#if any of my followers [who are german at that] even read this and wonder what show i mean

[anaid-queen]

there is something to be said for the power of childhood nostalgia.

a lot, in fact, but i don't have the time right now so i'll just say this: i've been just a step away from a total nervous wreck for days now (and it's been building up), but do you know when i felt total peace for just a moment?

when i was rewatching an episode of a science show i loved as a kid. something i hadn't seen in like, 15 fucking years.

the sheer joy of it.

100/10, recommend to anyone who can possibly get a hold of something old and pure that can make them remember, if nothing else, a simpler time.

[satansdarlin]

Blue stained glass

While I work on the fourth chapter of a full deck of cards I also decided to write for another one of my boys! Welcoming Kurt Wagner to the stage! Apologies for any bad German, I'm still learning it and often forget that it is a gendered language so please forgive me.

MDNI

Rating: E

Word count: 8.3k

Pairing: Kurt Wagner x shy!artist!fem!reader

Warnings: reader being kinda stalkerish but not with bad intentions, implied that some of the students have harmless crushes on Kurt, Kurt being a flirt, smut! Because I missed writing it, Oral (fem receiving), PiV, mentions of Kurt's faith, you wife that man up!, pregnancy. Not beta read!

If you liked this check of my masterlist or put in a request if they are open

Golden light trickled in through the curtains as the sun set behind the school. The smell of dragon's blood incense wafted around the room in delicate wisps of smoke. The only sounds were the slight breeze outside and the dragging of bristles across canvas. You sat on the wooden stool, a slight hunch in your back you'd need to correct later with stretches. Your gaze followed along as you drew blue across the canvas. Blue had become a vital part of all your recent works, and you knew exactly why. Whenever you thought of art, flashes of blue fur, a spaded tail, the smell of sulfur, a silver cross, and a mischievous laugh filled your mind. You wouldn't call it obsession or infatuation. He was your muse. Not that he knew. How could you tell your teammate that he gave you such powerful inspiration? So the portfolio filled to the brim with artworks of just him remained hidden away under your bed.

Kurt Wagner. Everyone loved him. He was a friend worth keeping, made everything fun, always had the best ideas to keep the students entertained, and loved to chatter. Even Logan enjoyed his company from time to time. Kurt just had a way with people, with mutants. A few months back, you had a solo mission with him. It was awkward at first—the shy, quiet artist of the school and the impish chatterbox didn't know how to approach one another. In the end, the mission had concluded in giggles and soft-spoken words. Kurt was wonderful. That's why you couldn't understand why he kept insisting on spending time with you of all people. You were reserved, shy, introverted—the exact opposite of Kurt.

You had put the "Do Not Disturb" sign on your door before starting, hoping it would deter visitors. It did. Well, anyone who saw the sign didn't bother you; the same could not be said for the blue fuzzy imp. He didn't see it, to be fair. He had just gotten home from taking some students to the mall for shopping and wanted to show you the paints he had found, so he teleported. The smell of sulfur and the familiar BAMF sound filled your room, making your eyes widen comedically as you stared at the canvas. A painting of Kurt praying in a church with blue stained glass—one he was most certainly not supposed to see.

"Mein Freund, you would not believe the gift I have found for you— ah," his pleasant accent-tinted voice stalled as he gazed at your shape and then the painting before you. His eyes widened and filled with glee. "Oh mein Gott! Is that me? It's... it's—" he struggled to find the English word for a moment before settling on, "herrlich."

You stammered shyly as he walked up behind you, gazing at the painting with a smile that made your insides flutter like a thousand baby butterflies had hatched. "I... erm... yes, it's you, but it's not finished," you spoke hesitantly.

"Not finished?" Kurt moved closer, his tail swaying gently behind him in that way it did when he was truly excited about something. "But it's already so beautiful! The way you captured the light through the windows..." He leaned in, careful not to disturb your workspace, but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him. "I had no idea you were watching me pray."

Your cheeks burned hot. "I... I wasn't. Not really. I just... sometimes I sketch you when you're around the mansion, and I remembered how peaceful you looked that one time I passed by the chapel..." You trailed off, realizing you might be revealing too much.

Kurt's expression softened, and a knowing look crossed his features. "Then perhaps..." he said, reaching down to carefully take the brush from your trembling fingers, "you wouldn't mind showing me the other drawings?" His golden eyes flickered toward your bed, where your portfolio lay hidden.

Your heart nearly stopped. "You knew?"

A gentle laugh escaped him, musical and warm. "Mein Schatz, I may be a fool sometimes, but I'm not blind. I've seen the way you look at me when you think I'm not watching." He paused, his tail curling slightly in what you had learned was nervousness. "The same way I look at you when you're lost in your art."

The confession hung in the air between you, as tangible as the wisps of incense smoke still dancing through the golden evening light. You sat frozen, brush dripping blue paint onto the dropcloth below, as Kurt Wagner—your muse, your teammate, your secret inspiration—waited for your response with bated breath.

"You... look at me?" You whispered in shock and a tinge of disbelief. He looked at you like you looked at him? That sounded impossible, yet the way his tail curled in nervousness and his foot tapped against the ground told a different story.

Kurt's hand came up to rub the back of his neck, a gesture you'd seen countless times when he was trying to find the right words. "Ja, I do. More than I probably should." His voice was softer now, almost vulnerable. "When you're in the garden sketching, or during the art class with the students when you create those beautiful displays... The way your face lights up when you finally perfect a piece you've been working on..." He trailed off, a deeper blue tinting his cheeks.

Your heart thundered in your chest as he took a small step closer, his tail now swaying in a gentle, hypnotic pattern. "I've wanted to tell you for so long, but..." He gestured to himself with a self-deprecating smile. "Well, I wasn't sure someone who creates such beauty would want..."

"Kurt," you interrupted, finding courage you didn't know you had. Standing from your stool, you reached for his hand, feeling the unique texture of his fur against your palm. "You are beauty. Why do you think I can't stop painting you?"

His golden eyes widened, and that brilliant smile you'd captured in countless sketches spread across his face. "Then perhaps," he said, bringing your joined hands up between you, "we've both been a bit foolish, ja?"

A small laugh escaped you, breaking the tension. "More than a bit." Your eyes drifted to the painting on the easel, then back to him. "Would you... would you like to see the others? The real ones, not just the ones I do for art class?"

Kurt's tail perked up, and he squeezed your hand gently. "I would love nothing more, mein Schatz. But first..." He reached into his jacket pocket with his free hand and pulled out a small paper bag. "I really did bring you something from the art store."

Inside was a set of iridescent blue paints that shifted colors in the dying sunlight, almost the exact shade of Kurt's fur when he moved. Your breath caught at the thoughtfulness of the gift, and when you looked up at him, his expression was so tender it made your heart ache.

"I saw them and thought of you," he admitted quietly. "Though I suppose I'm always thinking of you these days."

The confession hung in the air like a prayer, and you found yourself moving closer, drawn into his orbit like you'd always been, only now there was no need to hide it. The golden light that had started this evening's painting session now painted Kurt in warm hues, making him look almost ethereal—your own personal angel, right here in your art-cluttered room.

"Kurt," you whispered, not quite sure what you wanted to say, but knowing you needed to say something. The way he looked at you now, like you were one of his precious religious paintings come to life, made you understand why he'd always insisted on spending time with you. He'd been drawn to you just as you'd been to him, both of you dancing around each other in an elaborate routine of stolen glances and hidden feelings.

His tail curled gently around your wrist, as if he couldn't bear to not touch you in some way, and you realized that maybe this was what inspiration truly felt like—not just the desire to capture beauty, but to be part of it. With trembling hands, you knelt beside your bed, aware of Kurt's presence behind you as you reached underneath to pull out the large black portfolio case. Your heart hammered against your ribs—no one had ever seen these pieces before. They were raw, honest, intimate in a way your public artwork never was.

"I, um," you started, clutching the portfolio to your chest as you stood, "some of these are just quick sketches, and others aren't very good—"

"Liebling," Kurt interrupted gently, his tail swaying with barely contained excitement, "everything you create is wunderbar. May I?" He gestured to your bed, and you nodded, watching as he settled cross-legged on the corner, patting the space beside him.

You sat down carefully, the portfolio balanced on your lap. Kurt's warmth beside you was both comforting and nerve-wracking. Taking a deep breath, you unzipped the case and pulled out the first few pieces.

"Oh!" Kurt's delighted gasp made you jump slightly. His tail curled in pleasure as he leaned forward to study a charcoal drawing of himself perched on the mansion's balcony railing, looking out over the grounds. "I remember this day. It was right after that terrible thunderstorm, ja? When the sun finally came out?"

You nodded, surprised he'd remembered such a small moment. "The light was hitting your fur just right, and I couldn't help but..." you trailed off, embarrassed at admitting how much you'd observed him.

But Kurt was already reaching for the next piece, his golden eyes bright with wonder. "And this one!" It was a series of quick gesture sketches of him during a training session, his body in various poses of acrobatic grace. "You've captured the movement so perfectly. I had no idea you were watching so closely."

Your cheeks burned. "I hope that doesn't sound creepy."

His laugh was warm and genuine. "Nein, not at all. Though it does explain why you always volunteered to help supervise training." His tail brushed against your back playfully, making you squeak in surprise.

As you went through more pieces, your initial nervousness began to fade, replaced by a warm glow at Kurt's genuine enthusiasm for each drawing. He had a comment for every piece—remembering the moments you'd captured, praising your technique, asking questions about your process. His tail never stopped moving, expressing his excitement in a way his controlled expressions couldn't quite hide.

"This one," he breathed, carefully lifting a watercolor painting, "this is..." It was one of your favorites—Kurt in the library late at night, reading by lamplight, his tail curled around a cup of tea. You'd painted it from memory after watching him there one evening, trying to capture the peaceful contentment he radiated in those quiet moments.

"The way you see me," he said softly, tracing the air above the painting as if afraid to touch it, "it's so..."

"Real," you finished quietly. "That's just... how you look to me."

Kurt turned to face you then, and the expression on his face made your breath catch. "All this time," he murmured, "I thought I was alone in feeling this way. In seeing such beauty in someone else."

You ducked your head, overwhelmed by the intensity of his gaze, but his tail gently curved under your chin, lifting it back up. "No hiding," he said softly. "Not anymore, ja?"

The portfolio slid forgotten to the floor as Kurt's hand came up to cup your cheek, his touch feather-light, as if he still couldn't quite believe he was allowed this. In the fading golden light of your room, surrounded by scattered artwork that told the story of your hidden feelings, Kurt Wagner looked at you like you were the masterpiece—not the artist. Time seemed to slow as Kurt's hand remained gentle against your cheek, his thumb brushing softly across your skin. Your heart was doing acrobatics that could rival his best performances, and you wondered if he could feel how warm your face had become.

"Mein Schatz," he whispered, leaning closer, "may I...?"

You could only manage a tiny nod, and then his lips were on yours, soft and sweet. The kiss was gentle, almost reverent, and you could feel his smile against your mouth. His tail curled around your waist, drawing you closer as your hands tentatively came up to rest against his chest, feeling the soft fabric of his shirt and the steady beating of his heart beneath.

When you finally parted, you immediately buried your burning face in his shoulder, earning a warm chuckle that rumbled through his chest. "Hiding again so soon?" he teased, his accent thicker with emotion.

"Mmph," was all you could manage, which only made him laugh more.

"And here I thought artists were supposed to appreciate beautiful moments," he continued playfully, his tail squeezing your waist. "Perhaps I should pose for another painting? 'The First Kiss' would make a lovely addition to your collection, ja?"

You groaned and swatted his chest weakly. "Kurt!"

"Or maybe a series?" He was clearly enjoying himself now, his voice full of mischief. "We could call it 'The Evolution of Romance' or 'Love in Blue'—"

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your face still flaming. "You're terrible."

His grin was radiant. "Terrible, but yours?" The hope in his voice made your heart flutter.

"Yeah," you whispered, managing a shy smile. "Mine."

"Wunderbar!" He pressed a quick kiss to your forehead. "Though I must ask—do you have any paintings of our future together hidden away as well? Should I be prepared for more surprises?"

"Kurt Wagner!" You tried to sound scandalized, but you couldn't help laughing, especially when he waggled his eyebrows at you.

"What? It's a reasonable question! After all, you've been secretly documenting me for months. For all I know, you've already planned our wedding colors—blue and more blue, I assume?"

You grabbed a nearby pillow and tried to smack him with it, but he teleported across the room with a BAMF, leaving a cloud of sulfur and the echo of his laughter. He reappeared perched on your easel, careful not to disturb your painting, his tail swishing playfully.

"You know," he said, his golden eyes twinkling, "I think I prefer being your muse when I know about it. The poses can be much more interesting this way."

"Oh my god," you mumbled, falling back onto your bed and covering your face with your hands. But you couldn't hide your smile, especially when you felt the familiar displacement of air and suddenly had a warm, fuzzy mutant curled around you, pressing gentle kisses to your temple.

"Don't worry, Liebling," he murmured against your skin, his tail finding your hand and twining with your fingers. "I promise to be the best muse you could ask for. Though..." He paused dramatically, "I do have one condition."

You peeked through your fingers at him. "What's that?"

His smile softened into something so tender it made your chest ache. "That next time you paint me praying in the chapel, you'll be there with me. Some masterpieces are better created together, don't you think?"

This time, when you pulled him down for another kiss, you didn't hide your face afterward. After all, how could you when he was looking at you like that—like you were both the artist and the masterpiece, the muse and the creator, the beginning and end of something beautiful?

Though you did blush furiously when he later insisted on signing all your portraits of him with "Kurt Wagner, Professional Muse and Master of Stealing Artists' Hearts.”

.

.

.

The chatter of students filled the air and the sweet smell of honeysuckle surrounded you and your students. Truth be told, you hadn't even offered to do this job; teaching the art class wasn't something that had ever been on your mind, but Charles had asked you to do so, saying it would be good for the students to have an outlet for their emotions. Though teaching a bunch of mutant teenagers wasn't particularly easy, especially when half of them wanted to be in the danger room training to be X-Men—you probably got more questions about that than actual art.

"Your piece should be about expression. There is no right or wrong, only your feelings about your art," you spoke gently as you walked by the students settled in the grass of the gardens behind the school. A hand rose up and you looked over and nodded at the boy, Damian you believed his name was.

"Excuse me, but how exactly is painting helping us prepare for anything?" You sighed at the boy's question as he got some chastising nudges from some of your more kind students. You got that question about every class.

Before you could answer, a familiar BAMF sound and the scent of sulfur announced Kurt's arrival. He appeared perched on the garden wall, his tail swaying as he grinned at the class. Several students brightened immediately—Kurt had always been a favorite among them.

"Ah, but that is where you are wrong, mein junger Freund," Kurt said, gracefully flipping down to land beside you. His shoulder brushed yours in a subtle show of support that made your heart flutter, even after months of being together. "Art teaches us more than you might think. Strategy, patience, observation..." He winked at you before continuing, "How do you think I learned to move so efficiently in battle? By understanding space, movement, and perception—all things your talented teacher here helped me improve."

A few students giggled, well aware of your relationship with the blue mutant. It had become something of a school legend how you'd been caught with a portfolio full of Kurt drawings. Some of the older students even insisted they'd known all along, claiming they'd seen the way you both looked at each other during training sessions.

"Besides," Kurt continued, picking up one of the spare brushes from your supply kit and twirling it like one of his swords, "did you know that Leonardo da Vinci used his artistic skills to design defense systems? Or that camouflage patterns were created by artists? Even the maps we use for missions were drawn by artists."

Damian sat up straighter, suddenly looking more interested. "Really?"

You smiled, grateful for Kurt's intervention. "Really. And speaking of missions..." You shared a knowing look with Kurt before addressing the class. "Who wants to hear about the time my sketching skills helped us locate a hidden Sentinel facility?"

"Oh, tell them about the warehouse in Berlin!" Kurt added enthusiastically, his tail curling around your waist as he settled beside you. "When you noticed the architectural inconsistencies in my reconnaissance sketches?"

The students were all paying attention now, art supplies temporarily forgotten as they leaned in to hear the story. Even Damian had put down his phone, his previous skepticism replaced with curiosity.

"Well," you began, feeling Kurt's tail squeeze encouragingly, "it started when we noticed some unusual energy signatures in an old industrial district..."

As you recounted the mission, Kurt occasionally chimed in with his own colorful commentary, making the students laugh with his dramatic reenactments. You couldn't help but smile, watching him demonstrate his acrobatic moves while describing how your artistic knowledge had helped spot the hidden entrance.

