “His hands were all over you…” 

“So?”

“So you knew exactly what you were doing.”

Your stomach fluttered with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. You cocked your head, widening your eyes to feign innocence. “What was I doing?” 

“Trying to piss me off.” 

You pushed out your bottom lip. “Are you jealous?” 

“Jealous-?” He exhaled a laugh through his nose. But there was no amusement in it. Then he lowered his voice. “I was jealous when I saw him eyeing you up. I was jealous when he invited you to sit at his table. But now? I’m not jealous, I’m furious.” 

You regarded him for a moment, taking undeniable pleasure in his silent rage. But when you finally opened your mouth to speak, a hand on your shoulder made you still. 

You looked up to see Leo standing at your side, glancing down at both of you with a charming smile.

“Sorry for interrupting,” he said. “Quinn, my team and I are heading to an afterparty at the Edition. I wondered if you wanted to join me?” 

“Oh, I…” you looked at Ben, then back up to Leo. “Thanks, but I can’t. I’m still working.”

“Your boss doesn’t have to know…” 

You breathed out a laugh. “No really, I think I’m going to be good for once and actually do my job.” 

“Or you could come with me to the afterparty and start being good tomorrow…” 

“She said no,” Ben interjected firmly. 

It caught you off guard, raising the hairs on your arms and sending a shiver down your spine. It was his unexpected harshness paired with a friendly smile, the restraint it was clearly taking him to keep his cool. 

Leo seemed taken aback too, turning to him with raised brows and parted lips, like he wanted to speak but had no idea what to say. He eventually gave up with an understanding nod, before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a business card. 

“Give me a call some time,” he said as he handed it to you. “If you want, of course.” 

You took it with a smile, waiting for him to walk away before turning your attention back to Ben. 

“That was rude of you,” you said.

“Sorry… Rude of me?”  

You rolled your eyes and slid the card between the pages of your notebook. 

“Are you really keeping that?” Ben asked. 

“He’s a documentary maker, I’m a journalist. It might come in handy.” 

He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek and shifted in his seat, crossing one leg over the other as he continued to glare at you. 

You couldn’t help but laugh. “Wow, you weren’t joking when you said you were furious…” 

 “No. I wasn’t. I told you the mind games and manipulation wouldn’t fly with me. I told you that.” 

“You are taking this way too seriously.”  

He leaned forward suddenly, his movement sharp, teeth clenched. “Too-” But he stopped himself, pressing his lips together and looking around the bustling hall as he slowly reclined again. “We’re leaving.” 

You furrowed your brow as you watched him stand up. “Did you not hear what I just said? I’m working, I can’t leave yet.”  

“I said we’re going.” 

You hadn’t seen him like this since the first night you met. You’d almost forgotten he was capable of it; the hard angles and stern tone, the dominance of his demand sending a flutter through your core. The thrill of it was undeniable, but his anger was palpable, making you stutter as you tried to speak. 

“Ben, I’m- I’m not-”

“Now.” 

You yielded with a sigh, shoving everything into your bag and tucking it under your arm as you rose to your feet. Your heart was pounding as you began to follow him, almost tripping over the leg of your chair as you went. He didn’t speak as he made his way to the exit of the hall, his fist opening and closing at his side in a steady rhythm, face brightening with a polite smile whenever someone greeted him as he passed. 

He gripped your wrist as you neared the exit, leading you out into the large, echoing foyer. The indelicacy of his touch surprised you, flooding you with a fleeting rush of panic, like a child preparing to be scolded once their parents got them home. 

Your heels clicked against the marble floor, your quick, uneven footsteps struggling to keep up with his long strides as he walked you towards a quiet, hidden corner.

“Don’t you need to tell people you’re leaving?” you asked. “Like your publicist or whoever you came with?” 

“I came alone,” he replied, stopping once you were out of sight.

“Really? Why?” 

“Because I drove here.” He glanced over his shoulder, assessing the paparazzi as they waited outside. “You’re going to go and wait for me by the car. I’ll follow in a couple of minutes.” 

You did as you were told, emerging into the mild spring night and slipping through the chaos with ease. When you got to Ben’s car, you waited with your arms folded over your chest, watching from a distance as an explosion of camera flashes illuminated the darkness like fireworks. 

You pressed your lips into a straight lined smile when he finally reached you, hurrying around to the driver’s side without a word. He unlocked the door and pulled it open, glancing around to make sure he hadn’t been followed. You raised onto your tiptoes to look at him over the top of the car, breathing out a laugh when he almost scowled back. 

“Are you seriously still annoyed with me?” you asked. 

“Of course I am,” he replied. “I can barely look at you right now.” 

He slipped into the car and pulled the door closed. You paused for a moment before deciding to climb into the back seat instead.

He looked at you in the rearview mirror, brow furrowed in confusion. “What are you doing?” 

“You said you didn’t want to look at me,” you replied brattishly. “You don’t have to if I’m back here.” 

He rolled his eyes, letting out an exasperated breath. “Get in the front.” 

You thought about defying his demand, but you quickly gave in; choosing to clamber arduously over the centre console instead of getting out, purely to annoy him that little bit more. You settled into the front passenger seat, turning to look at him as you dragged the seatbelt across your chest. 

He drove in silence at first, the journey ebbing and flowing between heavy traffic and dark, deserted streets. You’d been waiting for him to speak, but with each silent wait at a red light, you found yourself growing impatient. He turned his head towards you, and you glanced back at him hopefully, only to realise he was looking past you, checking the road was clear before driving across it. 

You huffed. “Fine, you win, I apologise for flirting with the sexy man, alright? Can you stop acting like I slapped your mum now?” 

“You really don’t get why I’m pissed off, do you.” 

“He was just giving me career advice-”

“Career advice? What career advice requires him to touch you like that? To whisper in your ear, run his hand up your thigh?” 

You couldn’t resist; the old Quinn taking over with a shrug and a surly glare. “I was just having a bit of fun-”

A deep growl rumbled in his throat, his grip tightening around the steering wheel. “Nothing about that was fun.” 

“Maybe not for you…” 

“Quinn. I swear to god.”

 You threw your head back and let out a groan. “It was flirting, Ben. He clearly fancied me and I took the opportunity to tease you, wind you up-”

“Oh yeah, and I’m sure you got no pleasure out of it whatsoever,” he quipped cynically. 

“Oh I’m so sorry,” you said sarcastically. “Y’know, it’s almost like I haven’t gone the past four months without sex because the man I’m seeing refuses to touch me anywhere below the fucking neck. I mean, Jesus, I’ve been masturbating so much I could give a teenage boy a run for his money; forgive me for indulging in a bit of physical affection for one night.” 

“So you did like him then...”  

“No, Ben-” You stopped yourself, pinching the bridge of your nose and letting out an exasperated breath. But when you composed yourself again, your brows came together in sudden realisation. “Actually, what if I did?” 

He took his eyes off the road for a second, glancing at you in confusion.

“What right would you have to tell me I couldn’t flirt with him? Couldn’t let him touch me?” You sat up straighter, turning your body towards him. “What if I wanted him to do that? What if I enjoyed sitting with him and decided I wanted to go to that afterparty? What authority would you have to tell me I couldn’t?”  

He rolled his eyes.

“What if I went with him? Danced, drank, let him take me home, undress me, kiss me…” 

Your words were getting to him; crawling under his skin, making him roll his shoulders like he was trying to shrug the image away. 

“I mean, you said it yourself to whatshisface back at the gala; I’m just Quinn, the journalist you met once back in November. Why would you care who else I fuck?” 

He turned the wheel sharply, pulling the car into a layby with a sudden stop. It was dark, void of streetlights, thick trees lining both sides of the road. You jerked forward as he broke, the seatbelt pressing firmly against your chest. 

“Jesus Christ, Ben.” 

He shut off the engine and turned in his seat to face you. “You know full well that neither of us want people to know about this. You don’t get to use it against me to justify flirting with someone else.” 

“I flirted with him to annoy you. Clearly it worked… A bit too well.” 

“But why? Why would you think I’d find that amusing?” His voice was raised, his hands moving in time with his words.

“I didn’t. I thought I’d find it amusing.” 

He growled, letting out a hot angry breath through his nose. “You are the most infuriating fucking person.” 

“Then why have you stuck around for this long?” 

“Why have you? If taking it slow and doing things right has been such a fucking chore for you then why are you still bothering?” 

You opened your mouth to argue, but he didn’t give you the chance, unclipping his seatbelt to lean in closer.

“I’ll tell you why. It’s because you know I’m the only man who’s ever been able to handle you. Who sees you for who you really are and likes it.” 

Your heart began to race, your back pressing against the passenger door. He was right, and you hated it. 

“Because even though I haven’t touched you in four months, you still aren’t bored of me.” His voice was dangerously soft now, his eyes fixed on yours. “Because even as another man threw himself at you tonight, you still found yourself looking for me.”

“So if that’s what you think, why do you care that I let him touch me?” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. 

“Because I don’t like watching someone else touch what’s mine.” 

You swallowed hard, your defiance faltering as his words sank in. He was so close now, one arm outstretched along the back of your seat, the other holding back the urge to reach out and touch you. 

Your eyes flitted from his face to his crotch then back again. “You want to fuck me right now, don’t you…”

His gaze flickered with something dark, primal. He exhaled slowly, the angles of his face sharp with anger, partly with you, but mostly with himself. 

A rush of excitement flooded through you as he reached out to cup your face, pulling you into a sudden, intense kiss. You could feel his possessiveness; the way his lips moved with a firm pressure, tongue sweeping impatiently into your mouth. 

You fumbled for your seatbelt, unfastening it quickly and letting it snap back against the door, your hands immediately snaking around the back of his neck, pulling yourself into him. His hand dropped to your side, his touch rough, almost painful as he pressed and squeezed his fingertips into your waist. You felt him pulling you closer, his body radiating a heat that almost made it hard to breathe. His hand travelled lower, pushing up the material of your dress and allowing his fingers to graze the bare skin of your thighs. He ran his palm over the place Leo had touched, as though he was cleansing you of it, wiping it away and replacing it with his own. 

You’d been starved for so long that even his hand on your thigh made you tremble, a soft moan escaping your parted lips as he kissed you. The sound stirred something in him, and in moments you found yourself straddling his lap in the driver’s seat. 

He was hard. You could feel it straining beneath his trousers, pressing against your centre as you tangled your fingers in his hair, your breaths hot and heavy, anger and lust fogging the windows like steam. You rolled your hips, the steering wheel letting out a short, loud beep as your backside knocked against it. But neither of you paid it any attention, giving in to the fevered, passionate release you’d been denying yourselves for so long. 

