#handsome hitler

[heehoee]

valkyrie is such a hot movie.

[lesbianamalvada]

I hate john gauis so fucking much. it's not even any of his crimes, his vibes are just abhorrent. quirk chungus acting mother fucker. everytime he opens his mouth he either lies or comes in with some "well that just happened" quip. He has the evil obnoxiousness of lin manuel miranda and taika watiti combined. I bet he was a millenial. I bet he was that guy on dating apps looking for a third for him and his gf. I bet his favorite movie was the avengers. I don't care what his reasons are, I don't care if he's the most justified person in the whole entire series, I hate his ass and nothing will change that. I just know he is not handsome at all and has the most dumb ass dorky looking face and receding hairline. stupid whore can't keep it in his pants and acts suprised he's got a kid, sleeping with his subordinates that he calls brothers and sisters the creepy fuck. I bet he would groom his partners into doing weird kink shit they weren't comfortable with, if he was a teacher his relationships with the awkward girls who try really hard at school would be borderline innapropriate. No I haven't read Nona the Ninth, that will not change my mind, I don't care if we find out he's was a veteran firefighter who defeated robo-hitler, his vibes are still ghastly and i want him gone.

[souliebird]

[[and then i met you || ch.1]]

Series: Daredevil || Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader || Rating: Explicit

Summary: A one-night stand years ago gave you a daughter and you are now able to put a name to her father – Matthew Murdock. Everything is about to change again as you navigate trying to integrate your life with that of the handsome and charming blind lawyer’s.

a/n: Reader is an extremely anxious person. That’s the note.

words: 5.6k

You hope Matthew Michael Murdock is a good man. 

You tried to research him online, but you didn't find anything that could sway you one way or another.

The news articles say he's some sort of local hero - not only for being a lawyer who does a lot of pro-bono work but for saving a man from being hit by a truck when he was a kid. They all give his tragic backstory before praising him and his law partner for helping the underprivileged and going after some big shot corrupt businessman - twice. The comments are mostly from people he's helped, singing about how Nelson and Murdock saved them in their times of crisis. 

You want to trust them, but you can't.

The news also claimed Hitler was Person of the Year and deserved praise, too, and you know how that turned out. Not that you think a blind lawyer from Hell's Kitchen can be compared to a genocidal leader, but your mental point to yourself still stands. 

You know nothing about Matthew Murdock except he's blind, he's a lawyer, and his dick changed your life. 

You doubt he even remembers you - a one-night stand from years ago, before his name even started appearing in the news again, and to be fair, you didn't remember him at first, either. Not until four months later when you went in to get your anxiety medication adjusted and the doctor made you take a routine pregnancy test. Then you remembered the handsome blind lawyer who flirted with you at a friend's holiday party you had gone to. You could remember the silly conversation you had about white elephant, that he had the most charming smile, and he could do things with his tongue that made you moan just thinking about, but you could not remember his name. 

You had tried to find him, you really did, but your energy and attention was quickly needed elsewhere and the search for your daughter's father lost steam.

Until you saw him on the television while at the local diner, giving an interview with his law partner. 

That was yesterday and now you are standing outside the door of his firm, trying to work up the courage to go in. 

There's too many scenarios in your head, all of them bad- he's not going to want anything to do with you and your daughter, which you can deal with, or maybe, just maybe, he'll try to take her away from you. He's a lawyer and you work in billing for a transportation company. There's no doubt who the courts would choose and it wouldn't be you. 

The thought makes you want to turn and run but you know your daughter deserves the chance to know her father - and he deserves to know she exists. It's his choice, once he knows, if he wants to be in her life or not, not yours. 

It scares you so much it's not your choice. 

You scrub at your face, trying to work up the courage to actually open the door in front of you when it does just that. 

A kind looking woman with strawberry blonde hair is standing in the doorway and you recognize her from the firm's website - Karen Page. She's the third partner in the firm and you didn't really look into her in your hunt for information. 

She offers you a smile before speaking, "You look like you're debating coming in." You shrug, unsure what to say because that is exactly what you were doing but don't want to admit it. She looks you over without it feeling judgmental before focusing on the manila envelope in your hand. She steps back slightly and gestures for you to come into the office. "You made it this far. Whatever it is, we'll do our best to help you."

The sentiment is so kind and you know she means well, thinking you are a potential client, but it just causes your throat to get even tighter. 

It has been you and your daughter for so long, is this really the right path to take? 

You hug your file to your chest and take a hesitant step forward. Then another and another until you are in the office. It's not big or fancy and you didn't expect it to be. There's a little waiting area in front of the reception desk, with another desk shoved against a wall, and on either side of the room, doors leading to what you suspect are the private offices. 

Karen goes around to the back of the reception desk and picks up a clipboard holding some paperwork and offers it out to you.

You take it and stare down at it, unsure if you would fill it out or not. When you look back up, Karen is still smiling at you and you don't want to come off as a problem, so you take a seat in the waiting area and start filling out the requested information. As you write out your address, it finally occurs to you that you have no idea how to have the conversation you need to have.

Do you ease into it or drop it on him like a bomb? You had only ever thought about finding him and never about what you would say when you did.

You should have taken more time to plan this out. You're such an idiot - you just jumped right into running towards him like you might lose track of him if you took so much as a second to think. You know his name now, who he is, you can take time to get things sorted out properly.

Would it be weird to leave in the middle of filling out paperwork you shouldn't even be bothering with?

Probably not, but you're already here. There is no point in running. 

This is for your daughter, not you. You have to keep telling yourself that.

You don't fill out the information asking about your 'case'. It honestly makes you panic a bit if you start thinking about it all in a legal sense - you know nothing about law and the man you're meeting with graduated at the top of his class from a top law school. Your hand is shaking as you add your signature to the bottom of the page and date it. Reviewing everything takes just a moment, since there's barely anything written to begin with, and your eyes drift up to the logo at the top of the page.

Nelson, Murdock, and Page.

You trace it with your finger.

Matthew Murdock has to be a good man. This firm helps people and he wouldn't be here if he didn't want to help people. He graduated top of his class; he could work anywhere he wanted to. The papers said he is good, too - they win most of their cases. 

Unless it's all a weird front to hide something like money laundering. 

But if they were money launders wouldn't they have enough money to afford an air conditioner? 

"All done?" 

Karen is in front of you, smiling politely. You are surprised by her appearance, but you don't feel pressured. It's like she's checking in so that she can break you out of your thoughts and you appreciate that. You nod and hand her the clipboard. She takes it, giving it a once over.

"Foggy will be out in just a minute."

Your head jerks up at that.

"No, I need to see Mr. Murdock."

You can tell Karen is surprised by that and her eyes narrow just a fraction. She searches your face, then she looks towards the door on the left. 

You turn your head to follow her gaze. 

"Matt!" Karen calls out.

A few moments pass before the door opens and you feel like you're going to throw up. 

The cameras don't do him justice. 

Matthew Murdock is gorgeous. He was handsome before and somehow, he just got hotter. He's a little taller than you, still as lean as you remember, and looking crisp in a gray suit - like some model walked off the catwalk and into a sweltering office. His hair is shorter than you remember it being. You have the distinct memory of being able to grab onto it, but it's too cropped to do that now.

But the thing that catches your attention the most is that in person and in the light, you can see Matthew's hair has an auburn tint to it.

Just like Minnie's. 

The realization shakes your entire world. 

This man is the father of your child. He's real. He's no longer a concept of a person, who you knew nothing about, who just existed somewhere in the world. 

You have to look away before you start to cry. You don't know where this surge of emotion is coming from - it feels like this wave of relief. This question you have always had finally has an answer. 

You tell yourself to take a breath, you know getting overly emotional isn't going to help anything. It might actually make things worse and spiraling into a meltdown is not a good first impression.

You can see Karen in your peripheral vision, and you look up to her, trying to regain your focus.

It's Matthew who speaks first, "Yes, Karen?"

"We have a walk-in who is hoping she can speak with you." 

You introduce yourself, standing up as you do. You know he is blind, so you don't offer your hand. Instead you clutch your folder to your chest. 

He doesn't seem to remember your name. He turns towards you and gives a polite smile. "It's nice to meet you, I'm Matthew Murdock, but you seem to know that. I have some time right now, please come in. Karen, can you grab us some water before you join us?"

"Yeah, sure," Karen says as she turns to do just that. 

Your throat gets tight again. 

You don't want to have this conversation with someone else there. It's already going to be hard enough. You'll definitely start crying if Karen is in the room. You cannot deal with two people's reactions. The mere thought of you having to do that is making you sweat. 

Matthew's voice breaks you out of your panic. "If that is okay?"

You rush out your response, "I would prefer to speak alone, please." You're too panicked to feel embarrassment. 

Karen doesn't seem phased by this. She is still grabbing a couple of bottles of water from the fridge and offering one out to you. You take it. 

"Not a problem, let me know if you need anything."

"Thanks, Kare. Please, come this way," Matthew motions for you to follow him into the office. 

This is it.

Once you go through that door, you aren't leaving that room without telling Matthew Murdock he is a father. 

You surprise yourself by not hesitating and just charging forward into the office. 

This isn't about you or your fears. 

This is for Minnie. 

You keep your gaze forward because you can't bring yourself to look at him. If you stop and look at him before you tell him why you are here, you will just start over analyzing everything once again. You silently beg to whatever gods will listen that everything will be okay, and this man won't destroy you. 

He doesn't look like he is going to break your heart. 

But you know that looks mean nothing when it comes to pain. 

He closes the door behind you with an audible click and the weight of the moment starts to come down on your shoulders.

You take the seat in front of the desk quickly, worried your nerves might catch up with you, placing the water on the ground beside you with your purse when you sit. Matthew doesn't rush, he walks to his desk with an air of quiet confidence and if you were a client, it would be comforting, but you aren't and all it does is remind you why you fell into bed with him. 

"What brings you in today, Miss..?" He trails off, prompting you to say your name again. As he reaches his desk you watch as he trails his fingers along the edge, using it as a guide, before moving his hand to brush over the back of his seat before sitting in it. 

You chew your bottom lip, wishing you had taken a second to actually plan what you would say instead of jumping in. As far as you know, there isn't a step-by-step guide on how to tell a one-night stand that he's the father of your child - not that you actually looked into that in your desperate research the night before. 

Matthew doesn't push as you gather your thoughts. He moves some paperwork away from the center of his desk, then folds his hands there, waiting. You keep your gaze on his hands, needing something to focus your eyes on while you force the truth out.

"I saw your interview last night," you say, deciding to start there, as it seems the most relatable.

Matthew's brows knit together and he tilts his head to the side and you are one again reminded of Minnie. It's a gesture she does often, tilting her little head left and right as she tries to understand something. It always reminded you of a dog and now you wonder if it's not a learned behavior, but genetic. 

His lips turn down into a frown and his head stays cocked as he asks, "Do you have information about the Lynch case?"

Heat rushes to your cheeks - of course that would be the question to ask after bringing up the interview. The whole piece was about a specific case they were working on and how it would affect Hell's Kitchen and you hadn't paid any attention to what was said - not after you realized who was on the screen. 

You shake your head, resisting the urge to look away and you curl your fingers tighter around the manila folder in your lap. "No, I'm sorry. I saw you and…recognized you."

He straightens up and his demeanor shifts to something less…friendly. It's minute but your messed-up brain screams at you about body language - his shoulders have squared up and you can see where he's clenching his back teeth. You quickly continue on, wanting to get through with your explanation before your anxiety makes you clam up.

"We met nearly five years ago," your voice is firm and factual and you're proud of yourself for that, "at a holiday party." 

The words leave your mouth and you know he knows. Every part of him seems to go still - even his breathing seems to stop. The crease between his brow smoothes out, like he's gone from squinting to wide eyes behind his dark glasses. Your heart is pounding in your ears and your throat is getting stiff, but your voice remains steady as you push the words out.

"I think you are the father of my child."

All the color seems to leave Matthew's face and he looks nearly as gray as his suit. The reaction makes your stomach turn. He looks like he is going to throw up. 

You bite into your lip, waiting for Matthew to do or say something. All you can do is mentally chant to yourself: he's a good man, he won't take her away.

You know it's probably just seconds, but it feels like hours pass before Matthew moves.

He leans slowly back in his chair, reaching up with one hand to rub at his mouth. 

"Are you sure?"

He doesn't sound upset, at least to your ears. His words are cautious - tentative - and it makes your heart go tight in your chest. You don't know if it's fear or hope or everything crashing into you at once now that he knows.

You force out a nod before you remember that the man in front of you is blind. You find your voice and words creep out.

"I'm pretty sure," you start. Your eyes drop away from his hands back down to your lap and you have to lick at your lips to wet them before continuing, "I didn't go out much after that party, I got so busy with work. I didn't…find out until the first trimester was over. By then, I couldn't remember your name. My friends who I went to the party with didn't know you either. I tried to Google you with what information I had, but 'blind lawyer' just got me a lot of disability lawyers." You take a shaky breath, "I understand if you want a paternity test."

You know Matthew is probably taking everything in, but now that you've started talking, it's like you've lifted the dam on your anxiety. You squeeze the file in your lap - just because you hadn't known how you were going to tell Matthew the truth did not mean you hadn't extensively thought about the consequences. Words start to spill out of you.

"I also understand if you don't want anything to do with us, I get it's a big shock. I'm not looking for anything from you." Matthew drops his hand to the desk and if you didn't know better, it would look like he was staring at you. "I just wanted you to know and I thought it would be good for her to know you, but if you don't want that, I get it. All I ask is you fill out some paperwork, medical history mostly so I know if there's anything I need to look out for. I printed it out for you, it's all in braille." 

You get up just enough so that you can place the manila envelope on the desk, then sit back down. Your throat is getting so tight and stiff you feel like you're struggling to breathe. 

Matthew runs his hand over his desk until he can feel the envelope. His fingers move along the edge and you stare at them, like they are going to be the one to reveal what Matthew is thinking instead of his mouth. He finds the lip but doesn't open, instead flattening his palm against it.

"...her?"

His voice is so quiet you barely hear it. You lift your head to finally look at him and your heart skips a beat.

Matthew looks so soft. The corners of his lips twitch a few times before a smile slowly spreads across his face. 

And you know.

You know without a doubt he is your daughter's father. They have the exact same smile. You can't help but to grin as well. 

This is good, isn't it? He looks Happy. 

"I have a daughter.."

"Winifred.. Winifred Love," you offer. Matthew lifts his head and tilts it towards you, brow wrinkling slightly.

"Love…?" He asks, no judgment in his voice, only curiosity. 

You close your eyes in a bit of embarrassment, as you always do during the story, "I meant to put Grace, but I was out of it. I even put a big heart next to it on the paperwork." You aren't ashamed of the story and you love your daughter's name, but it's always a 'oops I was high' moment, even if it was done with the purest intention. 

If possible, Matthew's smile gets even bigger. 

"Winifred Love," he says, his voice dropping back down to the barely there whisper. 

"She goes by Minnie. Like, um.. Like Minnie Mouse," you say. That gets an amused yet fond chuckle. You find yourself relaxing at the noise - like some of the pressure squeezing on your lungs has been lifted and you can finally breathe. 

He repeats her nickname and you feel your lips start to turn up. 

"How old..?" His voice cracks with emotion and Matthew has to clear his throat before continuing, "how old is she?"

"Three and a half," you answer quickly, "her birthday is a few months away." You bite your lip then hesitantly add, "She wants to go to the zoo. It's all she talks about."

"Yeah?" Matthew prompts. His smile is so so soft and it makes your stomach turn in this pleasant way. However, you were expecting him to act, this is not it. In your heart, you think the best you were going for was acceptance, but this seems much more than that. There is a stinging in the corner of your eyes and you have to take your own steadying breath continuing on.

"Yeah, um.. She…likes maps right now. I got her a map to the zoo and she's got the whole day planned." Which is very much true - your coffee table has been the home of a makeshift zoo diorama for a little over a week now and the itinerary has changed about twenty times. 

 Matthew ducks his head and nods a little, taking all the information in. You squeeze your fingers in your lap, needing a way to release the nerves still buzzing inside you. 

A few moments pass before Matthew clears his throat again, "What else does she like..?"

The question makes you chuckle just a little bit, only because gushing about your daughter is something you're very good at. Since you work at home, it is just the two of you ninety percent of the time, you don't get to coo over her very often.

"She loves arts and crafts - anything she can get her little hands on. Right now she loves pipe cleaners and paper, things she can bend and fold, you know? I set her next to me while working and she'll just fold paper into little shapes. Not origami or anything, just abstract things, she doesn't plan it. She always wants to help, too, whatever I'm doing. Cooking and cleaning. She is the best helper for grocery shopping." You pause, looking over Matthew's smile for a moment before continuing on, tears starting to gather in your eyes.

 "She looks just like you," you admit, fondness clear in your voice because it is so so true. Now that you are properly looking at him, Minnie looks just like Matthew, and telling him that makes him light up even more. "You've got the same smile. The same hair. Hers is a little more red, but it's definitely from you."

You watch Matthew lick at his lips and you want to know what is going on in his head. You think everything is going well, even if you are on the verge of crying. They are tears of relief - relief you weren't told to fuck off or to go get your own lawyer. You don't fully know if Matthew Murdock is a good man, but you're over the first hurdle and the prospects are looking good. 

Matthew leans back into his chair, inhaling deeply, as if centering himself, then asks, "Why now? Why find me now?"

"Like I said, I couldn't find you, I didn't know anything about you, really, except what you looked like and you were a lawyer. I did try, I really did, but…" you trail off with a shrug, "I had a newborn."

Matthew seems to accept that answer - it is the truth after all - and continues on, "But you saw the interview... Last night?"

You nod, "I was picking up some dinner and they were playing the news at the diner. I saw it and looked you up and now…now you know."