"And that," Kurt concluded, landing gracefully beside you again, "is why we should never underestimate the power of art. Or artists." He pressed a quick kiss to your temple, making several students coo and others playfully groan at the display of affection.

"Mr. Wagner," one of the girls called out, a mischievous glint in her eye, "are you going to model for our class like you do for the teacher?"

Your face immediately heated up as Kurt laughed delightedly. "Sadly, I'm needed in the danger room. Though..." He grinned at you, that familiar impish look in his golden eyes, "I do have a private session scheduled later."

"Kurt!" you hissed, mortified as the students erupted in giggles.

He merely winked, pressed another quick kiss to your cheek, and teleported away with a theatrical bow, leaving you to face your amused students with burning cheeks.

"Now then," you said, trying to regain some semblance of professional dignity despite your flushed face, "back to your projects. And no, Jenny, you cannot paint Mr. Wagner for your assignment—pick a different subject."

The disappointment on several faces told you that more than one student had been planning exactly that. You couldn't really blame them though. After all, you had an entire portfolio that proved just how inspiring a subject Kurt Wagner could be. After the lingering giggles from Kurt's dramatic exit finally subsided, you circled back through your students, the grass crunching softly beneath your feet. The afternoon sun warmed your shoulders as you paused to observe their work, offering gentle guidance where needed.

"Sarah," you said, stopping beside a girl whose hands were literally glowing as she painted, her mutation allowing her to create luminescent colors, "that's beautiful. The way you're using your powers to add depth to the sunset—very creative." Her beaming smile made your heart warm; it was moments like these that reminded you why Charles had been right about teaching.

Moving on, you found Marcus struggling with his brushstrokes, his extra set of arms getting in the way of each other. "Try coordinating them like we practiced," you suggested softly. "Remember, each hand can work on a different section. Think of it like... like when Kurt coordinates his tail with his movements during training."

The mention of Kurt made a few nearby students glance up with knowing smirks, but you ignored them, focusing on how Marcus's face lit up with understanding. Within minutes, all four of his hands were working in harmony, creating an intricate pattern that would have taken others four times as long to complete.

"Teacher?" A quiet voice drew your attention to Amy, a shy freshman whose scales tended to change color with her emotions—currently a nervous purple. "I... I don't know if this is good enough." She gestured to her canvas where she'd painted a self-portrait, her scales rendered in beautiful iridescent shades.

You knelt beside her, careful not to disturb her workspace. "What makes you think it's not good enough?"

"It's just..." she glanced around at her classmates' work, her scales shifting to a deeper purple. "Everyone else is painting normal things. Beautiful things. I painted... me."

"Amy," you said gently, thinking of all the times you'd doubted your own artwork, of all the paintings of Kurt you'd hidden away because you thought they were too revealing, too personal. "Do you remember what Kurt said in his last ethics class about beauty?"

Her scales flickered with hints of pink—she had a bit of a crush on Kurt, like half the school. "That it comes in all forms?"

"Exactly. And look—" you pointed to how the light caught her painting's scales, creating rainbow patterns across the canvas. "You've captured something uniquely beautiful. Something only you could create, because only you know exactly how those scales feel, how they shift and change. That's not just good art, that's powerful art."

The purple of her scales gradually shifted to a warm golden hue as she smiled, looking at her painting with new eyes. Around you, other students had paused to listen, and you saw several of them return to their work with renewed purpose.

"Damian," you called out, noticing he'd actually started painting instead of just complaining, "excellent use of perspective on that building. Been practicing your architectural sketches?"

He tried to look nonchalant, but you caught his pleased grin. "Yeah, well... after what you said about the Berlin mission... I figured it might be useful. You know, for future X-Men stuff."

"Hey, teacher?" Jenny piped up, paint smudged adorably across her cheek. "Since we can't paint Mr. Wagner, could you tell us more about how art helped on missions while we work? Please?"

A chorus of agreements rose from the class, and you couldn't help but smile. "Alright, but keep painting. There was this one time in Moscow when my knowledge of color theory helped us identify a shapeshifter..."

As you shared the story, moving between easels and offering guidance, you noticed how the students' work seemed to come alive. Even the most reluctant artists were engaged now, their creativity flowing as they listened to tales of how art and heroism could intertwine.

The smell of honeysuckle grew stronger as the afternoon wore on, mixing with paint and teenage enthusiasm. A flash of blue in your peripheral vision caught your attention—Kurt, watching proudly from a nearby window between his training sessions. He blew you a kiss before disappearing again, leaving you with paint-stained fingers and a garden full of budding artists who were finally beginning to understand that there was more than one way to be extraordinary.

"Teacher?" Amy called out, her scales now a confident shade of blue that reminded you of someone special. "I think I'd like to do another self-portrait. Maybe... maybe one of me in an X-Men uniform this time?"

You smiled, thinking of your own portfolio of Kurt, of how art had led you to love, and how that love had led you here, helping these young mutants find their own way to express their unique beauty. "I think that's a wonderful idea, Amy. Just remember—"

"We know, we know," the class chorused together, matching your grin, "there is no right or wrong, only our feelings about our art!”

.

.

.

Evening had settled over the mansion, the last rays of sunlight painting your studio in familiar golden hues. The day's classes were done, art supplies cleaned and stored away, and you'd finally managed to stop blushing from Kurt's teasing comments during your lesson. You were just setting up your easel when the familiar BAMF announced his arrival.

"Ah, mein Schatz," Kurt's voice was warm as he appeared behind you, arms wrapping around your waist and tail curling affectionately around your ankle. "Ready for our 'private session'?" You could hear the playful smirk in his voice.

"You," you turned in his arms to poke his chest accusingly, "are terrible. Do you know how many knowing looks I got from the students after you left?"

He laughed, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I couldn't help myself. You're adorable when you blush. Speaking of which..." His tail reached over to your desk, picking up your sketchbook and flipping it open to reveal today's quick sketches of him during his brief visit to your class. "Someone was inspired during their teaching duties, ja?"

"Kurt!" You tried to snatch the sketchbook, but he teleported across the room, perching on the window seat as he continued flipping through pages.

"Oh, this one is new!" He held up a sketch of himself demonstrating acrobatic moves to your students. "You captured my best side."

"All your sides are your best side," you mumbled before you could stop yourself, then immediately covered your face with your hands as he teleported back to you, gathering you close.

"Is that so?" he murmured against your ear. "Then perhaps we should make sure you have proper reference material for all of them?" His tail gently pulled your hands away from your face, forcing you to meet his tender gaze. "Now then, how would you like me to pose, Liebling?"

You gestured weakly to the arrangement you'd set up—a comfortable chair positioned near the window, where the last of the sunset would cast those perfect shadows you loved to capture. "Just... sitting would be nice. Natural. Like when you're reading in the library."

Kurt's expression softened as he settled into the chair, understanding your desire to capture one of your favorite quiet moments. He pulled out a small book of poetry—Rilke, you noticed—and arranged himself comfortably, his tail draped over the armrest.

"Like this?" he asked, and you nodded, already reaching for your charcoal. This was familiar territory now, though no less special than those first secret sketches. If anything, it was more intimate—knowing he was here specifically for you, watching you create, sharing these peaceful moments together.

As you began to sketch, Kurt started reading aloud softly in German, his accent wrapping around the words like silk. You'd grown to love these evenings, the gentle cadence of his voice mixing with the scratch of charcoal on paper, the way his tail would occasionally twitch in response to a particular phrase or stanza.

"You know," he said during a pause between poems, his golden eyes meeting yours over the top of his book, "I used to wonder why you chose me as your subject so often. Now I think I understand."

You paused in your sketching, curious. "Oh?"

"Ja. It's the same reason I can't stop watching you when you create." He marked his place in the book and leaned forward slightly. "There's something magical about seeing someone doing what they love, being exactly who they are meant to be. You see me that way when I move, when I pray, when I simply exist. And I see you that way when you're lost in your art."

The charcoal trembled slightly in your fingers as he continued, "It's like seeing someone's soul, isn't it? Their truest self?"

You nodded, unable to find words for how perfectly he'd captured it. Kurt rose from the chair in one fluid movement, crossing to where you stood. His hand covered yours on the charcoal, bringing it to rest against the easel.

"Perhaps," he whispered, turning you to face him, his tail wrapping around your waist, "we could find other ways to capture this moment?"

Your breath caught as he leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that tasted of poetry and promises. The charcoal slipped forgotten from your fingers as you wound your arms around his neck, letting yourself get lost in the overwhelming rightness of being held by him.

When you finally parted, Kurt rested his forehead against yours, a soft smile playing on his lips. "Though I do hope you'll finish the sketch later. I have a reputation as Professional Muse to maintain, after all."

You laughed, the sound mixing with his own quiet chuckle in the golden evening light of your studio, where art and love had become beautifully, perfectly intertwined.

"So how do you wish to capture this moment, hm?" You hummed up at him with a new sense of courage.

Kurt's yellow eyes sparkle with mischief and desire as he gazes down at you, his tail gently squeezing your waist. The sunset light casts a warm glow on your skin, highlighting the delicate curve of your neck and the soft fullness of your lips. He leans in, his breath ghosting over your skin as he speaks.

"There are so many ways, mein Schatz..." he murmurs, his voice low and husky. "We could start with a kiss..."

And he does, capturing your lips in a deep, lingering kiss that steals the breath from your lungs. His lips are surprisingly soft against yours, moving with a passion and tenderness that sets your heart racing. One hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, while the other slides down your back, pressing you closer to him.

When he finally pulls away, you're both breathing heavily, your cheeks flushed and your eyes dark with desire. Kurt's tail tightens around you, keeping you anchored against him as he trails his lips along your jaw, nipping lightly at your earlobe.

"Or perhaps," he whispers, his voice sending shivers down your spine, "you'd like to capture the way my hands feel on your skin?"

Without waiting for an answer, he begins to unbutton your shirt, his fingers brushing against your bare skin as he reveals more and more of your body to his hungry gaze. Each touch sends sparks of electricity through you, igniting a fire that only seems to grow with each passing second.

As your shirt falls to the floor, Kurt takes a step back, his eyes roving hungrily over your newly exposed skin. His gaze is almost reverent, as if he's drinking in every inch of you like a man dying of thirst.

"Beautiful," he breathes, his voice filled with awe and desire. "You're absolutely perfect, Meine Liebe."

His hands come up to cup your breasts, thick fingers brushing over your hardening nipples through the thin fabric of your bra. You arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips as he begins to circle and tease, building the pleasure slowly but surely. Kurt's hands continue their sensual exploration of your body, tracing every curve and dip with a reverence that makes your skin tingle. He leans down to press hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, his tongue darting out to taste the salt of your skin.

"I want to worship every inch of you," he murmurs against your throat, his voice rough with desire. "To show you how much you mean to me."

His fingers find the clasp of your bra, deftly unhooking it and sliding the straps down your shoulders. The garment falls away, baring your breasts to his eager gaze. Kurt pauses for a moment, simply drinking in the sight of you, before cupping the weight of your breasts in his palms.

"Perfektion," he breathes, thumbing your nipples until they pebble beneath his touch. He lowers his head, taking one nipple into his mouth and suckling gently, his tongue swirling around the sensitive bud.

You gasp at the sensation, your hands coming up to tangle in his hair, holding him close. Kurt continues his ministrations, alternating between your breasts, licking and sucking and nipping until you're writhing against him, desperate for more.

His hands drift lower, skimming over your stomach and hips before dipping beneath the waistband of your pants. He strokes you through the damp fabric of your underwear, his touch light and teasing.

"So wet already," he marvels, his voice thick with arousal. "You're so responsive, mein Schatz. So perfect."

He hooks his fingers in the waistband of your pants and underwear, tugging them down your legs in one smooth motion. You kick them off impatiently, standing before him in nothing but your socks and shoes.

Kurt takes a step back, his eyes raking over your naked form with undisguised hunger. He licks his lips, his tail swishing behind him in anticipation.

"Lie down on the couch," he commands, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I want to taste you." You obey without hesitation, settling into the plush cushions immediately.

 Kurt follows you to the couch, his eyes never leaving your body as he crawls over you, settling between your spread thighs. He runs his hands up your legs, his touch light and teasing, until he reaches the apex of your thighs.

"So beautiful," he murmurs, spreading your folds with his fingers and exposing your glistening flesh to his hungry gaze. "I can't wait to taste you."

He leans down, dragging his tongue along your slit in one long, slow lick. The sensation is electric, sending shockwaves of pleasure rippling through your body. You gasp, your hips lifting off the couch as you seek more of his touch.

Kurt chuckles, the sound vibrating against your sensitive skin. He looks up at you through his lashes, his yellow eyes gleaming with mischief and desire.

"Patience, mein Schatz," he teases, blowing a cool stream of air over your wet heat. "We have all the time in the world."

And then he's diving back in, his tongue delving deep into your core, lapping at your essence like a man starved. He circles your clit with the tip of his tongue, flicking over the sensitive bud again and again until you're writhing beneath him, desperate for release.

His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady as he feasts on your flesh, his groans of pleasure muffled against your skin. The room fills with the obscene sounds of his licking and sucking, punctuated by your own breathy moans and gasps.

Kurt brings a hand up to your clit, rubbing tight circles around the swollen nub as he continues to tongue-fuck your dripping cunt. The dual stimulation is too much, pushing you closer and closer to the edge with each passing second.

"That's it, Kleine," he encourages, his voice rough with arousal. "Let go. Come for me."

His words are all it takes to send you hurtling over the edge, your body convulsing with the force of your orgasm. You cry out, your hands fisting in Kurt's hair as waves of pleasure crash over you, threatening to drown you in their intensity.

Kurt works you through it, his tongue and fingers never faltering as he prolongs your climax, drawing out every last shudder and gasp until you're boneless and spent, collapsing back against the couch in a sweaty, satisfied heap.

He presses one last kiss to your sensitive flesh before crawling up your body, settling his weight on top of you. His erection presses insistently against your thigh as he wiggles off his pants, hot and hard and ready for you.*

"I need you, meine Engel," he breathes, his voice thick with desire. "I need to be inside you."

He reaches down between your bodies, grasping his cock and lining it up with your entrance. You can feel the heat of him, the pulsing need that throbs against your slick folds.

With one swift thrust, he's inside you, filling you completely. You cry out at the sudden stretch, your walls clenching around him like a vice.

"Fuck, you're tight," Kurt groans, his hips rocking against yours as he begins to move. "So perfect. So gut."

He sets a steady rhythm, pulling out slowly before slamming back in, his cock hitting depths you didn't even know you had. Each thrust sends sparks of pleasure shooting up your spine, igniting a fire in your core that threatens to consume you whole. Your heart flutters hearing him slur out German and English in a pleasure drunken haze. Kurt's tail wraps around your legs, holding them open wide as he pistons into you, his hips snapping against yours with increasing urgency. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, punctuated by your shared moans and gasps.

"So good," he pants, his face buried in your neck as he laves his tongue over your pulse point. "So perfekt. So mine."

His words send a shiver down your spine, igniting a possessive heat in your core. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper into your body with each thrust.

"Yours," you gasp, your nails digging into the fur of his back. "All yours, kurt"

Kurt growls, low and deep, his tail tightening around your legs as he pounds into you with abandon. The couch creaks beneath your combined weight, threatening to give way under the force of his thrusts.

"Ich liebe dich," he slurs, his words muffled against your skin. "Love you so much. Need you. Need to be inside you forever."

His confession sends you careening over the edge, your body seizing up as another orgasm rips through you. You clench around him, your walls fluttering and spasming as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you.

"Fuck, Prinzessin," Kurt groans, his hips stuttering as he chases his own release. "Feel so good. So perfect. Gonna come. Gonna fill you up."

With a final, bruising thrust, he buries himself deep inside you, his cock pulsing as he empties himself into your waiting womb. You can feel the heat of his seed, the way it paints your insides, marking you as his.

He collapses on top of you, his weight pressing you into the cushions as he pants against your neck. His tail unwinds from your legs, draping lazily over your thigh as he nuzzles into your hair.

"I love you," he murmurs, his voice soft and sated. "My perfect girl. Meine schöne Künstlerin."

You smile, your heart full to bursting with love and contentment.

.

.

.

Nearly a year later

The chapel was quiet save for the soft whisper of your pencil across paper. Early morning light filtered through the stained glass windows, casting familiar blue patterns across the wooden pews. Kurt knelt at the altar in prayer, his tail curved peacefully behind him, rosary beads wrapped gently around his three-fingered hands.

You'd grown comfortable here in these morning moments, sharing this sacred space with him. What had once felt like an intrusion now felt like belonging. Your sketchbook was filled with these quiet scenes—Kurt in prayer, Kurt reading his Bible, Kurt simply existing in this place that meant so much to him. But this morning was different. This morning, your hand trembled slightly as you drew, your mind wandering to the small box hidden in your art supplies.