His hands settled on your hips, gripping you firmly as he pushed himself against you, the friction drawing a satisfied groan from his throat. You’d missed those sounds, the way it felt to have him desperate to fill you. But you knew he was losing himself, intoxicated by his own frustration. You were in a car, parked on the side of a quiet, winding road. This wasn’t how he wanted it to be, and you weren’t sure it was how you wanted it to be either.

You broke away, letting your head fall back as he began traipsing hot, hungry kisses down your neck. “Ben,” you whispered breathlessly. “If we go any further I won’t be able to stop.” 

You felt him pause, his lips still, breath tickling your skin. 

“This isn’t how you wanted it to be,” you said softly, masking your disappointment. “We need to stop.” 

He lowered his forehead to rest on your collarbone, letting out a quiet sigh. “Fuck,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, thick with lust. 

He pulled away from you, his hand lingering on your waist for a second longer before finally letting go. He sat back, his head tilting against the headrest as he closed his eyes, trying to compose himself. 

You slid off his lap, climbing back into the passenger seat and fixing your dress. You looked over at him, watching him in silence, fearful of what awaited you when he finally opened his eyes. You’d spent four months wanting nothing more than to see him break, to give in to you, and if it were anyone else, you would have taken full advantage of this lapse in judgement. But you couldn’t. 

The silence was awkward, moonlight casting a soft glow through the steamy windows, your slowing breaths providing the only sound. When he finally looked at you, there was a clarity in his expression; his jaw softening, eyes rounding. 

“Thank you,” he said. 

There was something about the way he said it, like your restraint had renewed his faith in you, shifted something inside him.

You nodded slightly, reaching behind you for your seatbelt.

He nodded back, his gaze lingering on your face for a moment longer before finally starting the car again. The engine rumbled and he leaned forward to wipe the windshield, using his sleeve to clear it. 

The tension remained as he drove, but it was different now. He was no longer angry, and you no longer cared to push his buttons. After a while, you gathered he was taking you to his house, and it filled you with a sense of relief you couldn’t quite explain. 

The road was empty, quiet, yet still the traffic light turned red. He slowed to a stop, resting his hand on the gearstick as he waited for it to change. 

“I’m sorry,” you said. “About Leo. I really was just teasing you. I never would have-”

He reached out and took your hand in his without a word, giving it a gentle squeeze. You relaxed back into your seat, looking down at your intertwined fingers as they rested in your lap.

*Reader Tag List: @blondekel77 @evelynrosestuff @bakerstreethound @annesthaeticc @aephereal @sharp-cheekbones-locked @sherlux @veryladyqueen @graciebear47 @allurenia @jamerlynn @cottagecore-cat @aysamuka @thegardenerofeden @cumbercatchmebaby @inspirationalandrandom @turkisherlockian @swds @weepingdreamerpanda @elzabethann @childofgod215 @briecantopme @lovecleastrange @jaspearl31 @paola-carter @greatburger @azu21 @xourownsidee @hunterofshadows04 @asgardianprincess1050 @teddycrimson @sherlocksgirl91 @oliveoilthoughts @hai-kbai @shjl15 @bloodyxsaint @charleighsblog @stephenstrangeaddictions @omgstarks @sleutherclaw @bisciwri @theevilsupreme @druggedbyfiction @gwoods123 @classickook @coffee-d0t @strangeobsessed @januarycolor @strangeions @lonadane @downtownshabby @diabaroxa @stllbrln @thealleydog @cakesandtom @irisbutterfly @coffeebeing @lexlexigogh @mun7on @svntnpldis @belan-the-dilf-hunter @blxckdragonfly @detective-sherlocked @xdelulu @nicoletk @filmlock @bensherstrange @midnightramyeoncravings @coldnique @dearwatson @scailedandisolated @aphroditesdilemma @bergararyans @txylorrvelasco @classicrebound @hthrevr @happybunnyclumsyduck @c00letha @j3mj3rrica @ironstrange1991 @vi0letdaze @theothersideofthescreen @alessandra-cumberbatch @indiefilmfatale

[scuttle-buttle]

Co-Pilots

Nobody asked for this. I have the flu. I needed something nice to focus on and apparently this was it. Blame @lorna-d-m my partner in crime :) also kudos to winniemaywebber and sagesolscitcewrites because i def read all their stuff and was vibing it and the pet names and stuff sooo hard

Rated: 18+

Word Count: approx. 3k

Tags: MMF, fluff and reassurance, mentions of wartime ptsd, body confidence issues, mentions of having children, PiV sex, female receiving oral, male receiving oral, voyeurism, no stated use of contraception

A/N: Croz is referred to as Crosby, Harry, and Bing in this (so as not to confuse). And idk what rank Rosie is by this point so were just going with Major

✈️

The bright lights blinded you the first time you walked through New York City; tonight was no different. Flashes of neon whites, golds, blues, reds, lit up your path as you entered the lobby to the Ritz hotel. Your husband had made arrangements for you to meet him in the city much as he had a near 2 years ago during the height of the war. You wanted to meet him at the airport. Crosby insisted he find you at the hotel. And now, with Hitler defeated, he was on his way home. For good. 

His phone call had startled you. Usually, you wrote him weekly, sometimes more if you felt lonesome. Harry’s letters were less frequent, but no less loving. Little Steve kept you more than busy most days, back home safe terrorizing your mother and father while you got some rest and relaxation with your Bing in the big city. The toddler was a shining light in your dark days. He had the same dark curls, the same downturned eyes as his father. A piece of your love that was yours no matter what the war brought - or took.

You’d nearly lost your footing when you heard his voice, gruff and mellow, across the line. Darlin’ it's me, he'd said, I'm coming home but I've got some business to finish in the city, meet me there. I'm bringing Rosie, you remember him yeah? Said he'll take us dancing at the best jazz spots. I love you Mrs. Crosby. See you soon.

Now you wait in the lobby for your love and his friend.

Minutes tick by as you wait. Maybe the plane was late? Maybe they had to meet somewhere after landing to debrief? Maybe there was a problem with the engine? Just as your maybes started to drown out the chatter and bustle around you a voice rang out.

“Well ho-ly mackerel, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes Mrs. Crosby.”

The sight of your husband had you dashing into his waiting arms. Tears streamed down your face as you kissed him senseless over and over and over. Crosby couldn’t contain his laughter at your reaction, nor did he bother hiding it when he wiped his eyes dry. 

“I’ve missed you so much Bing.”

His forehead rested on yours. “God how I’ve missed you too, Darlin’.” 

Over his shoulder you notice a taller man, stylish moustache and curls neatly gelled into place, attempting to avert his eyes and give your reunion privacy. You were struck by how attractive he was. “Bing?”

“Oh!” Harry takes a step back. “Darlin’ this is Robert Rosenthal - or Rosie as us boys like to call him.”

Rosie gives a toothy smile and holds out his hand for a firm shake; “so nice to meet you, Mrs. Crosby. Croz here has told me all about you.”

Giving your husband a raised eyebrow, you ask “all good things I hope?”

Both men chuckle. “Only the best, ma’am.” 

The three of you settled into your rooms before deciding that a celebration was in order. Rosie commandeered the evening, promising only the best jazz New York had to offer. Drinks flowed, the band jived, and couples danced the night away. 

Night after night, Rosie took you somewhere new. You’d split your time whirling the dancefloor between both your husband and his pilot friend, never satisfied until your feet ached. Harry claimed all the slow dances, nestled up close to your body. But Rosie? He got the fast-paced, jumping, hip swaying swing that Crosby claimed he couldn’t keep up with. Two left feet, he’d claim. Each morning after you slept in the plush, luxurious Ritz bed until lunchtime while they attended to their military duties. 

Friday rolled around. It had been a week of this routine. You should’ve been exhausted, you should’ve wanted to slow down - after all you were no spring chicken anymore. Yet, something about being in the arms of your husband and Rosie as you swayed to Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman, and Glen Miller felt so right. 

When the barkeep yelled for “last call” you knew it was time to retire for the evening.

“Say, why don’t you come have a nightcap in our room, Rosie? Crosby asked.

The three of you settle into the living room of the suite assigned to you and your husband. Bing plops into an armchair with a satisfied huff. You join Rosenthal on the loveseat, a respectable distance inbetween. A bottle of whisky sits open on the fireplace mantle. Conversation comes and goes as the trio fall from the high of the night. It’s easy. Almost makes the boys forget the horrors they endured in Europe. 

Around 1am the conversation begins to lull as you finish regaling the group with a story of the shenanigans you and your girlfriends would get up to during university days. “-You think you boys were bad flying all around in your skivvies, but it was nothing compared to us girls that night!” Laughter filled the room until all had let it trickle to a close; the silence was warm like the fireplace embers. Robert sat enraptured by your story, by your beauty, by the thought of you under that blue dress and all your curves. He knew he shouldn’t have noticed…..he was just a man after all. And with the things he’d seen? Could you really blame him?

“How long’s it been Rosie?” The question broke the man’s gaze from you and directed it towards Crosby. He didn’t know it was so obvious. 

Rosie was about to stumble out an answer, an apology for looking at you like that, he doesn’t know, when Croz interrupts again. “When’s the last time you felt the touch of a good woman, Rosie?” Harry waits for an answer. Rosenthal can feel his face heat; he runs his fingers through his hair mussing the curls out of place. This confident Crosby was much bolder than the one he’d met when he first shipped out to the 100th. “Before the war?” There is no judgment in his eyes, no disdain or hesitation towards his comrade as he asks. Rosie shakes his head in affirmation. His glass clinks against the table as he sets it down, whisky unfinished.

Crosby sighs. “Too long.”

“Too damn long…” Rosie agrees in a mumble. 

You sit and watch the boys in rapt attention before meeting Bing's chocolatey eyes. Rosenthal is a good man, a great one from what your husband’s letters proved, and he deserves kindness and softness after all he’s been through. They both do. A delicate hand moves to rest on Rosie’s knee where he sits next to you. His brow furrows. The Major flits his gaze between you and your husband.

In all seriousness Crosby says “It’s alright, I don’t mind.” He tilts his head forward in permission, a silent go ahead. 

The navigator noticed how Rosie looked at you all night, how you returned the glances like a game of chicken. Each admiring but neither willing to do anything about it. How the two of you danced around the club without a care in the world at his insistence. He hadn’t seen Rosie smile like that in ages. He knew you hadn’t laughed like that since before he announced he was heading to the front. You definitely were reveling in the attention of both men tonight. This was never something you had discussed with your husband; somehow you just knew each other well enough even after so long apart to know that it was okay. It was something you both wanted.

Your fingers drifted higher on Rosie’s thigh; not enough to be indecent, but enough to get the message across. His larger palm came to rest atop yours, stopping the movement. “You uh- you’re okay with this?” the Brooklyn native questioned. 