"Now I know…" Matthew repeats slowly, his smile dropping a little and you wonder if is hitting him in different waves, like it did you - the realization he is a father. You know it is an intense roller coaster and you are not going to try to guide his ride, especially after just kind of dropping it on him. 

He taps the manila folder in front of him, the crease returning to his brow, "What is this?"

Your cheeks get hot again and you turn your gaze away from him and back to your lap, "Requests for family medical history and information about how to establish paternity, if that's what you want."

"It is," Matthew rushes out. Your head jerks up and his expression looks serious, "I want that. I want to be in her life."

He sounds so sure of himself that it makes your head spin a little. You built up in your mind he either wouldn't want anything to do with you and Minnie or he was going to try to take her away - you hadn't really considered the obvious option that Matthew would just want to be involved. At least, that is what you are hoping he is implying. 

"I won't abandon my daughter," the conviction in his voice startles you, but it also makes your heart twist but in a good way because in that moment, you believe him. "And I won't abandon you. I used to question if I had the right to bring a child into my life, but this isn't a hypothetical anymore…. And I can't.." he trails off and leans back into his chair, rubbing at his mouth again. You don't press, you have no right to when you've come out of the blue and changed his entire world. He takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose. "I can't step away now that I know she is out there." 

You quickly shake your head at his words, "You don't need to rush into anything, I mean it, I don't want anything from you but for you to have the chance to know her. We can go slow, she's still little, you know? She can't handle a big change. Start small?"

You're more worried about how he is feeling versus what you are. You have at least prepared yourself to have a reaction - he thought he would be having a normal work day and you've given him a lot to process in the last five minutes. 

"We can go at your pace, Matthew."

He drops his hand from his face, a smile coming back to his face, "You can call me Matt."

You repeat your preferred name, then apologize, "I'm sorry for coming out of nowhere. I didn't want to lose track of you again, but I could have scheduled an appointment."

Matt shakes his head a little, "No, I get it." His hand goes back to the envelope, like touching it is grounding him like squeezing your fingers is grounding you. "I'm glad you came…I'm glad…thank you. Thank you for telling me." 

Part of you wants to reach across the desk and squeeze his hand, to give him comfort and let him know everything will be okay, but you don't dare. He's still a stranger, despite everything. You decide pushing past the emotional to the practical might be the best approach for now. You need to get your anxiety to settle now that you know your world isn't going to end and the best thing for that, in your mind, is getting an action plan. 

"I don't know what the steps are for doing this," you start, trying to think up ideas as you talk, "but I think maybe we could…get together again and plan things out? Give you time to adjust to the idea and let you think about how you want to move forward?"

Matt nods along with your words, "That sounds like a good idea." 

You bend down to grab your phone out of your purse, "I put my contact information in the packet, but could I get yours?" 

He waits until you are ready, then gives you his personal number then the office number. You do the quick song and dance of calling his phone, so that he has your number and you wait patiently as he adds you as a contact. Hearing the voice commands to navigate a phone is new to you and once he is done putting in your information, you let your curiosity get the better of you.

"Do you prefer texting or phone calls?"

"Phone calls would be preferable," Matt says as he sets his phone on his desk, having held it up to speak clearly into it, "I have text to speech but it's not always the easiest for texting." 

You nod in understanding, "Got it." You squirm in your seat, unsure of what comes next, so you say the very first thing that comes to mind. "You can call anytime. I work from home so you don't have to worry about interrupting anything…like I'm doing with you."

He hums, then asks, "What does Minnie do during the day?" 

"She stays with me, mostly. There's a daycare down the block she goes to if I need someone to watch her. That's where she is now."

That makes Matt frown just slightly and part of you panics that he disapproves. "Is it just the two of you…?"

"Yes." 

You say it with confidence. You've worked hard to get where you are alone and despite all you've been through, you are proud of that. "My parents passed when I was in college and I don't have any siblings. We've managed to do pretty well on our own. It's not the biggest, but we have a little place in Chelsea."

The little frown stays and you don't know what it means - you hope it's over you not having a big support system and not something else. Matt looks like he is going to respond but a knock at the door cuts him off. You jump at the noise, having totally forgotten there were other people in the office. 

Matt looks slightly annoyed when he calls out, "Yes?"

The door opens and the final partner for the law firm is there. "Pardon the intrusion," he says to you with a nod before addressing Matt, "They've got that guy from last week at the 15th. He's asking for us specifically."

Matt openly scowls before running a hand over his face, "Okay. Give me a few minutes."

Foggy nods before stepping back out and closing the door.

"I'm sorry," Matt says sheepishly.

You cut him off before he can say more, standing as you do, "Please don't be, I really did just barge in on you at work. I can call you later? Or you can call me?" 

Matt gets up as well, starting to come around the desk, "I can call you." He hesitates just a second, then ducks his chin, that little smile reappearing and your heart does that funny flip again. "Maybe we can get lunch?"

You smile back, "I would like that. We can start planning." You bite your bottom lip, then add, "I can bring Minnie…?"

Matt's entire face lights up and the awkwardness of trying to end your talk evaporates. "I would like that. A lot." He motions to his desk, "I'll work on getting that back to you. I want to…I want to do this right." 

"I do, too." 

It feels like a promise. You want to believe Matt - that he wants this and won't disappear at the first minor inconvenience. You've read so many horror stories about bad parents and you don't want any of that for Minnie. 

You grab your purse and the water Karen gave you, then finally give Matt a proper look over. 

You enjoyed your night together with him. Not only had he been a phenomenal lover, but he had made you smile and laugh. You weren't nearly as anxious then as you are now, but you had been rather nervous being flirted with by a handsome lawyer and he had made you feel at ease. Bringing him home with you had been an easy choice. 

He must sense you smiling somehow, maybe you giggled or something, but his smile, which had started to fall, brightens back up.

"Can I ask you something before you go?" 

You nod to his question, catch yourself and reply, "Of course."

"Can you tell me what she looks like?"

Guilt courses through you and biting your lip turns painful, "I'm so sorry, of course. Um, I included pictures in the packet with descriptions but, of course." His face drops into something a little nervous so you launch into the description of your daughter, emphasizing how they have the same smile because you can’t get over that. You can't help yourself and start describing some of the pictures you included.

"She has this big noise canceling headband so she can sleep comfortably - she doesn't like loud noises - but because she is three, she refuses to wear it unless it's cute. So we crochet little sleeves for it. One of the pictures is her asleep on our couch, face down, because that's how she sleeps, wearing her favorite sleeve. It's Spider-Man the-"

There's a quick series of taps on the door before it opens again.

"Buddy, we gotta go."

You start to apologize, but Matt speaks over you, his voice a little firm as his expression drops, "I'll be right there, Foggy."

A silent conversation seems to go through them, as Foggy raises his eyebrows at Matt and Matt does the same right back. Foggy steps out of the office, closing the door behind him. 

"Let me walk you out?" Matt asks, motioning to the door.

"Thank you." 

You let him open the door and you follow him into the reception office. Foggy is looking at his phone while waiting by Karen's desk as she finishes packing her laptop. You cross the room in silence as Matt leads you from the office. Once you are in the hallway, he speaks to you in a soft voice.

"Can I call you tonight?"

"Yes, please." 

"Does eight work?"

"That's perfect." 

"I'll talk to you then."

You force yourself to be the one to turn away and start walking towards the stairs. As you get to them, you pull your bottom lip between your teeth to try to suppress your smile.

Maybe the papers are right and Matthew Murdock is a good man. 

You really hope he's a good father too.

[swifty-fox]

Somewhere at the back of the group is Rob Pesci, as slick haired and smug looking as he was at the church, bragging about Hitler and Austrian Wine. He’s crowded next to a slender dairk haired man, slim hipped but handsomely broad at the shoulders. He looked bored and a little out of place, worrying the corner of his thumb between his teeth and watching the conversation with dark clever eyes. They approach in a lul in the conversation, exchanging handshakes with a manufactured casualty that was betrayed by how Rob was eyeing Gale up like he might bite him. 

“This is my brother-in-law to-be, James Hughes.” Rob explains, jostling his companion just slightly, “He’s getting married in a week but I promised the slick fucker I’d show him a good time first.”

“Taking him out for one last spin before he’s in the dog outs forever, eh?” John asks, glancing over at the unfortunate soul marrying into that family. 

James was looking at Gale curiously, as if he could tell he was a fellow newcomer and John finds himself tracking his hand down Gale’s back a few inches, patting the firm muscle in lazy possession, “This one too.”

James nods at John, offers Gale a toothy mustachioed smile that ruined the Carey Grant effect of his curls.

“Pleased t’meet you, heard you were captured over in Europe.”

He sounds like Curt and Gale marks it the same moment John does, the both of them going imperceptibly stiff. The tempt space on John’s other side suddenly feels that much more barren

“That’s right,” Gale drawls with more patience than John would have expected. 

James gives him another unnecessary smile.

Kfak john: im not jealous

Kfak John when one man looks at Gale (who he isn't in love with):

[whiteskullofroses]

I'm using google translate so I'm sorry for any mistakes so could you do another imagine of dieter of inglorious bastards him fucking a spy caught by SS in the car and then he lets her go

A/N: Thank you for the request, sorry for the long wait! Hope you enjoy:)

Warnings: just regular smut, nothing too crazy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Your accent, its terrible."

(Dieter Hellstrom x reader)

It was a hot summer day. People were going on about their business, just as you did. Although your task for today was nothing but seeking into other people's businesses. Today you had one mission and one mission only. To gather as much information about the planned cinema burning and the killing of Hitler.

You and Shosanna had been friends for a long time, and after she told you of her genius plan, you befriended Aldo, who took you under his wing and gave you the task of being a spy for his group.

As you walked through the French streets and desperately tried to find Shosanna, you figured that the best place to find her was indeed, the cinema.

Walking past numerous posters of the Movie premiere and countless Nazis, you turned left and right, and after about 15 minutes finally reached the cinema.

Letting out a sigh of relief as you saw her spelling out 'Stolz der Nation' in black letters on the building, you quickly crossed the road and called out for her.

She turned around carefully on her ladder and recognized your voice: "Y/N! How are you doing?"

Walking closer to the ladder, you gave her a look and spoke quietly, still out of breath from all the running around: "We need to talk."

Shosanna slowly nodded in return, recognizing it must be something regarding future events.

"Listen, Aldo sent me here an-" You were suddenly cut off by an unfamiliar voice: "Emmanuelle Mimieux?"

Silence

You turned around to see two young men, one an SS officer, the other a regular, looking at the two of you seriously and with a hint of curiosity.

Glancing up at Shosanna, realising you were so tempted to reach her you completely discarded your surroundings as The SS officer grabbed you by your shoulder.

Giving a stern look to the other man and then leering his gaze back up to Shosanna: 'tu la fais monter dans la voiture.'

Your friend's breath caught in her throat as she heard his words.

The man motioned to her, obeying The SS officer's orders to get her in the car.

"Deutsch?" He asked you, slightly loosening his grip on your shoulder once he got a good look at your face. All you could do was shake your head, you weren't German, you were American for God's sake! You knew some French, but German? Hell no.

He sighed and put a hand on the small of your back, pushing you into the back seat of the car as Shosanna sat in the front.

The car started and there was dead silence. Both of you were scared, you didn't know why you were there and why they took the two of you, but you knew that resisting an SS officer was like committing the most heinous crime in the German owned lands.

The Officer turned to you and gave you his hand to shake. Taking it as he introduced himself, you felt a pang of unease joit through you, like you were about to throw up from the anxiety. Swallowing hard you used the little French you had to return the gesture.

The more you looked at him, the more you eyed his form in the unifrom, the more handsome he started to become.

Clearing your throat and faking a cough, quickly shaking the thoughts away with slight guilt, you shifted your eyes to the window and waited for the car to finally stop.

After about 20 minutes you arrived at the destination, which appeared to be a fancy restaurant, decorated with swastikas and various plants. As the officer opened the door, you followed him, but he stoped you in your tracks.

"Non," smiling charmingly: "tu restes ici." With that he got out of the car and lead Shosanna into the restaurant, his caullege following shortly behind him.

Your mind was racing, feeling like your brain was about to explode at any second. Why would he let you stay in the car? You figured you could just walk out and leave, but that would be far too risky. In his mind, you hopefully, didn't have any reason to run and hide away. Suspicion would rise and you would soon be heading to your own execution God knows where.

Turning on your spy side of the brain, you decided to stay where you were, as you were barely able to move a muscle from all the stress.

You saw the resturant door open and was met with Dieter stepping outside. He slowly made his way to the car and opened the driver's seat, starting the car and setting off.

Saying you were afraid was an understatement . Gaining the courage to speak up, you asked politely where he was driving to: "Je suis desole, ov vas-tu?

He looked at you in the rear view mirror and announced loudly: "Oh don't worry sweetheart. Were going somewhere you'll enjoy..."

oh shit.

Now you're in deep deep shit.

His accent was almost perfect as he spoke, which caught you off guard, but that wasn't important, your life could be over at any second. Every minute passing by could be your last.

"How did you know?" You question, honestly surprised at how quckly he figured you out.

Dieter laughed out loud, his laugh piercing your ears: "Your accent, darling." He lit a cigarette with one hand, keeping the other on the wheel: "Its terrible, i'm not French and i even know that."

Shaking his head lightly and glancing back at you: "Now tell me," taking a puff of his cigarette and exhaling the smoke: "What's your name name. Not the one you were forced to give me, american doll."

"Y/N." You proclaimed coldly, clearly seeing how much he was enjoying himself: "Y/N Y/L/N."

He stopped the car at a wooded area, out of sight to everyone, except for the few cars driving by now and then. You could immediately sence the coldness of the forest with the windows rolled down. The gentle breeze like a balm to your soul, soothing you while knowing this was your end. He got out of the driver's seat and opened the door to the seat next to you and sat down.

"Listen to me now, little girl." He picked you up from your sit and placed you down onto his lap, you gasped and tried to break away, but he was far stronger than you: "We have quite a... situation going on here. Don't we?"

You give up on trying, just sinking in your own mind as you nodded and looked into his eyes. He was so handsome. It was so hard to admit, but he truly was.

"Now," brushing a stray strand of hair and tucking it behind your ear as he spoke: "Roll down your hips for me, darling..." His voice husky, deep lust growing in his eyes.

You hesitated for a second, before eventually giving in. Rolling down your hips against his bulge, you quickly realised where all this was leading to.

"You feel that, huh?" He whispered into your ear with that same husky tone like before: "You did that, mein Schatz."

With that he firmly placed both of his hands on both sides of your hips and pressed you further into him: "May I?"

Without thinking, you nodded. The way he smelled, the way he looked at you, the way he teased you, it turned you on more than you would like to admit.

Dieter immediately unzipped his uniform pants, revealing his hard cock to you.

You gasped as he suddenly, without any warning, put his hand under your skirt and moved your panties to the side, pushing himself into you and smashing his lips against yours, almost as if he tried to comfort you from the slight pain of the sudden penetration.

Moaning into the kiss, as you slowly got used to his size, Dieter groaned out in a deep and breathless tone: "Ride me, Y/N."

You started riding him at a slower pace first, getting used to the small space of the car and him gasping in your ear. It was so hot to see him completely lose all of his earlier stern demeanor and fall so sensitive to how you feel around his cock.

"Y/N, oh that's good, just like that baby, just like that." Dieter could barely speak, the pleasure of your hips swaying back and forth almost too much for him to handle.

And you were no better than him, moaning his name like a hot mess, feeling confident by the sight of him throwing his head back against the car seat, you started bouncing up and down.

Dieter's response was immediate, groaning out in pleasure louder than before, his breath quickening and his grip on your hips tightening.

The car moved with your hips, the fact that anyone driving by could only imagine what's happening inside made you feel a new level of excitement.

His moans, his hot breath against your ear as he praised you, his grip on your hips, it became too much.

"Dieter!" You cried out: "I'm gonna come!"

With your confession, he felt himself getting close too, his hips matching your rhythm: "Me too, I'm so close- Oh!" With that both of you came at the same time. Your breaths catching in your throat as you rode out both of yall's highs, swaying your hips back and forth again before collapsing onto him.

Your head fell to the crook of his neck and he put a hand in the back of your head as you did that, gently running a hand through your hair as the two of you calmed down together.

Eventually, you raised your head from his neck and looked into his eyes: "Am I free to leave now, officer?"

He gave you a playful slap on the butt and smiled: "Go, and let's hope we meet again soon, Schatzi..."

THE END.

[stinkybrowndogs]

Some really pretty mutts in the shelters near me

Canelo, who is serving sort of a toasted- marshmallow- cream coat with some beautiful markings. Striking blue eyes, symmetrical blaze, little pink nose… 7/10 (loses points for the hitler stache)

Canyon, a pointy herdy thing of some variety. Beautiful feathery coat, deep rich reds and blacks. The black eyeliner…. Slay. 8/10

Kiyah- when I say I enjoy bully mixes, this is it this is what I mean look at that FAT HEAD and little white socks and perfectly perked ears and the forehead wrankles she’s lovely 9/10

Chloe who is giving me ruggedly handsome vibes. Her powder sugar muzzle only adds to her charm 100/10 her intake photo is so sad I’m so happy shes feeling better

Laddie- who looks like is dad owns a yacht? Does that make sense? But just what a dapper fella. Love him 10/10

Vicki… she is giving me Terrier she is giving me shepherd she’s giving pointy bouncy barky girl 9/10 I probably couldn’t handle her

[rhysdarbinizedarby]

Couch surfer in his 30s. Oscar winner in his 40s. Why the whole world wants Taika

**Notes: This is very long post!**

Good Weekend

In his 30s, he was sleeping on couches. By his 40s, he’d directed a Kiwi classic, taken a Marvel movie to billion-dollar success, and won an Oscar. Meet Taika Waititi, king of the oddball – and one of New Zealand’s most original creative exports.

Taika Waititi: “Be a nice person and live a good life. And just don’t be an arsehole.”