It had taken weeks to create, working late into the night in your studio after Kurt had fallen asleep. A hand-carved wooden ring box, painted with delicate scenes from your relationship—the first time you'd been caught painting him, your first kiss, teaching art class together, quiet moments in the chapel. The ring inside was simple silver, engraved with tiny crosses and artist's brushes intertwined.

"You're thinking very loudly this morning, Liebling," Kurt's voice startled you from your thoughts. He hadn't moved from his position, but his tail swayed knowingly.

"Sorry," you mumbled, adding another shadow to your sketch. "Didn't mean to disturb your prayers."

"You never disturb me," he said softly, finally turning to face you with that gentle smile that still made your heart skip. "Though I am curious what has you so distracted. Usually you're much more focused when drawing in here."

You set down your sketchbook with trembling fingers. "Actually, I... I have something for you."

Kurt's eyebrows rose curiously as you reached into your art bag, pulling out the painted box. His golden eyes widened as you stood and walked to him, kneeling beside him at the altar.

"Kurt Wagner," you began, your voice shaky but determined, "you've been my muse, my inspiration, my best friend, and the love of my life. You've shown me that beauty exists in so many forms, that faith can be found in art just as much as prayer, and that love..." you had to pause, swallowing hard as his tail curled around your wrist encouragingly, "love can be both the masterpiece and the creation itself."

You opened the box, revealing the ring nestled inside. "Would you let me spend the rest of my life creating with you?"

Kurt's breath caught as he took in the painted scenes on the box, his fingers trailing reverently over the tiny details you'd spent so long perfecting. When he looked up, his eyes were shining with tears.

"Mein Gott," he whispered, "you've managed to surprise the teleporter." His tail tightened around your wrist as he pulled you closer, pressing his forehead to yours. "Did you really think there could be any answer but yes? You are the greatest masterpiece God has ever placed in my life."

Your laugh was watery as you slipped the ring onto his finger, a perfect fit just as you'd hoped. Kurt cradled your face in his hands, his touch infinitely gentle.

"Though I must say," he murmured, his accent thick with emotion, "you've rather stolen my thunder, Liebling." With his tail, he reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small velvet box, making you gasp. "I was planning to ask you after morning mass."

Inside was a delicate gold ring with a blue sapphire that matched his fur perfectly. "Great minds think alike, ja?"

You couldn't speak through your tears as he slipped the ring onto your finger, but you didn't need to. The way you pulled him into a kiss said everything necessary, the morning light painting you both in shades of blue and gold through the stained glass windows.

"I can't wait to see how you'll paint this moment," Kurt whispered against your lips, making you laugh.

"Already planning it," you admitted. "Though I might need my muse to pose for several reference sketches."

His tail wrapped around your waist as he grinned. "I believe that can be arranged. After all..." he pressed another soft kiss to your lips, "we have the rest of our lives to perfect it."

Through the chapel windows, the morning light continued to paint you both in blues and golds, artist and muse, two hearts creating something beautiful together. And if anyone noticed that your afternoon art class was especially romantic that day, well... they were kind enough not to mention it. Though you did have to tell Jenny, once again, that no, she still couldn't paint Mr. Wagner for her assignment—even if he was now your fiancé.

.

.

.

You woke up to soft snores and looked over, unable to help but smile softly. Your husband's sleeping face was too cute to not smile at. After five years of being married, you'd never grow tired of waking up to this. Recently he had taken to growing out a goatee, saying it made him look more mature (you couldn't help but agree—after all, it made your mind wander a lot too). You carefully pulled out of his embrace without waking him; his tail was always a struggle to remove from its place around your leg without waking him, but you managed it. After a small silent dance of triumph, you moved out of your shared bedroom to the room across from it.

The room was halfway painted, though you had been working on it for the past six months. It had paintings of stories and family littered across it—scenes from Kurt's favorite fairy tales, the X-Men as loving aunts and uncles, even a small portrait of Professor Xavier smiling benevolently from above the planned crib space. You picked up a brush and were about to continue when you accidentally kicked a paint bucket. That's all it took, and with a sudden puff of smoke your husband had teleported in, his stance ready for action but relaxing when he saw it was just you up early.

"Mein Gott, woman, I thought you were a thief!" He exclaimed, holding his three-fingered hand over his chest before walking over with a soft tired smile and pecking your lips. "You're up early, I don't even hear the morning birds yet."

"Needed to stretch my legs," you hummed back, and he hummed softly in suspicion. His hand rested on your stomach.

"Are you sure it is not because of the Kleine?" He spoke in a teasing voice as he gently rubbed your stomach.

You leaned back against his chest, letting his warmth seep into you as you both gazed at the wall you'd been painting. His tail automatically wrapped around your waist, just above where your small baby bump was beginning to show. "Maybe," you admitted. "I just... I want it to be perfect before they arrive."

Kurt nuzzled against your neck, his goatee tickling your skin. "Liebling, with you as their mother, how could it be anything but perfect?" His hand joined yours on the brush. "Though perhaps we could add a few more acrobatic scenes? A future X-Man should know their father's best moves, ja?"

You laughed softly, mindful of the early hour. "Kurt, we don't even know if they'll be able to teleport yet."

"Ah, but they're already showing artistic talent!" He moved to stand beside you, gesturing dramatically at your stomach. "Look how perfectly they've rounded out your usually straight lines!"

"Did you just call me fat, Mr. Wagner?" you asked with mock offense.

His eyes widened comically. "Nein! Never! I merely meant to say you're more... sculptural these days?" His tail flicked nervously as he tried to backtrack, making you giggle.

"Saved it," you murmured, turning back to the wall. You'd been working on a particular scene—a small blue figure learning to teleport while protective arms waited to catch them. "Do you really think they'll like it? All of this?"

Kurt's arms wrapped around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder as he surveyed your work. "Mein Schatz, they will love it. Just as they will love you." His hand splayed protectively over your stomach. "Though perhaps we should add a small easel next to the training equipment? Best to be prepared for all possibilities."

You turned in his arms, brush still in hand, accidentally leaving a small blue streak across his chest. "Oops."

His grin turned mischievous. "Oh? Is that how we're playing this morning?" He reached for another brush. "You know, the wall isn't the only canvas in need of some color..."

"Kurt Wagner, don't you dare—" But it was too late. With a playful BAMF, he was behind you, painting a gentle heart on the back of your nightshirt.

What followed was a careful (mindful of your condition) but enthusiastic paint war, filling the nursery with quiet laughter and colorful streaks. By the time the sun began to rise, you were both covered in paint, sitting on the drop cloth and admiring your handiwork—both on the walls and each other.

"You know," Kurt mused, his tail drawing abstract patterns in a small paint puddle, "this might be your best work yet."

You looked around at the cheerful chaos you'd created together—the story-filled walls, the paint-splattered drop cloths, the mixing of your artistic vision with his playful additions. Your hand found his, fingers intertwining as they rested on your growing bump.

"No," you said softly, "I think our best work is still in progress."

His answering smile was brighter than the rising sun, and as he pulled you in for a paint-smudged kiss, you couldn't help but think that sometimes the most beautiful art came from life itself—messy, unexpected, and absolutely perfect.

Though you did make him clean up the paint footprints he'd teleported all over the mansion before the students woke up. Your gaze went over to the window which Kurt had helped you place the stain on. The blue hues glittered over the room and it filled you with a sense of love and happiness. Blue would always be apart of your life now, and you wouldn't have it any other way. 

[hottpinkpenguin]

Easy Company HC's: Letters Home

A/n: I'm really rolling with these BofB headcanons! hope you enjoy :)

Characters included: Dick Winters, Lewis Nixon, Ronald Speirs, Carwood Lipton, Buck Compton, David Webster, Joe Liebgott

Dick Winters

Writes frequent, short letters

Meticulously dates his letters and includes a blurb about the weather. January 12th, 1945. It’s snowing outside, dark and cold. 

Starts each letter with My dear y/n 

Always asks how you are, even though he’s the one fighting a damn war

Follows up on every little question or story you include in your letters. How was the bake sale? Did you ever hear how Louise Graham’s brother is doing after taking that shrapnel to the shoulder? Hope you were able to get someone out to look at the washing machine.

Ends his letters with classic but sentimental sign-offs, like Affectionately yours and All my love

Makes sure not to include anything in his letters that would worry you. Doesn’t necessarily lie or fake being happy, but just gently side steps that. 

Although every once in a while you get a longer letter where Dick’s handwriting is a little messier. You know it’s from writing fast, you can almost feel the pressure behind the penmarks. He opens up more in those letters, talks about losing too many good men and sometimes will say things that just absolutely break your heart, like sometimes I wonder how all of this is really going to end for the men who are over here fighting. 

Even in these letters, Dick never says “I” or “Me”, always writes about the men and the boys. You know - and so does he - that he’s including himself in those boys.

His next letter he always makes sure to reassure you. And it’s genuine, you can tell. He’ll say something like I have to put some of these heavier thoughts somewhere, and there’s nowhere I trust more than with you. 

When he comes home, you find a stack of letters you wrote to him tied up in a neat bundle and stashed in an inside pocket of his Ike jacket that he sewed in especially for that purpose. You could tell by the flimsy, near-ripped creases and dirty paper that he’d read each one about a hundred times over. Buried in the middle of the stack was the picture you’d given him before he’d left for training. On the back, he’d written simply your name, the date the photo was taken, and a short instruction: in event of my death, please send all personal effects to with your home address. It made you sob but you never told him you found it.

GIF by mads-weasley

Lewis Nixon

Rarely writes. Actually drives you crazy with worry most of the time.

When he finally does, you can tell that he’s initially annoyed at having to put his thoughts down on paper. Letters start off with short, sarcastic sentences like nothing new here. Still fighting the war, in case you hadn’t heard. Enjoying German hospitality. 

But as the letters go on he relaxes into it and stops being so grouchy. 

Because he’s always grumpy at having to write (you should probably thank Dick for cajoling Lew into actually sitting down to write to you), he usually doesn’t write any sort of introduction or sweet address, just dives right into it.

His letters usually don’t say much, he just kind of rambles about how much he hates being away from you and how he can’t wait for the whole damn thing to be over. 

Sometimes he’ll write something so incredibly romantic it takes your breath away, like I’d fight a whole division of Panzers myself if I could just get one more sniff of your perfume. 

Those are the letters you save and reread to yourself over and over again when you’re waiting weeks for the next one.

Always signs off with something kind of sassy but also sweet?, like You know I love you or Keep our bed warm for me. 

Sometimes you feel like you can smell whiskey on the paper, which both worries you but also reminds you of Lew

When he finally gets home and you ask him about what he did with your letters, he kind of looks at you like you’ve gone crazy and says I read them of course, what else was I supposed to do with them? 

This hurts your feelings at first which of course he doesn’t understand, but after a few weeks you start to realize that he actually did read them and not only that he memorized their contents. Like he refers to your mother as “the Wicked Witch of Wichita” (something you called here after you wrote him a long rambling letter about how angry she made you at your sister’s bridal shower) and buys you a bouquet of daffodils because you wrote him a letter with a daffodil doodle in the margins of the page talking about the spring gardens. 

You realize that Lew shows his love in the little details, and it makes you appreciate him all the more.

GIF by beautifulguycollector

Ronald Speirs

Ron’s letters read like military bulletins. 

Doing well despite the cold. 1st sgt sick with pneumonia. Think of you often.

Writes predictably once per week. Never misses a letter. Ever. 

You always write him long, lengthy, romantic letters. Sometimes even a little raunchy, if you’ve had some wine. After one particularly *ahem* suggestive letter, you feel ridiculous and say so the next time you write.

In typical Ron fashion, you get a short, to-the-point reply, but it still puts a smile on your face and a blush on your cheeks: Loved your letter. Keep writing. 

Towards the end of the war, Ron starts a countdown to when he expects to be coming home. Two months now, maybe less. Home for the Fourth of July. 

Also signs off with R.S. Which makes you laugh, as if you could forget who was writing to you.

Whenever your girlfriends find a letter from Ron (you keep them all in a shoebox in your closet), they tease you and ask how you can possibly be in love with someone so stiff and formal. To which you can only chuckle to yourself, because you know it’s just that they don’t understand that Ron doesn’t tell you he loves you, he shows you. Writing a letter every single week. Updating you on everything going on, even short updates, because he wants you to know how he’s doing. That’s Ronald Speirs’ love language.

Maybe three weeks before Ron comes home, you start getting boxes of (stolen?) German silver at your door. At first it freaks you out and makes you feel slimy for having lavish riches from an enemy country, so you don’t unpack the boxes and you just stack them up in the back bedroom. When Ron gets home and sees the boxes unopened and shut away, he immediately asks you what’s wrong. You stammer out an explanation and without blinking an eye, Ron loads them into his truck and takes them to the dump. 

(Later you convince him that a better use of those would be to donate them to the local orphanage, so off he goes in his truck to get the boxes back out of the dump and bring them to shelter.)

One night when you’re lying awake, head on Ron’s chest, talking idly about things that don’t matter, he interrupts you to ask Can you guess which letter I kept? 

You instantly blush, thinking of that risque letter you wrote him when you were halfway through your second bottle of white wine. He shakes his head and pulls a letter out of his nightstand and hands it to you. You don’t recognize it immediately, although you do see that it’s too short to be one of the naughtier correspondences. 

It’s too dark to read, so you ask him which letter. He says it’s the one you wrote to me for my birthday. 

You don’t remember that one and you tell him as much, so you ask him why he kept that one instead of some of the others. He looks down at you with a serious look in his eyes, a little surprised that you can’t figure it out. Then he tells you: it’s the first time you wrote that you loved me. 

The next day, you sneak a peek at the letter and realize he’s right. You signed it, I love you Ron. 

From then on, you make sure to tell him that every night before he falls asleep.

Carwood Lipton

Formal, sweet letters. This man is a king of romancing by words.

Writes as often as he can, but you know that Lip needs peace and quiet for an entire evening to get one of those letters done (he probably definitely writes a draft or two before he gets it right). And let’s face it, Easy Company doesn’t have the luxury of many quiet evenings. 

Always, always, always starts his letters off with Dear (future) Mrs. Lipton, which you honestly think is hopelessly corny but it’s way too adorable to tell him so. And besides, you secretly love it.

He always reminisces about home in his letters. Tells you how much he misses the smell of your baking, the squeak of the front porch swing that you two would sit on and watch the sunset. 

He worries a lot about you and his family. He always asks you to look in on his mother if it’s not too much trouble. 

Lip doesn’t talk much about the war, in fact he hardly acknowledges it at all. And he never uses the term ‘war’ or ‘battle’. Instead, he says things like The boys over here are still committed to doing the job or Easy presses on.  

Lip’s letters get a little shorter and less soft after Bastogne. He starts including the names of the casualties in his company in the P.S. Even though you don’t know these men except by name - and some of them, not even that - you feel honored that he trusts you with their memories. 

Lip has saved your letters and all the pictures you sent to him - he loves pictures, and asks for an updated one of you almost every month - tucked in his foot locker and safely between the pages of his Bible so they don’t get creased or dirty. 

You also find that he’s kept stacks of letters from some of his men that died in the field. When you ask him what he plans to do with the letters, he gets a heartbreaking, far-off look in his eyes and says I reckon I’ll try to get them back to their families. 

You take on the burden of doing that, and you write to some of the families introducing yourself and introducing Lip and offering to forward them the letters.

All the replies you get back mention that their soldier talked about how good a leader and friend Lip was. Their replies bring tears to your eyes. For some reason, you don’t show the letters to Lip, although you do tell him about them. He never asks to read the letters, he just kisses you on your forehead and tells you that he’s never loved you more. 

Even after he’s home, he’ll still write you a letter from time to time, usually at Christmastime or for your birthday in the summer. His letters are always talking about his favorite memories with you, and there’s always a paragraph at the end where he talks about how in love with you he is. It’s borderline poetry and it makes you cry every single time.

GIF by balladofthe101st

Buck Compton

Basically just writes a list of questions for you to answer in every letter.

Wants to know everything about what’s going on at home. Especially sports teams.

Doesn’t write frequently, so sometimes it’s hard to feel like there’s a conversation happening. 

But he always includes sweet little notes about how much he’s thinking of you and how he’s counting down the days until he can hold you again, so you’re not complaining. 

Not the most poetic writer. Always says what he thinks and feels though. Completely honest and open. 

Does not tell you anything about the war. Basically ignores the entire thing. 

Sometimes you think about asking him about that, but you figure that he’s not talking about it for a reason, so you follow suit.