Without hesitation you reassure “I am.” 

In a measured, almost odd approach Rosenthal shifts towards you. His lips hover over your cheek for a moment before the softest kiss brushes your skin. The whiskers of his mustache tickle. You can’t help the grin that threatens to break. He continues to kiss along your cheek, once, twice, thrice, each getting closer to your waiting lips. Finally, his chapped lips meet yours. This kiss is awkward at first as he gathers his bearing, quickly finding a rhythm as if no time had passed since he last kissed a pretty dame.

Crosby sunk deeper into his chair as he watched. He could feel the tell-tale sign of his slacks becoming tighter as he watched his best girl and his best friend. “She loves it when you kiss her neck,” he instructed with that smirk of his. Rosie dragged his lips to your throat. “Little lower-” again he shifted “-right there.” A moan slipped from your parted lips as your body warred with the directions from your husband and the attentions from your lover. 

The room felt stifling. Rosie’s coat, your dress, his shirt, your stockings, his trousers, your brassiere - each fluttered off to the floor one by one. Even Bing had lost his button down. 

The Major guided you onto your back along the couch, trailing open mouthed kisses down your sternum, along your breasts. A moment of clarity passed your mind that your body was different now than the last time you had been made love to, whether by your husband or not, since the baby. Your breasts weren't as pert, your stomach was softer than it used to be. Lips pursed, you let out a small sigh. 

“What’s wrong darlin’?” Bing asked. The navigator leaned towards you, brushing a strand of fallen hair from your face. “You know I can read you better than any map.” Rosie stopped and rested his chin on your abdomen to look up. 

“We can stop,” Rosie offered.

“No, It’s silly…” you tried to brush off.

Both men came to your defense immediately. Looking between the two you finally settle on your husband’s face. “It’s just that… since the last time we saw each other I’m different. My body changed and- I don’t know. I want it to be enough for you. For you both,” you add with a look to Rosie.

Crosby drops from the chair to his knees before you. “My pretty girl.” He kisses you slowly. “We’ve all changed.” From below Rosie adds nothing is the same. “You are still the most beautiful, most incredible, woman I’ve ever seen. Gosh - you’re my wife. Mrs. Crosby! I would fight to the ends of the earth to come home to you.” Softer he adds “I did fight to come home to you… and to bring this flak-happy bastard along too,” he laughed, nudging his elbow at his mate. “Now be a good girl and let us treat you right.” At your nod Rosie resumes his ascent down your waiting body. 

With a flourish your panties are gone, your dripping center exposed to his hungry stare. “What does she like, Croz? Because I'm not stopping until she comes begging all over my tongue.” He licks a deep stripe along your slit. “Sweet as sugar, babydoll.” Gone is the man unsure of himself, and in place is a god amongst men who knows exactly what he wants. It’s all you can do to hold on as Rosie devours you at your husband’s suggestions. Fingers dig into the cushions, tangle into his curls as you writhe under him. 

Rosie puts in his best effort to undo you; your husband saunters up to your face, his pants long forgotten. Cock stiff and ready, dripping with need, he runs the tip of his thumb against your bottom lip. Your teeth nibble at the pad.  “Think you can take me too, darlin’?” A whimpered please is all that comes out.

A cacophony of moans fills the air as your senses are assaulted - Rosie latched to your pussy like a lifeline and your Crosby’s cock deep inside your mouth. “That’s it darlin’, just like that. I bet you missed me, huh? I can tell you did, sweet girl. Fuck I missed you….” 

You gave him everything you had as you licked and sucked at his length. You could have sworn it was bigger than you remembered. He could tell by the look in your eyes you were getting closer, hell he was too. Lord knew he didn’t want to finish like some schoolboy in your lovely mouth. Crosby pulled himself out and you gasped for air. Cheeks flushed and sweat dripping down your temple he turned to his partner. “Use your fingers Rose, drives her wild when you crook them up inside her ‘n don't be afraid to get rough - give her a nip.” He punctuated the end of his command with a nip of his own to your throat. Rosie did exactly as instructed, sending you careening further to the edge and hips bucking.

“Oh- please Rosie- oh god don’t stop-” tumbles out as you start to fall. You swear you feel him humming against your clit as his fingers burn pleasure into your skin.

“That’s it darlin’, just let go for him. Being such a good girl for us,” croons your Bing.

When it all gets too much you gently push him from you. He goes gracefully, dropping chaste kisses to your thighs and hips. Despite feeling like a bowl of jello you remember your purpose tonight - to give Rosie a proper homecoming. 

Sitting up you demand he rid himself of his trousers. 

He grins. “Yes ma’am.” 

Just as Rosie goes to cover your body again you place your hand on his broad chest, pushing until he is in a sitting position. You quickly seat yourself over his lap, his length resting against you. Grinding down, he grunts. “Let me take care of you Rosie, it’s okay.” Kissing his temple, the corner of his mouth, his Adam's apple, you repeat “I want to take care of you dear, let me.”

With another roll of your hips he enters you. He feels different than your husband, but no less wonderful. Rosie’s hands land firmly on your hips as you rock above him. He knows he won't last long, you feel too good. “God Croz how do you do it? She’s so- ugh fuck” he grunts, head tossed back as you squeeze his length. 

“I know, Rose, I know. Just like heaven.” Your husband rubs your back as you move.

Rosenthal buries his face in the crook of your neck, his whimpers muffled so that only you can hear. There are no words for him to describe this feeling: the feeling of being comforted, the feeling of warmth, the feeling of home inside you, even if just for tonight. He almost feels a tear spring to his eyes. Circling your arms around his shoulders you remind him that you’ve got him, that he’s safe, that you're here. You pick up the pace as you ride him, bringing him closer and closer to his fate. His pelvis bucks up to meet yours with every roll.

“Honey I- I’m getting real close.”

You seal your lips on his; “I’ve got you, Rosie. I want you to come for me dear.”

With a deep groan he lifts you off his cock, his spend covering your stomachs and lap in a sticky mess. You hold him as he comes down from his high. 

“That was wonderful, thank you…just, thank you.” You kiss him once more; he knows he doesn’t have to thank you for anything, but he does because he’s Rosie. He carefully cleans you of his come with his discarded undershirt.

Crosby drops his lips to the crown of your head, beginning to pull the pins out of your carefully styled hair. “Come here, Darlin’.” He helps to lift you from his colleagues’ lap. “I wanna make love to my wife.” 

In seconds you’re on the floor under Crosby, his cock already buried to the hilt within you. Neither of you move as you both enjoy the feel of each other reunited as husband and wife. Whispered streams of I love you and I missed you and fuck you feel so good tumble from your lips, barely an inch apart. Harry would never need a map to know the curves, the sensitive spots, the constellations of beauty marks on your body - he knew it better in his memory than any map he could chart.

Besides you on the couch Rosie has slumped over to lay down, his arm hanging off towards you. Every breath of your husband’s puffs against your neck, every tickle of hair from across his chest reminds you that he’s here and he’s alive and he’s yours. Emotion overwhelmed you; “Bing, love please, I need you.”

Crosby hitches your thigh up and around his hip; “I’m here Darlin’.” With that he starts to thrust within your walls. His lithe body moves with a power you had nearly forgotten. Each roll of his hips he pounds into you harder, faster, with abandon; his dog tags cool against your breasts where they hung. Harry was a gentle man, but held so much emotion inside. He could let go with you. 

Your next orgasm was building, hotter and faster than the first. Nails raking down your husband’s back, you reached out your other to grab hold of Rosie’s outstretched palm. The slap of skin echoed around the room, mixed with the crackle of the fire and the sound of heaving breaths. 

An inferno raged within you. Every touch, every movement atop you sent sparks down every nerve ending. You didn’t know where you stopped and your husband began. “Fuck Bing mmmm- Harry please-” The rug beneath you rubbed your back raw but you couldn’t bring yourself to care as long as he kept going.

Crosby had his thumb rubbing quick circles on your clit in an instant. “Tell me you’re close, I need you to come Darlin’.” You couldn’t catch your breath so you nodded the best you could while squeezing the life out of Rosie’s fingers.  

Another snap of his hips and you’re gone, obliterated. Everything felt euphoric and white-hot. Crosby follows suit, his release filling you and your name on his tongue. Bruises will surely linger on your thighs. 

There you lay, tangled in the afterglow, your loving husband above you stroking his knuckles against your side and your new lover’s hand in yours. No words needed to be spoken. The moment you shared would be seared into your mind forever playing on repeat. God forbid another crisis happened that would ship your boys out and away from you - yet if it did you would hold on to tonight like a talisman. It had been a long four years, and longer so for them. But the war was won, with spoils a plenty. 

Finally. 

Lips meeting your Bing’s sweat-slicked forehead, your grip on Rosenthal tightens. “Welcome home my boys, welcome home.”  

Tags: @sagesolsticewrites @winniemaywebber @sailorscuttle @thirstyvampyr @hellfirequinnie @lorna-d-m

[miaclemeverett]

amazon standing lamp - using drugs and sex and other unhealthy distractions and coping mechanisms to deal with losing people you love out of your own fault. the top-heavy amazon standing lamp part is a really old wilbur joke (back in 2020 he joked about naming a song this) and it also reminds me of how (i think it was him?) he once said that he moves house so often that he loses so many belongings and only has a few things left that he cares about, i think this pairs really well in the song how the artificial meaningless things are all that remain

mine / yours - the breakdown of a relationship, seeing the warning signs and the things you take for granted assuming a person will stay with you forever despite it all

around the pomegranate - this song reminds me a lot of "since i saw vienna", when a place (california in this song) becomes so married to a person that it serves as a source of comfort and nostalgia for when things were simple and happier. being on the road you can never set down roots and people come and go from your life

i don't think it will ever end - he lives life in front of millions of people (chat in this song) watching his every move, like an actor he either has to play the part he's made for himself or isolate himself from this audience, it's a repetitive cycle that sends him downhill

glass chalet - back in the dark days of 2021 i remember wilbur would always joke (SLASH SERIOUS) about quitting streaming and disappearing off the face of the planet for years without a single word. VERY HEALTHY MINDSET exhibited right here in this song

melatonin 130 - I LOVE 100 GECS!! but in all seriousness the constant reminder that you have mental illness/anxiety your entire life and you can only cope with it, that it impairs you even when you should be happy cus obviously you're living out what you thought was your dream and everyone else thinks you should be on top of the world duh!

oh distant you - JUST KILL ME. your sister was right but WORSE!!!!!!!! again you take for granted that someone will stick with you forever and only after it's over realizing that you can't fill the hole where they were. and again we're back on fixating on who is the villain in this narrative

eulogy - your sister was right but worse 2, this song focuses on the whispers (good and bad) leftover from a relationship. harkening back to screensaver where he says that the subject in talking about their relationship basically makes him sound like hitler, and your sister was right where he talks about the warning signs the subject should have seen, this squarely places the blame on him

dropshipped cat shirt - I LOVE 100 GECS!!! but anyway the grueling day-to-day of being on the move, singing to people who adore you and make up a version of you in their head, latching onto unhealthy coping mechanisms to keep going, you have everything you ever needed and wanted but you're bored out of your mind

the median - short but sweet! as i said earlier, wilbur always has to play a part, and this audience projects their version of himself as the truth

trying not to think about it - I KNOW I PUT DAMN NEAR THE WHOLE SONG DOWN HERE BUT LISTEN. again realizing how much you take for granted the assumption that someone will stick with you forever. wilbur has mentioned before how as a hypochondriac, he's never taken seriously by doctors whenever he doesn't feel well. also this idea of romance and love as something just for the aesthetic, not as something that gives you stability and meaning but realizing that it can be that for you until its too late.