The good news? Taika Waititi is still alive. I wasn’t sure. The screen we were speaking through jolted savagely a few minutes ago, with a cacophonous bang and a confused yelp, then radio silence. Now the Kiwi ­ filmmaker is back, grinning like a loon: “I just broke the f---ing table, bro!”

Come again? “I just smashed this f---ing table and glass flew everywhere. It’s one of those old annoying colonial tables. It goes like this – see that?” Waititi says, holding up a folding furniture leg. “I hit the mechanism and it wasn’t locked. Anyway …”

I’m glad he’s fine. The stuff he’s been saying from his London hotel room could incur biblical wrath. We’re talking about his latest project, Next Goal Wins, a movie about the American Samoa soccer team’s quest to score a solitary goal, 10 years after suffering the worst loss in the game’s international history – a 31-0 ­ignominy to Australia – but our chat strays into ­spirituality, then faith, then religion.

“I don’t personally believe in a big guy sitting on a cloud judging everyone, but that’s just me,” Waititi says, deadpan. “Because I’m a grown-up.”

This is the way his interview answers often unfold. Waititi addresses your topic – dogma turns good people bad, he says, yet belief itself is worth lauding – but bookends every response with a conspiratorial nudge, wink, joke or poke. “Regardless of whether it’s some guy living on a cloud, or some other deity that you’ve made up – and they’re all made up – the message across the board is the same, and it’s important: Be a nice person, and live a good life. And just don’t be an arsehole!”

Not being an arsehole seems to have served Waititi, 48, well. Once a national treasure and indie darling (through the quirky tenderness of his breakout New Zealand films Boy in 2010 and Hunt for the Wilderpeople in 2016), Waititi then became a star of both the global box office (through his 2017 entry into the Marvel Universe, Thor: Ragnarok, which grossed more than $1.3 billion worldwide) and then the Academy Awards (winning the 2020 best adapted screenplay Oscar for his subversive Holocaust dramedy JoJo Rabbit, in which he played an imaginary Hitler).

Waititi playing Adolf Hitler in the 2019 movie JoJo Rabbit. (Alamy)

A handsome devil with undeniable roguish charm, Waititi also slid seamlessly into style-icon status (attending this year’s Met Gala shirtless, in a floor-length gunmetal-grey Atelier Prabal Gurung wrap coat, with pendulous pearl necklaces), as well as becoming his own brand (releasing an eponymous line of canned ­coffee drinks) and bona fide Hollywood A-lister (he was introduced to his second wife, British singer Rita Ora, by actor Robert Pattinson at a barbecue).

Putting that platform to use, Waititi is an Indigenous pioneer and mentor, too, co-creating the critically acclaimed TV series Reservation Dogs, while co-founding the Piki Films production company, committed to promoting the next generation of storytellers – a mission that might sound all weighty and worthy, yet Waititi’s new wave of First Nations work is never earnest, always mixing hurt with heart and howling humour.

Waititi with wife Rita Ora at the 2023 Met Gala in May. (Getty Images)

Makes sense. Waititi is a byproduct of “the weirdest coupling ever” – his late Maori father from the Te Whanau-a-Apanui tribe was an artist, farmer and “Satan’s Slaves” bikie gang founder, while his Wellington schoolteacher mum descended from Russian Jews, although he’s not devout about her faith. (“No, I don’t practise,” he confirms. “I’m just good at everything, straight away.”)

He’s remained loyally tethered to his ­origin story, too – and to a cadre of creative Kiwi mates, including actors Jemaine Clement and Rhys Darby – never forgetting that not long before the actor/writer/producer/director was an industry maven, he was a penniless painter/photographer/ musician/comedian.

With no set title and no fixed address, he’s seemingly happy to be everything, everywhere (to everyone) all at once. “‘The universe’ is bandied around a lot these days, but I do believe in the kind of connective tissue of the universe, and the energy that – scientifically – we are made up of a bunch of atoms that are bouncing around off each other, and some of the atoms are just squished together a bit tighter than others,” he says, smiling. “We’re all made of the same stardust, and that’s pretty special.”

-----------------------------------------------

We’ve caught Waititi in a somewhat relaxed moment, right before the screen actors’ and media artists’ strike ends. He’s ­sensitive to the struggle but doesn’t deny enjoying the break. “I spent a lot of time thinking about writing, and not writing, and having a nice ­holiday,” he tells Good Weekend. “Honestly, it was a good chance just to recombobulate.”

Waititi, at right, with Hunt for the Wilderpeople actors, from left, Sam Neill, Rhys Darby and Julian Dennison. (Getty Images)

It’s mid-October, and he’s just headed to Paris to watch his beloved All Blacks in the Rugby World Cup. He’s deeply obsessed with the game, and sport in general. “Humans spend all of our time knowing what’s going to happen with our day. There’s no surprises ­any more. We’ve become quite stagnant. And I think that’s why people love sport, because of the air of unpredictability,” he says. “It’s the last great arena entertainment.”

The main filmic touchstone for Next Goal Wins (which premieres in Australian cinemas on New Year’s Day) would be Cool Runnings (1993), the unlikely true story of a Jamaican bobsled team, but Waititi also draws from genre classics such as Any Given Sunday and Rocky, sampling trusted tropes like the musical training montage. (His best one is set to Everybody Wants to Rule the World by Tears for Fears.)

Filming in Hawaii was an uplifting experience for the self-­described Polynesian Jew. “It wasn’t about death, or people being cruel to each other. Thematically, it was this simple idea, of getting a small win, and winning the game wasn’t even their goal – their goal was to get a goal,” he says. “It was a really sweet backbone.”

Waititi understands this because, growing up, he was as much an athlete as a nerd, fooling around with softball and soccer before discovering rugby league, then union. “There’s something about doing exercise when you don’t know you’re doing exercise,” he enthuses. “It’s all about the fun of throwing a ball around and trying to achieve something together.” (Whenever Waititi is in Auckland he joins his mates in a long-running weekend game of touch rugby. “And then throughout the week I work out every day. Obviously. I mean, look at me.”)

Auckland is where his kids live, too, so he spends as much time there as possible. Waititi met his first wife, producer Chelsea Winstanley, on the set of Boy in 2010, and they had two daughters, Matewa Kiritapu, 8, and his firstborn, Te Kainga O’Te Hinekahu, 11. (The latter is a derivative of his grandmother’s name, but he jokes with American friends that it means “Resurrection of Tupac” or “Mazda RX7″) Waititi and Winstanley split in about 2018, and he married the pop star Ora in 2022.

He offers a novel method for balancing work with parenthood … “Look, you just abandon them, and know that the experience will make them harder individuals later on in life. And it’s their problem,” he says. “I’m going to give them all of the things that they need, and I’m going to leave behind a decent bank ­account for their therapy, and they will be just like me, and the cycle will continue.”

Jokes aside – I think he’s joking – school holidays are always his, and he brings the girls onto the set of every movie he makes. “They know enough not to get in the way or touch anything that looks like it could kill you, and they know to be respectful and quiet when they need to. But they’re just very comfortable around filmmakers, which I’m really happy about, because eventually I hope they will get into the ­industry. One more year,” he laughs, “then they can leave school and come work for Dad.”

Theirs is certainly a different childhood than his. Growing up, he was a product of two worlds. His given names, for instance, were based on his appearance at birth: “Taika David” if he looked Maori (after his Maori grandfather) and “David Taika” if he looked Pakeha (after his white grandfather). His parents split when he was five, so he bounced between his dad’s place in Waihau Bay, where he went by the surname Waititi, and his mum, eight hours drive away in Wellington, where he went by Cohen (the last name on his birth ­certificate and passport).

Waititi was precocious, even charismatic. His mother Robin once told Radio New Zealand that people always wanted to know him, even as an infant: “I’d be on a bus with him, and he was that kind of baby who smiled at people, and next thing you know they’re saying, ‘Can I hold your baby?’ He’s always been a charmer to the public eye.”

He describes himself as a cool, sporty, good-looking nerd, raised on whatever pop culture screened on the two TV channels New Zealand offered in the early 1980s, from M*A*S*H and Taxi to Eddie Murphy and Michael Jackson. He was well-read, too. When punished by his mum, he would likely be forced to analyse a set of William Blake poems.

He puts on a whimpering voice to describe their finances – “We didn’t have much monneeey” – explaining how his mum spent her days in the classroom but also worked in pubs, where he would sit sipping a raspberry lemonade, doodling drawings and writing stories. She took in ­ironing and cleaned houses; he would help out, learning valuable lessons he imparts to his kids. “And to random people who come to my house,” he says. “I’ll say, ‘Here’s a novel idea, wash this dish,’ but people don’t know how to do anything these days.”

“Every single character I’ve ever written has been based on someone I’ve known or met or a story I’ve stolen from someone.” - Taika Waititi

He loved entertaining others, clearly, but also himself, recording little improvised radio plays on a tape deck – his own offbeat versions of ET and Indiana Jones and Star Wars. “Great free stuff where you don’t have any idea what the story is as you’re doing it,” he says. “You’re just sort of making it up and enjoying the ­freedom of playing god in this world where you can make people and characters do whatever you want.”

His other sphere of influence lay in Raukokore, the tiny town where his father lived. Although Boy is not autobiographical, it’s deeply personal insofar as it’s filmed in the house where he grew up, and where he lived a life similar to that portrayed in the story, surrounded by his recurring archetypes: warm grandmothers and worldly kids; staunch, stoic mums; and silly, stunted men. “Every single character I’ve ever written has been based on someone I’ve known or met,” he says, “or a story I’ve stolen from someone.”

He grew to love drawing and painting, obsessed early on with reproducing the Sistine Chapel. During a 2011 TED Talk on creativity, Waititi describes his odd subject matter, from swastikas and fawns to a picture of an old lady going for a walk … upon a sword … with Robocop. “My father was an outsider artist, even though he wouldn’t know what that meant,” Waititi told the audience in Doha. “I love the naive. I love people who can see things through an innocent viewpoint. It’s inspiring.”

After winning Best Adapted Screenplay Academy Award for JoJo Rabbit in 2020. (Getty Images)

It was an interesting time in New Zealand, too – a coming-of-age decade in which the Maori were rediscovering their culture. His area was poor, “but only ­financially,” he says. “It’s very rich in terms of the ­people and the culture.” He learned kapa haka – the songs, dances and chants performed by competing tribes at cultural events, or to honour people at funerals and graduations – weddings, parties, ­anything. “Man, any excuse,” he explains. “A big part of doing them is to uplift your spirits.”

Photography was a passion, so I ask what he shot. “Just my penis. I sent them to people, but we didn’t have phones, so I would print them out, post them. One of the first dick pics,” he says. Actually, his lens was trained on regular people. He watches us still – in airports, ­restaurants. “Other times late at night, from a tree. Whatever it takes to get the story. You know that.”

He went to the Wellington state school Onslow College and did plays like Androcles and the Lion, A Midsummer Night’s Dream and The Crucible. His crew of arty students eventually ended up on stage at Bats Theatre in the city, where they would perform haphazard comedy shows for years.

“Taika was always rebellious and wild in his comedy, which I loved,” says his high school mate Jackie van Beek, who became a longtime collaborator, including working with Waititi on a Tourism New Zealand campaign this year. “I remember he went through a phase of turning up in bars around town wearing wigs, and you’d try and sit down and have a drink with him but he’d be doing some weird character that would invariably turn up in some show down the track.”

He met more like-minded peers at Victoria University, including Jemaine Clement (who’d later become co-creator of Flight of the Conchords). During a 2019 chat with actor Elijah Wood, Waititi ­describes he and Clement clocking one another from opposite sides of the library one day: a pair of Maoris experiencing hate at first sight, based on a mutual suspicion of cultural appropriation. (Clement was wearing a traditional tapa cloth Samoan shirt, and Waititi was like: “This motherf---er’s not Samoan.” Meanwhile, Waititi was wearing a Rastafarian beanie, and Clement was like, “This ­motherf---er’s not Jamaican.”)

With Jemaine Clement in 2014. (Getty Images)

But they eventually bonded over Blackadder and Fawlty Towers, and especially Kenny Everett, and did comedy shows together everywhere from Edinburgh to Melbourne. Waititi was almost itinerant, spending months at a time busking, or living in a commune in Berlin. He acted in a few small films, and then – while playing a stripper on a bad TV show – realised he wanted to try life behind the camera. “I became tired of being told what to do and ordered around,” he told Wellington’s Dominion Post in 2004. “I remember sitting around in the green room in my G-string ­thinking, ‘Why am I doing this? Just helping someone else to realise their dream.’ ”

He did two strong short films, then directed his first feature – Eagle vs Shark (2007) – when he was 32. He brought his mates along (Clement, starring with Waititi’s then-girlfriend Loren Horsley), setting something of a pattern in his career: hiring friends instead of constantly navigating new working relationships. “If you look at things I’m doing,” he tells me, “there’s ­always a few common denominators.”

Sam Neill says Waititi is the exemplar of a new New Zealand humour. “The basis of it is this: we’re just a little bit crap at things.”

This gang of collaborators shares a common Kiwi vibe, too, which his longtime friend, actor Rhys Darby, once coined “the comedy of the mundane”. Their new TV show, Our Flag Means Death, for example, leans heavily into the mundanity of pirate life – what happens on those long days at sea when the crew aren’t unsheathing swords from scabbards or burying treasure.

Waititi plays pirate captain Blackbeard, centre, in Our Flag Means Death, with Rhys Darby, left, and Rory Kinnear. (Google Images)

Sam Neill, who first met Waititi when starring in Hunt for the Wilderpeople, says Waititi is the exemplar of a new New Zealand humour. “And I think the basis of it is this,” says Neill. “We’re just a little bit crap at things, and that in itself is funny.” After all, Neill asks, what is What We Do in The Shadows (2014) if not a film (then later a TV show) about a bunch of vampires who are pretty crap at being vampires, ­living in a pretty crappy house, not quite getting busted by crappy local cops? “New Zealand often gets named as the least corrupt country in the world, and I think it’s just that we would be pretty crap at being corrupt,” Neill says. “We don’t have the capacity for it.”

Waititi’s whimsy also spurns the dominant on-screen oeuvre of his homeland – the so-called “cinema of ­unease” exemplified by the brutality of Once Were Warriors (1994) and the emotional peril of The Piano (1993). Waititi still explores pathos and pain, but through laughter and weirdness. “Taika feels to me like an ­antidote to that dark aspect, and a gift somehow,” Neill says. “And I’m grateful for that.”

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Something happened to Taika Waititi when he was about 11 – something he doesn’t go into with Good Weekend, but which he considered a betrayal by the adults in his life. He ­mentioned it only recently – not the ­moment itself, but the lesson he learnt: “That you cannot and must not rely on grown-ups to help you – you’re basically in the world alone, and you’re gonna die alone, and you’ve just gotta make it all for yourself,” he told Irish podcast host James Brown. “I basically never forgave people in positions of responsibility.”

What does that mean in his work? First, his finest films tend to reflect the clarity of mind possessed by children, and the unseen worlds they create – fantasies conjured up as a way to understand or overcome. (His mum once summed up the main ­message of Boy: “The ­unconditional love you get from your children, and how many of us waste that, and don’t know what we’ve got.”)

Second, he’s suited to movie-making – “Russian roulette with art” – because he’s drawn to disruptive force and chaos. And that in turn produces creative defiance: allowing him to reinvigorate the Marvel Universe by making superheroes fallible, or tell a Holocaust story by making fun of Hitler. “Whenever I have to deal with someone who’s a boss, or in charge, I challenge them,” he told Brown, “and I really do take whatever they say with a pinch of salt.”

It’s no surprise then that Waititi was comfortable leaping from independent films to the vast complexity of Hollywood blockbusters. He loves the challenge of coordinating a thousand interlocking parts, requiring an army of experts in vocations as diverse as construction, sound, art, performance and logistics. “I delegate a lot,” he says, “and share the load with a lot of people.”

“This is a cool concept, being able to ­afford whatever I want, as opposed to sleeping on couches until I was 35.” - Taika Waititi

But the buck stops with him. Time magazine named Waititi one of its Most Influential 100 People of 2022. “You can tell that a film was made by Taika Waititi the same way you can tell a piece was painted by Picasso,” wrote Sacha Baron Cohen. Compassionate but comic. Satirical but watchable. Rockstar but auteur. “Actually, sorry, but this guy’s really starting to piss me off,” Cohen concluded. “Can someone else write this piece?”

Directing Chris Hemsworth in 2017 in Thor: Ragnarok, which grossed more than $1.3 billion at the box office. (Alamy)

I’m curious to know how he stays grounded amid such adulation. Coming into the game late, he says, helped immensely. After all, Waititi was 40 by the time he left New Zealand to do Thor: Ragnarok. “If you let things go to your head, then it means you’ve struggled to find out who you are,” he says. “But I’ve always felt very comfortable with who I am.” Hollywood access and acclaim – and the pay cheques – don’t erase memories of poverty, either. “It’s more like, ‘Oh, this is a cool concept, being able to ­afford whatever I want, as opposed to sleeping on couches until I was 35.’ ” Small towns and strong tribes keep him in check, too. “You know you can’t piss around and be a fool, because you’re going to embarrass your family,” he says. “Hasn’t stopped me, though.”

Sam Neill says there was never any doubt Waititi would be able to steer a major movie with energy and imagination. “It’s no accident that the whole world wants Taika,” he says. “But his seductiveness comes with its own dangers. You can spread yourself a bit thin. The temptation will be to do more, more, more. That’ll be interesting to watch.”

Indeed, I find myself vicariously stressed out over the list of potential projects in Waititi’s future. A Roald Dahl animated series for Netflix. An Apple TV show based on the 1981 film Time Bandits. A sequel to What We Do In The Shadows. A reboot of Flash Gordon. A gonzo horror comedy, The Auteur, starring Jude Law. Adapting a cult graphic novel, The Incal, as a feature. A streaming series based on the novel Interior Chinatown. A film based on a Kazuo Ishiguro bestseller. Plus bringing to life the wildly popular Akira comic books. Oh, and for good measure, a new instalment of Star Wars, which he’s already warned the world will be … different.