Calls you baby in his letters. 

Doesn’t actually say ‘I love you’ in his letters, although says everything else. Miss you baby. Dream about you all the time. When I get home, I’m putting a ring on your finger. 

One time he writes that he woke up last night out of a dream and swore I could taste you and it makes your toes curl.

You save that letter, tuck it in your underwear drawer. 

Signs his letters very simply: Buck. Sometimes he’ll put something in like until next time or I’ll write soon. But usually nothing super romantic or sentimental.

Doesn’t save your letters, but that really doesn’t bother you too much because all you wrote in them was basically just rambling details that Buck requested about your boring day-to-day. 

Buck’s always better in person than in writing - he’s a quality time and physical touch kind of guy - but you know that your letters were his only lifeline to normal during the war, and you’re just happy to have him back at all. 

He does surprise you one night when it’s really quiet in the house and you’re sitting on the couch together, each reading a book. He suddenly turns to you and says You know baby girl, your letters saved my sanity over there. It’s the most he’s really ever said about the war, but it’s enough, and you kiss him so he knows that you get it.  

GIF by balladofthe101st

David Webster

Unsurprisingly, Web is probably the best letter writer in all of Easy Company. 

He helps a lot of the other guys write letters home, especially if they’re trying to say something important. Web just has a knack for words unlike any other. 

He writes a lot of letters home, not just to you, but to the rest of his family, his siblings, some of his friends, and definitely his professors. 

So because you’re close with Web’s family, you do get to read a lot of his writing. 

His letters to you are different though. They’re darker and a little less polished. Sometimes, they frighten you a little bit. Web talks about things you’re not you really understand - like how pointless death is, how empty it makes him feel to see his friends get KIA, how he carries around guilt about surviving this long like an anchor. 

Refers to you exclusively in his letters by your first name, his writing is always serious and somber and drenched with heavy emotions, so pet names just really don’t fit the vibe.

He quotes poetry and literature quite a bit when he writes. It all feels a bit Gothic, but you’ve always known that Web has found clarity in the world through books, so you don’t begrudge him a little poetic license.

Signs his letters Yours in perpetuity, David K. Webster. 

Asks you to send books. Sometimes he asks for something specific, but other times he’s happy to get whatever you pick out for him. Your tastes are different from his; you prefer to choose shorter, gentle pieces about life in the British countryside or Western adventure novels. Web would prefer Wadsworth or Hemingway, but he figures it’s probably in his best interests to read things that don’t tackle dark themes. You always tuck a letter for him into the first few pages. 

He doesn’t save your letters, per se, although he does save every single book you send to him. When he gets home, he puts them all up on the bookshelf in his office. Even though they’re beat up and stained and not at all fitting with the rest of his collection, they’re front and center. 

Sometimes he takes a stab at sketching in his letters. He’s not bad, either. You try to encourage him to take lessons when he gets home, which he never does. He secretly loves how much you love his drawings though.

GIF by yourspeirs

Joe Liebgott

KING OF DIRTY LETTERS

You definitely like to re-read his letters… again and again…

Not every letter is a dirty one. But most are. Or at least have a dirty section in them. 

You don’t know how this man makes you feel wanted from halfway around the world, but somehow he does. Lord knows you love a lot about your Joey, but you didn’t realize how good he was with words until you found yourself practically stalking the mailman, hoping for another delivery from Joe.

Uses a lot of pet names in his letters. Baby girl, Doll, Princess are some of his favorites. Literally never calls you by your name.

Always signs off with Your Joey. 

Even when Joe is clearly in a dark place, his letters are saturated with how much he needs you and how he can’t stop thinking about all the ways he’s going to have you when he gets home. 

When your mother finds one of Joey’s letters to you, she throws an absolute shit fit and freaks out that you’re sleeping with someone before you’re married. It takes a long time for you to convince her that you haven’t slept with Joey yet, you’re just… really into dirty talking.

She kinda chills after that but still looks at you suspiciously every time you get a letter from him.

She never tells your dad though, which makes you think maybe she’s more supportive of your relationship with him than you realized.

After working up the courage, you write Joe a letter that is so sinful you actually doubt whether you should send it in the mail, it just feels so wrong.

When I say this man goes crazy for that letter, it is an understatement. He is out of his mind and immediately writes you a reply telling you so. Basically begs you for more.

Even though your letters back and forth with Joe are pretty raunchy, there’s also a sweetness to them. He’s always sure to mention that This ain’t just all talk, Doll. When you’re Mrs. Liebgott, you’re gonna see exactly what I’ve been writing about. Which you know is still pretty dirty, but hey, he’s basically proposing to you, right?

You are not the least bit surprised to know that he kept your naughtiest letters when he finally gets home.

But, Joseph Liebgott is a man of his word, and even though he is clearly dying to and you’re practically begging him to, he doesn’t make good on all those dirty promises until after you’re wearing his ring.

Much to your delight, you find that he is just as good with actions as he is with words.

[spacelazarwolf]

hey avi! i’m a conversion student who was raised italian-american. my heritage is really important to me, so i’m really interested in learning more about all types of judaism practiced in italy, and was wondering if you had any resources on learning more about italki judaism! of course i’m going to ask my rabbi, but i also wanted to ask you and any followers of yours who may know where to look. i’m particularly interested in things like recipes, minhagim, and daily life throughout history.

(no bad faith is meant at all and i hope this is taken as respectful: specifying so much because i know you get a lot of utterly insane anons about being italki/sephardi)

OH BOY DO I.

torah.it is an absolutely phenomenal resource with a ton of recordings, pdfs, and videos about primarily the roman rite in italy but also the sephardi and ashkenazi rites as well.

there's also a website dedicated to recordings of italian jewish music from numerous rites called thesaurus of jewish-italian liturgical music.

the national library of israel also has a lot of resources, like recordings of piyutim. it's a bit difficult to navigate if you don't speak hebrew, they do have an english option but it can be a little finicky.

the jews in italy

complete works of primo levi, an italian jewish auschwitz survivor and chemist. there is even an institute named after him dedicated to preserving italian jewish minhagim. italian jews lost nearly 20% of their population (not proportionally as much as many of the german occupied countries, but the italian jewish community numbered only around 44,000 before the war) and a lot of italian jewish life (particularly italki minhag) was nearly lost. but...

leo levi, an italian jewish ethnomusicologist nearly single-handedly preserved many italian jewish musical traditions when he travelled across the country to record elders and community leaders singing their traditional melodies.

ensemble nuria (formerly ensemble bet hagat) has recorded two amazing albums of revived italian jewish music.

in terms of cookbooks, edda servi machlin is a name you should know. her classic italian jewish cookbook is considered to be the standard.

there is also cooking alla giudia, portico, jewish flavors of italy (which includes some libyan recipes from the libyan jews of rome), la cucina romana e ebraico-romanesca (i just got this one on kindle so i haven't read it yet), and cucina ebraica.

francesco spagnolo is another name you should know, he is a scholar of italian jewish culture.

[buggywiththefolkmagic]

Hello!! I was wondering if you have any book recommendations for Appalachian folk magic? Especially for a beginner, I’m familiar with our local “old wive’s tales” but I’d love to learn more!!

Hello there! I have answered this question before but I have some new resources so I'll list them here!

It really depends on which part of Appalachia you are looking at! And if you want to dig deeper the ancestral roots of the family you are looking at. For example my family has a lot of Welsh and British influence because that was our family source so a lot of those beliefs lingered and changed throughout the years!

Someone from Pennsylvania would likely have a lot more German roots for their practice. But despite the root differences for the folklore these practices stem from they do still share a lot of connecting points!

But having babbled all of that here are my favorite books on AFM specifically. (Mind you Christianity takes a super huge part in the practice so a lot of bible and doing things in threes for the Trinity is involved!)

Authors to check out:

H. Byron Ballard- A pagan who also practices AFM, from the NC side of Appalachia, a lot of people hate her writing style which is a bit ramble-y. I also dislike the term she uses for her own practice but that is a super simple and small complaint honestly. I own all of her books on the subject, which should say something.

A NOTE ON H. BYRON BALLARD: I no longer support her work after discovering she is a TERF. I will no longer be suggesting her as an author to follow.

Jake Richards - From Eastern TN like me! A lot of what he talks about are things I have seen before, and he breaks down complex concepts like burn blowing into something relatively easily understood. HOWEVER HAVING SAID THAT the author is partially Melungeon, so he does have some Hoodoo mixed in from his grandmother's side iirc? He does label these things in his works and explains that they are not for everyone which I do appreciate.

Rebecca Beyer - While vaguely Wiccan toned, which I attribute to her publishers/raising, she's a transplant to Appalachia and if you're looking for herbal information on Appalachia and to wax poetic about how even with a ton of people settling there SO MUCH of the natural herbs and plantlife still survive, read her work! Her work on foraging safely and environmentally is so SOOOOO good.

Brandon Weston - For Ozark Mountain range/German/Dutch Appalachian work! He has written quite a few books on the subject and all of them are a treat!

Roger J. Horne - For how to dig into folklore and apply it to your own practice! This author is pagan and does blend in some traditional work with the Appalachian but I do enjoy his work and how he applies folklore. This author is also FROM Appalachia which is nice to see.

INDIVIDUAL BOOKS TO READ:

Appalachian Folk Healing by Jake Richards - A republication of a very old book on remedies and 'spells', while kitschy and stupidly worded, after all it was a popular book created just for sales reasons, some of these remedies are things I remember having done to me! Good for both a giggle and actual information. TW for mentions of animal parts, hunting, illnesses, the G slur, period specific phobias and racism.

Albertus Magnus - These books all supposedly written by an ancient guy, were actually mildly common on traveling salesmen's trucks and wagons. So as a result a lot of people in Appalachia had access. Like the book above it is very stupidly worded and definitely of their time. Same TW as above.

Pow-Wows or Long Lost Friend - Another Pennsylvania Dutch book! Very good and very clear.

Southern Folk Medicine - A book that breaks down a lot of common medicinal beliefs in the South which does include Appalachia! Sadly not just Appalachia but a very good book regardless. THIS BOOK MADE ME UNDERSTAND THE THEORY BEHIND BLOOD ISSUES MORE THAN ANYTHING ELSE EVER HAS.

Moon Eyed People - A collection of Welsh folktales that brewed within Appalachia from Welsh immigrants. Very good book imo!

Granny Buck's Dibs and Dabs - This book is so worth the price tag! One of the more expensive books in my collection, but I'm fine with that. Granny Buck covers a lot of topics and I can feel the accent through the wording!

Signs, Cures, & Witchery - More German Appalachian stuff! This book and it's interviewees are from the Kentucky side of the mountains!

Witches, Ghost, and Signs - This book is based more in the Southern Appalachian area! Georgia, SC, NC, and TN specifically! Lots of folklore here, but does mention some not so great bits of the lore, but that is expected.

The Foxfire Books - What began as a school project exploded into a collection of true to life stories and idioms from Georgia elders within the mountains. SO SO GOOD OKAY? For everything. How to plant, hunt, make musical instruments, anything from the mountains? They cover.

[middlingmay]

“Let me get this straight: You’re calling me at 3 am, disrupting my beauty sleep on a workday, to ask me out?" - for Buck and Bucky please!

Hello Anon!

Thanks for the request - this one was so fun to write. I hope you like it :)

They’d settled near each other, after the war.

On that Florida air strip, where Wisconsin lay one way and Wyoming another, it had taken root inside Gale: the life ahead of him with patient, wonderful Marge, who no man could ever deserve, had stopped driving him on, compared to the life behind him with John.

When Gale had turned up on John’s doorstep, all his bags in hand and asking if he knew of any rooms to rent in town, he’d gotten to enjoy the sight of Major John Clarence Egan speechless for the first time in his life.

Gale had achieved what the combined forces of the US military, countless missions, German fighter pilots and a POW camp could not.

John had tried to offer him a room at his house, but Gale refused. It would have been easy, so easy to say yes and slip unspoken into this something between them. But Gale was sick of it being unspoken. He wanted to do it right this time.

In the days following his arrival, they found Gale a place to live, and like John, he found himself a little part time job to keep him busy and keep him from plundering his savings from his military salary, which remained largely untouched and offered a pretty little nest egg should he ever need it. (But not for the little apartment he and John found for him; that was hopefully only temporary.)

In the weeks following his arrival, they spent time together doing up the parts of John’s house that had gone without care for a little too long, and making Gale’s apartment feel a little more like a home. They went to eat in restaurants and John showed Gale his favourite haunts (not all of them bars, he was pleasantly surprised to see). They drove and walked around, perfectly aimless for once in their lives.

But none of it, Gale thought, could have been constituted as a date. And Gale did so want to date John. He wanted to take him out and make him feel special and walk him to his door at the end of the night and see if he could be lucky enough to steal a kiss.

He just had to ask him. Because apparently John was a gentleman, following this thing at Buck’s pace.

Gale had almost asked him that first day he’d turned up tired and hungry and John had taken care of him like it was the easiest thing in the world.

He’d almost asked him when John had dragged a heavy second-hand bookshelf up a flight of stairs to Gale’s apartment because he knew how Gale loved books and cleanliness in equal measure.

He almost asked him when Gale had a bad day and a worse evening, and John had steered them passed all the bars, up to Gale’s apartment, settled him with a poorly-made tea, and read to him from a physics book where he mispronounced half the words (Gale thought at least half must have been on purpose).

And now Gale was lying awake at some ungodly hour because he almost asked him.

Gale had been a cocksure pilot; one of the best, him and John. He had led squadrons of men in war, kept his guys together in a POW camp for a year and a half. He knew himself and what he was about. But here he was, flaking out, being a coward - a whole big pile of chicken shit - over John, who'd never made him feel anything but brave.

What kinda man was he?

Gale threw back the covers and hauled himself out of bed.

He was Major Gale W Cleven—Buck—goddamn it, and he could do this.

One of the selling points of his apartment had been its own private line. He padded out to the tiny lounge and picked up the phone and dialled the number he knew off by heart by now.

*

They were finally flying home, he and Buck. Just like he promised.

Gale grinned at him from the left. It was that grin he tried to hide sometimes, the one that showed off the apples of his cheeks and couldn't disguise his soft eyes when he looked at John.

When they both turned eyes front to enjoy the clear blue skies together that would take them home, Bucky saw them. The white far-off pinstripes of a hoard of incoming German fighters. But they were still a way off; they still had time. Buck still had time.

“Bail out, Buck!” They were so close to going home, he wasn’t risking Buck now.

But Gale just smiled at him. “Since when have you backed down from a challenge, Jon?”

The Germans were nearly on them.

“Gale! Go—get out! I’ll cover—!”

Gale petted the yoke unhurried. “Easy, Bucky. We’re safe as houses up here. Last two pilots left in the sky, just like you said.”

The Germans opened fire with a shrill ringing, ringing, ringing—

John bolted up in bed, chest heaving and heart beating hard and fast.

The phone was ringing.

He collapsed back onto the sheets. “Fuck.”

He almost let the phone ring out. It was fuck-knows-when in the morning. But then he remembered the very exclusive list of people who actually had his number, and he felt like he was jolting out of a nightmare all over again as he scrambled to catch it before it ringing stopped.

Buck. Buck might need him.

In the hallway, he snatched up the phone as soon as his fingertips grazed the smooth dark plastic. “H-hello?”

Whoever was on the other end was lucky to hear his voice over the thundering of his heart.

“It’s me, John.”

Buck. He knew it. “What is it?” He asked blunt and panicked. “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’! Nothin’ John, I swear.” Buck exhaled slow. “Uh, I uh, god. I’m sorry; I wasn’t thinking.”

Sheepish. Buck sounded sheepish. He could work with sheepish. It wasn’t frightened, afraid.

“It’s fine, Buck,” he said. Heart finally getting under control. “C’mon, it’s fine. What’s on your mind?”

“I just, um. I was wonderin’. You promised me a baseball game. I was wonderin’ if I could take ya.”

Bucky frowned. Much as he was warmed by Gale remembering a promise he made what felt like a lifetime ago; and as much as something inside tingled and sparked at Gale asking him to one, he did wonder if Gale hadn't woken up from the same kinda dream as him. The kind that made it hard to fall back asleep and left you reaching for distractions.

But still, like hell he was going to pass up this kind of opportunity. “Well—well, yeah, Buck, of course. I'll take you to a game. “

“No.” Gale blurted too loud down the line. “No, I wanna take you. Like a…”

That tingling and sparking thing caught and used up John’s body like tinder. “Let me get this straight,” he sad faintly and cast a look at the hallway clock finally. “You’re calling me at three am, disrupting my beauty sleep on a work day, to ask me out?”