10 week rule - who got him pregnant?? but in all seriousness i think this can be read as a way of turning a new page, but obviously its not as simple as just getting rid of something unwanted

[adeptune01]

Dean slammed his hands on the bunker’s kitchen table in front of Cas. “A thousand dollars.”

Cas looked up from his copy of Don Quixote. “What?”

“A thousand dollars. Cold, hard, cash. In your hand.” Dean leaned closer, his shadow falling across Don Quixote’s infamous windmill fight. Cas gave up trying to read and closed the book. 

“Are you offering me your money Dean?”

“What– no–” Dean spluttered, “you think I’ve got that kinda dough laying around? Nah– Sam just made me a bet!” He sat down on the stool across from Cas with a smug look. 

“If Sam made you a bet for a thousand dollars why are you asking me about it?” 

To Cas’s surprise, Dean’s ears turned red and he looked down at his hands which traced scratches on the table. “Sam said it’s double or nothing so I need your help.”

His curiosity was piqued. “What do you need me to do?” 

Dean looked up in shock. “Seriously? That’s it?” 

“I cannot say I care for the money, I have nothing to spend it on, but you seem to want it badly enough to ask me– it’s the least I can do for you after allowing me to stay here.”

Dean rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly, “Shucks Cas, you’re welcome anytime– I mean, it’s your place as much as Sam's and mine. We’ve got space.” 

Cas blinked at him but didn’t respond.

“Alright then– the bet.” Dean clapped his hands, “Look this is gonna sound really weird–”

“Dean, you’ve killed Hitler, fought a sentient teddy bear, and shared a meal with Death. I hardly think your request, whatever it may be, will be anywhere close to the top of the list of ‘weird’ things you’ve done.” Cas said wryly. 

“Touché. Now hear me out– and let me explain before you freak.” Dean paused, expecting an interjection but Cas was silently staring at him again. He took a deep breath, “Sam dared us to go to couple’s therapy because he said we couldn’t go a full week without the therapist noticing we weren’t a couple.” 

Cas said nothing. 

“Dammit Cas, say something!” The tips of Dean’s ears were burning now. 

“Why would I be embarrassed about pretending to be in a romantic relationship with you, Dean?” 

“It’s-that’s-” Dean spluttered, “that’s not how we,” he said gesturing across the table between the two of them, “work. Normally. I mean we’re not usually out here pulling some Solo and Leia crap.” 

“I don’t know Dean, you do seem to share Solo’s proclivity for adventure.” Cas grinned at him. 

“You’d think I’d tell you to shut up but you know what? I’ll take it.” Dean relaxed into his seat. “So you’ll do it? For a thousand dollars?” 

“Yes, Dean. For a thousand dollars.” 

Neither of them mentioned the emphasis on the reward. 

A little sneak peek at my new (and first) SPN fan-fic up now on ao3! Link here for more!

[walks-the-ages]

If I see one more post about "trump almost getting assassinated means its the end of the world he's guaranteed to win the election now" I'm going to scream.

First of all, stop doomposting. Get your head out of that mindset, and if you can't get out of that mindset, not filling your dash with doom will genuinely help.

Second of all, Trump was already almost guaranteed to win. If you're anywhere that is not on Tumblr, Biden's polling numbers are atrocious for individual states as well as nation-wide.

~60% of Americans disapprove of Biden.

~67% of Americans want Biden to step down and let another candidate run.

Instead of spending your time crying about how everyone needs to

"Vote for Biden, because even though he's actively commiting genocide right now, at least he promises that he will protect abortion rights and trans rights if he's elected into power for another four years!"

aka

"Vote for Hitler, because while he may not like other people, at least he promises to not take away the rights of Germans here in our country!"

Instead of supporting a genocide (voting for Biden, and trying to convince people to vote for him which is the opposite of beating a dead horse) and thinking the world is going to end if Trump gets elected, you should be

1) Research your other candidate options for November. It takes a single google search of "Presidential election candidates" and it'll come up with countless polls and articles about who all of the independent and third party candidates are.

2) Organizing within your local community, or at the very least, just. Get out there and get to know people. Get to know your neighbors, your cashiers at the local grocery store, join a local gardening Facebook group and start a small food garden, in the ground or in containers. Make some community connections, so if shit hits the fan, you have a local support network, and can help each other.

3) Listen to Palestinians. Listen to Indigenous people. Listen to Black activists. Listen to the marginalized groups who have been begging for years, decades, for people to see that there is no "Lesser Evil" if the side wearing blue hat continues to commit genocide, murders minorities, puts kids in cages, continues to put unlawful embargos on entire nations, and continues to commit war crimes and attempt to topple the governments of other nations.

Project 2025 has been the Republican plan for when they get elected for the last 40 years, they just so happen to have a fancy PDF to fear monger with this year.

The entire world is not going to end if Donald Trump gets elected, and if you truly do think it is, instead of attempting to convince people to vote for a man committing genocide that more than half the country disapproves of, how about you spend your energy on convincing BIDEN to halt all military aid to Israel and to use the troops HE stationed in Israel to actually give aid and prevent more war crimes?

Oh wait. He can't do that, he's already committed so many war crimes. they already dressed up as aid workers and slaughtered 300 innocent people for the "sake" of 2 hostages that Israel has refused all actual negotiations to return them, because Israel literally doesn't care about hostages, it just wants all of Gaza gone and under Israeli control.

You don't fucking bomb the place you think hostages are in, you don't go around slaughtering innocent people if you care about hostages, including slaughtering your own people you're supposedly there to rescue.

Biden literally said that if there were no Israel, America would have to invent its own. His opinion has not changed one bit, and you can see it every time he and his group call college students protesting genocide "outside actors", when he further militarizes the police so they can shoot, beat, and maim peaceful protestors. When he claims to have seen photographs of beheaded babies that don't exist and continues to spout claims long -debunked about October 7th.

"violence does not belong in our politics, but only when it doesn't involve me sadistically supporting crimes against humanity and genocide"

Anyways this post is long and rambling.

Tldr: stop acting like its the end of the world if Trump gets elected. Instead of screaming people need to vote for Genocide Joe, focus your attention on getting him to step down so another candidate can take his place in August. Look up third party candidates, and organize in your local community.

And, don't forget your daily clicks!

[shelyue99]

Just as I exited the dining room of the officers' club, I noticed another door in the corner of the room. Somewhat apprehensively, I walked down a stone staircase, which led to a darkened basement. Lord, I had never seen anything like it before. This high room, about fifty feet long and thirty feet wide, contained rack upon rack of liquor, wines, champagne, all the way to the ten-foot-high ceiling. Brand names covered virtually every wine-producing region in the world. A conservative estimate was that the wine cellar housed nearly 10,000 bottles of the world’s finest liquor. I deemed it prudent to put a double guard on the officers' club, especially the wine cellar.

Captain Nixon was always my finest combat officer. My only problem with Nixon was keeping him sober. That afternoon I told him, "Nix, you sober up and I'll show you something you have never seen before in your life.” 

Then I promptly forgot about the wine cellar. There were too many other important points and places to cover. It was obvious that the excessive drinking could get out of hand, so I issued an order-everybody on the wagon for seven days. Now, I was no fool, and I didn't expect an order like that to be carried out 100 percent. But the message was clear-keep the situation under control. I didn't want a drunken brawl.

The following morning a sober Nixon approached me and asked, "What was that you said yesterday that you were going to show me?"

"Follow me," I responded. We then took a jeep and drove directly to Goering's officers' club.

Nixon thought that he had died and gone to heaven. I told him, “This is yours. Take what you want, then have each company and battalion headquarters bring around a truck and take a truckload. You are in charge."

I have a picture of Nixon with his stash of liquor next to his bed as he awoke on VE-Day as proof that he did a good job in distributing the liquor, but only after he collected his personal spoils of war.

Private David Kenyon Webster penned a different account of Goering’s wine cellar. Webster WaS shocked to find that "Hitler's champagne in the cellar was new and mediocre, no Napoleon brandy, no fine liqueurs."

Webster was a Harvard man, a self-styled connoisseur of liquors. So was Nixon, who prided himself on being a Yale man. Before Webster reached the wine cellar, Nixon had already absconded with his personal booty and supervised the distribution of five truckloads for the troops. Once the troops had their share of the liquor, Nixon lifted the guards. On this occasion the Yale man pulled rank on the Harvard boy.

Small wonder that Webster was disappointed in what remained. Nixon would have been first to attest that in the army, rank still had its privileges.

—Beyond Band of Brothers by Dick Winters

[rjalker]

"It was wrong to kill Sentinel Prime because he wasn't the only fascist! Now they won't know who his supporters were!"

Insult of your choice, you people literally were not paying attention.

Megatron is the one who said okay now we need to go after the rest of his supporters,

Optimus Prime is literally the one that said no no, we don't need to punish them, they don't need to face consequences, we can just leave them alone, it'll be fine, magically, through the power of upholding the status quo, it'll be totally fine they won't cause any problems. We don't need to hold them accountable for allowing entire generations of children to be mutilated and enslaved.

Insult of your choice Optimus Prime literally argued against doing anything to the dictators supporters. Who were literally a fucking requirement for keeping him in power and him gaining power in the first place.

It's also incredibly obvious who his supporters were: literally every single rich fucker in that city who allowed this lie to go unchallenged for 50 years. It's not fucking difficult. You people have just fallen for the propaganda that killing fascist does more harm than good.