“It’s going to change things,” he told Good Morning America. “It’s going to change what you guys know and expect.”

Did I say I was stressed for Waititi? I meant physically sick.

“Well…” he qualifies, “some of those things I’m just producing, so I come up with an idea or someone comes to me with an idea, and I shape how ‘it’s this kind of show’ and ‘here’s how we can get it made.’ It’s easier for me to have a part in those things and feel like I’ve had a meaningful role in the creative process, but also not having to do what I’ve always done, which is trying to control everything.”

In the 2014 mockumentary horror film What We Do in the Shadows, which he co-directed with Jemaine Clement. (Alamy)

What about moving away from the niche New Zealand settings he represented so well in his early work? How does he stay connected to his roots? “I think you just need to know where you’re from,” he says, “and just don’t forget that.”

They certainly haven’t forgotten him.

Jasmin McSweeney sits in her office at the New Zealand Film Commission in Wellington, surrounded by promotional posters Waititi signed for her two decades ago, when she was tasked with promoting his nascent talent. Now the organisation’s marketing chief, she talks to me after visiting the heart of thriving “Wellywood”, overseeing the traditional karakia prayer on the set of a new movie starring Geoffrey Rush.

Waititi isn’t the first great Kiwi filmmaker – dual Oscar-winner Jane Campion and blockbuster king Peter Jackson come to mind – yet his particular ascendance, she says, has spurred unparalleled enthusiasm. “Taika gave everyone here confidence. He always says, ‘Don’t sit around waiting for people to say, you can do this.’ Just do it, because he just did it. That’s the Taika effect.”

-----------------------------------------------

Taika David Waititi is known for wearing everything from technicolour dreamcoats to pineapple print rompers, and today he’s wearing a roomy teal and white Isabel Marant jumper. The mohair garment has the same wispy frizz as his hair, which curls like a wave of grey steel wool, and connects with a shorn salty beard.

A stylish silver fox, it wouldn’t surprise anyone if he suddenly announced he was launching a fashion label. He’s definitely a commercial animal, to the point of directing television commercials for Coke and Amazon, along with a fabulous 2023 spot for Belvedere vodka starring Daniel Craig. He also joined forces with a beverage company in Finland (where “taika” means “magic”) to release his coffee drinks. Announcing the partnership on social media, he flagged that he would be doing more of this kind of stuff, too (“Soz not soz”).

Waititi has long been sick of reverent portrayals of Indigenous people talking to spirits.

There’s substance behind the swank. Fashion is a creative outlet but he’s also bought sewing machines in the past with the intention of designing and making clothes, and comes from a family of tailors. “I learnt how to sew a button on when I was very young,” he says. “I learnt how to fix holes or patches in your clothes, and darn things.”

And while he gallivants around the globe watching Wimbledon or modelling for Hermès at New York Fashion Week, all that glamour belies a depth of purpose, particularly when it comes to Indigenous representation.

There’s a moment in his new movie where a Samoan player realises that their Dutch coach, played by Michael Fassbender, is emotionally struggling, and he offers a lament for white people: “They need us.” I can’t help but think Waititi meant something more by that line – maybe that First Nations people have ­wisdom to offer if others will just listen?

“Weeelllll, a little bit …” he says – but from his intonation, and what he says next, I’m dead wrong. Waititi has long been sick of reverent ­portrayals of Indigenous people talking to kehua (spirits), or riding a ghost waka (phantom canoe), or playing a flute on a mountain. “Always the boring characters,” he says. “They’ve got no real contemporary relationship with the world, because they’re always living in the past in their spiritual ways.”

A scene from Next Goal Wins, filmed earlier this year. (Alamy)

He’s part of a vanguard consciously poking fun at those stereotypes. Another is the Navajo writer and director Billy Luther, who met Waititi at Sundance Film Festival back in 2003, along with Reservation Dogs co-creator Sterlin Harjo. “We were this group of outsiders trying to make films, when nobody was really biting,” says Luther. “It was a different time. The really cool thing about it now is we’re all working. We persevered. We didn’t give up. We slept on each other’s couches and hung out. It’s like family.”

Waititi has power now, and is known for using Indigenous interns wherever possible (“because there weren’t those opportunities when I was growing up”), making important introductions, offering feedback on scripts, and lending his name to projects through executive producer credits, too, which he did for Luther’s new feature film, Frybread Face and Me (2023).

He called Luther back from the set of Thor: Love and Thunder (2022) to offer advice on working with child actors – “Don’t box them into the characters you’ve ­created,” he said, “let them naturally figure it out on their own” – but it’s definitely harder to get Waititi on the phone these days. “He’s a little bitch,” Luther says, laughing. “Nah, there’s nothing like him. He’s a genius. You just knew he was going to be something. I just knew it. He’s my brother.“

I’ve been asked to explicitly avoid political questions in this interview, probably because Waititi tends to back so many causes, from child poverty and teenage suicide to a campaign protesting offshore gas and oil exploration near his tribal lands. But it’s hard to ignore his recent Instagram post, sharing a viral video about the Voice to Parliament referendum starring Indigenous Aussie rapper Adam Briggs. After all, we speak only two days after the proposal is defeated. “Yeah, sad to say but, Australia, you really shat the bed on that one,” Waititi says, pausing. “But go see my movie!”

About that movie – the early reviews aren’t great. IndieWire called it a misfire, too wrapped in its quirks to develop its arcs, with Waititi’s directorial voice drowning out his characters, while The Guardian called it “a shoddily made and strikingly unfunny attempt to tell an interesting story in an uninteresting way”. I want to know how he moves past that kind of criticism. “For a start, I never read reviews,” he says, concerned only with the opinion of people who paid for admission, never professional appraisals. “It’s not important to me. I know I’m good at what I do.”

Criticism that Indigenous concepts weren’t sufficiently explained in Next Goal Wins gets his back up a little, though. The film’s protagonist, Jaiyah Saelua, the first transgender football player in a FIFA World Cup qualifying match, is fa’afafine – an American Samoan identifier for someone with fluid genders – but there wasn’t much exposition of this concept in the film. “That’s not my job,” Waititi says. “It’s not a movie where I have to explain every facet of Samoan culture to an audience. Our job is to retain our culture, and present a story that’s inherently Polynesian, and if you don’t like it, you can go and watch any number of those other movies out there, 99 per cent of which are terrible.”

*notes: (there is video clip in the article)

Waititi sounds momentarily cranky, but he’s mostly unflappable and hilarious. He’s the kind of guy who prefers “Correctumundo bro!” to “Yes”. When our video connection is too laggy, he plays up to it by periodically pretending to be frozen, sitting perfectly still, mouth open, his big shifting eyeballs the only giveaway.

He’s at his best on set. Saelua sat next to him in Honolulu while filming the joyous soccer sequences. “He’s so chill. He just let the actors do their thing, giving them creative freedom, barely interjecting unless it was something important. His style matches the vibe of the Pacific people. We’re a very funny people. We like to laugh. He just fit perfectly.”

People do seem to love working alongside him, citing his ability to make productions fresh and unpredictable and funny. Chris Hemsworth once said that Waititi’s favourite gag is to “forget” that his microphone is switched on, so he can go on a pantomime rant for all to hear – usually about his disastrous Australian lead actor – only to “remember” that he’s wired and the whole crew is listening.

“I wouldn’t know about that, because I don’t listen to what other people say about anything – I’ve told you this,” Waititi says. “I just try to have fun when there’s time to have fun. And when you do that, and you bring people together, they’re more willing to go the extra mile for you, and they’re more willing to believe in the thing that you’re trying to do.”

Yes, he plays music between takes, and dances out of his director’s chair, but it’s really all about relaxing amid the immense pressure and intense privilege of making movies. “Do you know how hard it is just to get anything financed or green-lit, then getting a crew, ­getting producers to put all the pieces together, and then making it to set?” Waititi asks. “It’s a real gift, even to be working, and I feel like I have to remind ­people of that: enjoy this moment.”

Source: The Age

By: Konrad Marshall (December 1, 2023)

[historicity-was-already-taken]

Underground Jewish courier Chaika Grossman, on riding the trains illegally as a Jew through occupied Poland with forged papers, and all kinds of contraband concealed on one's person [ETA: this sentence is fucked; bc i should have gone to bed 3 hours ago. Sry]:

"Most of the German soldiers were asleep. One, opposite me, still awake, did not stop talking, praising himself, and talking about beautiful Germany. I heard the story about beautiful Germany every time I found myself in the company of German travelers. It was apparently the only non-risky subject they could talk about. Or maybe they just didn’t have anything else to say. I recalled a story told me by Lonka [Kozibrodska]. She had been riding on the train, and her neighbor was an officer, or under-officer. He did not talk about beautiful Germany, but all the way he spoke about himself, boasted and tried to make an impression. True, he had been handsome, tall and blond, with a Nordic face and body — according to Hitler’s 'standards.' His face was without any expression, without a spark of intelligence; but the lines were just right. In his desire to win Lonka’s heart, the German told her that he was an impor­tant person. In his pocket he had a letter from the Third Reich Ministry of Health, suggesting 15 of Germany’s beautiful young girls for him to ferti­lize. If he succeeded in fertilizing all of them he would receive 600 marks as wage and the contract would be renewed for a longer period, and for an addi­tional number of women. When I heard that story every young German seemed to me a bull. I feared them, and mocked them in my heart."

Chaika Grossman, The Underground Army, 126-127.

[verbotenlove33]

Hello big lurker here 😂😂I actually find the phenomenon of people being attracted to dictators fascinating as I've encountered several myself. I know people were attracted to Putin big time but I didn't know Trump had his own following too. I saw people crushing on young Stalin across the internet but I've only seen a few people going for old Stalin. Only young Churchill gets love, FDR I've seen a lot of people admiring him, and I know of one or two people who are attracted to deGaulle but he gets VERY strong admirers if you know what I mean. It feels like even in these spaces Adi is taboo to love but I've seen blogs crop up here and there, what do you think is the big signifier between all of these people and their attractions?

I’ve been delving into this phenomenon quite a bit over the past year and keep running across the term “hybristophilia” in trying to possibly understand this a bit better, especially about myself.

Hybristophilia (or scelerophilia) is a paraphilia where someone is romantically attracted to bad people, delinquents, or criminals. I would go as far to say that dictators fit well into this category. Literature about hybristophilia describes it as female attraction to “bad boys” or to obnoxious guys. Psychologist Leon F. Seltzer proposes the condition could be related to the riskiness involved with dating a criminal, the desire to tame or fix them, and primitive instincts based on evolutionary psychology. 

Hybristophilia is unique among other paraphilias, in that it has primarily been observed among women. Like many paraphilias, hybristophilia exists along a spectrum. A more moderate form of the condition would include serial killer “groupies” who may experience a mental disconnect between the reality of an individual’s crimes and an idealized concept of the men behind the actions. 

So what explains hybristophilia? Sacks first notes “the phenomenon of the ultimate bad boy. … Certain women are attracted to those who are a little darker … a little ‘bad.’ This would be the ultimate form of that.” As with true crime itself, an innocent curiosity and drive to learn more about criminality may lead some women to form a more intimate relationship to the offenders than they perhaps intended. 

Another underlying factor in hybristophilia would be many women’s tendency toward nurturing behaviors. Certain women may feel empathetic toward criminals, expressing understanding of their transgressions, regardless of how vile their acts may be. “Women may see why a person became the ‘monster’ they may have become,” Sacks says. “They want to reach out and help and do something. [They may feel] there’s a way to ‘fix or help this person,’” says Sacks.

Forensic psychiatrist Robert Kaplan (who is featured in the MagellanTV documentary Hitler’s Secret Sex Life) has studied the phenomenon of hybristophilia and compares infatuation with criminals and killers to extreme forms of fanaticism. These women are usually fascinated by the darkest extremes of human behavior and are usually on the fringes of society themselves. Many psychologists view these women as deeply insecure people who cannot find love in normal ways or as 'love-avoidant' females who seek romantic relationships that cannot be consummated." 

I’ve highlighted the examples that deeply resonate with me personally. I think there are MANY other factors at play here, not just for myself but for others, like the simple fact these men are very handsome and charismatic. Also basic biological factors like being drawn to alpha males in positions of power. But those topics being more thoroughly studied and much better understood I thought it was really interesting to put this theory and discussion forward in understanding romantic attraction to Hitler and other dictators.

[petercushingscheekbones]

Just more random stuff I felt compelled to note down whilst listening to the rest of the Putting it Together podcast (decided to put it all in one post to spare everyone of the spam)

Love the image of David Tennant struggling to name footballers to look cool in front of his Macbeth cast mates

David when asked about what sports he watches initially saying none then suddenly remembering he’s been photographed there - “I like a bit of Wimbledon”. also who actually watches darts (David tenant apparently)

he cannot take a compliment it’s so funny, the dude simply said “you seem fit” in response to DT worrying about his age and David nearly melted in to the ground. You could hear him blush

I forgot he’s actually funny even in serious talk mode

Brian O’Sullivan (the host) saying David has a way with interpreting Shakespearean text. that’s so real of him

I think I just really like listening to theatre people talking about and geeking over shit they’ve done

I know way too much about Shinda the magic ape (is that how you spell it? Idk). no complaints though

“he was VERY handsome” David, was that necessary?

David IS doing the old actor telling anecdotes thing, as he himself points out but who cares I’m eating this shit up

Both fascinated and horrified listening to him recount bad reviews early on

David talking about getting advice from another actor early in his career about not milking it and then going “look he wasn’t wrong but he was doing it too lol” - this is interesting to me cause I’ve always felt he knows exactly the right balance to get always, without overplaying or underplaying, I guess it’s something he learnt

DT’s revenge on Taggart “I’m going to reboot that shit that’ll show them”

you know he’s good friends with someone when he just starts dissing them

DT with his costars (almost every one of them, including the host) is one of my favourite genres actually

Brian O’Sullivan is a cool podcast host (maybe Ive had bad experiences so far but I find most podcasts by actors really insufferable and annoying - excluding dt, and now this guy)

Bad puddingbowl haircuts and hitler-esque moustaches are not uncommon mistakes among young actors

newsflash! David Tennant has toyed with the idea of writing but gets put off every time he sees a good script

We need your writing David, please

Help not them talking about famous actors having egos and the host says “I mean that is something potentially accessible to you” and dt being like “god I can’t imagine.. maybe I should, but I just couldn’t” and Brian going “nah man we love you don’t change”. Wholesome moment

[chernobog13]

SHEENA, QUEEN OF THE JUNGLE (vol. 1) #3 (Spring, 1943). Cover by Dan Zolnerowich.

In this issue, Sheena has to fight off the attentions of a giant amorous ape!

Not really. The real villain is some German scientist, Gustav Brock, who looks exactly like Hitler, except he's tall and muscular. Brock causes quite a bit of trouble for Sheena and "her handsome consort, Bob." In fact, at one point Brock almost succeeds in strangling Sheena to death, but she's saved at the last moment by Bob.

A giant ape does appear towards the end of the story, but only in five panels. He roars like he's gonna tear the jungle apart, and you think there's gonna be a battle between him and Sheena. No dice. Instead, he's spotted by a white game hunter and taken out with a single shot to the head.

[humanpurposes]

Just for a Moment, part iv

Tom Bennett has a habit of climbing through her bedroom window whenever he's in trouble // Main Masterlist

Tom Bennett x OFC

Warnings: 18+, mentions of war and death, friends to lovers, angst, fluff, smut, Tom Bennett's daddy issues, death, mourning/grief

Words: 8100

A/n: This acts as a final part and an epilogue. Also available to read on AO3.

In early June, Lois Bennett knocks on the Wheelans’ front door. She has tears in her bright blue eyes and her hands are shaking.

“It’s our Tom,” she says, when Kitty has sat her down at the kitchen table and made her a cup of strong tea. “He’s missing.”

A hole tears itself in her chest.

His ship had been part of the evacuation at Dunkirk– a triumph, so the headlines say. But that’s the way of the world, she thinks, men lay down their lives, others have their lives taken from them by force, and all the while the press and the politicians declare each one a step towards peace.

“You think Churchill and Hitler give a flying fuck about peace?” her father says one night as he nurses a glass of whisky. “They want victory.”

Every night as she lies in bed, she imagines some new possibility. Tom could have run to safety, sought refuge in the town or gone elsewhere. Maybe he’s just biding his time, maybe he’s on his way back to her.

He can’t be dead. He just can’t be.

He promised he would come home to her.

Monday 2nd September, 1940

She doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to the sirens, that blunt, whirring, wailing noise that sparks a primal fear in her chest. Somehow she always wakes up before they go off, like her instincts can alert her of what’s coming just a second before the noise begins.

The baby starts to scream from the space beside her– since Lois has started working as an ambulance driver, she leaves Vera with them most nights. With shaking hands, Kitty takes her into her arms, keeping her close to her chest as she fixes a woolly hat over her head.

“I’m sorry darling, I know,” she says, pulling the hat over Vera’s ears. She keeps meaning to buy some earmuffs for her, but then, it’s not her baby.

It’s pitch black in the house, it has to be. No lights or candles allowed unless you want the Germans to drop a bomb on your house. Kitty keeps one hand on the wall as she finds the stairs, and hurries down to the kitchen. Mam and dad’s footsteps follow behind her.

They have a routine by now. Dad grabs a coleman and a box of matches, mam grabs a photo from the front room and a basket with bread and blackberry jam, and Kitty holds tight to Vera. Then they file out the back door, into the garden, down the ladder into the shelter. Dad shuts the door, lights the lamp, and finally they can all see each other. 