Maybe Gale’s blood was pounding as furiously as John’s, because that was the only reason he couldn’t have heard the delighted, tremulous, terrified disbelief in John’s voice.

Instead, Gale rushed out over the line, “No, no. I know. It was—God, I’m sorry, John. Go back to sleep. It was stupid—just—goodnight.”

John was left calling the dial tone Buck.

Stupid, Buck had said. Well, John felt everything he had ever wanted at his fingertips. If Buck wanted stupid, he would give him stupid.

It wasn’t far from John’s house to town, so he didn’t bother with a coat. He simply shoved a sweater over his undershirt and some boots on his feet and took off running.

By the time he got to Gale’s apartment building, the cool night had turned to fog, to a gentle spray, to a light rain. The thin pajama pants he wore started to stick, and his curls caught droplets of dewy moisture and sprinkled them on his face and neck.

He unlocked the door to the building with the key Gale had cut for him and headed straight for 1B. He knocked once and Gale didn’t answer within three seconds, so he let himself in the apartment, too.

The lights were out and Bucky headed for the bedroom, figuring Gale had gone back to bed to try and get some sleep. The curtains were thin and some strains of the street lights lit the room a little. John saw Gale, his back shoved against the wall, all bundled up like they’d never been able to do at the stalag.

He got close and gently shook his shoulder. “Buck. Buck.”

Gale woke quick and was upright in a second, eyes alert but mouth full and puffed up in sleep. “John? What’s wrong?”

Gale tried to get up out of bed but John pushed him back down. “S’okay. All good, Buck.”

“What are you doing here? It’s—”

“’Bout 3.20am. You never let me answer. On the phone.”

Gale cleared his throat and looked at his covers like they were some new textbook that demanded all of his attention. John smiled small and cheeky out of Buck’s sight and reached out to pluck up a strip of covers with his fingers to tease the material out of Buck’s grasp.

“Yes,” John whispered, smug and happy. “Obviously you can take me on a date.” He sat on the edge of Gale’s bed who now looked at him eyes wide and full of wonder. “But I want the whole nine yards: good seats, hot dogs, you desperately trying to follow along—the whole shebang.”

Gale smiled that same apple-cheeked smile from John’s dream. “You come all the way here in the rain to say yes to a question I chickened outta askin’?”

“Mhm,” John agreed cheerfully.

Gale laughed and collapsed back onto his bed. Only John’s damp clothes and the crumb of decorum he had left stopped him from collapsoing down with him.

“Thank you, John. I would love to take you out.”

“’Kay,” John said softly biting on his lip before collecting himself before it was too late. He stood up and slapped his hands on his thighs. “Well, g’night Buck. Sleep tight.”

He turned on his heels to make from the room and Gale called after him.

“John!”

John spun round, hand on the door jam. Gale looked at him, exasperated and fond.

“It is 3.30 in the morning. It’s rainin’. You can stay till morning.”

John shook his head, droplets spattering the wall. “You gotta wait for that, Buck. Your girl isn’t easy.”

Gale gave an amused huff and leaned his head back against the wall, before John’s words took root. He sat up at the gall of of the man and yelled through the open door. “Since when?!”

He heard John’s laugh even as the front door to his apartment swung closed.

[wordstome]

Shrike pt. 3 - who we are

König x high school sweetheart reader

2nd person, she/her pronouns, reader is Austrian/has lived in Austria and speaks German for most of the story, romance, pining, friends to lovers, reader's nickname is Thorn, König's first name is Alexander, absolute tooth rotting fluff, corny as hell towards the end

2.8k words

tw: physical and emotional abuse, violence (chokehold, stabbing, throat slitting)

Hello to everyone reading this from my main blog! In case you haven't seen the pinned post on bucca2, this is my new writing blog. Everything I publish will be here on wordstome now. Please feel free to unfollow bucca2 and follow me here!

also PARIS PALOMA TEASED HER NEW SONG "DRYWALL" JUST FOR SHRIKE CHAPTER 3 SPREAD THE WORD

[PART 1] [PART 2 (PREV)] [MASTERLIST]

What I had left here I just held it tight So someone with your eyes Might come in time To hold me like water Or Christ, hold me like a knife

When you’re in total darkness, your eyes adjust. You can see everything around you, but it’s all devoid of color. Then when the light turns on, it blinds you, but it’s better to be blinded momentarily than to live in the dark forever.

That’s how it feels as you prepare to travel home. To escape. You’re antsy, excited and petrified at the same time. Before, it felt like the days flew past in a murky haze. Now, even the seconds crawl.

It feels like moving in a dream, like you’ll wake up any day now and it will all be taken away from you. Your hope, your new dreams for the future, your König.

A shiver runs through you. Where did “your König” come from?

When you’re not occupied with the anxiety of keeping such a huge secret from your husband, all you think about is König. You’ve spent the past few weeks in a haze, like he’s put some sort of spell on you. You do get a kick out of imagining him as a witch with a hat and cauldron.

But you know it’s something simpler than that. All the feelings you used to have for him have returned.  It’s different than the heady rush you used to get with your husband. It feels sweeter, like you really are a teenage girl with a crush all over again.

It feels naïve, but you also don’t care. You feel safe despite the situation you’re still in, for the first time in a long time. You never would have expected to see König again—even less so for him to become your saving grace.

It seems silly in hindsight that you had been so frightened of him. Sure, the mask was a lot. But it had been something about his energy. It was different than you had ever felt from him, before or after your reunion. If he was that way on the battlefield, then no wonder he had earned the nickname König. You’re not sure if it scares or awes you.

You’re about to find out.

An anxiety attack is the worst feeling in the world.

You dry heave. Your chest feels like a roiling ball of angry carrion birds hollowing you out. You shake like a leaf in the wind. You fall down a long, dark pit of despair as your stomach seizes with nausea.

The train’s delayed. There’s been an issue with the tracks leading out of the city. No trains will be leaving for 12 hours.

You should have just sat in the terminal and waited, or tried to contact König, but you’re not thinking straight. All of your thoughts are focused on your husband, and what he’ll do if he comes home and finds you gone. You decide, somehow, that it would be wiser to throw yourself back into the lion’s den and pretend everything’s alright instead of waiting for him to come raging into the train station and pull you out by the hair. The thought of that is the only thing that gets you up off the wall you were hyperventilating against and back towards home.

The plan is to get home before he does and hide your suitcases. He’s usually not home by this time, anyway. You chalk the rising sense of dread in the pit of your stomach up to your anxiety and turn the handle to go in.

Fuck.

He’s standing in the kitchen.

The years have not been kind to him. He’s far from the charming young man you married. He’s wretched, unkempt, angry. It’s clear he’s been drinking, maybe even before he left work. The shadows etch themselves into the lines of his face as his expression twists into something awful, inhuman. You stand, frozen, as he approaches you.

“Planning a trip without me?” he asks with an awful grin.

You can still salvage this. “Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t say anything, but I just received word. My mother’s not doing well. I have to go see her.”

“You lie like a whore,” he snarls. “Don’t think I haven’t been paying attention. You’re different nowadays. Not the nice obedient woman I married.”

Your fear turns to anger in an instant. Years and years of this horseshit, waiting on him hand and foot, placing his smallest whims before your own needs and wants—it rushes up through you like hot steam. His nice obedient woman. And the worst thing is, you hate that he’s not wrong. That is what you’ve become.

“Yesterday I came home and you hadn’t even started dinner. Where were you, huh? Running around on me behind my back?” It’s difficult to describe, but his smile is oily: sleazy, untrustworthy, dangerous. “With that big fuck in a hood that came here with the mercenaries, perhaps?”

Your blood runs cold at that. Has he seen you with König? When? Why hasn’t he said anything? It feels like you’re stepping into a trap, but you must move forward if you want to get out.

“He’s going to get what’s coming to him, alright. My manager has a direct line to his boss. One word from him will get that fucker deployed to the middle of nowhere on a suicide mission.”

It’s an absurd threat, and you know it. This drunken idiot has no idea what he’s talking about—as if some middle-management bureaucrat could persuade a PMC to dispose of a soldier like König. But it’s the audacity that irks you. You’ve lived your life serving this man for too long, and now he thinks the world will bend to his whims. There’s absolutely no way he can touch König, but an old and familiar anger rises in you.

A long overdue revelation dawns on you now. He’s a bully. The same as Andreas: little boys with petty insults and empty threats. Pushing people around because their own lives are empty and unsatisfying.

An eerie calm breaks through you like the sky cutting through a storm. The man before you is just a feral animal, snarling and snapping in desperation. You’re not afraid of him anymore.

You reach behind you and slowly roll open the knife drawer, grabbing the first one your fingers land on.

“I’m leaving. I’m leaving this house, this country, and this marriage,” you say, gripping the knife in a defensive position. Your father taught you how to hold a knife like this: backwards, with the blade along your arm, sharp edge facing outwards.

“This way, it’s much more difficult for someone to turn the blade against you,” he had told you, demonstrating the motion by moving your arm towards your chest. The memory makes you smile. At the time, you’d been indulging your old man—he had always said that violence was a last resort, but that the world was unkind and one day you may have to defend yourself. He was right, just as he was when he told you he had reservations about your marriage.

You’re going home. You’re going to see your father again. And you’ll never have to tolerate the loathsome toad before you again.

The beast laughs. “What do you think you’re going to do with that? Stab me?” He’s up against you before you can react, the breath leaving your lungs in a gasp as he pins you against a wall by the throat.

“You. Are. Mine. You will never raise a hand against me because I own you,” he hisses, his alcohol-laced breath foul against your face. “And it’s high time you remembered that.” His grip tightens like an iron vice around your throat, but you’re not afraid. Even as your vision begins to blur and blacken, you stare directly into his eyes. They’re like red-hot coals of fury, but you see what’s behind them now. The fear. The cowardice of a desperate man who has no recourse but to lay his hands on someone who can’t fight back.

“You’re pathetic,” you rasp, lips tugging into a smile. The coals burn brighter. The hand squeezes tighter. The adrenaline surges through you like a tide—and your body acts to protect itself, in a way that you haven’t allowed it to in a long time. A feeling as sweet and familiar as an old friend.

The knife makes its home right between his ribs.

He staggers away from you, as if you had slightly winded him instead of stabbed him in the heart. Your hands instantly go to your throat as you cough and sputter, lightheaded and dizzy but alive, so alive. You’ve never felt so alive as you do right now, watching the demon of your own personal hell look down at the blade sticking out of him.

“You stupid little bitch—” He makes as if to lunge at you, but time slows. Your eyes widen as the shadows behind him melt and solidify into a figure. Tall and hooded. No knight in shining armor, but an assassin of deepest night.

König slashes through your husband’s throat in one deadly, beautiful motion.

Your husband falls to the ground like dead weight, gasping and choking on his own blood. Your eyes are fixed on him, a strange sensation bubbling through you. You’re making some kind of noise, loud and cacophonous, as König steps over the dying animal who has controlled you your whole adult life.

His arms find their way around you as you slowly sink to the ground, howling and wailing. He’s so patient, you think numbly with some corner of your mind that remains untouched by the mania seizing the rest of you. The two of you sit there, his body warm and solid against yours, as your body slowly exits fight or flight mode.

“Alex?” you say hoarsely once you’re in your right mind again.

“I’m here,” he rumbles.

You turn to look at him as he pulls the hood off his head. There he is, your Alexander, all grown up. He’s rugged, with nasty-looking white scars streaked across his face, but so, so handsome. His eyes are still the same as he looks at you with something akin to rapturous adoration. Your green-eyed boy.

“You’re back, rosethorn,” he says with a wide grin. There’s a touch of madness to it, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Was I…” Exhaustion sets in, seeping through your whole body. “Was I crying or laughing just now?”

He shifts you onto his lap, cradling you like a baby as you look up at him.

“I think you were laughing.”

The police release you after just over half an hour of questioning.

You aren’t going anywhere, of course. They’re leaving you, exiting your hospital room with murmurs of well-wishes for your health. They’ve hardly left the room when König comes striding in, instantly moving to your bedside and holding your hand in his.

He looks tired too, his eyes soft as he takes in your small smile. You’re sure he was being interrogated for much longer than you, but it looks like he passed muster as well. Not as if you had anything to worry about—what could the local police have done to the commander of the mercenaries taking down their local terrorist cell anyway?

“Are you alright? Did they clear you?” His expression hardens as he glances at your neck. You nod weakly. Your throat is going to be bruised for a while, but your attacker hadn’t done any lasting damage.

Attacker. Husband. Corpse. All of these words describe the same thing now.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner,” he says mournfully. “He shouldn’t have had the chance to attack you like that.”

You shake your head at him. He didn’t know that you weren’t on the train heading home, after all. The room is quiet for a few moments, save for the distant beeping of a heart monitor.

“Why…” you manage to ask. He knows what you’re trying to say.

“Why was I there?” He glances around to make sure nobody’s listening, and leans in to whisper in your ear.

“I was there to kill him, of course.”

You shudder a little. He admits it so casually, that he was in your house because he was there to commit a murder. You should be afraid of him, but you feel around in your brain and come up empty-handed.

Instead, you find yourself worried. For him. “What if you had gotten in trouble?”

He snorts. “You underestimate me, rosethorn. I would have just framed it as a robbery.”

You nod. Oh God…does that mean he had planned this? Why doesn’t that horrify or disgust you? You’re just going to have to dissect that later. Right now, you only feel a warm affection towards the man stroking his thumb along your hand in a soothing motion.

“So…what comes next?”

“You’re asking me? We can do whatever you like. I can take you home.”

Home. Where is that, now? It’s certainly not in the house you’ve left behind, where the ghost of the man you were married to settles in every nook and cranny. It doesn’t feel like your childhood home where your parents are, either.

It’s such a corny saying, “home is where the heart is”. But home feels like it’s already here, sitting next to your hospital bed with the fondest look in his eyes.

“I’d like to travel,” you whisper. The with you goes unspoken.

“I have plenty of leave time saved up.”

You flip your hand so you can hold his. It’s huge next to yours. This is the hand that slit your husband’s throat, a hand that has killed countless people.

You’re not sentimental enough to pretend that’s not an issue. You’re not entirely sure this is happily ever after: that all of your problems are solved because you’ve replaced one violent man with another. But another part of you yearns to be the one who gets protected. You’ll take care of König, and you know he’ll take care of you. In his own way.

You can ask the questions later. Right now, you have lost time to make up for.

“Are you sure you should be wearing that scarf?”

The air is cold, but the wind is soft instead of feeling like tiny blades against your face. You tug said scarf down from your face and take in a lungful of crisp, icy air.

“I’ll be fine,” you reassure König as he hauls himself up the last ridge to where you’re standing. “It’s loose enough. And it’s chilly.”

“If you say so.” He tugs his neck gaiter further up his nose. “What a view, hm?”

You’re standing on Mont Blanc, blanketed by serene white snow just as the name promised. Further below you, the skiing slopes are crawling with tourists, but here in this little outcropping, the only sound is the occasional rush of wind and your voices.

“I think I can see Salzburg from here,” you say, pointing off into gorgeous landscape spread out before you.

“That is most certainly still Switzerland,” König says, amused. You turn to look at him instead and are rewarded with his shining green eyes looking right back at you.

“Whatever!” You let out a dissatisfied hmph, which draws a hearty laugh from him.

“You came all the way to Chamonix just so you could look at Austria again?”

“It’s a very tall mountain,” you argue.

“It’s one of many very tall mountains. We could have just gone to Großglockner.”

“That’s boring. I’ve always wanted to visit France.”

“You wanted to visit a very expensive ski chalet.”

“Bite me.”

“I just might!” You giggle and squeal as he grabs you, chasing your face with his as you squirm around.

“It is beautiful,” he concedes as he holds a hand above his eyes to keep off the sun. “Almost as beautiful as you.”

“I should push you off this peak right now.”

“You couldn’t move me an inch.” He grabs you by the waist and holds you tight to emphasize his point. You can’t even shift his arms off you, no matter how hard you push.

“Ok, fine, you win.” You pout at him, but he doesn’t let you go.

The dynamic the two of you share is so easygoing and relaxed, it’s like you had a rhythm all along that both of you just fell back into. But of course, there are some things you’ve never done together. Like travel together.

Or kiss.

“Are you going to do it this time?” you ask him, smiling.

His nose wrinkles up, uncharacteristically cute for someone like him. “Well, I was going to, but then you had to open your mouth.”

You cackle. “Go on then.”

“Can I?”

“I just said yes!”

“I forgot how much you like to talk,” he complains. Before you can say another word, he captures your lips in his.

The sky is vivid and blue as the whole world stretches out before you.