As a real world equivalent, this is the fucking equivalent of arguing that Nazi officials shouldn't go on trial because well Hitler's already dead so we don't have to do anything now The rest of it will just magically sort itself out perfectly fine we don't need to do anything. That's what this movie is telling you is progressive. This movie literally has the message that you should not hold fascists who literally helped a dictator rise to and maintain power accountable for their crimes against life.

And it came out in 2024 when the world's most public fucking genocide is being committed live in front of the entire fucking world. With the United States supplying uncountable amounts of money and weapons with which to commit this genocide.

This movie literally has the moral that fascists should just be allowed to walk free after all of the horrors they've committed and you shouldn't hold them accountable because that's going too far and that makes you even worse than they are.

While the fucking international court of justice is trying to fucking hold genocidaires accountable for their crimes against fucking humanity.

Can you people think for five fucking seconds about the very clear message that this movie wants you to take away and what kind of fucking world it was purposefully released into at this time to make you think this.

No fucking shit the people in power want you to think that holding fascists accountable for their crimes is going too far and makes you even worse than the fascists.

[girlactionfigure]

THURSDAY HERO: Nicholas Winton 

The British Schindler: Nicholas Winton

He saved 669 children.

Nicholas Winton was a young British stockbroker who rescued 669 Czech Jewish children from being sent to Nazi death camps. He never told anybody of his heroism, and the story only came out 50 years later after his wife found an old briefcase in the attic containing lists of children he’d saved.

Nicholas was a 29 year old clerk at the London stock exchange getting ready for a ski trip to Switzerland when he received an urgent call from his friend Martin Blake. Known to be passionately opposed to Nazism, Martin urged Nicholas to cancel his vacation and come to Prague immediately. He told Nicolas, “I have a most interesting assignment and I need your help. Don’t bother bringing your skis.”

It is a testament to Nicolas’ sterling character and strong moral compass that he didn’t waver for a moment. It was an easy decision to sacrifice his fun and relaxing ski trip and instead travel to a dangerous place on a mysterious mission.

Two months earlier, in October 1938, Nazi Germany had annexed the Sudetenland It was clear that the Nazis would soon occupy all of Czechoslovakia. When he reached Prague, Nicholas was shocked by the huge influx of refugees fleeing from the Nazis. In early November, the Kristallnacht pogrom occurred in Germany and Austria. Jews were killed in the street and hundreds of synagogues burned down, as well as Jewish-owned businesses. This horrifying event shocked the Jewish community in eastern Europe, and thousands were now desperate to flee.

Born to Jewish parents, Nicholas was actually Jewish himself. However, his parents changed their name from Wertheim and converted to Christianity before he was born. Nicholas was baptized and raised as a Christian, and he didn’t consider himself Jewish (although was doubtless aware that Hitler would.)

In Prague, organizations were springing up to help sick and elderly refugees, but Nicholas noticed that nobody was trying to help the children. In his words, “I found out that the children of refugees and other groups of people who were enemies of Hitler weren’t being looked after. I decided to try to get permits to Britain for them. I found out that the conditions which were laid down for bringing in a child were chiefly that you had a family that was willing and able to look after the child, and fifty pounds, which was quite a large sum of money in those days, that was to be deposited at the Home Office. The situation was heartbreaking. Many of the refugees hadn’t the price of a meal. Some of the mothers tried desperately to get money to buy food for themselves and their children. The parents desperately wanted at least to get their children to safety when they couldn’t manage to get visas for the whole family. I began to realize what suffering there is when armies start to march.”

Nicholas knew something had to be done, and he decided to be the one to do it. He later remembered, “Everybody in Prague said, ‘Look, there is no organization in Prague to deal with refugee children, nobody will let the children go on their own, but if you want to have a go, have a go.’ And I think there is nothing that can’t be done if it is fundamentally reasonable.”

Nicholas decided to find homes for the children in the UK, where they would be safe. He set up a command center in his hotel room in Wenceslas Square and his first step was to contact the refugee offices of different national governments and see how many children they could accept. Only two countries agreed to take any Jewish children: Sweden and Great Britain, which pledged to accept all children under age 18 as long as they had homes and fifty pounds to pay for their trip home.

With this green light from Great Britain, Nicholas did everything possible to find homes for the children. He returned to London and did much of the planning from there, which enabled him to continue working at the Stock Exchange and soliciting funds from other bankers to pay for his work with the refugees. Winton needed a large amount of money to pay for transportation costs, foster homes, and many other necessities such as food and medicine.

Nicholas placed ads in newspapers large and small all over Great Britain, as well as in hundreds of church and synagogue newsletters. Knowing he had to play on people’s emotions to convince them to open their home to young strangers who didn’t even speak English, Nicholas printed flyers with pictures of children seeking refuge. He was tireless in his efforts and persuaded an incredible number of heroic Brits to welcome the traumatized young refugees into their homes and hearts.

The office in Wenceslas Square was manned by fellow Brit Trevor Chadwick. Every day terrified parents came in and begged him to find temporary homes for their children. Despite Nicholas’ success in finding places for the kids to stay, British and German government bureaucrats made things difficult, demanding multiple forms and documents. Nicholas said, “Officials at the Home Office worked very slowly with the entry visas. We went to them urgently asking for permits, only to be told languidly, ‘Why rush, old boy? Nothing will happen in Europe.’ This was a few months before the war broke out. So we forged the Home Office entry permits.”

The first transport of children boarded airplanes in Prague which took them to Britain. Nicholas organized an amazing seven more transports, all of them by train, and then boat across the English Channel. The children met their foster families at the train station and Winton took great care in making the matches between children and foster parents.

The children’s transport organized by Nicholas Winton was similar to the later, larger Kindertransport operation, but specifically for Czech Jewish children. Nicholas saved an astounding 669 children on eight transports. Tragically, the largest transport of all was scheduled for September 1, 1939 – but on that day, Hitler invaded Poland and all borders were closed by Germany. Winton was haunted for decades by the remembrance of the 250 children he last saw boarding the train. “Within hours of the announcement, the train disappeared. None of the 250 children aboard was seen again. We had 250 families waiting at Liverpool Street that day in vain. If the train had been a day earlier, it would have come through. Not a single one of those children was heard of again, which is an awful feeling.”

Nicholas joined the British military and spent the rest of the war serving as a pilot in the Royal Air Force, attaining the rank of Flight Lieutenant. After the war, Nicholas worked for the International Refugee Organization in Paris, where he met and married Grete Gjelstrup, a Danish secretary. They moved to Maidenhead, in Great Britain, and had three children. Their youngest child, Robin, had Down Syndrome, and at that time children with the condition were usually sent to institutions. However Nicholas and Grete wouldn’t consider it and instead kept their son at home with the family. Tragically, Robin died of meningitis the day before his sixth birthday. Nicholas was devastated by the loss, and became an active volunteer with Mencap, a charity to help people with Down Syndrome and other developmental delays. He remained involved in Mencap for over fifty years.

Humble – and perhaps traumatized by the children on the train he wasn’t able to save – Nicholas rarely talked about his wartime heroism and his own family didn’t know the details. It was only in 1988 that Nicholas Winton became widely known. His wife found an old notebook of his containing lists of the children he saved. Working with a Holocaust researcher, she tracked down some of the children and located eighty of them still living in Britain. These grown children, some with grandchildren, found out for the first time who had saved them.

The BBC television show called That’s Life! invited Nicholas to the filming an episode that became one of the most emotional clips in TV history. With Nicholas in the audience, the host told his story, including photos and details about some of the children he’d saved. Then she the told Nicholas that one of those children was the woman in the seat next to him! They embraced, teary eyed, and the host announced there were more grown children in the audience as well. She asked everybody who owed their life to Nicholas Winton to stand up. The entire audience stood up, as Nicholas sat stunned, wiping away the tears.

After that, Nicholas was showered with honors, including a knighthood for services to humanity. Known as the British Schindler, he met the Queen multiple times and received the Pride of Britain Award for Lifetime Achievement, both for saving refugee children and working with Mencap to improve the lives of people with cognitive differences. There are multiple statues of him in Prague and the UK, and his story was the subject of three films.

Nicholas Winton died in Britain in July 2015, at age 106. Today there are tens of thousands of people who owe their lives to Nicholas Winton.

For saving hundreds of Jewish children, we honor Nicholas Winton as this week’s Thursday Hero.

[featheredclover]

Orphic

Chapter Five

Read from the beginning

Also on Wattpad

Chapter Four < Chapter Six

The birds chirped along as they fluttered from branch to branch. But the day greeted the Gupta mansion with much less peace that morning.

Khushi bit into her toast, as Sumi poured juice into her glass.

“Shashi! I am getting nervous. Will Mr Raizada say something now?”

Her papa shook his head, his forehead scrunched in a frown.

“Rajiv has hinted at nothing. Even Shyam has not come up in our talks. I don’t know what to expect, Garima.”

“It would have been a milestone for us” she sighed, “ But what can we do except wait”

“Khushi, have some fruits,” Shashi said as he passed her a bowl.

————

Her thoughts were clouded with worry for her parents as she walked into Venus Designs.

She had never seen them so unsure, so worried. And she had never felt as helpless as she had today.

“Morning Leela”, she smiled at the receptionist.

“Khushi, some big client has come here asking for you!” Leela whispered.

“Me?!” She gasped.

“Yes! They are with Madhumati ma’am right now. You better go in. She told me to usher you into her office as soon as you came!”

And so Khushi found herself half-pushed inside her aunt’s magnanimous office.

“Good morning Khushi!”

She couldn’t believe her eyes. Madhumati bua was laughing! Her usually stern eyes were now soft as she looked fondly at the two men.

She looked at the well suited gentlemen, and wondered which of her previous works could have impressed them.

The men stood up.

She found herself stunned as the smirking visage of Arnav Singh Raizada greeted her.

“Meet Arnav and Aman! They are from the Raizada group of companies. Arnav wants his new office to be designed by you.” Her aunt continued jovially.

But her eyes couldn’t leave the devil’s, who had come to extract his pound of flesh!

“ But I-I have never designed professional spaces before.”

“I did mention that to Arnav, but he said he wanted his office to have a bit of domestic touch. Now, now go on. You have to work from the site.”

Rummaging through her mind to look for an excuse , Khushi looked at her aunt trying to signal her to refuse on her behalf.

“I’ll take Khushi with me Mrs. Madhumati. After all, I need the job done by next week.” 

She watched as he put on the best buttering act with her aunt. All sweet smiles and flattery.

“Hi, I’m Aman Mathur, ASR’s right hand man.”

The young man ,she hadn’t paid much attention to , shook her hand, offering her a glimmer of hope.

At least, someone is kind here.

“I think you’ll have a great time working with Arnav. He’s as clear and concise in his demands as it gets.”