Then comes the waiting. Some nights dad sings The Fields of Athenry and Kitty joins in. Vera seems to love singing, her eyes go wide and she lays completely still against Kitty, hypnotised by the humming in her chest. 

After a few slices of bread to keep them going, dad lies along the bench and closes his eyes and mam takes Vera into her arms. “Get some rest, love,” she tells Kitty.

How can she? Beyond the shelter the world is nothing but uncertainty, sirens sounding, bombs booming, spotlights and distant fires cutting through the darkness. Only the morning will tell what the true damage is, once the sun starts to rise and the smoke and dust have settled. Houses and livelihoods will be left as rubble. More lives lost, people who didn’t sign up, people who couldn’t, people who thought they might at least be safe in their own homes.

She looks at the photograph mam always brings in from the house. It’s of the four of them, Eddie, Art, Stevie and Kitty, lined up in the front room before the eldest two Wheelans left for the continent, over a year ago now. Eddie and Art look handsome in their uniforms and Stevie is uncharacteristically glum. He hated that he didn’t sign up sooner, he said he didn’t want to look like the one being left behind.

They all came home after Dunkirk, a few precious weeks when the world felt normal again.

Only not quite.

Because she still spent every night alone, and Tom Bennett was still gone.

“Where’s Douglas?”

Kitty snaps her attention to mam, as dad starts to stir on the bench.

“Eh?” he grumbles, “he’ll be along now in a minute, I’m sure.”

They wait. 

And keep waiting.

The bombs dropping on Longsight are louder than they’ve ever been before. Closer than they’ve ever been before. Each thunderous crash rocks the ground and the walls of their shelter.

BOOM– the roof trembles.

BOOM– dust and dirt fall from above them.

“We’ll be alright, here,” dad says, beckoning Kitty to sit between the two of them. 

They huddle together. Kitty curls her knees into her chest like a child and leans into her father’s embrace. Mam has Vera on her lap and places a hand on Kitty’s knee.

BOOM– mam whimpers and Vera is crying again. Dad holds her tighter.

BOOM– Kitty reaches for one of Vera’s tiny hands, and she clutches tightly onto her finger.

Then a final, earsplitting BOOM. The bench jolts beneath them. Kitty clings to her family and squeezes her eyes shut, waiting for something awful to happen.

Only it doesn’t. The bombs become fainter.

They slowly pull away from each other, looking each other in the eyes and nodding, to make sure they’re all alright– as much as they can be.

When the all clear sounds, they make their way back into the house.

Glass litters the floor of the front room. The windows are shattered, so is the glass cabinet with mam’s best china, photographs are cracked. Anything that isn’t broken has been blown back by the force of a hit.

Through the tatters of the curtains and a haze of smoke, a fire burns out on the street. 

Dad calls her name as she runs for the front door and yanks it open, but she can’t bring herself to step past the threshold.

The feels the heat against her face, as number 27 has been reduced to a pile of burning rubble.

The AFS arrives in time to stop dad from digging through the remains in search of Douglas himself.

Everything that belongs to the Bennetts is crushed under brick or goes up in flames. 

It’s like losing Tom all over again. The house where he grew up, the kitchen where Josie used to feed the Bennett and Wheelan kids ginger beer and sandwiches, the bedroom that smelled of cigarette smoke, where he told her he loved her, exist only as memories.

She doesn’t go to bed that night– there are only a few hours until daylight anyway. She sweeps up the glass in the front room and the bedrooms while dad boards up the window frames. Hardly any light reaches inside the house, the air is still thick and hazy with lingering smoke, so they keep the back door open. It airs the place out, but lets in the cold too.

When Kitty answers the door in the morning, Lois’ back is facing her. She’s still in her uniform with her hair in a neat bun and a helmet in her hand. 

“Lois?”

She turns towards Kitty with her lips slightly parted in a passive expression. “Dad’s gone,” she mutters. And once she says it the vacancy melts into grief. “He’s gone,” she cries, “everything’s gone!”

Kitty leads her into the house, but there’s nowhere comfortable to sit. The front room is in tatters and the kitchen is a mess with everything they’ve managed to salvage piled onto the table and chairs. 

“Tea?” Kitty asks quietly, but she feels stupid for asking.

Lois leans against the wall and holds her face in her hand as she cries.

Kitty unsurely places a hand on Lois’ shoulder and tries to think of something to say, but all she can think of is “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

First her mam, then Harry, then Tom, now her dad. She must feel like her life is slipping away.

Mam appears from upstairs, dressed for the factory with Vera in her arms.

Kitty frowns as she hands the baby to her. Lois has lost her father and her home in one night, and her mother hardly looks phased.

“There’s still work to be done, Kitty,” she says, grabbing her coat before she leaves through the front door with her head and shoulders straight.

But this is just war. Men die in trenches and on beaches, bombs fall on cities, tragedy unfolds and they Keep Calm and Carry On.

Kitty carries Vera into the kitchen, but she doesn’t like the sound of her mother crying. Her little face goes red and twists before she makes a sound, then she’s crying too, burying her head into Kitty’s chest and clinging to her arms with those small, pudgy hands.

Lois doesn’t look up, like she can’t hear her daughter crying at all.

Sunday 29th September, 1940

Weeks go by. Douglas is interred with his wife, in the churchyard of St Jospeh’s. Kitty spends her days in the shop and her nights in the shelter, rocking Vera through the air raids, humming lullabies and muttering stories about her brave mam and her fearless uncle Tom.

The Wheelans never used to go to church every week, but mam insists now, anything for their family to be kept safe. As they head home, Kitty looks up the hill, to the gravestone she knows is marked Josie Bennett. She pictures Tom and Lois standing by the graveside at the funeral, twelve years ago now. It doesn’t feel that long ago they were all children.

She walks ahead of her parents– dad’s been having trouble with his knees and it slows him down. Her head is hung, she’s staring at her shoes, the same black pair of shoes she wears everywhere.

What’s she got to walk so fast for anyway? Their house doesn’t feel much like a home anymore. They at least have the windows fixed, but she tends to keep her curtains drawn, because where she used to look out to Tom’s bedroom window, there’s just empty space. 

What’s the point in rushing home to a house that isn’t safe? That’s ghostly and quiet? That has a bomb shelter instead of a garden? What’s the point in carrying on when surviving the night is something they have to hope for? When each day brings a possibility that Eddie, Art or Steive could be missing or dead? What’s the point in clinging onto hope if Tom is truly gone? What’s the point? What’s the point? What’s the point?

Someone knocks frantically on one of the doors ahead, their door she realises. Her vision is blurry through tears, but she can make out the shape of a tall man, with dirty blond hair.

She blinks.

“Tom?”

His body collides into hers. He hugs her so tightly he crushes her chest but she doesn’t care. He could squeeze the life from her and she wouldn’t care, as long as she gets to hold him. Her hands find their way to grasp at his neck and his hair, pulling him closer and crying silently into his neck.

He doesn’t smell like cigarettes, which she finds unusual. He smells like dirt and sweat, and when he pulls away from her she realises he’s dressed in a khaki blazer, slacks that are too big for him and a mismatching grey shirt. 

“What happened–”

He looks frantic, stroking his hands over her hair and down to cup the sides of her face. “Kitty, I’m sorry, I know it’s been a mad few months but where are they, dad and Lois? Are they safe?”

He doesn’t know. How could he? Lois tried to send a letter. Where would it be now? Collecting dust or sitting at the bottom of a pile of unimportant paperwork in a naval office because there was nowhere for it to go. 

Her eyes well with tears all over again. His face is leaner, the lines of his jaw and cheeks more defined, the left side of his face littered with bruises and scars. She traces her fingers over his cheekbone, and down to the coarse, blond stubble along his jaw.

“Kitty,” he says, shortly, taking her hand away from his face. “Kitty, where are they? Tell me they’re okay.”

She glances over her shoulder. Mam and dad are approaching them now. Their faces mirror each other, confused, horrified, sympathetic.

“Come on,” she mutters, taking Tom’s hand and dragging him with her as she walks solemnly up Slade Grove. 

They stayed joined at the hip as they walk, Kitty curling slightly into his arm, their legs brushing with every stride, bumping into each other and pulling themselves back in.

His hand is warm and his grip is firm, but she can’t stop herself from shivering. As much as she wants to gaze up at him, melt into his embrace again, kiss every inch of his face, she can’t help but feel guilty. He doesn’t ask any more questions, or so much as speak a word, but the concern is written all over him, the clenched jaw and the stiff shoulders that don’t sway as he walks. 

She won’t be the one to tell him, she can’t be.

Lois has been living in a boarding house with Connie since the bomb hit. Mam had offered her a place at their house, but Lois wouldn’t take it. Luckily the house isn’t too far away, and when Lois opens the door, she’s utterly stunned.

Kitty waits outside, with her hands behind her back, leaning against the brick wall. Now her hands and her skin feel cold, so she tugs at her coat, keeping it tight around her body to keep out the autumn chill.

For a few moments she wonders if she hasn’t just made the whole thing up; Tom, waiting outside her door, running into her arms and vanishing again. She rubs her fingertips together. She had felt him as she feels her own skin now, she’s sure of it, the scars, the stubble, the hair on the back of his hand. 

Tom Bennett, her Tom Bennett, though not quite the same man he was, before whatever happened at Dunkirk, before the war, when his place in her life was vague but at least it was consistent. She knows things will be different again when he comes out of that house.

She hears raised voices through the door, the unmistakable, raspy bass of Tom’s anger. Lois shouts back. Then it goes quiet again.

Her heart leaps out of her chest when the door swings open. Tom slams it shut and turns his head around, frantically, before his eyes find her.

He opens his arms and falls into her. 

He lets out a few short gasps for breath as he leans his forehead against her shoulder and wraps his arms tightly around her waist. 

She stays like that for as long as he needs, until he pulls back for breath. His face is red, it only makes his eyes seem brighter.

“Sorry,” he mutters with a sniff, “haven’t even said a proper ‘hello’ to you yet.”

Given the circumstances, she thinks that’s forgivable. She runs her hands over the sides of his face, his ears and his overgrown mop of hair. 

“Hello,” she says.

Tom smiles, taking one of her hands in hiss and placing a peck to her knuckles. “Hello.”

They walk slowly back to Slade Grove. Tom is a little more subdued, but not quite settled.

She can only imagine the thoughts racing through his head. He wasn’t here to save his father, he wasn’t at the funeral, there was nothing he could save from his own home. Time has slipped by, the formalities have been carried out and Tom couldn’t have stopped any of it from happening. 

Mam opens the door, takes one look at Tom, and purses her lips.

Kitty rolls her eyes and pulls Tom into the hallway.

The house has been cleared up a little better recently. They’ve gotten rid of everything that was broken, mended the curtains and the tears in the sofas, only the front room feels empty and impersonal without the china cabinet and the photographs they couldn’t save. 

They walk on through to the kitchen, where dad is sitting by the wireless. He stands to take Tom’s hand. “Sorry for your loss, lad,” he says, giving it a short, firm shake.

“Cheers,” Tom mutters, “good to see you again, Mr Wheelan.”

Kitty makes tea and splits her rations of bacon and eggs between her and Tom. 

“We were part of the evacuation effort from Dunkirk,” Tom explains, looking up to Kitty as she sits beside him. “I don’t remember much, but I woke up in a hospital in Paris, bullets and shrapnel in my chest, and the doctors were telling me the Nazis had taken the city.”

“Bloody hell,” dad sighs.

Mam sits stiffly in her chair and sips her tea.

“They were telling me I had to register as a prisoner of war, but there was this American bloke, a doctor, he told me they were trying out an escape route through Gibraltar.”

“We thought you were dead,” Kitty says. “Lois showed us the telegram. We all thought you were dead.”

She can see Tom’s hand flinch as if to reach out to her, but he stops himself and clenches his fist. He turns back to her parents across the table. “I had to die, officially like, they had some spare bodies and put my name to some poor bastard with 80% burns–”

Mam clears her throat.

“Sorry,” Tom says, trying not to smile. “Had to walk to Spain, then hitched a ride with these two blokes to Gibraltar. Onto Plymouth from there, and then…” he trails off. He has a distant look in his eyes that reminds her of Lois.

“Home?” dad says.

Tom shrugs his shoulders. “Yeah, ‘spose so.”

“Will you stay with Lois?” Kitty asks.

Tom gives her a pointed look.

The raised voices, the slammed door. Maybe not.

“You could stay with us,” she says.

Mam tilts her head. “Now wait a moment–”

“Of course,” dad says, “we’ve got three empty beds upstairs, I’m sure we’ll be able to spare one.”

“I wouldn’t want to intrude,” Tom says, slipping his hand under the table and brushing his fingers over Kitty’s knee. She checks her parents aren’t looking at her and tries not to smile.

Dad holds up his hand in the way that means his decision is final. “Not at all, lad. We’ve known you since you were a childer, I think it’s the least we could do for you now.” 

Lois drops Vera off at 5 o’clock, the usual time. She doesn’t ask about Tom, in fact she hardly looks Kitty in the eye as she hands the baby into her arms and places a bag by her feet. She presses a quick kiss to Vera’s head, and then she’s gone.

Tom is in the front room, splayed out on one of the sofas, flicking an unlit cigarette through his fingers– because if he smoked in the house, mam would actually kill him. He sits up when Kitty walks in with the baby on her hip.

She sits beside him and places Vera on her lap.

Tom takes one of her little hands, and his thumb is almost the size of her palm. “Can’t believe she named the kid after my fucking canary,” he grumbles.

“Tom,” Kitty chides.

“Fuck, sorry– fuck.”

Vera lets out a vague gurgling sound and Kitty giggles. “Say it enough, it might be her first word.”

He chuckles, and gently waves Vera’s arm about. “When do babies usually start talking?”

“Give her a chance, she can’t even sit up yet.”

He strokes his finger along the baby’s cheek, and grins when he coaxes a smile out of her. But it’s like he stops himself, pressing his lips together as his eyes darken.

“What happened with you and Lois?” Kitty asks.

Tom heaves a heavy breath and takes his hand away from Vera. “I lashed out.”

“Christ, Tom.”

“She left dad alone,” he says.

If she didn’t have a baby in her lap, she thinks she could throttle him. “It wasn’t her fault,” Kitty snaps. “She couldn’t have saved him. No one could have. 

He turns to face her with a devastated look in his eyes, the kind of look he makes when he knows she’s right. “How did it happen?”

She shifts Vera in her lap. “We didn’t see, we were in the shelter. We heard the bombs getting closer, and when we heard the all clear…” she blinks a few tears from her eyes. She doesn’t mean to cry, and she feels ridiculous, crying over Tom’s father when he’s sitting beside her.

Tom shifts closer to her, and wipes her cheeks with his thumbs.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, “I’m so sorry.”

Tom nods, running his hand over Vera’s head. “He died thinking I was gone. He didn’t know I was alright.” He draws his tongue between his lips. “But he’ll be happy now, with mum and that.”

“I hope so,” she says.

“And I didn’t leave things on a bad note,” he says, keeping his eyes on Vera, “like you told me. I shook his hand before I left.”

“See? When has my advice ever let you down?” she says, trying to sound as lighthearted as possible through the thick feeling in her throat.

Tom keeps his chin tilted down but he looks up to her. He looks more peaceful than he did this morning. His lips are settled in their natural curve, his brow is soft, and there’s a sadness in his eyes that he won’t allow to become more than a glisten.

“Never has,” he says with a smile.

He shuffles closer to her, cautiously cupping the side of her face like he’s forgotten how.

She instantly leans into him, bringing their foreheads together until she can feel his breath echoing over her lips.

It’s been so long since she’s felt him in the way she wants. She’s hardly given herself a moment to even realise that he’s here, that her months of anguish are finally done because he’s safe, he’s alive, and he still didn’t break his promise to her.

“I missed you,” she whispers. If she speaks any louder she worries her voice might falter.

Tom draws his thumb over her cheek and nudges his nose against hers. “Kitty,” he utters. His lips twitch like he can’t quite find the words he wants.

“I know,” she breathes. “I know.”

He angles his head a little before he leans in closer and presses a soft kiss to her lips, and her heart breaks a hundred times over. She feels his sadness in the tentative movements of his mouth, like he’s still scared, like he’s waiting for something bad to happen.

So she pours all her longing and reassurance into him, as far as she can without speaking or pausing for breath. She holds onto his neck and deepens their kiss with firm lips and a deft tongue. 

She wants to feel him, long after they’ve parted. She wants to remember how he feels, the warmth he gives her, the way his little hums make her feel weightless and set her skin alight.

Now, in this moment, the world feels perfect. 

Until Vera makes a whining noise that means she wants attention.

Kitty pulls away with a short gasp, moving Vera to her hip and she stands and tries to bounce her into content.

“She’s probably hungry,” Kitty says, and nods to the bag Lois dropped off earlier. “Her formula’s in there, bring it into the kitchen.”

Tom does as he’s told and pulls the tub out of the bag. He walks into the corridor first, and as Kitty goes to follow he stops, and turns to her.

“You look good with a baby by the way,” he says with a grin.

She scorns herself for the thrill it sends through her stomach. “Don’t, you’ll give my mam a heart attack.”

At 6 o’clock, they put the lights out for the blackout, with only the fading sunset to light the kitchen as Kitty makes a vegetable stew and spuds for dinner. Thankfully they have some beef stock she can throw in as well, which stops dad from complaining that “just veg doesn’t count as a meal.”

Evenings are tense and uncertain now. They all try to make small talk with each other over dinner, but silences are frequent and imposing. 

Once they’ve eaten, Kitty puts Vera to bed and mam and dad head upstairs shortly after, hoping to get as much sleep as they can before the sirens start.

Tom sits in the lounge, on a sofa by the window, keeping the curtains open just an inch, but all there is to see is black.

“It’s cloudy,” he says as Kitty appears in the doorway in her nightie. “Can’t even see the moon.”

She comes to join him, curling up into his lap and placing her head on his shoulder. “That’s good news for us.”