#RIPBOZO

Here we are! We're at the end of this little story I started writing on a whim. Honestly, this means a lot to me personally: I wrote a lot when I was younger, but high school and university were very difficult times for me, and I stopped writing fanfiction. I tried to get back into it during the pandemic, but I was never able to finish anything beyond a long-ish drabble. I'm quite proud of this.

Even still, I feel like there are a lot of stories that I still want to tell about this couple. There's quite a lot that I decided to cut from these main 3 chapters for the sake of pacing and time. There's a little bit of dissatisfaction at not having crammed in every little detail that I wanted, but if there's one thing that writing university papers has taught me, it's that perfectionism will keep you from getting anything done. So you will be getting more from Alex and Thorn in the future!

I know a lot of you were anticipating what delicious revenge König was going to exact on Thorn's husband, so I hope you weren't too disappointed ;; While I personally would have loved to have König strap him to a chair in the basement and do some morbid things with a knife, I think it was important for Thorn's character that she's involved in it. While of course the main focus of this story is König, Shrike is also about his beloved Thorn. I hope to explore König and the darker (and pervier) aspects of his character more in subsequent stories. But for now, they're getting a well-deserved happy ending.

One last thing before I go: Chamonix is a resort town in central/southeast France, not far from Lyon. (Sorry, I don't know whether Lyon is south enough to be considered southern France lol). Mont Blanc is Chamonix's main peak of the Alps, and is known for how pretty it is and being at the border of France, Switzerland, and Italy. As König said, if you wanted to visit a mountain as an Austrian, there are several of them at home you could visit, but since I visited it a few years ago, Chamonix has a special place in my heart. I just had to cram it in!

As usual, I'm excited to see your comments and feedback. I've read every single thing everybody has commented about this fic, even if I couldn't respond to you all, and I appreciate it so deeply. Whenever I get feedback I literally feel like kicking my feet and giggling. And if you want to ask questions or request specific scenarios with Thorn and Alex, please do send me an ask!

@crowbird @poohkie90 @cumikering @iytatsworld @papaver-decervicatus @anxietyrain @riotakire @ax0lotly @kneelingshadowsalome @cookiepie111 @kacchasu @no1runawaymilkdad @chthonian-spectre @backwards-readings @yxllowtxpe @garbau @hexqueensupreme @queenthorin1 @violetstyless @her-majesty-theking @vegan-peppermint @peonytarian @ghostslittlegf @euuuuuuun @e1x03 @kokonoiwife @deaddainish @dragonfang @teehee-47 @catluvwr @fireballoveraltanta

psst. to my tag list people while I have you here: naturally I will continue tagging you in other Shrike stories, but I'll also be using this same tag list for every other König fic I write. If you'd like to opt out of that, let me know. (No hard feelings, of course :3)

[phightingheadcanons]

Faction info dump!!!

PLAYGROUND:

I like to think that Playground is really jungly and tight around the borders, but there are different status circles/rings. The closer to the center you get, the more sophisticated and 'New Yorkian' the place gets. In the center, or the 'heart' of Playground, is a bright, livid, city, and the people are richer there. I imagine it to resemble Tokyo. In terms of culture, things are mixed! It'd probably be mostly 🦅🦅🦅 'Murican 🦅🦅🦅 (mostly African American) sillies, though, if I'm to be completely honest. I also think that there would be a lot of Latin Americans, though. I think that the main god that is worshipped there is either Firebrand and Windforce (even though she don't wanna be worshipped).

-

LOST TEMPLE/S:

I think this is pretty straightforward, ngl. The True Eye is tje most powerful group in Lost Temple. Because of this, no one is Lost Temple isbdumb enough to outwardly argue/fight them, so True Eye pulls the strings. I believe that most people in Lost Temple are either country or Brittish. Other than the gods(?) that the True Eye worship, I thing that the main god is Illumina. Venomshank is also commonly worshipped.

-

BLACKROCK:

Russia. That's all I really have to say. Blackrock in my mind is just a mix of Russia and the U.S. in the way that people treat eachother, as awell as in weaponry, technology, and landscape, but that's probably because I think Russia is epic (I'm not saying anything about politics, I just like the language and culture, as well as the animals). Most of the inhabitants of Blackrock are Brittish, Russian, or American. Some are German, but not many. Blackrock doesn't let anyone from outside of Blackrock in, so it's not very mixed up there in terms of race. Most in Blackrock do not have a religion, due to religious practices being discouraged in favour of contant vigilance in work, but those who do it anyway tend to worship Venomshank or Icedagger. Those who worship Icedagger are often the poor, seeking out mercy. I actually don't think Subspace has full power. I believe he is a lead engineer/scientist, HOWEVER, I do think that he is secretly pulling the strings and climbing the ranks. Blackrock is lead by multiple leaders.

-

THEIVES DEN:

I don't have much to say. It is a somewhat small, highly populated faction. It's basically an oversized village, with narure filling every line in the ground and crack in the wall. It's a blossoming, healthy place. I follow the commen headcanon that MOST people fron Theives Den are Japanese, but I also think that there are a lot of Africans amd Latin Americans. I would, however, lie to state that Theives Den is incredibly mixed in terms of race, culture, etc., so much so that it's almost chaotic. There is a group in Theives Den that worships Darkheart, which often causes mischief, but isn't really anything bad. The worse they have done was steal some pies. Otherwise, there isn't really any main religion.

-

A sidenote: Ghostwalker isn't as much worshipped as he is feared, that's why he wasn't really mentioned. There are, however, those who worship and praise him. Some in Blackrock pray to him to give immortality. He, of course, ignores them and their selfish desires, which is why the practice has mostly died out.

That's all!!! Thanks for reading all of this gibberish. I hope you have a wonderful day ^^

.

[danjaley]

Book-Blog Intermission:

Wonderful Journeys through Time and Literature with Nils Holgerson

Like most of my generation I grew up with the 1980 anime series. And, as I'll say at every opportunity, it spoiled me for pretty much any other TV-show. A good series should follow a literary original - and quite closely. It should have gorgeous aesthetics and music. A plot centered around adventure, history, tradition, loyalty and faith. Plot-decisions should never follow external factors like availability of actors or stale marketing formulas. And it should end when the story is told out.

My mother had the mad idea to try and read the book to me when I was about 5. I didn't understand a word of it. She had a very boring copy too, without any pictures.

Aged 25 I bought the cute edition on the right and made it a reading-project. After each chapter I watched the corresponding episode of the series. And I repeat: It shows the quality of the series that you can do this. Still is was super interesting to note everything they changed. Some things only made sense to me then. Like the story of the parade towards to icy mountain. As a child it just impressed me with its scariness. But in fact it's a parable of which plants can grow how far north.

Cute as it is, the left edition was so badly translated that I went ahead and learned Swedish to read it in the original (middle). In the meantime the German book-market also spoiled me with an up-to-date state-of-the-art unabridged translation (right). So I don't even need to use a dictionary :)

There is one other edition in the house and that's my grandmother's school-copy. As it is well know, Nils Holgerson was written as a reader for Swedish schools, covering geography, history and natural history of Sweden. Since it is an absolute masterpiece, it soon became a school-reader in many other European countries too.

Especially Germany in the 1930s had a fatal obsession with all things Nordic. So every school-child had to learn all about Swedish castles too. I always wondered why nobody at least tried to write a rip-off set in Germany. Only recently, in the course of my current research, I found out that someone did. Tamara Ramsay: Wunderbare Fahrten und Abenteuer der kleinen Dott (images not mine). But it only came out in 1941 and never made it to school-reader status.

My grandmother and her class enjoyed Nils Holgerson so much, they wrote collective fan-mail to Selma Lagerlöff. She replied too. She wrote that she got her German translator to decipher their letter and that she was very glad they enjoyed her book. The translator must have been the same Pauline Klaiber-Gottschau who first translated the book into German.

The original wild geese can of course be consulted at the International Youth Library in Munich. The building (Schloss Blutenburg) is the cutest little medieval castle that's been forgotten on the edge of the city. And in winter and spring you can meet the geese spending the winter in the moat. As a child I always regretted that Nils Holgerson ends just as the geese plan to cross to Germany. I'd have loved to see their Schloss Blutenburg adventure!

My Grandmother also appears to have read most other books by Selma Lagerlöff. At least she ticked them off in the list in her copy of Nils Holgerson. The only other one to survive in her collection is Gösta Berling (here in blue).

While the dated German bothered me a lot in Nils Holgerson, I deeply enjoy reading other Lagerlöff novels in as old editions as I can get hold of (here the much-mended red Gösta Berling). In old German print they just feel like they came from the dawn of time!

Those two have actually both been major inspirations for the McCarrics. Gösta Berling includes more or less the model for Fergus' dying-scene (if you ever want to see the subject treated by a nobel-prize-winner). And Herrn Arnes Schatz (Herr Arnes penningar) has the ghostly sister as well as badass Scotsmen (here unfortunately as the bad guys).

[wesleyhill]

On Not Talking About Jesus

A homily on Mark 7:31-37 preached on the Friday after the Fifth Sunday after the Epiphany at Western Theological Seminary, Holland, Michigan

Some of you who are around my age, who went through your deconstruction experience a couple of decades ago or more, may remember a blog called Jesus Needs New P.R. Even if you didn’t read it closely, the title was a catchy summary of how you might have felt: Jesus has a public relations problem. He’s compelling and interesting and compassionate and inspiring, but His representatives — the church bureaucrats who pontificate about Him from pulpits, the politicians and pundits who use His name to promote their odious causes, the bigots who claim to follow Him but leave a trail of hurting people in their wake — are the problem.

Even if your politics differ from mine, each one of us can identify with these sentiments, at least some of the time. Have you ever winced when you saw a picture of Jesus draped in an American flag? Have you ever felt tempted to take “Christian” off your social media profile when someone invokes Jesus to support some movement or cause that you find abhorrent? An Australian New Testament scholar, Constantine Campbell, recently published a book called Jesus v. Evangelicals in which he voiced what a lot of us intuit: “The evangelical movement must be refashioned in Jesus’ image, rather than cast Jesus in its image.”

It's this propensity to cast Jesus in the image we want that explains a strange feature of our Gospel reading this morning. Jesus is in region of the Decapolis, and even in this faraway place, word has spread that he is a healer, a wonder-worker. So a group of people bring a friend of theirs whose hearing and speech are impaired. They want a miracle, and Jesus obliges. He ushers the man away from the crowd, so that it’s just he and Jesus. (Maybe Jesus is offering dignity to the man with this privacy, refusing to make him a spectacle.) In any case, He puts His fingers in the man’s ears, and He spits and touches the man’s tongue. He lifts his eyes up to heaven and sighs and says in Aramaic, “Ephphatha,” which means, “Be opened.” “And his ears were opened, his tongue was released, and he spoke plainly.” And then comes the strange aspect of the story: “Then Jesus ordered them to tell no one.”

This happens again and again in Mark’s Gospel: Jesus charges His followers — and even demonic spirits — not to talk about His miracles, not to talk about what He does and who He is. Scholars usually refer to this as the motif of the “messianic secret” and then try to offer some sort of interpretation of it. Why would Jesus not want the good news about Him to be talked about? Why would He not want His fame to spread, so that more and more people could put their faith in Him?

One German scholar referred once to the Gospel of Mark as essentially a passion story, with a long introduction. And I think that’s our clue to the meaning of Jesus’ secrecy. Mark is telling a passion story — a story of Jesus’ gruesome execution and mysterious resurrection, which Jesus interprets as His gift of Himself to the world. And Mark knows that there is potential for misunderstanding Jesus at every turn. We may hear about one of His miracles and decide that He is basically a genie who can grant our wishes. We may hear about Him performing exorcisms and decide that He is available to fight our favorite enemies. And Mark’s point is that if we do that, we fundamentally misunderstand who Jesus is and what He aimed to achieve. Mark’s claim is that Jesus came for one overriding purpose: not to conform to our agendas and expectations but to give His life as a ransom for us, to rescue us from our self-absorption, our cruelty, our enslavement to sin and death. He came for love. He came to lay down His life for His enemies, to make His enemies His friends, and friends to one another.

And this is why, I think, Mark has Jesus refusing the boxes we want to put Him in. “Don’t domesticate Me like that,” Jesus seems to say. “Don’t use Me for your pet projects, your private theological agendas, your political ambitions.” As the Anglican priest and scholar Austin Farrer writes, “Christ does not encourage the spreading of ready-made formulae divided from living act, whether in the form of rumour or doctrine… Messiahship is not taught even to the initiate as a thing by itself, but as that which death and resurrection will express.” We understand the messiahship of Jesus, and the miracles and teachings and aims of Jesus, only when we follow Him all the way to the cross and to the grave and then hear the mysterious young man at His empty tomb telling us that He has gone on ahead of us.

Friends, we are about to enter the season of Lent, which is a time when Christians try to clear away some of the clutter that keeps us from seeing Jesus and being surprised by Him. By quieting ourselves and voluntarily letting go of some of our usual methods of coping with stress and anxiety, we try to see past the P.R. about Jesus. We open ourselves to considering whether we have a distorted picture of who Jesus is and what He wants with us and from us and for us. And perhaps we also keep quiet about Him for a bit. We don’t rush in to offer our preferred picture of who He is. Instead we listen, we watch, we wait. And we try to prepare our hearts for that great and holiest of weeks when we will keep vigil with Jesus as He goes to the cross and triumphs over death. Only then may we dare to speak about who He is for us.

Amen.

[liptonwashere]

only you (and you alone)

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

show: band of brothers

ship: speirton

word count: 999 words

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

warnings: none

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

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

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

He had no idea.

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

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

He wouldn't tell anyone about his thoughts.

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

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

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

He slumped his shoulders; what a lost cause.

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

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

Was it the rush?

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

Probably.

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

He was getting sidetracked.

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

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

He began to regret it.

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

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

"Don't."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I remember it."

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

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

Ron found he was still staring.

"Like what you see?"

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

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

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

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

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

"Now that I think of it… I am, sir."

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

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

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

"So you want me?"

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

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

"Yessir."

Ron hummed in response, amused.

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

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

That would have to wait.

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

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

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

Settling in for his shut-eye, Lip mumbled.

"Good night, sir."

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

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

"It's Ron."

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

"Good night, Ron."

[deathbxnny]

Hi there! After reading your post about little sister Qiqi request, i wonder how she would be like in CSM So can i request platonic hcs of CSM characters (Denji, Aki, Power, and Makima) x Qiqi like reader.

Context on the reader:

So the reader is the Jiangshi Devil who became a fiend by taking over a 10-12 year old corpse. They are Makima’s assistant and both of them have a relationship that Qiqi and Baizhu have. They aren’t the most liked but they arent the most hated either due to they’re forgetful nature, sure they have their journal to keep track of stuff but it’s a bit annoying. They’re also part of the Tokyo Special Division 4 so that Makima can keep an eye on the team

Also on an unrelated note, what are your thoughts on Jing Yuan’s and Cyno’s VA, Alejandro Saab. I just recently found out he used to voiced a character from my childhood’ so there’s that. I hope your doing well Bxnny, have great day/night!

- Flower Anon 🌸

-----♡

A/N: Hello Flower Anon! I love the idea, so thank you for the request! Also I don't know much about that VA, as I only grew up with German/Arabic television/media when I was younger. But from the short clips I've seen of him as a streamer, he looks really cool and funny!<33

Content: Platonic relationships, child devil fiend reader, fluff, kinda unserious in some parts, sfw

Reader has no set pronouns!

((Not fully proofread))

-----♡

》Makima

Makima always keeps an eye on you at all times. Mainly because you're always at her side anyways, but also to make sure you don't get yourself in unnecessary trouble. You have a tendency to forget things and she tried helping you with the journal she gave you. But unfortunately, you also sometimes forget that you even have it.

For the most part, your job just included following Makima around and attempting to write down things she told you to. Sometimes, you were also send to secretly spy on people in the division for her, which didn't work out well for obvious reasons.

Makima takes good care of you, all things considered, and doesn't usually send you on any dangerous missions. She ofcourse doesn't care that you're a devil either. She begins to see you as a little sibling eventually, as she always craved the feeling of a family. She might even spoil you, if you've done particularly well lately. She just adores you really.

-----♡

》Aki Hayakawa

Aki well... he didn't know what to think of you at first. You were quiet and very forgetful, so you were pretty much harmless. But you were also a devil. A fiend at that. He also had to remind himself constantly that you aren't actually just a harmless child too, which didn't help him form an opinion on you either.

So, in the end, he really just accepts that you simply... exist in the division. He knows you're quite important to Makima and therefore treats you with the necessary respect, but he keeps his distance otherwise. Or well, tries to, as you get lost so often, that he usually has to be the one to find you again. And eventually, that makes him sympathise with you more, as he does feel sorry for you in an odd way.