“Yeah” she grumbled “Hitler pales in front of him”

Aman raised his eyebrows in amusement .

“ He is demanding, but not a dictator”

“Aman.”Arnav had already reached the door.

“Let’s get going, shall we?”

————

And that’s how Khushi Gupta found herself in a Bentley, heading towards the heart of the city.

“Why are you doing this?”

She couldn’t keep quiet anymore.

“I wanted to spend time with you “

Blushing pink, Khushi marvelled at this man’s shamelessness.

“I forgave you already-“

“That’s not enough for me”

Exasperated, she ignored him for the rest of the ride.

—————

Slouching over the desk Aman had provided her, Khushi scribbled into her notebook.

Designs, light source ideas, decor pieces and vendors all in one place.

With that out of the way,she began sketching. 

Her pencil flew across the page, as she thought of the space where he would work. 

The desk where his coffee machine would stay. The few photographs he took, that he wanted on the wall. The antique telephone he had bought from Paris.

“I have never seen a better portrait of me”

She jumped and twisted her neck, as Arnav grabbed her book from her in a split second.

Grinning, he squinted, pretending to judge her sketch of him.

“I must say Miss Gupta, you have observed me quite closely”

“Shut up! I was just sketching the office “

“And got distracted? Well since I am to be blamed for the distraction , it will only be fair of me to buy you lunch!”

He bent down and grabbed her purse, meeting her petulant face with a wink.

“Shall we?”

—————-

“And there he was, telling me to run for the damn election!”

She giggled as Arnav finished his story. She hadn’t expected to have a fun time with him. So far she had only experienced mad rage and mad lust for the man. And that had to say something!

“You left the states to come back here?”

“I wasn’t really sure about where I wanted to live. And dad really wanted to come back. After mom’s death-” he blinked.

“Are you okay?” Her hand found his.

“Yeah” he held her hand tighter “He took years to move on. The last time we were here was for Di’s wedding”

Khushi swallowed as she realised the topic was now down to his brother-in-law, Shyam. Can she ask him about the deal her parents were after?

“My papa really likes your father. Um…he invited him to brunch…”

“I know Khushi, I was there” he smiled in amusement at her sudden fluster.

“Yes, well they were wondering if Mr.Raizada had made up his mind about the deal.”

Gasping inwardly, she hated herself at that moment for blurting it out. 

She wanted to seal her big mouth forever.

Understanding that anything she said now will only push her further down the hole she had dug, Khushi held her silence.

To her dismay, even Arnav stayed quiet. No jokes, no witty remarks to erase her folly.

“Well, Khushi I can’t say much about that”

She nodded meekly.

“Let’s head back, shall we?”

And that’s how Aman found them in the office that afternoon. One deep in thought, and one mortified.

Tagging: @arshifiesta

—————-

Next chapter>>

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[spirk-trek]

I would love to hear your thoughts on kirk's backstory and what happened on tarsus iv, I feel like I've read so many conflicting takes on here and none of them actually match up with the episode (conscience of the king)

Hi anon! The way you worded this makes me think you were just looking for information and not a fic request. Forgive me if I was wrong!! 😅

I think the reason there are so many conflicting ideas is because of how vague it is in canon itself (which is cool, leaves a lot of room for interpretation). Because of this, when I recently wrote a thing about Tarsus IV I also struggled with "research" for it. Here's what I came up with:

!!! Disclaimer! I am not declaring any of this the One True Canon™! This is just my interpretation/speculation based on existing lore !!!

To me, it makes most sense for Jim to be sent to Tarsus IV with his mother, and for her to be a civilian scientist/researcher of some kind. I find it very hard to believe the massacre could have taken place if Starfleet were present, which would include George Kirk, Jim's father. George is said to have been absent often due to his work (SNW), so it wouldn’t be strange for him to be separated from his family (this is also just normal in Star Trek in general, i.e. Sulu [AOS] and like… everyone with children in TNG).

A more recent Trek book called Drastic Measures seems to back this exact idea up (depends who you ask which novels are canon, and this book was written for Discovery so take it with a grain of salt).

Sam would, in the TOS timeline, be 10 years older than Jim (~23). That would make it unlikely he'd be tailing after his mother to remote colonies. It's much more likely he was concerned with his own career/family/life.

So, in summary of those points, I think it was just Jim and Winona. Jim is between 12 and 14 years old, and his mother was a civilian researcher (the novel I mentioned earlier made her a xenobiologist, probably for plot reasons).

Something I do see exaggerated sometimes is the method of killing in the massacre. An antimatter chamber appears to be what was used, similar to A Taste of Armageddon, so it would not have been mass carnage or a big dramatic fight in the end. Just... zap. 

SPOCK: "He was certainly among the most ruthless, to decide arbitrarily who would survive and who would not [...] and then to implement his decision without mercy. Children watching their parents die. Whole families, destroyed. Over four thousand people. They died quickly, without pain, but they died.”

However, these are also quotes from the episode, so I can see why people might think the massacre itself was more violent: 

- JIM: “Four thousand people were needlessly butchered.” - LEIGHTON: “I remember him. That voice. The bloody thing he did.”  - JIM: “Are you sure you didn't act this role out in front of a captive audience whom you blasted out of existence without mercy?” - KARIDIAN/KODOS: “Murder, flight, suicide, madness. I never wanted the blood on my hands ever to stain you.” 

There was a revolution of some kind, probably brought about by people easily radicalized out of hunger and desperation.

- KARIDIAN/KODOS: [reading] "The revolution is successful…” - SPOCK: “There were over eight thousand colonists and virtually no food. And that was when Governor Kodos seized full power and declared emergency martial law.”

If Kodos already had his ideas about eugenics, which it sounds like he did, he would have seized this as an opportunity. This would make him an even more solid comparison to Hitler, which they were definitely going for to at least some extent (this was written two decades after WWII which many involved in the making of star trek were deeply affected by if not veterans themselves).

Because of the above quotes, I also think there’s merit to the idea of there being multiple formal executions where Kodos gave his infamous “speech” each time rather than just once (this would be another reason Jim would remember it enough to write it down), rather than one massive execution of 4,000 people. However, this quote could be interpreted to mean the opposite:

SPOCK: “Kodos began to separate the colonists. Some would live, be rationed whatever food was left; The remainder would be immediately put to death.”

Arguably, the even more traumatic suffering would be the period of starvation and upheaval leading up to the massacre. To me, a 3-6 month period of slowly worsening starvation as the food supply shrank and shrank to nothing would make the most sense.

One aspect I don't quite get is that Kodos's body was supposed to have been "burned beyond recognition.” Since we know from Conscience of the King his death was staged, then this fake death can’t have been pulled off in the midst of Starfleet intervention upon arrival (they would have taken him into custody to stand trial rather than kill him on sight anyway). Burning yourself to death is a highly unusual form of suicide, so I’m not sure if that’s supposed to allude to him being fake killed in the carnage following the execution when the people didn't react the way he wanted or expected? My only theory is that there was unrest and rioting for the period of time between the massacre and Starfleet arriving with relief, and he used that to fake his death once he knew he would be put on trial.

Anyway, this is super long so I'll cut myself off there. Hope that answered your question, sorry for being crazy! If anyone has anything to add, please do!

[skadilothbrok]

Given The Chance - Chapter 8

Towards the spring of 1945 everything seemed to speed up in relation to the war effort. The Ministry had been sent out on half a dozen missions in the past month alone. All successful of course. “Looks like you’re going home Lassen” Gus joked as he read over the next mission brief.

He handed the brief to Anders, and you watched from across the room as he scanned over it. His eyebrows rose and a smile spread over his face “I finally get to kill Nazi’s at home?”

“Yes, but like I’ve told you before Lassen, don’t get greedy” Gus warned with a grin.

Almost a week later, you were dressed in the only formal attire you’d bought along on the trip – specifically requested by Anders. He’d been so excited when he told you he wanted to show you his home, you couldn’t refuse him. When he drove out of the village however, you grew a little confused.

You turned from the window to look at him “I thought you said you lived in Mern?”

“I said I lived near Mern” the corners of his lips turned up as he drove on. He was hiding something; you just weren’t sure exactly what yet. A few minutes later he turned into a long driveway and a huge manor came into view at the end of it.

Your eyebrows lifted in surprise, and you turned to give him another look.

“Welcome to Høvdingsgård” he answered your questioning look with a smirk. As he came around to open the car door for you, you still couldn’t quite believe it. 

“You mean to tell me your secretly incredibly wealthy?” you asked as you took his hand out of the car.

“It’s not a secret” he shrugged.

“When I asked about your home, you said you were from Mern” you scoffed.

“And I more or less am” he defended with a grin “give or take a few miles”.

“Any other secrets in that head of yours?” you laughed as you tapped the side of his head.

“My cousin nearly killed Hitler once” he deadpanned, and your eyes went wide with surprise. Before you could even process that information, the doors at the front of the house opened and a woman appeared.

“Anders?” she asked as she took a few steps towards you. Anders turned to the woman and you watched his features soften instantly. “Anders” the woman spoke again as a smile overtook her face, seconds later she rushed forward to pull him into a hug.

His mother, you thought as you stood back and let them have their moment. Tears of happiness streamed down her face and you smiled as Anders gently wiped them away.

“We got your letter saying you were in England” she spoke in hurried Danish “but there was no address to write you back”.

“I’ve been okay” Anders assured her “I’ve been working with the army. I’m sorry I didn’t write often. I couldn’t risk the letters being intercepted and the Nazi’s harming you because of me”.

“Why would they go to such effort for one man?” she seemed genuinely confused.

“I have quite the reputation” he shrugged.

“It doesn’t matter, you’ve come back to us” she placed her hands on his arms before turning to look at you.

“Mother” Anders turned to you too “this is Y/n”. The way he said your name had your heart singing. His mother looked from you to Anders and back before a knowing smile covered her face.

“It’s lovely to meet you Y/n” she came and offered you her hand “I’m Suzanne”.

“A pleasure to meet you too” you took her hand and shook it with a smile.

“Your Danish is impressive” she smiled “though by your accent I take it you’re English?”

“Yes ma’am” you nodded.

“I simply must know how you two met” she beamed “your father will be so pleased to see you” she turned back to Anders as she gestured for you both to follow her inside.

Anders entwined your fingers with his and lifted them to his lips to place a kiss to the back of your hand. The moment was so simple yet perfect that you couldn’t contain the happiness on your face. Anders had a similar look on his face.

Over the next few hours, you were introduced to Anders’ father and were shown around the house. Suzanne would offer stories of Anders’ childhood as you went, and you found yourself laughing often at what a troublemaking child he was. It was all so domestic.

“I’m afraid we must get back to our team” Anders eventually informed his parents “we’re here on business”.