Tom wraps his arms around her and kisses her head.

The sky stays cloudy and quiet all night, no droning of planes, no sirens. 

All she hears is the sound of his breathing and his lips against her skin as he nuzzles into her neck, kissing and nipping at her skin.

“Did you miss me?” she finds herself saying.

Tom pauses and pulls his face away from her with a furrowed brow. “Do you really think I thought of anything else?” he says. “It was all that got me through, the thought of coming home to you.”

In the morning she wakes with a sliver of sunlight creeping over her eyes, still in Tom’s arms, still clinging to him. 

Lois comes to collect Vera before Kitty leaves for her shift at the shop.

“Is Tom with you?” Lois asks as kitty lowers Vera into the pram.

Kitty hesitates. “Yes,” she says, bracing herself for Lois to storm in and start shouting at him. 

He appears in the doorway, with his head down and his hands in his pockets. 

“I’m going to the churchyard,” Lois says to him, “if you’d like to see mum and dad.”

Tom looks to Kitty and she sighs, overemphasising the movement of her chest as she breathes. Don’t leave it on a bad note.

He looks back to Lois and forces a small smile. “Yeah.”

Tom stays with the Wheelans, sleeping in the boys’ bedroom, in the bed closest to the door. Each night, once Vera and her parents are asleep, Kitty steals into his bedroom and tucks herself into the space beside him.

“It feels funny like this, doesn’t it?” she whispers to him, brushing her lips over his cheek as she throws her arms around him and presses herself into his back.

“What, you being the one sneaking around?” he says, falling onto his back so she can drape herself over his bare chest.

“It’s exciting,” she says, kissing a path along his jaw and down his neck. “I don’t see why you got to have all the fun.”

“Made it worth your while, didn’t I?” She can hear him grinning as she reaches the hollow of his throat. She swipes her tongue over his skin and delights when he suppresses a grunt and grasps at her hips. 

She sits herself up, letting her nightgown hitch up to her hips as she starts to rock against him.

Tom slips a hand between her thighs and smiles when he swipes his thumb over her bare cunt. “Right little whore I’ve turned you into, hmm?”

Kitty braces herself against her chest and nods, as Tom presses into her, dragging from her entrance to her pearl.

“So fucking wet,” he whispers. “All for me?”

“All for you,” she breathes as he starts to circle over her most sensitive spot. “Fuck–”

Tom places a finger to her lips as he keeps working over her. “Shh, you have to be quiet, you know that.”

She nods again, dreamily, moving her hips against him, adding and withdrawing pressure to his movements, treading the line between pleasure and longing. Until she falls apart, shuddering, pressing her lips together tightly and snatching back the one wanton whimper that sounds in her throat.

“Good girl,” Tom snarls. His hips are bucking against her and his jaw is tight. “Good fucking girl.”

She wastes no time slipping his cock free from his briefs and sinks herself down onto his length. He’s done for with only a few rolls of her hips, pulling out before he finishes and spilling himself onto her stomach.

He’s so pretty when he comes, with a silent sigh, his jaw hanging open and his nostrils flaring. Every part of his body tenses, his abs, his neck, his shoulders, as he squeezes his eyes shut tight and throws his head back against the pillows. 

Another perfect moment, she thinks, bright and beautiful, and already slipping away.

He registers with the navy again, and in a few weeks he has his next assignment.

Before he leaves, Kitty insists on getting out Eddie’s camera (even though he’d kill her if he knew he went near it), and takes some photos of Vera for Tom to keep while he’s away.

She takes some of him too. They’re hardly high art– he wouldn’t stop laughing at his own snarky comments, but she manages one ‘serious’ one. 

His mouth is halfway to a smirk, his smile lines apparent around his mouth, but his eyes are dark and almost sinister. He hates it but there’s nothing he can do to stop her from keeping it in the envelope of one of his letters, under her pillow for safekeeping with the rest of the pieces she has of him.

He has leave in the new year, and then he’s back in October, just over two years since he first left.

By then Lois is gone. She had come into the shop, with a letter for Tom and Kitty in the pram. She had said she was going to leave her with Robina.

“Over my dead body you are,” Kitty said before she could think it through. Mam and dad were slightly horrified when she came home early from work with baby Vera in a pram and all of her belongings in a bag.

Vera is a right little character now, a stubborn but happy girl. When Tom comes back to Longsight, he stays with the Wheelans again, and he’s utterly devoted to his niece. When Kitty’s at work, he walks into the shop with Vera in his arms to buy her a bar of Cadbury’s ration chocolate. It’s awful and bitter, but it’s the only kind Vera has known and she treats it like gold dust. 

When Mr Gregory gives Kitty a few days off, she and Tom take her for walks to the park. It’s freezing, but she’s happy enough wrapped up in a coat and a woolly hat, squealing with delight when Tom picks her up and places her on his shoulders.

How remarkable are kids, that they can so easily forget about worries and fears, as long as they have something that keeps them happy.

Even with Douglas and Lois gone, she hopes Tom knows that something still remains.

Time slips away too quickly. Suddenly Tom’s in his uniform again, ditty slung over his shoulder. He takes Vera into his arms and hugs her tightly into his chest. “Be good for your aunty Kitty,” he says, “and take care of her until I get back.”

Vera nods frantically.

He says goodbye to dad like an old friend, and even mam has warmed to him a bit now. Kitty sees the way her mother looks between her and Tom, the knowing nod of her head. It’s acceptance, and she’ll take it.

“Shall we?” Tom says, taking Kitty’s hand and leading her through the door.

It’s a short walk to the bus stop, then a twenty minute ride into the city. She keeps a tight hold of Tom’s hand the entire way.

They settle in seats at the back of the bus. It’s the middle of the day, kids are in school and their parents are at work. Only a few other seats are filled.

“Thank you,” Tom says as the bus pulls away from the stop.

“For what?” Kitty says.

“For being there,” he says, “for looking out for dad when he was around, for taking care of Vera, and me.”

She wants to frown, but can’t bring herself to. “Of course,” she says, stroking her thumb over the back of his hand. “Of course.”

Tom’s been assigned to HMS Prince of Wales, docked at Scapa Flow in Scotland. His train leaves within the hour, and the moment they step off the bus onto the busy streets of Manchester, she feels herself walking slower. 

Tom keeps going, letting her fall behind him slightly, but never letting go of her.

No matter how she tries to drag this out, she cannot stop time altogether and they eventually reach the train station.

She could spend an eternity in his arms, cheek to cheek, breathing along with the rise and fall of his chest. 

“I want to do right by you,” Tom says.

“What do you mean?” she mutters. 

They still hold each other close; she doesn’t think she could bear to look at his face.

“Once the war is over, I’ll save up my wages, get us a place of our own. It’ll just be the two of us.”

“And Vera,” she adds.

“Yeah,” he says, stroking his hand up and down her back. “I’ll get a proper job. You should do that clerical training you’ve always talked about.”

No more sneaking around. No more nights cut short when he has to leave her.

He pulls away from her, keeping his hands on her waist. “I know your parents don’t trust me and your brothers think I’m a no-good-thieving-bastard. But I love you, Kitty, and I don’t know what I’d ever do without you.”

“Once the war is over?” she says.

“As soon as.”

“Tom,” she sighs. She doesn’t want to imagine the possibility, or speak it into existence, but it’s still there. “What if you don’t come back?”

Tom smiles with a small hum. “I’ve died once before, didn’t stop me coming back to you, did it?”

Kitty believes him wholeheartedly.

Thursday 11th December, 1941

Vera’s being fussy about her nap again. No matter how much Kitty tries to hush her, rock her, or hum a few lullabies, she just won’t settle.

Eventually she tries just holding Vera close to her chest, letting the side of her little head nestle just over her heart. She stops crying almost immediately.

“How hard could it be to look after a baby?” she asked herself when she refused to let Lois leave her daughter with Robina Chase. Quite hard, as it turns out. 

The peace doesn’t last for long. Mam’s shoes come clattering down the stairs, the doorbell rings and Vera starts wailing again. 

“Oh come here,” mam coos, taking Vera from Kitty’s arms. “You get the door, I’ll see this one gets her nap, eh?”

Kitty takes a quick breath before she opens the door. Hearing Vera cry makes her want to cry too. 

The postman stands below the front step with a telegram in his hands.

“Catherine,” he says with a polite smile, “haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Been… busy,” she says through Vera’s wails.

The postman hands her the telegram and she reads over the address: Lois Bennett, 27 Slade Grove, Longsight, Manchester, only there’s no house for it to be delivered to, and no Lois to take it.

She feels the tears start to prickle in her eyes as she waves him off, and when she shuts the door she can no longer stand. Suddenly she’s on the floor, her back against the door, unable to catch her breath as hot, stinging tears stream down her face and the telegram crumples under her fist.

She thinks maybe Vera keeps crying and mam calls her name, trying to get her to stand but she can’t. She just… can’t. A sinking feeling washes over her and keeps her pinned down, like the waves pummeling against the shore, over and over again. 

If there’s a telegram addressed to Lois, it can only mean one thing.

Tom.

Monday 24th December, 1945

The bus to Longsight stops outside the shop. She lifts Vera under the arms of her little red coat, onto the pavement, and takes a mittened hand in hers as they head inside. Mr Gregory sold it a few months ago and she doesn’t know the name of the new owners.

The woman behind the counter smiles down at Vera. “Aren’t you a gorgeous little madam?” she coos.

Vera rolls her eyes. “I’m not a baby, I’m five,” she says.

Kitty smiles to herself. “Bottle of sherry and a bag of Yorkshire mix, please,” she says. She crouches down beside Vera and spots a shelf of Christmas wrapping. “Go and pick out some ribbon for the bottle,” she whispers.

She pays for their items and Vera comes back with a bright red ribbon.

“Perfect,” Kitty says, and ties it into a bow around the neck.

As they walk towards Slade Grove, Kitty picks out some red sweets for Vera and a pear drop for herself. The rest she saves for later, finding she now prefers the sweets she never used to eat.

It’s nice and warm inside number 28. A Chorus of Christmas carols plays through the wireless from the kitchen, a backdrop to the bustle of the house. Mam is in the kitchen, making her final preparations for tomorrow’s dinner. Art helps her, albeit, his version of helping is pouring out gin and tonics. Dad, Eddie, Stevie and Connie are sat around the table, engrossed in a game of cards. But everyone stops when Vera comes bounding into the room, Kitty close behind her.

They each take their turns to smother her, and it feels good. Stevie practically jumps up and down as he hugs her, Art hands her a drink and Eddie hugs her the tightest. 

She manages a sip of her drink and places it on the table as she goes to greet her dad, still mulling over his hand of cards as he kisses her cheek. Then she goes to her mam, and hands her the bottle of sherry. 

“I chose the bow!” Vera proclaims proudly.

“And a lovely bow it is!” mam beams, placing the bottle amongst their Christmas stash of whisky, gin and dessert wine. “I have something for you, love,” she says.

“Oh?” Kitty asks as mam disappears into the front room. She comes back with a pot of poinsettias in a red pot, thick green leaves with bursts of blood red petals and golden seeds at their hearts.

“I thought we could put them out, tonight,” mam says.

Kitty opens her mouth to thank her, but she can’t. She nods as mam places her hand on her arm.

Even months after the war has ended, meat is still scarce, especially at this time of year, but mam had saved up her rations for a beautiful joint of beef, which she presents in the centre of the table.

It’s a cheerful occasion. The boys are rowdy, dad is quizzing Connie on her latest gig with her new band, mam is fussing over Vera.

Kitty watches them all. It’s hard not to feel like a ghost, an outlier, simply observing. Sometimes she thinks the others are still too scared to talk to her, in case she bursts into tears or shatters completely. She knows she won’t though. It’s Christmas. She’s supposed to be happy, surrounded by family and people she loves.

“We’re going to see her daddy for dinner tomorrow,” Vera says, stabbing at her boiled carrots.

“What’s Christmas dinner with Robina Chase like?” Stevie asks Kitty.

Her face freezes into a terrified smile to the others’ amusement. “No, it’s fine really,” she says. “Your grandma spoils you rotten, doesn’t she missus?”

Vera nods enthusiastically.

She’s such an easy girl to love. She has bright blue eyes, plump, rosy cheeks and dark brown curls, like her mother’s, kept in pigtails. But while her face is deceptively sweet, she has an awful habit for mischief and stubbornness. Kitty doesn’t mind that though. Girls should be stubborn, she thinks.

Stevie and Connie are expecting now. Dad insists it’s going to be a boy because he saw four magpies in the garden last week. They have a modest little house a few streets away and they’ve made it nice and homely. She’s had tea there and helped Stevie set up a crib for the nursery. 

After they’ve eaten, dad insists they all go to midnight mass, as he does every year, despite Kitty’s insistence that it’s much too late for Vera. Still, she puts her in a pretty blue dress and shiny black leather shoes, and makes Stevie promise he’ll be the one to carry her home.

The church is mostly shadows at night, a few candles and lamps doing their best to fight off the darkness and the cold. Vera hates it. She pulls her woolly hat over her ears, swings her legs and on three occasions asks “is he done talking yet?” She likes the hymns though, even if she doesn’t know the words, mouthing some kind of nonsense that has them all in fits of giggles.

And once it’s over, they don’t follow the path down to the street. Kitty leads the way, with the pot of poinsettias in her hands. Stevie follows behind her, carrying a sleepy Vera in his arms, curled into his chest.

She stops before the grave she first stood by seventeen years ago.

Josie Bennett

Douglas Bennett

and in loving memory of Thomas Bennett, 1919-1941

Kitty crouches down to lay the poinsettias down when Vera gives a little squeak in protest. “I want to do it!” she cries.

“Come on then, missus,” Kitty says.

Stevie lowers Vera and she rubs her tired eyes as she staggers to Kitty. She tries to take the pot but with her mittens she can’t get a good grip on it.

“Together?” Kitty asks.

“Yes please,” Vera says.

They place the flowers down together, making sure they don’t obstruct the names.

“There,” Vera says with a little huff. She reaches out and puts her hand on the stone, brushing over the names of her granny and granddad Bennett, and then she traces over the letters of Tom’s name.

Even seeing it written in stone, she doesn’t think it will ever truly sink in. 

A report said Tom had been in the makeshift aid centre on the main deck of the HMS Prince of Wales, when the final bomb hit. He could have run for the lifeboats. He would have had plenty of time. But he didn’t. He died to save his injured crewmates, men who would have never seen their families again.

For all the times he told her he would come back, for the life he promised they would make together, for all the nights she clung onto hope, she wanted to hate him for throwing it away.

She knows now that she can’t hate him. She could never hate him.

Vera falls back into Kitty’s arms. She catches her and places a gentle kiss to her soft cheek. “They would have loved you, you know,” Kitty says. “They would have loved that you’re brave, and funny, and that you drive everybody round the bend.”

Vera giggles and turns around, flinging her arms around her neck. “I love you, aunty Kitty,” she says.

Kitty hugs her tightly into her chest, with that strange sort of urge to just squeeze her and squeeze her and never let her go. “I love you too,” she whispers, so Vera won’t hear the tears threatening to spill from her eyes.

Vera manages to walk down to the gate before Stevie has to carry her, and by the time they get back to the house, she’s fast asleep.

Kitty takes her in her arms and carries her up to the little box room. Connie and Stevie have the other big bedroom, and Eddie and Art are roughing it on the sofas in the lounge.

She places Vera down in the bed, as gently as she can, and takes off her shoes and coat so she won’t have to sleep in them.

It’s almost like a ritual now, but every time she finds herself in her old bedroom, she unlocks the window and brushes her fingers over the scuff mark on the windowsill. 

Vera stirs slightly when she joins her, curling into Kitty when she places an arm around her. The bed is hardly big enough for the two of them, how she and Tom ever managed to fit seems somewhat miraculous. 

Tom Bennett should have been hers to keep. They should have spent all their savings on a little terraced house or a flat in Manchester, squabbling over the things husbands and wives argue about and making up between the bedsheets. In the winters they would have walked home from the pub through the snow, hand in hand, and huddled for warmth at night. In the summers they would have spent their evenings in the park with a punnet of strawberries, taking the train to the coast on the weekends, to Southport or Blackpool. Maybe they would have had kids of their own. She often pictures a little girl with big blue eyes and a bright smile. They might have named her Josie, after Tom’s mother, and Vera would adore her.

There is so little left of him now, the bomb that hit the Bennett’s house ensured that well enough. She would have liked to have kept his lighter, his wristwatch, maybe some of his shirts.

Instead, she finds other ways to remember him. She reads his letters every night tracing over his terrible handwriting, the imprint of the words in the paper and his fingerprint in a smudge of ink. And she has the photo she took of him on Eddie’s camera. She keeps it framed, proudly on display on the mantle in their flat in the city.

She feels him, in the smell of grass, the flick of a lighter, the smoke from a cigarette, whispered secrets between lovers and Vera Bennett’s laugh, the way she squints her eyes and shows her teeth, just like he did. 

Two decades of friendship and it wasn’t enough time. They should have known sooner, she should have knocked on his door more often and he should have spent less time getting into trouble. She should have told him to join the pacifists while it was still an option, she should have convinced him not to go away, she should have held him tighter and never, never have let him go.

In the end though, she doesn’t linger on the times they weren’t together. She remembers them being children together. She remembers the first night he climbed through her window. She remembers his warmth and his infuriating smirk. She remembers the first time they kissed and the nights they spent together, when she couldn’t tell where she ended and he began. She remembers every time he told her he loved her, and she remembers every time she said it back.

She falls asleep to Vera’s fluttering breaths, the sound of the lads and Connie in the front room and the hymns playing on the radio.

The world is cruel and cold, but through it all she finds moments like these, when the tightness in her chest is replaced by something light and hopeful.