In the end, he really does feel himself attached to you, as much as he denies it. You're just a kid in his head and it makes him want to protect and help you out. He also gets you some candy or "cocogoat milk" sometimes... whatever that is.

-----♡

》Power

Power saw your existence as a challenge, as were quite important to Makima, and constantly asked you to fight her. However, she was left baffled, when you'd just blankly stared at her and asked her who she was. She told you that 5 minutes ago... but she'll gladly just remind you again.

For some reason, you eventually remind her of a cat. She doesn't really know why, but she finds herself patting your head with a determined look and declaring that you won't ever get lost in her divine presence. In other words, you two will just get lost together.

She slacks off of work with you and drags you along, as you never really protest anyways. She later on gets scolded by Aki for 2 hours and then passive-aggressively told to never do that again by Makima. You seem to find Power fun however, as she isn't very serious and doesn't expect anything from you... though she can get tiring fast.

-----♡

》Denji

Probably the most chillest person for you to be around. He doesn't mind your forgetfulness and has no expectations of you either. The fact that you're a devil doesn't bother him either. He just sees you as a kid he sometimes has to take care of on Makima's request. With that said, he takes his babysitting job very seriously. Perhaps a little too seriously.

Absolutely nothing is hurting or touching you in his presence and he takes you out for a quick snack run often. He'll try out weird combinations of food with you or take plenty of walks around the city, until he finds something fun to do. And doing something fun with Denji around is pretty easy.

Denji and you become great friends, something that shows through you actually remembering things about him. He becomes one of your favourite devil hunters in the division too, which secretly annoys a certain woman...

-----♡

A/N: I hope this was coherent and okay! Thank you again for the request!<33

[matan4il]

Thoughts on Hunters s1

I heard that season 2 of Hunters is about to premiere (Jan 13, if you’re wondering, on Amazon Prime) and I wanted to share with you some of my thoughts about s1. Before I kick off, I am assuming that if you’re reading this, you have watched it. In case you haven’t, this is your official spoilers warning!

A Personal Perspective

Okay, so to explain how I went in, take into account that in addition to my grandparents all being Holocaust survivors, I work in a Holocaust museum. Imagine me hearing that there’s going to be a show following a group of Jewish Nazi hunters. Obviously, I signed on to watch right away. But I also don’t like spoiling myself, so after hearing that initial information, I was actively avoiding any further spoilers. At the same time, thanks to my job, I’m aware that there really were Jewish Nazi hunters operating in Europe at the end of WWII. Some in groups, some individually, they’re collectively referred to as "Ha’Nokmim" (that’s Hebrew for The Avengers). Which means, I basically went in expecting the show to be about, you know... the real life Jewish Nazi hunters. I even had a wager with myself on which group specifically the show might have chosen to follow. Would we see the real people involved or a fictionalized version of them? I had no idea, but I also didn’t think I had any reason to doubt that this would be the context of the show.

So imagine me (poor, sweet summer child that I was 😂) starting to watch and almost immediately realizing, oh. No, I was very wrong. I didn’t even need the title card telling me the time and place. There I am, realizing that what I’m looking at isn’t Europe, the setting’s in the US, it isn’t the 1940′s, the clothes alone indicate it’s the 1970′s, the colors are also too bright for what I originally expected, while the context seems to be work colleagues having a barbecue together. Couldn’t be further away from Nazi hunting. My brain is racing, trying to catch up. Okay, I reason, there must be a Nazi who is present at this barbecue. Maybe he’s someone who got away from the protagonists in the past, and his re-surfacing will bring the group from the 1940′s back together, allowing us to learn their story through flashbacks?

Very quickly, it becomes clear a Nazi criminal is indeed present (and that he’s a very powerful man, with personal connections to the president) when one young Jewish woman identifies him. I have to applaud the performance, it was chilling to see the character shifting from a regular party attendant to a woman confronted with a perpetrator of indescribable horrors. However, I didn’t have a lot of time to admire it. The rest of the scene felt like a punch to the gut. Once identified, this Nazi man pulls out a gun and starts shooting everyone present, including the young woman’s Jewish husband, and she’s about to be next.

When I choose to watch anything related to the Holocaust, I know that I’ll see at one point or another a portrayal of some of the horrors inflicted on my family and my people. I know that. But I have to admit, I wasn’t prepared to see Jewish characters being shot so nonchalantly by a Nazi murderer after the end of the war. The scene also stretches on, it’s clear what’s about to happen, the Nazi and young survivor’s dialogue only holds off the inevitable outcome of this encounter, given that she’s not even armed and he’s powerful and connected enough to commit a massacre without so much as a blink. That makes it feel even more torturous, to have to sit there and watch this unfold, feeling the helplessness of this young Jewish survivor. Helen.

During their dialogue, the Nazi murdered tells her in German, “We are here.” This is the moment when it finally sinks in that this would not be about any of the real Jewish Nazi hunters who avenged the murder of Jews at the end of WWII, this would be a fictional tale about a group of Nazis who had embedded themselves into US society in the 1970′s, and the show would follow an equally fictional team hunting them.

There’s a specific sentence that this man also utters in this scene which was particularly painful to me. When Helen tells him defiantly that Jews have survived before and they will again, he replies, “You didn’t survive. You marinated.” That one just hit too close to home. The truth is, whether Jews as a collective will manage to recuperate from the Holocaust or was that event the beginning of our demise, that’s still an open question. We don’t know. No one knows whether Jews will still be here in two or three hundred years. Not just because of the Holocaust. We have suffered 2000 years of discrimination, persecution, brutalization, repeated expulsions, pogroms, massacres, and that’s all before the Holocaust, this attempt at the final extermination of the Jewish people. We have survived. Every single Jewish person’s existence is almost like a miracle, here against all the historical odds. But is the effect of what was done to us reversible, will the Jewish people have a future as well, not just a present?...

You can probably sense that I got to the end of this scene like I’d been put through the ringer. Maybe if I had the right expectations for the show, this wouldn’t have been quite as painful to watch. That’s on me, but it did affect my viewing experience. So I stopped and asked myself, do I actually continue? My savta (my grandmother) taught me that if I had started something, I should try my best to finish it, which means I don’t easily start debating whether to stop something half way. If I got to that point, and so early on, you can hopefully understand just how distressed I was by the show’s first scene. I could see why Hunters opened this way. It makes the stakes high and real, and it also makes the heinousness of the Nazis indisputable and relevant, not easily overlooked as a ‘relic of the past.’ That doesn’t mean understanding made it easier to watch, and I fully realized that if I go on, I will probably be exposing myself to further distressing scenes. I sincerely wasn’t sure I could make it to the end of the ep, let alone the season. Then again, there were many times I found myself very grateful for my savta’s voice in my head, urging me on. I couldn’t ignore that, so I figured that I would at least watch a few more scenes before I decide.

As I continued, the show introduced me to its main protagonist, Jonah, who did something that surprised me. He said one word I was completely unprepared for. Savta. If the first scene punched me in the gut with its brutality, this word, just this one simple word, grabbed me even tighter. Jonah’s connection to his grandmother represented with the same word I had for mine. I had never heard this word spoken on American television. Hearing it wasn’t a representation of who I am as a Jew, it was just a fracture of that, and yet it was incredibly powerful even so. I’ve mentioned before why I think most Jewish representation out there is not actually good Jewish rep, which means even this tiny bit of it felt unbelievably important. I knew in that moment that I would watch the whole show, beginning to end. If this is what they could do with one word, I had to see what else they had in store.

I ended up feeling all sorts of things, I’ll talk about them in a sec. But first I had to mention my personal experience, because I think coordinating people’s expectations before they watch this show can go a long way to ensure a better viewing experience. So if you ever recommend this show to anyone (and I hope you do), please take this into account!

A couple of issues

Maybe the biggest thing to make me feel a little uncomfortable was a scene we also get to in ep 101, the human chess one. It’s so over the top grotesque that my gut feeling is a lot of people probably watched it and wondered whether that was real. A quick online search would tell them it wasn’t. Which seemingly isn’t an issue in itself. Story tellers are allowed to embellish things for dramatic effect. But the danger is in how finding out this scene is made up might affect the way they see other horrors portrayed in Holocaust movies and shows. Since I do believe most of the time people don’t bother checking, would viewers of this show making a special effort in this case and then discovering the scene isn’t factual, will they then generalize from it to others showing the brutality of the Nazis? It doesn’t even have even have to be a conscious generalization, but its effect can be very real. Working in the field of Holocaust education, I’m too aware of how partial most people’s understanding of the Holocaust is. This specific scene might unintentionally further undermine it.

Of course, we also have the issue of Holocaust denial. TBH, I'm sure most Holocaust deniers know on some level that it did happen. There’s just too much evidence. Consider how we have less evidence for the French revolution than for the Holocaust, yet I’ve never heard anyone doubting whether the former had taken place. Holocaust denial isn’t about lack of proof, it’s about lack of compassion towards Jews and a desire to see it repeated, this time to completion. When I was about 7 or 8 years old, I heard a Holocaust denier in Germany saying exactly that (“There were no gas chambers, they didn’t murder Jews in them, and I wish they did!”) so I have no doubt that such people can’t be persuaded to recognize the truth until they choose to change their attitude towards Jews. Yet in recruiting malleable minds to their extremist POV, I am concerned of anything that might be used as ammunition by them. I personally simply don’t wanna give them so much as an inch that they might use to gain even more ground.

And there’s another issue with the human chess scene: it’s so inhumanely cruel that when people discover it’s made up, they might conclude (incorrectly) that the show had to invent this because there were no such brutalities during the Holocaust. I can’t stress enough how untrue this is. Sometimes I wish I could un-know what I do know about how Jews were murdered in the Holocaust. It’s not easy living in a world in which one knows such unrestrained hate-filled sadism is possible. Rest assured, most people haven’t heard about the worst of what the Nazis were capable of. So the idea that maybe people might get the wrong impression, that the Nazis weren’t as brutal as this scene... No. Just, no.

Again, I do get what the show was going for. The biggest metaphor it plays around with is that the fight between the Jews and the Nazis is a chess game. The show might refer to Jewish (and a few non-Jewish, to be accurate) Nazi hunters, but at the chess board, both sides are, in a sense, hunters and hunted. The scene with the human chess game gives the metaphor its fullest, most horrific incarnation, and it also allows for the brilliant visual cutting between the characters of the Nazi Richter, his Jewish prisoner Markus Roth, Jonah and the man he knows as Meyer Offerman. Not only does that drive home the question of who pursues and who is pursued, it also is another bit of genius foreshadowing that the man who presents himself to Jonah as a Jewish Nazi hunter is actually one of the Nazis the team is hunting (along with hints like the scene from Seconds which the fake Offerman watches, a film about a man assuming another one’s identity with the help of plastic surgery, plus Offerman saying to Jonah at almost the end of the ep “Only the dead know the end of war,” which we first hear uttered in German by the barbecuing Nazi to Helen in the opening scene of the show).

It’s absolutely fucking genius in terms of the artistic choices. And I’m not one to advocate for limiting artistic expression, even when it comes to historical events. But I do think that when we’re dealing with such sensitive material with real life implications for the perception of the Holocaust (and as a consequence, how Jews are perceived and treated here and now), we have to tread very carefully. We have to make sure we understand the consequences before we make these choices, and if we still decide to go ahead and include such historical alterations in our fictional work, we have to have a conversation about it, make sure people understand what the actual reality of the Holocaust was like, and that they’re not only left with a false impression that the Nazis were only that despicably grotesque in their fictional versions.

In this sense, I also have an issue with the reveal at the end of s1, that Hitler is still alive and hiding in South America. Don’t get me wrong, there really was a network set up to smuggle Nazi criminals to South America at the end of the war, and I wouldn’t be shocked by the willingness of people to help Hitler evade justice. But we do know he committed suicide at the end of WWII. In fact, in a sense, that’s a moment of justice on its own, when this man has to face the fact that he has failed, that he did not manage to exterminate the Jews (who he sees as the real power behind the allies) and that he has brought his country to ruin, leaving him no choice but to take his own life. Did he show any signs of remorse? No. In his last will and testament, he still commands the German people to carry on and finish what he started, the extermination of the Jews. But the fact that he had to admit he couldn’t do it, the fact that his actions were disastrous enough that he had to put a gun to his own head, that speaks for itself even if Hitler never explicitly expressed his realizations. But more than that, I’m always weary of conspiracy theories that neo-Nazis are in favor of. Again, much like with Holocaust denial, I just don’t wanna encourage anything that might empower them.

Second thing I was a bit uncomfortable with was the ongoing moral question regarding the Jews who had decided to hunt down and enact vengeance on Nazi murderers at the end of the war (contrasting them with the likes of Simon Wiesenthal, who believed that justice should be served through the legal system). I actually very much like the conclusion the this debate is brought to in ep 110 (basically, where it leaves things off at the end of s1, we’ll see what or if s2 changes this), but there’s something about even having this debate that makes me feel uneasy, because when there really were Jews who made that choice, it means they’re up for judgment. And to me, no matter what Jews did during or after the Holocaust, there is no moral right to judge them. They were put in extreme, impossible, utterly inhumane situations, that no human being should ever be put in. Some of the real Ha’Nokmim were kids and teenagers during the years of the Holocaust. How can anyone sit in judgment of a person who had been subjected to such immeasurable cruelty, during their formative years no less, someone who had the people meant to educate them on morals murdered, sometimes in front of their very eyes, and who had not even finished developing their cognitive functions (their prefrontal cortex, the part of the brain responsible for our moral choices, which only finishes developing at 19)? These people also often saw the legal system either failing to stop the murderers from committing their crimes, or it even collaborated with those (we can talk, for example, about the judges who chose to side with Hitler in Germany even before the Nazis’ rise to power). How can we dismiss it if they felt this system would not give them any justice at the end of the war? In fact, it didn’t. An upcoming documentary called Getting Away with Murder(s) will premiere on Jan 27, and it will look at the lack of justice served by legal means at the end of the Holocaust. The film maker points out that out of countless perpetrators and collaborators responsible for the murder of millions of human beings, less than 600 were given a serious sentence at the end of the war.

Not to mention, I do not believe that there is ever a moral equivalency between someone who chooses to be a part of the murder of millions of innocent people, and a person who takes the life not of an innocent, random human being, but rather of such a murderer. Is it the right choice to make even if an avenger is nothing like a Nazi murderer? That’s a different question, and like I said, that’s not one I have any right to answer, but in terms of the moral philosophy regarding the question of equivalence, I just don’t believe that these two could ever be considered the same without doing the avengers a horrible injustice. In fact, ignoring this lack of equivalence means Simon Wiesenthal’s option of going through the legal system loses its footing, too. Wiesenthal was a part of hunting down Adolf Eichmann and making sure that the man responsible for the deportation of millions of Jews to extermination, the man who had expressed to a Dutch journalist before he was caught that he regrets nothing, would have to defend himself in a court of law. Eichmann was provided with legal defense to make sure his trial was as fair as they come, and his line of defense was destroyed based on documents bearing his own signature. He decided his own fate with the immoral, murderous choices he made during the war. Yet, when the sentence was given that he was about to be executed, there was a group of intellectuals who composed a letter together, pleading for him to be pardoned “lest we become like him.” I hope you don’t need me to explain why this pseudo-moral position is actually a distortion of morals. It means there is apparently no crime perpetrated against the Jewish people horrendous or extreme enough that Jews would get to exact any kind of justice against the people who had wronged them. How is that moral, to make the murder of Jews essentially un-punishable?

An incredible feat

The most basic thing I have to mention is just how well made this show is. It’s well written, well acted, well directed, the music, the cinematography, everything is top notch, and the show even gets to flex by letting us witness how easily it can play around with genres. We even get a nod to musicals. In a show dedicated to Nazi hunters! Speaking of acting, I’m sure most accolades went to Al Pacino (deservedly so, he gives an amazing performance), but I personally have to applaud Logan Lerman. He just knocks it out of the park time and time again in a really challenging role that showcases the main journey in s1. Also, the moment that got to me the most emotionally, the one I felt in my very bones, was in 101, when Jonah falls apart over a bowl of soup, crying because he wants his savta. If you’ve ever known loss, if you’ve ever known grief, then you know how real that moment is.

Another thing is the use of humor. You may wonder about this one. After all, isn’t the Holocaust a really serious subject? Yeah, of course it is. But a part of how Jews survived it was by turning to humor. I can tell you jokes that survivors wrote down in ghettos and in camps that, painful as the subject matter is, still made me laugh when I read them, I can point you to a book titled “Without Humor, We Would Have Committed Suicide” that discusses how humor was a defense mechanism. It didn’t take away from the seriousness of the horrors people were experiencing, it bettered their ability to deal with those atrocities. So I’m glad a reflection of that is captured on this show.