“Business?” his father questioned as the four of you made your way outside “you’re not causing trouble are you Anders��.

Anders laughed at that “only for the Nazi’s”.

“Anders” his mother spoke up “would you mind helping me move something before you go?”

“Of course,” Anders replied eagerly before excusing himself and leaving you to converse with his father beside the car.

“I’m glad he’s found you” Emil told you with a smile “he could use a good woman to keep him under control”.

“Well, I’m not sure there’s anyone who can do that” you joked “but I assure you I always look out for him”. He smiled at your answer before Anders and Suzanne returned. Goodbyes were exchanged and promises to return in the not too far future and you were back on the road shortly after.

“My mother loves you” Anders beamed as he drove down the driveway.

“Of course she does, I’m a very likeable person” you replied “your parents seem really nice. And it sounds like you were such a handful to raise” you joked.

“I still am a handful” he laughed.

“I know” you smirked “luckily I’m good at keeping you on your best behaviour”.

“You think so” he challenged playfully though his eyes never left the road.

“I’m sure of it” you replied.

[f1tyreslightmyfyre]

Immortal Artistry - Ch. 3

Series Main List

A Vampire AU F1 Fic Featuring Charles Leclerc x Fem!Reader, George Russell x Fem!Reader, hints of Max Verstappen x Fem!Reader, Lestappen, Sebchal, and Sainzell (or Russainz?)

Also on AO3

Ch. 3 Warnings: Language; stalker behavior; abduction; vampire thrall; WWII references to Hitler and Nazi regime; non-graphic violence, murder and death

2023

A tall man stands before you in the parking garage with sandy blonde hair, broad shoulders and a lean, tapered waist that shouldn’t be so distracting in such a risky situation. He braces one hand against his hip and the other hangs at his side as he offers a small smile. “Hello.” He says your name, and all of your survival instincts go on high alert.

Your heart hammers as adrenaline lights you up. “Wha… who are you?” You freeze in place, gripping your laptop bag to swing it in self-defense if needed. “H-how do you know my name?”

“My name is Max, and Charles told me.” His mouth pulls to a tight, closed-mouth smile as if indulging a small child. “And, really, nothing more should be said right now. And certainly not here.”

“O-okay.” You force a hard swallow. “Um, then… I’ll just be on my way.” You motion towards your car behind him, but he takes a step forward with a tense shake of his head.

“I’m afraid you can’t do that. Or, at least, not yet.” He says, taking another step forward, and you instinctively step back. “There are some things that you’re better off understanding first.”

“I-I don’t need to understand anything.” You stammer, taking another backwards step but it’s no match for his forward advance. “I haven’t done anything, and if you so much as fucking touch me, I’ll scream and bring the security guard running.”

He sighs in vague annoyance, but hardly looks deterred. “Well, we could have done this the easy way – believe me when I say that I’m here for your protection, that I don’t want to see you hurt – but I guess we’ll just have to do it the hard way.”

He lunges forward with a burst of impossible speed, holding your gaze captive with his own. His ice blue eyes glow like twin stars, and you’re helpless to look away. Waves of warmth and security roll through you, and… why exactly were you trying to get away from him? Especially as the comforting weight of his palm cups your jaw and his fingers caress your cheek. You want to melt into him, to never be without him, to always have him like this.

“That’s it,” he rumbles gently, stroking your cheek. “Now that we’ve made up from our fight, give me a hug for the camera…”

Your arms wrap around him without a second thought, and fuck… the solid, firm build of him sends your blood racing.

“That’s my girl.” He praises through the fog in your ears, pressing his lips against your other cheek. “Now, shall we get on with our date night? Loop your arm around my waist now, come on, and how about a smile…?”

He draws back and you're helpless not to drown under his lovely gaze as he shifts to your side. Your arm lands around the lean line of his waist as a smile brightens your face, and really… what’s so bad about this?

Your footsteps match his as you both draw up to your car and he guides you into the passenger seat. A whimper passes your lips as the lean strength of his body withdraws, and you try to reach out for him as he closes the door.

“No, schatje.” He says gently as he folds your hand back in your lap. “I’ll just be a minute.”

The door closes, and you can’t breathe as he circles around the front of the car and slides into the driver’s seat. It’s only as his hand envelops yours that the weight lifts from your chest and you stare at him, helpless to look anywhere else.

You barely hear the sound of the engine ignition or see the passing city lights as he cuts through the night. You don’t even know where you are as he finally brings the car to a stop. But again, the distance between you as he walks over to the passenger side of the car lances anxiety through you until his hand reconnects with yours – and you never want to be without him. How could you? Why would you? 

“Come on,” he whispers carefully as your feet move against a smooth surface – concrete, you think. A driveway. “This way…” He coos as he guides you forward and you cling to him, uncaring about anything else.

He pushes a large door open and golden light floods your vision. You can just make out white and cream blurs that might be furniture, but when you’re in his arms like this, who cares about furniture?

“Charles!” Max calls out loudly, and you press your ear tight against his chest as if to drown out the loud noise. “Charles, get down here!”

His strong arm disappears from around your waist and you're gently coaxed to sit on something soft and cushy. But you only have eyes for him as he starts to draw back, and you reach out for him as another voice echoes in your foggy brain.

“Mon dieu…” The voice is pure astonishment. “Max, what the hell is this? What is she-”

“George found her.”

“Fucking hell… and you had to bring her here for that?”

“You put her in danger and you need to get her out of it.”

“Seb would say that we should just drain her and be done with it.”

“And it may yet come to that, but with Xavi’s death, we might need her.”

“… Fine.” A long sigh follows, and another man moves into your vision. He’s… vaguely familiar, like a shadow from a distant dream, but he’s not the one you want..

Your hands reach out, feebly searching for what you know you’ll surely die without.

“Good lord, Max.” The man in front of you sighs again. “You didn’t have to go so hard on her.”

“I barely used my thrall… that’s all her, mate.”

“Then, get her out of it. Now.”

That same strong, comforting hand finds your jaw, and you reconnect with those gorgeous glacial eyes. All feels so right with the world and nothing could possibly –

“As you were.” Max commands, and the fog lifts.

You gasp as you come back to yourself, overloaded by too many realizations at once.

For one, the home you’re in is cavernous and opulent – for fuck’s sake, it's a mansion… if not a palace.

For two, Charles Leclerc, III, crouches down in front of you, dressed in grey joggers and a white t-shirt, looking far too relaxed despite the annoyed set of his handsome face.

For three, Max from the parking garage stands next to him with a terrifyingly neutral expression on his face.

“Where… what the fuck just happened? How did I get here? And…” your mouth goes dry and words choke in your throat. “Why am I here? I-I don’t know anything about what happened to Padros -”

“It’s alright,” Charles cuts off your rambling. “You’re not in danger, at least not from us.”

You scoff. “Yeah, I suppose you would say that.”

The corner of Charles’ mouth lifts. “And if I really did intend to hurt you, a comment like that could earn you a backhand across the cheek.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

The wicked lift of Charles’ mouth grows. “I don’t need to strike you to pacify you.”

A terrifying mix of vulnerability and arousal curdles in your blood. You’re suddenly all too aware of these intimidating men before you, and you’re still entirely too discomforted that you can’t recall anything about how you got here. To this… mansion with these two handsome – gorgeous, really – men staring down at you, oozing all confidence and power.

Dammit, this is not the time for your kinky side to take hold.

You take a deep breath, trying to steady your unease and regain some modicum of control despite how powerless you feel. “Okay… but why am I here?” 

Charles blinks back at you. “I’m given to understand that you know George Russell.” 

Indignation furrows your brow. “And just how is that any of your business?” 

“I’m told that it’s my fault he contacted you.” 

The wrinkled set of your brow deepens. “You’re ‘given to understand’, you’re ‘told’… do you not do anything for yourself?” 

Max snorts a breathless laugh. “You know, she has a point, mate.” 

Nothing in the handsome lines of Charles’ face changes despite the hint of a smirk coming to his face. “I’ve known Max for quite a long time, and you wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t true.” He shifts his weight, bracing a forearm against a knee. “Has George told you anything?” 

You arch an incredulous brow. “Anything about what…? Just what the fuck is going on here?” Frustration tightens your voice as your hand clenches in your lap. “He’s nobody, alright? George hasn’t told me anything! He’s never mentioned either of you. He’s just some new guy at work –"

“How new?” Charles’ tone is disconcertingly calm. 

“A couple of weeks, he said.” 

“And when did you first meet him?” 

“The night….” A chill races down your spine as your mind catches up to your adrenaline-fueled instincts. “I was leaving work just after our meeting, just after I had met you…” 

Charles’ eyes brighten as the connection is made. “And where did you meet George? Behind the secured access points of your building?” 

“No…” A shiver creeps along your skin. “In the parking garage… and then again, in the main lobby…” 

Max shakes his head with a scoff. “It’s easy enough to walk around a vehicle barrier or into an open lobby during business hours.” 

The realizations mix with the memory of your search for George in your company’s chat program. And after hearing Charles say George’s full name tonight, you hadn’t misheard, nor had you misspelled ‘Russell’ so poorly. Your mouth goes dry at the implication as your stomach sours. 

But the last thing you want to do is admit that Charles is right. That this man, whose - lacky? Minion? Bodyguard? Max? – abducted you to his house, is actually telling the truth. 

Charles blinks and gives his head a gentle shake. “For that and all of this, I do apologize. I didn’t intend to put you in such danger.” 

You fix Charles with a hard stare. “But what about Xavier? If he had met with you instead of me, would George have contacted him, too?” 

An enigmatic expression comes to Charles’ face. “I’m afraid those are questions for another time. This is about George, not Xavi.” 

“But they’re connected, aren’t they?” You try to seek the answer in Charles’ face. “They have to be.” 

The muscles of Charles’ jaw tighten. “If George contacts you again, don’t engage with him. Don’t help him. And paramount for your own safety, never look him in the eyes.” 

You scoff. “That’s ridiculous. And makes no sense.” Another frustrated sigh escapes you. “Nothing happens from looking someone in the eyes. We’re not wolves, for fuck’s sake.” 

Max sighs. “It’s not aggression that you need to worry about from him. Hypnosis is far more dangerous.” 

“Hypnosis?” You glare up at Max as creeping realization overtakes you. “Is that how I got here...?” You feel stupid for even asking the question, but very little about this entire conversation makes sense. “You…” your gaze trails back to Charles. “Max hypnotized me…?”

The corner of Charles’ mouth edges up, revealing the gleam of white teeth. “You probably shouldn’t make direct eye contact with him, either,” he chuckles with a suggestive undertone. “Unless you want to, of course. Plenty of people do.” 