She clings to that feeling because tomorrow she’ll wake up surrounded by her family, and Vera’s little face will light up when she sees the gifts they’ve been saving for her. Dinner with Robina Chase will be worth it for the moments Harry will get with his little girl, and in the evening she’ll come home and laugh herself silly over glasses of whisky with her brothers. 

For all the grief she remembers how he loved her. She’ll keep clinging to that feeling because Tom Bennett was hers, if only just for a moment.

Disclaimer: I only skimmed through the episodes that Tom wasn’t in and don’t actually know what Lois’ deal was, so I’m taking some creative liberties here.

Tags (comment to be added to either)

General taglist: @randomdragonfires @jamespotterismydaddy @theoneeyedprince @tsujifreya

Series taglist: @hanula18 @azxulaa @whoknows333

[whencyclopedia]

Reinhard Heydrich

Reinhard Heydrich (1904-1942) was a lieutenant-general in the Nazi SS organisation, Gestapo chief, and head of Reich security. A favourite of Adolf Hitler (1889-1945), Heydrich controlled all police activity in the Third Reich and was instrumental in carrying out the widespread persecution, detention, and murder of Jewish people, communists, political rivals, and others considered enemies of the Nazi state.

Heydrich was the leading Nazi in German-occupied Czechoslovakia where his brutal regime earned him the nickname the 'Butcher of Prague'. Heydrich was assassinated by the Czech resistance in May 1942. Had he lived, it is certain that Heydrich would have been hanged at the Nuremberg trials of 1945 for his systematic crimes against humanity, particularly his direct role in the Holocaust and murder of six million Jewish people.

Early Career

Reinhard Heydrich was born in Halle in Eastern Germany on 7 May 1904. His father, Bruno Heydrich, was a distinguished musician, composer, and music teacher from Dresden. Heydrich's mother was Elizabeth Maria Anna Amalie Krantz, whose own mother was Jewish. Elizabeth was a humble actress, but it was her Jewish connections that plagued Heydrich's confidence throughout his career as a virulent anti-Semitic Nazi.

Heydrich joined the German Navy in 1922. He impressed his superiors and rose up the ranks, working primarily in communications and intelligence. In his free time, he "was a first-class fencer, excellent horseman, skilled pilot, and a talented violinist" (Boatner, 214). In April 1931, Heydrich was obliged to leave the navy following a scandalous relationship with the daughter of a shipyard director. The girl became pregnant, but Heydrich refused to marry her. Heydrich already had a long-term attachment going on with Lina von Osten (1911-1985), whom he married at the end of 1931.

It was also in 1931 that Heydrich joined the fascist National Socialist German Workers' Party (NSDAP) or Nazi Party for short. Lina was a member of the Nazi Party before Heydrich and as anti-Semitic as her husband. Heydrich also joined the Nazi paramilitary group the SS (Schutzstaffel) where he received a series of rapid promotions. Heydrich reached the rank of Obergruppenführer or lieutenant-general in July 1934. Heydrich was a perfect fit for the Nazis:

The very picture of blond Aryan handsomeness…His blue-eyed good looks, athletic prowess, arrogant mien, and musical talent hid a neurotic personality which was deeply divided, uncertain, and treacherous.

(Dear 416)

According to Albert Speer (1905-1981), the Nazi armaments minister, Heydrich was "always neatly dressed, and well bred…capable of unexpected decisions at any moment, and once he had arrived at them he would carry them through with a rare obstinacy" (Speer, 503-4)

Heydrich, who had gained experience working in the department of military intelligence when in the navy, was directed to create an equivalent branch within the SS. The SD or Sicherheitsdienst was founded in 1934. Heydrich was the rising star of Nazism, and in the same year, he was appointed the leader of the Prussian Gestapo, the Nazi secret police. Heydrich's career progressed thanks to him being an "organizer with a genius for intrigue and a greed for power" (Boatner, 215). Heydrich had proven his worth with his organisational contribution to the Night of the Long Knives in June 1934, when the Nazi paramilitary group the Sturmabteilung (SA) was, on Hitler's orders since it was becoming too powerful, ruthlessly purged and its top commanders executed.

In 1936, Heydrich became the head of a new Nazi organization within the Ministry of Interior, the security police, known as Sipo or Sicherheitspolizei. This effectively meant that Heydrich controlled both the Gestapo and the criminal police or Kriminalpolizei (aka Kripo) and made him deputy to the feared SS leader Heinrich Himmler (1900-1945). The historian H. Thomas describes Heydrich as Himmler's "assiduously brutal yet servile second in command" (40). The Himmler-Heydrich working team operated well together, but Heydrich despised Himmler in private, once telling his wife he imagined him "in his underpants then everything was all right" (Cimino, 54).

Heydrich used his powers ruthlessly to imprison, torture, and execute anyone he considered a threat to the state or his own position in the Nazi Party. Heydrich was not bothered by such conventions as first gathering evidence against the accused, rather, he preferred preventive measures, that is, arresting people who might become enemies of the state before they could do any harm. He pursued a relentless persecution of anyone considered an enemy of Nazi Germany such as Jewish people, communists, freemasons, homosexuals, habitual criminals, and church figures. Heydrich kept thousands of dossiers and index cards on suspects, all carefully colour-coded to indicate which particular offence against Nazism they were guilty of. Responsibility for the Kristallnacht ('Night of Broken Glass') pogrom against German Jews (loosely defined by the 1935 Nuremberg Laws) of November 1938 is sometimes laid at Heydrich's door, but he had long urged Hitler for a more systematic and legally-based persecution of Jews than mere odd nights of terror.

When Hitler was looking for an excuse to attack Poland, it was Heydrich who organised a false flag mission on the Gleiwitz radio station. In the mission, disguised SS members left machine-gunned bodies to make it appear as if Poles had attacked the German station. Hitler then gave the green light for the invasion of Poland in 1939. In September 1939, Heydrich was duly rewarded with his appointment as head of the Reich Security Main Office or RSHA (Reichssicherheitshauptamt), a new organisation, which meant Heydrich now controlled the Gestapo, Kripo, and the SD. The RSHA had three main roles: policing and repressing enemies of Nazism, gathering intelligence, and eliminating those people identified by the Nazis as being racially inferior. In none of these roles was the RSHA limited by any legal restrictions. Heydrich's ultimate objective was to have what he described as "total and permanent police supervision of everyone" (Stone, 164).

Continue reading...

[malarkgirlypop]

Green-eyed Monster (Ron Speirs x GN!Reader)

HEY! HEY! Sorry for this taking so long, she's a busy gal. But this is for @kafka-ohdear who asked for a jealousy story, and boy oh boy he was a bit jealous. This was so fun to write. I thought it would be the most fun to make Mr. Speirs jealous. Cause he just wears jealousy so well. It got a bit steamy, so I hope you like it. Anyway as per usual this is based off the HBO show and the actors who portray the characters, no hate to the men who served.

Ronald Speirs was a calm man. He thought of himself as composed and coolheaded. These traits made him a good leader. He was able to handle any situation thrown at him. Like in Foy when he had been made to take over the assault that Lieutenant Dike had been butchering to then be made CO. But one person made his calmness dissipate. Ron couldn’t put his finger on why the private had wound him up so much. Maybe it was their carefree attitude, they were in the middle of the war but still found a way to be chipper and brighten up the rest of the men. Or maybe it was the way they carelessly flirted with every soldier they came across, did they know they were doing it or was it unconscious. Maybe he was jealous at how easily they talked to everyone and opened up to them with their infectious personality. Everyone seemed to hang off their every word. Now as they sat in Hitler’s Eagles Nest Ron watched Y/N entertain the men with their stories. 

“And then she dropped it and it went everywhere!” Y/N finishes their story as the soldier’s roared with laughter. “Thank you, thank you I will be here all week.” Y/N bows, pretending to receive applause. Y/N reaches forward picking up the bottle of wine they had placed on the floor before they had stood up to give a dramatic reenactment of the story. Y/N sips from the wine, still standing, their eyes scanning over the room. Y/N’s eyes fall on the soldier sitting in the corner of the hall, Winters and Nixon sitting close to the men but he doesn’t involve himself in their conversation. Ron’s eyes are fixed on Y/N, not averting his gaze. They seem to stare at each other, waiting for the other to pull their focus. Y/N tilts their head as they regard the man as he mirrors their actions. They sip from their wine, finally turning their attention back to the group of rowdy Easy company men that sat in front of them. Y/N sat next to George trying to focus on the conversation he was having with Lieb but their mind wandered to the solitary soldier drinking across the room from them.

Ron had only become CO a couple months prior, but he had been around before that. Ron was in Dog company originally. Y/N had only seen him a handful of times but had heard many things about the infamous Captain Speirs. Ronald had quite the reputation, many soldiers in the company being scared shitless of the ruthless man. A rumour or two had spread at the beginning of the war right after D-day, that Speirs had given a group of POW’s cigarettes only to shoot them all dead after they had lit them. However this was just gossip, only one person had claimed to see the event, and from there the story had become more exaggerated. People said he shot 8 and then the next Y/N had heard the story Ron had killed 20 odd men. Y/N didn’t believe all the tall tales told about the Captain but had kept him at arm's length. Though he was stunningly handsome, he was cold and calculated. He was curt and stubborn, all the things that Y/N was not. Known in Easy company as the flirt and entertainment along with Luz. Luz and Y/N had clicked right from the beginning getting on like a house on fire. The two were notorious for playing pranks and causing havoc. They were referred to lovingly as Easy companies trouble-makers. Y/N loved Luz like a brother and they were attached at the hip, never far from each other. It kept them sane, amidst all the chaos and heartbreak of war. They had each other and were able to make each other laugh, even when they were having the toughest of days. But they also were able to console each other, knowing what to say when the jokes weren’t feeling the most appropriate. George and Y/N had had a hard time after they had found the camp when doing a search of the perimeter. Neither of them had seen anything like it before and it broke them. It was different to the casualties they had experienced in war, this situation seemed more cruel. The men in the war signed up knowing the sacrifice they might have to make, knowing they might not make it back alive. But this camp they had found, the people were innocent. They weren’t even being treated like humans, they were inferior in Hitler’s eyes, cast aside to be exterminated like cockroaches in a house. That was cruel, the most awful thing that Y/N would ever see. George and Y/N weren’t the same after that, but none of the men were. In that moment they saw the real horror of what was happening and how blindsided they had all been to the reign of Hitler. So when they had stumbled across his Eagle’s nest they were more than happy to loot and steal whatever they wanted, that man deserved no respect. George knocked his elbow into Y/N pulling them from their thoughts. 

“Huh?” Y/N asked. 

“Were you not listening at all?” George rolled his eyes at his friend. 

“Nope, but you know what? I am super drunk.” Y/N slurs in George’s face. George laughs, as Y/N tries to get the room to stop spinning. Y/N spots Winters and Nixon laughing across the room. Y/N gets to their feet, steadying themself before sauntering over to the men. 

“Hello handsome!” Y/N says to Nixon swaying over him. 

“Hello you!” Nixon equally as drunk smirks at Y/N. They take a step forward to sexily whisper in his ear, stumbling over Nixon’s feet landing on his lap. 

“Woooh, steady on Y/N!” Nixon laughs as Y/N gets comfortable. Wrapping their arms around his neck. 

“You love it!” Y/N teases. Nixon wraps his arms around their waist steadying them on his lap. Y/N stays in that position flirting with Nixon as they chat. Y/N feels a shiver run up their spine, glancing around finding the icy stare of Ron trained on them. Shaking off the feeling they turned their focus back to Nixon. Y/N couldn’t seem to pay attention to Nix, the weight of Ron’s gaze distracting them too much. 

“I have to pee.” Y/N announces wiggling off of Nixon’s lap. Y/N scurried out of the hall they occupy into one of the long hallways. Feeling more sober now thanks to the glare of the stoic Captain.

Y/N turns in a circle, where am I? The Eagle’s nest is huge. All the hallways looking the same turns it into a never ending maze. I swear I just walked past that panting. Y/N groans turning around to try and find their way back to the hall. After making more turns left and right trying to remember the way they had come originally, Y/N was once again lost. OMG I WILL NEVER ESCAPE THIS HALLWAY! Y/N presses their back to the wall, sliding down it to sit. Hiding their head in their knees sighing. A pair of black boots stepped into Y/N’s eyeline. They take a moment to regard the shoes, slowly trailing their eyes up the figure looming above them. They gape at their Captain who stands over them.

“Oh, Captain!” Y/N sputtered. Ron didn’t speak, only extending his hand to help Y/N to their feet. Reaching out Y/N clasps the outstretched hand, as he helped haul them to their feet. Once standing they noticed the closeness of the Captain. Ron stood toe to toe with Y/N, caging them into the wall with his body. Shyly Y/N glanced up at Ron who looked down his nose at them. 

Ron leaned forward into Y/N’s space, prompting Y/N to take a step back only to be stopped by the wall. The Captain’s breath fanned onto their face, only inches between them, one small movement would cause their lips to touch. A blush rose to Y/N’s cheeks thinking about them sharing a kiss with Speirs, shaking the thought from their head. Their eyes finally glanced up to hold his gaze. 

“Is there something on my face?” Y/N asked, turning on their signature charm. 

“No.” Speirs said curtly. 

“Then why do you keep staring at me?” Y/N questions the man tilting their head in a coy manner. 

“I don’t like people touching what’s mine.” Ron spoke in a low voice. Y/N blinked at the man confused at what he meant. 

“I’m sorry Sir, I’m confused? Do I have something of yours?” Y/N asked. The man didn’t answer immediately, scanning his eyes over their face, lingering on their lips before dragging back up to meet their gaze again. A shiver ran up Y/N’s spine. The intensity at which Ron was looking at them almost had them in a puddle on the floor. 

Ron took a deep breath, enjoying the scent of Y/N. The smell of wine and something almost sweet lingered around them. The smell alone was addicting. Ron had never felt like this before about anyone. When Y/N had sat on Nixon’s lap he saw red, the way they smiled at each other. Draped over each other, the way Nixon’s arm looped around their waist. His head swirled with jealousy. Ron didn’t think he liked the Private much, he thought he disliked them. Watching them flirt with people, he just assumed he was annoyed at how they weren’t focussing on the task at hand. But after he saw them in Nixon’s lap, he had soon figured out that he felt quite the opposite about Y/N. He had wanted to be the one they were draped over, laughing carelessly, whispering to each other. It had taken quite some control to stop himself from marching over and plucking Y/N out of Nixon’s lap to find somewhere more private. Ron had taken the other option of sending the most deadly glare in their direction instead. When Y/N had scurried out of the room he was quick to slip out as well, following them from a distance. He could tell when Y/N had taken multiple wrong turns they had been lost. He kept his distance though, planning to only be a spectator to it all. When Y/N had sighed loudly and sunk to the floor, he thought it would be the right time to intervene. His plan at first was just to help Y/N back to the hall they were so desperately trying to find. But after he had helped them to their feet he couldn’t help but close the distance between them. They had tried to charm Ron but he had other motives. 

“Sir?” Y/N questioned again when the Captain didn’t answer. The man seemed to snap out of his trance, taking a step back from Y/N. 

“Do you want me to show you back to the hall?” Ron asked. Y/N felt like they had whiplash, one moment it seemed like Ron was about to confess something, the next he was offering to show them back to the hall. 

Y/N still feeling a bit tipsy felt a surge of confidence, taking a step forward into Ron’s personal space. Lightly brushing their fingertips down Ron’s arm. The man stood still, watching Y/N fingers trace down his sleeve, his jaw clenched. 

“Careful Y/N, you don’t know what you’re doing.” Ron growled. 

Y/N smirked, “Oh like this?” dragging their fingers across Ron’s chest teasingly. In a sharp movement Ron captured Y/N’s hand in his, causing a gasp to leave their lips. Pulling them in even closer to whisper in their ear. “You’re playing with fire.” Ron let Y/N’s hand go as it dropped back to their side. 

Something switched in Y/N. An anger bubbled in their chest. Yes they had noticed Ron’s glares on occasion, only thinking it was because the Captain disliked them. Y/N was fine with that, not everyone had to like them, but from his actions tonight it seemed like it was the opposite. Which ticked them off, if Ron liked them why treat Y/N so coldly. Why did he always send a dirty look, never talk to them. Whenever they talked in the past it was short and sweet, no small talk. Orders and go. Now Ron wanted to claim them. A huff left Y/N lips. 

“Do you have a problem with me Sir?” Y/N demanded. Ron seemed taken aback from the sudden outburst of Y/N, not often were they mad and showed it. Ron opened his mouth to answer the soldier standing in front of him only to be cut off. 

“You can’t just treat me like you hate me and then tell me that I am yours!” Y/N spat harshly at the man. 

“I didn’t know.” Ron said calmly, trying to defuse the situation. 

“You didn’t know what?” Y/N challenged the man, fist clenching at their sides to try and restrain themselves from doing something they would regret. 

“I didn’t know that I liked you.” Ron confessed sheepishly. The statement had shocked Y/N causing a blush to rise on their cheeks. They opened and closed their mouth, unable to form a sentence. 

“I’m sorry for treating you poorly in the past. You just….you just made me so angry. I couldn’t put my finger on why. But now I can. Seeing you tonight with Nixon, it just hit a nerve. Then I realised that I was jealous.” Ron blurted trying to fill the silence, as Y/N stared stunned at him. 

“I wanted you to look at me how you were looking at him.” Ron breathed. The pair still standing toe to toe stared at each other as their breaths filled the silence. The tension between them was thick with need. So close, their faces only inches apart, breaths mingling with each other. Ron’s eyes searched between Y/N’s for an answer, a signal, anything. Ron’s hands moved from his side reaching Y/N’s face cupping around their jaw. 

“Is this ok?” He hummed lowly. Y/N’s lips parted as a soft yes fell from their mouth. Ron’s thumb moved, stroking Y/N’s jaw. The movement causes Y/N’s eyes to flutter closed, enjoying the gentle touches. 