I also wanna commend the characters of contemporary antisemites in the 1977, the characters of Dennis in 101 and Travis along s1. I mentioned in my post about the issues with Jewish representation that there’s a problem with the representation of antisemitism and how it’s mainly shown in the context of the Nazis and them alone, as if Jew hatred began with the Nazis and ended with them. It’s not true, and especially as antisemitism has been on the rise in every western country for at least a decade now, we need to talk about contemporary antisemitism more. I also suspect that a part of why Jews are sometimes overlooked as an oppressed minority is people not recognizing that the hate and discrimination against the Jewish people is still alive and kicking. This is before we even get to how many different types of antisemitism there are! But I bet most people would fail to name even three of them. Because we don’t actually educate on antisemitism. We talk about the Holocaust and leave it there, as if nothing exists between “Jews are fine and treated properly” and “Jews are being massacred.” So yeah, showing the antisemitic treatment of Jonah at the hands of Dennis, or Travis’ antisemitic attitude and how he relishes killing Jews in the post 1945, it really matters. It still not even close to covering all forms of antisemitism we see today, but it’s a step in the right direction that I hope others will follow.

Another really important aspect is that for the most part, the show is actually pretty accurate in a lot of ways. We either see details that are real, or are fictional stories that are very close to and accurately reflect events that really did happen. The overall uncensored and unashamed cruelty of the Nazis, born out of their antisemitic hatred, is well depicted. The fact that the show brings to light the efforts made to help Nazi criminals at the end of the war, whether we’re talking about the network to smuggle Nazi murderers to South America, or whether it’s Operation Paperclip, set up to allow Nazi criminals into the US (something that’s probably even harder for a US show to bring up), these are parts of the reality of the Holocaust that aren’t well known enough, and I’m so glad the show delves into them.

I mentioned that I love the way the show concludes the debate on whether it is the right thing to bring Nazis to justice through the legal system or through an act of personal revenge. The season finale, ep 110, gives it away even with its title, “Eilu v’Eilu.” It’s from a Hebrew saying, “Eilu v’eilu divrei elohim chaim” meaning “These and these are the living words of God.” It’s the Jewish concept that says two POVs can be completely contradictory (not just different, they can totally negate each other) and yet still both hold merit and be right. It’s a beautiful admission as to the complexity of the human experience, and it’s applied in such an amazing way here.

In 110, Jonah has to decide what to do when he discovers The Wolf, the Nazi who had abused Jonah’s grandparents and murdered his grandfather has been disguising himself as Meyer Offerman, the very man he had killed. Jonah can show compassion or he can take the life of this Nazi murderer. He chooses both. Jonah kills this man, but he first says the Kaddish for him. In fact, it’s not saying the Kaddish that allows Jonah to realize that the man claiming to be Meyer Offerman is not capable of Meyer’s intent to show even his abuser one last token of compassion. Meaning, it is this understanding that is key to the biggest emotional twist of s1. This is just a really wonderful, complex, human, and even Jewish conclusion to the debate that has been accompanying Hunters along this entire season, and it’s so well executed, too. It also gives room to whichever choice survivor made at the end of the war and does not morally judge them whatever path they took. I’m just absolutely in awe.

Lastly, and this is kind of reflected in something I had already mentioned in the previous paragraph, Hunters is simply so incredibly rich with Jewish culture, with Jewish wisdom, with Jewish tradition and tales, with Jewish humor and values, it is abound with a sense of Jewish identity and community, it is so unapologetically and beautifully Jewish, and I am absolutely in love with this aspect of the show. If I remember correctly, I heard at some point that the show creator, David Weil, was inspired by his own savta in making this show and it was dedicated to her. Well, the show radiates with love for the heritage he got from his grandmother. We even get to see Jewish events like a shiva’a and a Jewish wedding! How many Jewish characters have you seen over the years on your screen getting married or being buried? How many had their Jewish customs incorporated, even a tiny bit, into these significant moments in that character’s journey? Again, this is something I discussed in my post about the issues with Jewish representation. So trust me when I say, this show is an amazing tribute to Weil’s grandmother and to the Jewish people overall, and it’s one of the few cases of truly good Jewish representation that I have encountered on American television. Even for this point alone, I would recommend this show wholeheartedly, especially to Jewish viewers (while also preparing them for the show, pointing out the right context and the fact it is gory and painful in parts). I sincerely cannot stress enough how much this is the part that resonated for me the most and continues to make me think about this show months after I finished binge watching it. I hope and trust s2 would be just as good as s1, I’m looking forward to it, but I’m really grateful even for this one season of Hunters on its own and I am going to forever keep this show close to my heart.

If you’re looking for any of my posts about Jewish representation, you can find them at this link.

[fanchonmoreau]

Dramaturgy Jason Schneiderman

I’m writing a play about a Kommandant at Auschwitz who recognizes one of the Jewish prisoners as a famous poet, and as the Kommandant has poetic aspirations himself, he pulls the prisoner away from the work detail to receive poetry lessons from the celebrated Jewish writer. The bulk of the play is their discussions of poetry, which the poet is initially reluctant to have, the power differential being so stark, and though he flatters the Kommandant at first, when he begins to see his Nazi pupil’s true devotion to the art, as well as his untrained and untapped talent, he goes to work in earnest, and at times they are both simply lovers of the German language, though the truth of their situation often interrupts. In the last act, the Kommandant is on trial for his crimes, and in the days before he is to be executed, he begs the poet to publish his work under his own name— the Nazi’s writing under the Jew’s name— because as a Nazi, he feels his own name is disgraced, but he believes so strongly in poetry that it matters more to him that his work survive than that anyone know it was his work. The play is pulled entirely from my imagination, a careful rereading of Simon Wiesenthal’s The Sunflower, and the poetic ideas of Rilke and Goethe, with a smattering of Nietzsche. In readings of the play, the Kommandant has seemed more noble than I had intended—in many ways, more noble than the Jew, because the Jew is suffering by no fault of his own, while the Kommandant is tortured by conscience, and driven by a sense of poetic calling that separates him from the Germans around him. On the morning of the third workshop reading, I watched a video of two Russians on an ice-dancing reality show performing as Jews in Auschwitz. I was sickened, even though I couldn’t follow the pantomimed action, and I wondered if I was producing Holocaust kitsch myself, if my work was as disgusting as theirs, though I knew if I asked any of my team, they would reassure me that I am doing important work that rises to the level of art. Last night, during a break in the workshop of the play, I told the story of how my grandmother, upon learning that her entire family had died in the camps, had burned the photo albums of everyone she had loved. I have told that story many, many times, without feeling much more than regret, or sympathy, but this time I broke down crying, and I couldn’t stop. Everyone at the table came to comfort me, and I felt ridiculous, but the only thing I could say was, “It’s time for us to go. This isn’t a place we can live anymore.” I left the studio embarrassed, and later that day, I resigned from the production. I don’t think they believed that I was serious, and they’ll expect me to show up at the next table reading. I won’t. The play will go on though I can have nothing more to do with it. This morning, after taking a shirt off the hanger, I looked in the mirror and realized I hadn’t put it on. Without thinking, I had started packing a bag.

(x)

[fastwiemagie]

One-day-trip to the middle ages aka "let's go to ren faire"

Red Riding hood with a basket full of goods for grandma or more like "follow me behind this tent, I've got mead if you got coins"?

On July 8th I've went to ren faire - though that's not what we call it locally obviously. It's called "Mittelalterfest" in German, which translates to "medieval party". This event took place at the "Heeresgeschichtliches Museum" (museum of the history of warfare, Heer = army) and I really liked their slogan "Kriege gehören ins Museum" (=war belongs into museums). Wars should be a thing of the past!!

I've had a wonderful day with a couple of friends!! (Only sharing one selfie with my dear friend Duplica who's very comfortable with her likeness being shared!) I was pleasantly surprised at gaining free entry for dressing up for the event! Hurray for my thrifted dirndl-esque dress!! I've pinned the sides up with safety pins to give me more air flow and wore my pretty green hip bag for valuables & a string backpack for additional stuff! The dress is a linen & cotton blend, so it's very comfy to wear! Plus it has pockets and I thrifted it (with a broken zipper) for a super mark-down of 1€ during a special sales event. And I didn't even know until I went to pay and was flabbergasted at being only asked for one buck! Yay!

I've forgot to take better pictures of it, but I made a beautiful hair-crown with two overlapping braids and wore a felt leaf pinned to the back. (Felt leaf by my dear friend @wuselwesen .) That hair-do read semi-medieval enough for me, plus it's way cooler to wear my hair up in summer of course!

We've had great food & beverages (both alcoholic and non-alcoholic - stay hydrated in the heat folks!!). It was about 30°C on that day, so we kept it very cozy, lots of breaks and sitting around and chatting with our friends. But we also checked out all the vendours of course and chatted with them and admired their pretty wares! I was SOOOO tempted by all the gorgeous clothes in natural fibers. Alas, my coin purse (=budget) said no buuuuut I bought myself a beautiful basket bag, as an early birthday present to myself. It's so lovely, with a long woven fabric strap to carry the basket. I've also bought cherry mead at one vendour stall and my friend joked that "I'm almost like Red Riding Hood now, I only would need some cake for grandma!". But alas, I even had some pyramid cake with me (is Baumkuchen really called pyramid cake? Dictionary says so... it's dough wrapped around a piece of wood (hence "Baum" = tree (cake)) and rotated over a fire. I like it classic with sugar and cinnamon.

I've also found 5€ on the ground and invested it into an arrow head necklace immediately. What comes around, goes around!!

The day was SO beautiful, I was so emotional & happy leaving at night, I had to ask my friend if I could hug her because my happiness had to go somewhere and she said yes of course. Ahhh happy memories!!

Tagging @worth-beyond-a-number-scale because she's asked me to be tagged in posts where I'm wearing traditional/dirndl dress. This is a very casual outfit, it would be traditional to wear it with a blouse underneath & an apron. But it was way too hot for any of that last weekend!!

[id] Pic 1 & Pic 2:

both close-up pictures taken on public transport. Pic 1 is going to the renfaire, Pic 2 is the travel back home. Pic 1 shows the face & upper body of a young fat white woman with glasses and brown hair in a braided up-do. She's wearing a pentagram necklace and black earbuds. As well as a linen/cotton blend dress with a black bodice with floral machine embroidery on it.

Pic 2 has cut off the face of the young fat white woman, but you see the gorgeous woven basket she bought at renfaire next to her on a seat. More of the floral machine embroidery on the dresses bodice is also visible, as well as the green lacing on the front and the green skirt part. She's also wearing a green hip bag and has another black-and-floral bag with her (it's a backpack). Another necklace has appeared also: a golden arrow head on a black string! Ren faire purchase spotted??

Pic 3 shows some naturally-dyed yarn draped aesthetically on a construct of wooden sticks with a medieval-esque banner in the middle. The colours are very pleasing to look at and surprisingly colourful for natural dyeing!

Pic 4: The young white fat woman with glasses and brown hair (worn in a braided hair-crown on this day) is standing in front of some vendour stalls, with some faire goers in the background. She's smiling at the onlooker. You can see that the skirt part of her dress has been pinned up, for the aesthetic and extra air flow. Keen-eyed watchers spot a black bracelet on her left arm and she's also wearing black leather sandals.

Pic 5: This one is almost identical with pic 4, the young white fat woman with glasses and brown hair in her renfaire outfit, but she's smiling even more in this picture (and the people in the background have also changed).

Pic 6 & 7 are close-ups again.

Pic 6 shows the top part of the woven basket that has been purchased at the ren faire, with a pentagram necklace, an arrowhead necklace and a braided black bracelet lying on top of it. The close-ups shows all the accessories in detail!

Pic 7 is a selfie of the young white fat woman with glasses and brown hair together with another young white thin woman with brown hair, both looking into the camera, smiling and showing off the bottles of mead they just bought from a vendour.

Pic 8 is a full body shot again, with the young white fat woman with glasses and brown hair standing in front (or rather: behind) a yellow-and-turquoise striped tent (aka vendour stall). You can also see a more muted yellow-and red ochre coloured tent in the background as well as a dirty white tent. The woman is excitingly showing off her newly purchased basket bag, which she's stored her bottle of mead in. Hurray! She's looking very happy with her day at ren faire and her purchases.[/id]

[save-the-villainous-cat]

Hello cat!

Just read your 3k series and wanted to give you a bit of feedback.

End of part two feels a bit hasty, besides the typo in the second to last paragraph (pretty sure you meant villain not hero there). There's a few typos but who cares, this one was just a bit confusing and stopped my reading flow. BUT.

Part four is GREAT OMG the feelzzzz

And don't get me started on the ending it's truly villainous~ and just over the top honestly. I love it. Hard, hurting, realistic. Wanted to let you know you did a great job on the series :)

Personal opinion: I feel like you could have made this a lot longer. There's only a glimpse of the feelings you're trying to express, they came out but they'd really sink in if you'd dwell on it a bit more, write about the stuff a bit more. Although I think that's mb just not your style since you put more weight on dialogue. Like I said it's just a thought it's still great you don't have to change anything in your style.

Something else entirely... I've read some german mostly in your tags sometimes. So I wonder where you're from if you want to tell. Don't have to ofc.

Greetings!

Uhm…okay?

So, when I put my work out here, I obviously have to expect criticism. That’s kinda unavoidable. People will have an opinion about me and my writing.

However, I don’t really know what your intention is. For example, I don’t see the “typo in the second to last paragraph.”

I wrote:

The hero stared at them, eyes narrowed. As if all of this was a trick. But then eventually, they spoke. Followed by a line spoken by the villain.

The hero stared at them. So, they spoke eventually. I get that using nb/nb for both characters is confusing but most of the heroxvillain community is structured like that and nearly all my writing is too. Which makes it weird to me to see this as a mistake on my part…? Like, you could use any line I’ve written on here and tell me I actually meant hero or villain because they both use they/them pronouns.

Also, I didn’t really catch any big typos/mistakes in that snippet. I used a lot of short sentences in this especially because the hero is extremely tired in these scenes and thinking in long ass sentences is just not really possible in such a state of mind (at least not for me lol). So, I guess this could be a reason for why you were confused/not satisfied with the writing flow? It’s structured like all my other snippets and it’s my usual writing style, so that confused me about your ask, too. Of course, I make mistakes as well and I make typos but again…you could say that about every snippet I write, so I wonder why you chose this one specifically?

Additionally, I don’t really see which parts of my snippets are giving “only a glimpse of the feelings [I am] trying to express.” I don’t think my readers are dumb. I think my readers get what I mean when I write “It fried their brain, making it impossible to even think straight. Old panic resurfaced but they put on a tired smirk.”

I think my readers get that old panic means that this character is familiar with panic, whereas putting on a tired smirk is a reaction to it. Which is (as we see throughout the whole story) a thing the hero does a lot. Hiding their pain and distracting themselves with flirting. Readers aren’t dumb. I don’t have to go into every little detail about every tiny thing the characters experience. In fact, part of being a reader is, that you get to imagine these things for yourself. As the writer, I give you a tiny bit of information and as the reader, you get to interpret and shape that however you want.

My readers get what I am trying to express with my characters’ actions and their dialogues. The villain asking the hero if they think they’re a good person has meaning behind it and normally, as a reader, you get stuff like that. I don’t have to describe in a paragraph that the villain doubts themselves and is beginning to value the hero’s opinion on them, no, I let them ask if they think they’re a bad person.

Of course, this series could have been longer. Could’ve been deeper. It could’ve been a whole book. But I am not here to write books for you for free. I am not here to write thousands of words because one anonymous user thinks a blog which posts snippets, should write more and more and more.

So, I believe this is more opinion than actual criticism. I guess? Because, like I said, there’s a reason for the way this snippet is written and if you want to “criticise” me for typos, you’d have to criticise every post I have ever made.

And another thing is, this message is coming from an anonymous user. So, I’m sorry if this offends you but I really don’t care about your opinion that much. I don’t think this message had any criticism in it which improves my writing.

Eventually, your opinion doesn’t have the same weight to me as the opinion of a certain epiclamer or a certain lilyaang or a certain creweemmaeec11 or a certain snowshowerwriting or a certain avvail or a certain thepenultimateword or a certain English teacher of mine.

This is your opinion of the series and this is mine — I don’t see any big mistakes or horrible decisions I’ve made and some anon telling me they didn’t like this or that won’t change that.

And yes, English isn’t my first language. I am German, come from Germany, live in Germany.