You recoil at the implication, leaning back against the chair as Charles’ gentle laugh continues. 

Max sighs with thinly veiled annoyance. “Come on, Charles. Don’t play with your food.” 

The words rot in your gut and you dart wide eyes up to Max. All your instincts urge you to fight for escape – to flee for your life – but you have precious few options. Especially as Charles leans closer and his eyes darken above his attempt at a calming smile. 

“He’s only joking. You needn’t be so frightened, cara mia.” He coos gently as his gaze runs over your face and down your neck with a sudden, startling hunger. “Your heart is beating so fast.” 

“Well, what do you expect?” You hiss, grabbing the chair armrests as if that would save you. “You hypnotize me, you fucking kidnap me –”

Charles pushes to his feet. “Technically speaking, that was all Max. He had no direction from me to do so, but I’m glad that he did bring you here.” He shakes his head as he braces a hand on his hip and looks at Max. “This development is an unfortunate wrinkle. Surprising, even.” 

Max nods shortly. “They’ve never come this close.” 

Charles hums in quiet agreement. “That’s something we should look into. But first,” he turns back to you with a quick glance. “Take her home. Put her to bed.” 

“And the rest…?”

Charles steps around him, placing a supportive hand on his shoulder that borders on overly intimate. “I trust you.”

You push up from the chair, heart pounding as you seize the moment and start to run. But faster than you can breathe, a strong, solid arm hooks around your waist. You collide with the broad plane of Max's chest, and he isn’t even breathing hard as his chilly fingers find your jaw. Fuck, just why is his skin so cold? “Please…" you whimper. “Please don’t –"

“I know, schatje.” Max says softly as he tips your face up towards his and you glimpse those ice blue eyes. “Right here, that’s it.” He praises as your gazes lock. “Just like that…”

The world turns warm and fuzzy, and calmness suffuses you. Your muscles relax from the tension and relief surges through you. Tears sting your eyes and roll down your cheeks as you all but dissolve into the only source of comfort and protection that you need. 

Max holds you close as you desperately cling to him. “I know, I know,” he says with a slight edge of irritation, and he guides your unsteady feet. “But like Charles said, you don’t need to be frightened of us. After all, this is just a dream. Just a dream.”

The words resound in your brain.

Just a dream.

1943

Nightfall in the Netherlands continues to yield its secrets. Each German-occupied country possesses scars of the looting conquerors and Charles’ keen nose for the hunt continues to surprise both him and Seb. 

And he’s not just referring to the acrid smoke in the air. 

“Fucking bombers.” Charles grouses. “Can they not tell the difference between a factory and a museum?”

“I imagine it’s difficult.” Seb muses as dirt crunches against the cobblestone beneath their feet. “Mortals’ vision is already so limited and from that high altitude, moving at those speeds.” He tilts his head up to the hazy sky in assessment. “How could you accurately tell one building from another?”

“Factories have chimneys and black smoke.” 

“Not all of them do. Textile miles don’t… at least,” Seb pauses as he frowns. “Well, they didn’t use to. But maybe they do now… the Industrial Revolution was a fascinating thing to witness, but far too much smoke to tell one factory from the next in the city centers. Even for one such as myself.”

Charles quirks a wry grin. “You surprise me, Seb. For a man of reason and organization, you should have nothing against the Industrial Revolution.” 

Seb shrugs a shoulder. “Progress always comes with a cost. The ages teach us that, if nothing else. Exploration comes with rampant disease. Colonization comes with inherent subjugation. Industrialization comes with unjust squalor. And technology comes with mass destruction.”

Charles hums in quiet consideration. “Is that what you saw during the Great War?” He has heard about the terrors of trench warfare and gas bombs, but he has no basis for comparison. Hell, even as an immortal, he barely has a stomach for the current war.

“Yes.” Seb’s voice holds the heavy weight of unwanted memory as they round a corner onto a side street. “Mercifully, the horrors unleashed by that war are yet to be repeated on this battlefield.”

Charles heaves a sigh – not that he needs to breathe anymore, but it’s oddly habitual. “Do you suppose there’s any hope that mankind will ever stop inventing ways to kill one another?”

A wry smirk cracks Seb’s face as he glances over in this darkness. “You don’t really want my –”

A muffled groan and grunts in German slice through their conversation. Charles’ gaze snaps to the street ahead, senses on full alert as shadows take shape in his sharp vision. A man lies on the ground, feebly trying to curl into himself despite the cordon of soldiers kicking and beating him from all sides. It still doesn’t make sense to Charles that the Netherlands has remained a neutral nation in the war even after being invaded and suffering Nazi occupation.

Seb sighs sadly. “Have they no basic decency?”

“For someone out past curfew, that looks more merciful than an interrogation chamber.” Charles replies. Even though they only roam the streets and countryside at night, whispers of the Dutch Resistance surround them – a thin thread of hope that still manages to hold the country together.

“Well, we won’t let that happen, either.” Seb says as he turns a confirming glance on Charles. “Shall we?”

Charles nods in helpless agreement. “I am a little hungry.”

They move together, swift as shadows and just as silent, just as deadly. Bones snap, blood warms their bellies, and screams die before they can begin. It never takes them long, and this time is no exception. It comes easier to Charles now – acting with aggression against the aggressors – but it’s still not his natural inclination.

Licking the blood from his lips, he glances down at the young man still curled up on the ground. His breathing comes in ragged, uneven draws – his chest rattles, even. The smell of rich, hot, dark blood permeates the air even above the scents of the dead soldiers, and the young man’s face is bruised and bloodied to match his expression of agony.

“H-h-help...” The words are just barely audible and laden with great effort.

Seb sighs with regret. “We’re not able to save you.”

Bright blue eyes flash beneath swollen eyelids, full of pain and fear. “No-o… please. I –” The Dutchman’s voice chokes off on a gurgling cough and blood flows past his lips.

Charles’ heart breaks as he stares down at the dying man. “I was wrong. There’s nothing merciful about this.” He crouches down and gently cups the man’s strong jawline, stroking his thumb over an angry cut, trying to impart any comfort that he can. Beneath the injuries and blood, the man is undeniably handsome with a strong, sturdy build. Maybe that’s why he’s still alive now. He’s a fighter… and maybe… just maybe that’s why he risked being outside after curfew.

The Dutchman’s breathing turns faint and wheezing, and Charles knows the window is closing. “I want to help him.” He says, turning to glance up at Seb.

Seb’s brows furrow curiously. “You want to help him…? Help him as in…"

Unease pits in Charles’ gut. “Turn him. Like you turned me.”

“He’s practically a dead man – you can smell it.” Seb shakes his head. “Mortals die all the time… you’ve seen it before.”

“And I haven’t asked to save a single one of the countless many that I have witnessed. I’m just asking…” he trails off, glancing back down, unable to explain why he’s so drawn to this man. “I’m just asking about this one.”

“You are still so young -”

“And I’ve gotten better with my thrall, with my control – even my finesse. I’m learning to let go of my ‘mortal construct’ as you call it, and now I’m asking you – will you help me with this?”

Seb folds his arms across his chest in silent contemplation as the Dutchman’s weak breathing wheezes between them. “Where do you think this will go, Charles? If you turn him, then what?”

Charles’ lip curls in a frustrated sneer. “Did you ask yourself that question before you ambushed me in the woods? Tell me, where did you think it would go with me, hmm?” He fixes Seb with a hard stare. “Or was I really just too pretty for you to resist?”

A tense moment hangs in the air before Seb drops his arms to his side. “We’ll have to guide him – you’ll have to teach him.”

Relief sparks in Charles’ chest. “Yes… yes, I can do that. And I will.” He turns back to the Dutchman, trailing down to the slope of his neck. His pulse weakly flutters beneath Charles’ fingertips, and Charles hopes he’s not too late.

Seb kneels beside him, curling his hand over the back of Charles’ as they gently trace over the main artery together. “Just there,” Seb whispers as Charles leans down, inhaling the Dutchman’s scent deep into his lungs as his lips buss the tender skin.

Charles’ fangs pierce the skin, and a delicious coppery tang rushes over his tongue as Seb softly continues. “And, now… just listen for the heart to stop.”

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[lazy-whistledown]

https://www.nytimes.com/2024/10/22/us/politics/john-kelly-trump-fitness-character.html

This is a 10-minute read & worth every second but here’s the cliff notes version:

Mr. Kelly expanded on his previously expressed concerns and stressed that voters, in his view, should consider fitness and character when selecting a president, even more than a candidate’s stances on the issues.

in his opinion, Mr. Trump met the definition of a fascist, would govern like a dictator if allowed, and had no understanding of the Constitution or the concept of rule of law.

Mr. Trump had made admiring statements about Hitler, had expressed contempt for disabled veterans and had characterized those who died on the battlefield for the United States as “losers” and “suckers” — comments first reported in 2020 by The Atlantic.

“Certainly the former president is in the far-right area, he’s certainly an authoritarian, admires people who are dictators — he has said that. So he certainly falls into the general definition of fascist, for sure.”

“I think he’d love to be just like he was in business — he could tell people to do things and they would do it, and not really bother too much about whether what the legalities were and whatnot,” he said.

Mr. Kelly said that Mr. Trump was repeatedly told dating back to his first year in office why he should not use the U.S. military against Americans and the limits on his authority to do so. Mr. Trump nevertheless continued while in office to push the issue and claim that he did have the authority to take such actions

“He’s certainly the only president that has all but rejected what America is all about, and what makes America America, in terms of our Constitution, in terms of our values, the way we look at everything, to include family and government — he’s certainly the only president that I know of, certainly in my lifetime, that was like that,” Mr. Kelly said.

Mr. Kelly said that in the first few days of working for Mr. Trump as his chief of staff in the summer of 2017, he had to explain to the president that top government officials like himself had taken an oath to the Constitution and would place that oath over personal loyalty. Mr. Kelly said Mr. Trump pressed him about that pledge and seemed to have no appreciation that top aides were supposed to put their pledge to the Constitution — and, by extension, the rule of law — above all else.

Mr. Kelly confirmed previous reports that on more than one occasion Mr. Trump spoke positively of Hitler. “He commented more than once that, ‘You know, Hitler did some good things, too,’” Mr. Kelly said Mr. Trump told him.

Mr. Kelly said Mr. Trump did not want to be seen in public with those who had lost limbs on the battlefield.

Mr. Kelly said that on top of saying “losers” and “suckers,” Mr. Trump often questioned the decisions by Americans to sacrifice for their country.

Mr. Kelly was asked whether Mr. Trump had any empathy. “No,” Mr. Kelly said.

Do you know who else lack empathy? PSYCHOPATHS

Make of that what you will.