“What about this?” Ron breathed, running his thumb down Y/N’s neck. A sigh left their lips, letting their head fall back so the man had better access to their skin. Ron came closer, tucking his face into the open space that Y/N had created. 

“This?” He said, deliberately dragging his lips over the soft flesh as he spoke. Causing a moan to sound from Y/N. The man stepped back letting all contact cease. A whimper came from Y/N from the sudden loss. Y/N head swum, desperately wanting to be back in Ron’s arms and pissed at him for teasing them so. 

“That’s not very nice of you Ron.” They panted, a smug smirk formed on the Captain's lips. 

“Well now you know how it feels.” He teased Y/N. Y/N scoffed at the man. 

“Fine then! I will find someone else to satisfy my needs.” Y/N exclaimed, turning on their heel back to the direction of the hall. I mean if it’s that way, I am still lost. Not making it two steps before their waist was grabbed by Ron. Who turned them back to face him. 

“There is no need for that.” Ron asserted. Before Y/N could come back with a snarky reply Ron pressed his lips to theirs. His lips were surprisingly soft and full. The kiss at first was gentle. Ron’s hand gripped at Y/N’s hips pulling them closer. A contented sigh leaving Y/N’s lips. Sliding their hands up Ron’s arms to rest on his shoulders, pulling him further down to deepen their kiss. Ron’s grip on their body grew possessive, his kisses becoming more fervent. His hands running up their spine, stopping at the base of Y/N’s neck, his fingers playing with the hair there. A soft moan falls from Y/N’s lips. Taking the opportunity of their open mouth Ron teasingly running his tongue along their bottom lip. Y/N presses their body further into Ron’s needing to be as close as they could to the man. Ron allowed his tongue to find its way into Y/N mouth. The sounds of soft whimpers and groans filled the empty hallway as the pair became hungrier with lust. Ron moved Y/N swiftly, grabbing under their legs to lift them off the ground. Y/N wrapped their legs around Ron’s waist. Ron pushes Y/N against the wall pressing their back against its surface. With his hands wrapping fully around their body Ron passionately kisses Y/N, his hands gliding up their figure as his lips continue to explore theirs. With Y/N pressed against the wall Ron leaned into the kiss more heavily, his tongue exploring Y/N mouth, as their hands roamed around Ron’s body. Slipping their fingers into his hair tugging gently causing the man to groan, the sensual sound causing goosebumps to arise over their skin. Y/N pulls back to admire the man, his blue eyes full of lust, his swollen pink lips parted slightly as he pants. 

“I think we should take it slow.” Y/N whispers to the man still being held in his arms.

“God you’re killing me Y/N.” Ron growled, but in the same breath gently placing them back on the ground but still holding them close. A small smile formed on Y/N’s lip, giving the man a gentle peck. Grabbing his hand Y/N starts to lead him back to the hall. He smiles and walks after them. 

“Y/N, the hall is this way.” He chuckled, pulling them back. Continuing to hold hands they walked down the corridor back to the hall where the rest of Easy company resided.            

[creature-wizard]

Yes, Gigi Young is literally just another conspiracy theorist.

Since I have this anon who's upset that I made a post awhile back criticizing some shit Gigi Young said, I figured I'd pop into her YouTube channel and see what she's doing these days.

I watched the video titled "The Occult Purpose of War & Satanic Super Technologies," which was uploaded in November of 2023, as well as the video titled The Esoteric Keys To Disclosure: 10.It's a Genetic Modification Cult, which was published back in September of 2023. So just to be clear, these are fairly new videos. This is basically what she believes and teaches right now, as of the time I am making this post. (December of 2023.)

Before I go into what she specifically says, I'm going to say right now that a lot of the stuff she's saying is basically the same stuff pushed by Fritz Springmeier, a far right conspiracy theorist with a history of extremely shady behavior and an undeniable mancrush on Dr. Joseph Mengele. (The guy really liked to talk about how handsome and irresistible this professional Nazi torturer supposedly was. I still feel queasy at the memory of reading what Springmeier said about him.)

Springmeier's work was influenced by the likes of Edith Starr Miller and Alexander Hislop. Edith Starr Miller was into all that Protocols stuff, and basically attacked anything that didn't conform to her ideals of what true Christianity was, claiming it was part of the Evil Conspiracy. Alexander Hislop was the Protestant dude who pulled a bunch of shit out of his ass about Roman Catholicism secretly being the continuation of an ancient Babylonian mystery cult.

Springmeier basically claimed that the world was under the control of thirteen Satanic bloodlines. In terms of what the conspiracy was supposedly up to, it was all a blend of the antisemitic hoax The Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion with early modern witch panic and blood libel. He modernized it, of course. Springmeier claimed that the conspirators were experimenting with the creation of human/animal hybrids and developing advanced mind control technology.

It does not actually matter whether or not Gigi Young personally considers herself part of the far right in any sense. What matters - literally all that matters - is that she is spreading their beliefs and their rhetoric.

The impact and devastation is the same regardless of what Gigi Young personally considers herself.

She could hang a trans flag on her wall, wear an "I ❤️ Communism" shirt, spit on Hitler's picture in front of the camera, and it would not make a single iota of difference.

So in The Occult Purpose of War & Satanic Super Technologies, Gigi Young essentially proposes that a reason for Israel's assault on Gaza is that the satanic families supposedly controlling the world want to start World War III, for the purpose of conducting a massive blood ritual to summon the Antichrist. Here's a direct quote:

I absolutely think that they want to create World War III. World War III needs to happen for there to be enough blood in the soul for Ahriman to incarnate or for the Antichrist to incarnate. There needs to be a global war for the Antichrist to come into being.

The idea that there is a satanic cult that wants to bring about the rule of the Antichrist is basically the Christofascist conspiracy theory. The blood ritual element is another permutation of blood libel.

Young goes on to say that she believes that there's a faction within the dark elite that view nuclear bombs not as a weapon, but as an occult ritual.

She also makes indirect reference to the conspiracy theory that CERN was meant to open a portal to hell by claiming that particle accelerators tear a hole in the veil that allows demons to come through.

She repeats other common far right conspiracy theories, including the one where the conspiracy supposedly has Babylonian origins and practices dark rituals for the purpose of mind control over the populace, and that the conspiracy is genetically modifying plants and people for evil conspiracy reasons.

She also referred to elemental beings as "subhuman," which is a eugenicist term - literally a translation of untermensch. The fact that Young uses this word tells you something about the ideological bent among whatever people and literature influenced her beliefs.

In her video titled "The Esoteric Keys To Disclosure: 10.It's a Genetic Modification Cult," she talks more about this alleged satanic conspiracy. She claims that the conspiracy was told by demons and fallen angels that they were descended from alien gods, and that the conspiracy is all about genetic modification in order to become gods themselves.

So first of all, claiming that beliefs you disagree with came from demons and fallen angels is a move right out of the Christofascists' playbook. Normal people just accept and admit that people just come up with shitty ideas sometimes.

Secondly, Young's objection to the idea of alien ancestry and alien genetic modification in this video are very clearly part of her broader antivax and anti-GMO views. She believes that GMO foods are the work of the conspiracy, and that vaccinations were created by the conspiracy to modify people's genetics. She's literally an antivaxxer, y'all.

And like. The way to handle these conspiratorial alien origin myths isn't to reframe them in a slightly different conspiracy theory. The way to handle it is challenging and destroying the conspiracy theory altogether. It literally makes no different whether Young believes humanity is descended from aliens or not, so long as she's pushing this kind of conspiracy narrative.

Her views on GMOs and such this are pretty obviously informed by an attitude that natural = pure = good. What she's trying to pass off as anti-eugenics is actually a kind of belief in genetic purity, which is itself a form of eugenics.

She even claims that the downfall of Atlantis was caused by genetically modifying organisms. She claims that genetic modification actually "degenerates" the form. (For someone who claims to hate Nazis so much, she sure does use their language.)

She apparently believes that the conspiracy has a depopulation agenda. This one's been circulating far right conspiracy theory circles for decades.

She makes some bizarre claims about New Age alien beliefs. She tries to pin the whole thing on Scientology, which she claims was Nazi esotericism. While it's true that Scientology and New Age alien beliefs are similar, the latter were developing well before Scientology was a thing. Scientology, rather, was influenced by the ideas of its time. And while it's true that Nazi ideas have influenced New Age beliefs, Gigi Young cannot actually point to any specific cases; instead, she acts like the entire thing is ultimately a Nazi conspiracy, which is bullshit.

She also acts like New Age spirituality is extremely materially reductive. While I do think that New Age spirituality can be somewhat materially reductive, it's nowhere near to the degree that Gigi Young is describing. She seems to think that New Age ideas will somehow lead to people accepting DNA modification through vaccinations, which is just bizarre given how New Age is also rife with antivax conspiracism.

Her radfemmy gender essentialist shit comes back when she blames the world's condition on the overgrown and distorted male impulse that wants to control the feminine and take over creation, and says that if you're creating something in a petri dish, you're not allowing the holy womb of the woman to create life, which is what it's for.

So yeah, no, Gigi Young is not better than these New Age conspiracy theorists out there, not even a little bit. She's every bit as bad. Don't be fooled by the fact that she's dunking on people you hate; she's still pushing the same kind of conspiracy crap they believe in.

[gwerlinforthewin]

You can’t make me hate you — Dick Winters x reader

I’d just turned nineteen when I joined the military as an officer’s assistant. I wanted to do my part for the war effort and fighting against Hitler, even from a secretarial standpoint, seemed the most effective. Once I was assigned, they flew me over to England to meet the officer I would be working for. His name was Richard Winters and he was supposed to be the best leader the regiment had ever seen,

When I arrived, I was met by a dark haired, pale fellow. He had some five o'clock shadow dusting his jaw and a flask tightly in his grip. I knew before he introduced himself to me that he wasn’t Captain Winters.

“You must be Dick’s assistant.” He observed, looking down my frame and up again lazily before taking a swig from the flask. His dark eyes were exhausted as though this man hadn’t slept in weeks. “I’m Lewis Nixon, Dick’s best friend. I’m here to take you to Easy Company.”

I smirked, tossing him my bags. “Lead the way then.”

Nixon smiled, holding out a hand and helping me into the Jeep. “What was your name?”

“Y/N. My name’s Y/N.”

We arrived at the base about an hour later. We had become fairly close friends on the drive, finally breaking down our walls after ten minutes of awkward chit chat.

“Okay, we’re here.” Nixon announced, killing the engine and opening the car door for me. “Dick is in Tent B, over there.” He pointed. “I’ll meet you there with your bags.”

I nodded, following the direction of his pointing to Tent B. As I walked, I quickly noticed I was one of the only girls there. I saw only two other girls, both working as assistants like myself, but I was vastly outnumbered as all of the young, handsome men watched me make my way to the tent. Some whistled, tried to talk, but I was determined to find my boss.

After a lot of flirtatious encounters and an officer named Lipton pointing me in the right direction, I finally stood outside Tent B.

“Captain Winters?” I called quietly.

I heard a rustle, then a, “Come in,”. The reply was so soft, I almost didn’t hear it. I pushed back the flap of the tent and saw my boss for the first time.

He was beautiful. Tall and muscular, but not bulky, his lean frame stood towering from the other side of the room. He had thick, copper hair and his eyes were the palest ice blue you could imagine. They looked right through me when his gaze fell on mine.

“You must be my secretary.” He declared, his countless freckles dancing along his skin as he spoke. He was in uniform, which fit him in all the right places and my heart ached.

“Indeed. Y/n L/N at your service, sir.” I whispered, not daring to break eye contact.

He nodded, stepping closer. “That’s a beautiful name.” We stared at each other for ages before he spoke, turning away and giving me a chance to breathe.

“You’ll be here for the duration of your services. If not in this tent, then alongside me directly. You’ll type correspondence, fetch supplies, make refreshments, etc. Are we clear?” He wondered, spinning again and waiting.

I blinked. His demeanor had flipped on a dime. First, he was quiet and mysterious, but now he was loud and direct. I preferred the former.

“Yes, sir.” I replied. I yearned for him to be close again.

He held my gaze before returning to his desk. “Good, now let’s get started.”

Things continued this way for months. Winters would one moment be stern and professional, but every so often a different man would emerge. He’d be soft and intense. He’d share a personal story, maybe a joke. But the moment there was a connection between us, he’d shut it down just as quickly. Needless to say, it was extremely frustrating.

I’d made only a few friends in the company, given that I was practically tied to Winters’ side. But, every so often I dealt with other people and eventually I had friends to talk to.

Liebgott, Guarnere, Heffron, Malarkey, Doc Roe, Lipton, and of course, Nixon had all taken a liking to me and I had proved I could hang with the boys. In what free time I had, I’d spend it with them; smoking, drinking, laughing. Winters didn’t approve, but never vocalized it.

Not until Guarnere tried to kiss me.

We were hanging out in the mess hall, Liebgott, Guarnere and I, when Liebgott announced he had to pee. After he left, Guarnere scooted closer.

“So, what brings a beautiful girl like you to a shithole like this?” He wondered, his underbite obvious but adorable.

I shrugged. “My brother joined the army and I wanted to do something too.”

Guarnere nodded. “You know, I had a brother too. Died in Italy a couple months back.”

I put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Bill.”

He brushed me off gently. “It’s okay. He’s fighting Krauts on the other side.” He looked away, then back to me.

“Hey uh….you got a boyfriend or something back home?”

I blushed. “No, never knew a guy long enough to date. And then I came here.”

Guarnere looked relieved. “Well, maybe I can fix that.” He muttered, leaning in slowly.

I was debating what to do when I heard Winters call out for me. “I’m so sorry, Bill. I have to go.” I apologized, scrambling to my feet and racing over to Tent B where Winters was waiting.

I stepped in the doorway. I’d never seen him this way; he looked furious. His normal pale complexion was flushed, and his calm eyes were sharp.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” He demanded.

“I’m not sure what you mean…” I began, feeling shock cover my features as I closed the flaps. I went to continue, but Winters slammed his hands onto his desk, making me jolt back.

“You’re not allowed to have romantic relationships during employment, L/N. You know that.”

I felt a lick of anger at that. “It says nothing in my contract of the sort and you know it. As long as I’m fulfilling my duties, I can do as I please.”

“And your duties include fraternizing with Guarnere?” He spat, looking...betrayed.

I held up my hands. “I’m not sure why you’re so upset. I wasn’t even going to kiss him. At least, I don’t think. I mean, he’s sweet, but he’s just a friend.” I replied, flushing at Winters’ brief relief.

“Do you have feelings for any of my soldiers?”

I flushed again angrily. “That’s none of your business.”

He stood, crossing the floor to me. “As your boss, and their captain, it is. I can’t have my men distracted in battle.”

We stared at each other heatedly until I spoke. “No, I don’t have feelings for any of them.” I hissed.

Winters looked down at me smugly. “You’re lying.”

I felt my stomach shrivel up. Was I that obviously in love with him?

“I’m not. None of your men interest me.”

“Tell me the truth!” He shouted.

“I am!” I screamed back, trying to hold back tears.

“I don’t believe you.” He replied. “If you don’t tell me who it is, you’re fired.”

I stared wide mouthed at him before whispering, “You.”

His face went blank and smooth, his crystal eyes wide.

My lower lip trembled. “It’s you, you prick.” I felt my vision blur and I went to run away when he grabbed my arm.

“You….love me?” He repeated dumbly.

I scoffed. “I know, I can’t believe it either.”

Winters groaned, throwing his face in his hands. “After I tried so hard…”

I looked at him in shock. “Tried what?”

He looked up sheepishly. “To make you hate me.”

I said nothing.

He continued. “Y/N, when you first arrived, my heart was yours. It scared the hell out of me, and I was so worried you’d feel the same and I’d end up dying so, I tried to make you hate me.”

It all came together. The strange breaks in mood, the prolonged stares.

“And when Guarnere…” He began. I held a hand to his lips.

“You could never make me hate you.”

We stood like that for a long time until I finally spoke. “Would I be too forward in asking you to call me Y/N?”

Winters smirked, brushing his thumb over my cheek. “Not at all.”

And with that, his lips came crashing onto mine. They were chapped and rough, but I didn’t care. I was trying to remember how to breathe as his large hands braided through my hair, over my shoulders, down my spine. Soon the kisses became needier and Winters began to lead me to his cot. I didn’t protest, pulling at the buttons of his uniform until the obstacle came away in my hands.

I tossed the shirt aside, marveling at his solid chest. He wasn’t extremely defined, but there was definite evidence of his military training. Once we were both down to our underwear, I felt obliged to speak.

“Dick…”

He stared into my soul. “What?”

I blushed furiously. “I’ve never…”

I closed my eyes, expecting him to be mad, but after a moment I opened them, and he was still there, looking at me with nothing but respect.

“That’s okay. We’ll take it slow.”

I nodded, bringing his lips back to mine roughly. Soon, he was positioned over me, hovering between my legs.

“We don’t have to if-”

I silenced him with a kiss. “No. I want to.”

He nodded, grinning softly and brushing my hair out of my face as he entered me. I gasped sharply, gripping his biceps tightly.

“Are you okay?” He breathed, obviously trying to restrain himself.

I nodded quickly, the pain bearable. “You can move now.”

He chuckled airily, beginning to rock us at a slow and steady pace. Soon, the pain was gone, and I was aching for more.

“Please, faster.” I begged, meeting his beautiful eyes as he smirked. He brought his mouth to mine hard as his hips met mine at a quicker pace.

I could feel something coming. It was big, and it felt like it was going to shatter me. My core was tight, and every movement was ecstasy.

“I-I think I’m-” I couldn’t even finish, the words were ripped from my throat as my high came. The pleasure was so intense, all I could manage to do was grip his shoulders tightly and breathe his name over and over.

He wasn’t far behind, his thrusts quicker and sloppier. With a final push, he moaned my name and kissed my neck wetly as he pulled out.

We laid entangled for a while before he pulled my face to his.

“I could never hate you either.”