#I do not pay attention to my cousins military career | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

pleasantanathema · 3 years

Text

Graves into Gardens | Reiner Braun x Reader | Chapter Six

Chapter Six: Revelations

Pairing: Reiner Braun x Fem!Reader

Rating: Explicit (18+ Only)

Warnings: Modern AU, spoilers up to season four, slight manga spoilers (only by including characters met later), captivity, mentions of death, violence enemies to lovers, angst, and eventual smut (ohohoho we’re so hot on it now, just wait until the end of this one)

Word Count: 5k

A/N: Thank you so, so much to everyone who has left comments, screamed in reblog tags, and just encouraged me to create this story. I have never felt so much love for a fic in the time I’ve been writing.

This chapter reveals a lot, and it’s a little longer than the rest, but it’s for good reason- the end of this is one of my favorite things I’ve written.

Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter

Reiner’s apartment truly wasn’t much. You thought he’d been joking, perhaps was even being humble, but the small studio apartment was quite dismal. The walls were stark white, a few faded posters peeling off the wall from neglect, a couple of medals and trophies lining a small bookshelf that was bursting with paperbacks and notebooks. A simple bed with a royal blue comforter and overstuffed pillows, the most compact L-shaped couch in front of a tv, and a corner dominated by a desk with two monitors and stacks of documents, manila envelopes, and crates of papers crammed below.

A kitchenet that looked hardly used was tucked away in another corner, the entryway to a small bathroom right near it.

There was truly nothing worth looking twice at, save a handful of framed photos scattered around.

You’d taken it all in rather hurriedly, still out of breath from practically running through snowy alleyways, the developing snowstorm covering the land like fresh linen. There was a window near his bed, which you gravitated toward after kicking off your damp boots by the door. Not much a view, either. Just more desolate, brick buildings and a sorry looking street below.

He told you once that he didn’t grow up with much, and it unfortunately seemed like despite joining the ranks of the military, he was still left with close to nothing.

“What are we here for?”

He was busy toiling with the thermostat, thick fingers mashing against the heat button to try to warm the small box of an apartment.

“You won’t like it,” he grumbled, golden eyes glancing over to you with a tinge of regret painting his brow.

“Then why bring me?”

“Because you need to see it.”

You tucked your hands under your arms, the chill of the winter’s day finally settling into your bones.

You watched keenly as he shrugged off his snow laden jacket, hanging it by the door before promptly locking it. He seemed as out of breath as you were, nose red from the cold, hands shaking as he fumbled with his phone. You bit the inside of your cheek with impatience, a small flame of ire licking its way into your chest.

Bringing you out here could get you killed. He knew that, right? Of course he did, but he did it anyways. Surely this matter of seemingly great importance could’ve been fetched by one of his comrades. You hadn’t quite considered the danger leaving the headquarters could bring upon you until you were dashing through the streets, the heavy paw of Reiner’s hand squeezing around your wrist. At one point in time, he’d shoved you back down another corridor, shielding you with the size of his body as particular caravan of cars turned down the roadway. He seemed to fear any pair of government eyes spying you.

He always was so careless.

He was busy texting someone, still standing idle, lip worried between his teeth.

Must be the girl you ran into that’s giving him a headache. He probably thought he could slip out and back again without a soul noticing, without anyone giving him grievance, but that bright eyed little cousin of his had ruined that. She’d been so excited to see him; he probably hadn’t been to see his family quite a while, seeing that he was on guard duty after his last mission.

How many days had it been since you’d been here? You’d honestly lost track of time, your world feeling like it had been caught in a slow turn of molasses. A few seconds could feel like hours, days felt like minutes, every heartbeat felt like it could be your last. You tried to add it all up in your head, eyes closing as you replayed all the events that led to you standing in Reiner Braun’s home in Marley.

A week and a half, you surmised. But it could be a little more, a little less. You think you would have kept your eyes on the sun a little more acutely, seeing that you’d missed it rise and fall for at least two days when you were bound in that cell.

“Are you alright?”

For a moment, you thought you had spoken the words. You were thinking them, but he asked you instead.

“That’s a loaded question,” you looked back down to the street, catching the sight of a line of what appeared to be school children marching in tandem down the sidewalk, snow in their hair and happiness on their faces, “but for the moment, I’m okay.”

Reiner pulled his lips to the side, considering your words. Maybe it hadn’t dawned on him that you couldn’t have been in any state of ease since you’d been promptly abducted and plopped down in this new world to navigate.

“Are you alright?” You encored, observing how his worried thumbs were still fast against the screen.

“Have I ever been?”

You made at face at that reply, corners of your mouth turning down while your shoulders shrugged. Fair enough.

Though, for the first time, a bit of pity crept into your mind. Reiner didn’t really ask for this life, did he? He was doing whatever he could to get by, fallen rather inelegantly into the position of being sent to Paradis, and was now being handed you to watch over, presumably without his full consent. You were both pawns in this world, kings and rooks dominating the board and playing you both for fools.

Being a Scout hadn’t been your intention, either. You’d once had other dreams: college, a career, a family, but you’d been grandfathered into the role by your government working parents, and cemented into it when they’d died. You had nothing else to do, so you served. You served your country, your friends, but you also served yourself, using the role to keep your life afloat, even if it sometimes meant spilling the lifeblood of others, even if it meant sacrificing aspirations and settling. Though, you would admit that some rather beautiful things managed to bloom from the barren soil. Regrettably, those had all been left behind, washed away by tides you couldn’t control.

“I’m sorry,” Reiner grunted, sinking into the cushions of the couch, “she—she already opened her mouth. I’ve gotten Annie to settle things at HQ, but I imagine Chief is still furious.”

“Is it such a bad thing to take me out here? I mean, you could easily stop me if I tried to run away.”

“Could I?”

You debated his question. While you were quite nimble, you’d be like a rat in a maze trying to find a way out of this god forsaken place.

“If I let you,” you reasoned, a tinge of humor behind your words.

He smiled, all warm and soft, full lips parting. The realization that you hadn’t seen him smile in years pummeled into your chest like a heavy hand stealing from your lungs. It made the sorrow that much more palpable.

“For the record, Zeke is more upset I didn’t ask permission. He’s hellbent on his authority.”

“So I’ve noticed.”

You also pinpointed something else of note, a picture glinting on his nightstand catching your attention.

It resembled the same one you’d seen on Zeke’s desk, only now you could make out the faces. Reiner didn’t pay you any mind as you reached for the framed memory, plucking it from its home, dust from the back of it staining your fingers.

A red booth housed five familiar faces, all grinning over half-drank pints of beer. Their arms were interlocked around each other’s shoulders, all the men young and handsome, Reiner and Bertholdt even more youthful than when they’d first walked through the doors of the Scout Office. Then there was Zeke seated next to Porco, the latter in that green jacket you’d seen him in earlier. But your eyes were set on a face you’d never thought you’d see again, a face that possessed the very recesses of your mind, only appearing late at night when you’d see it in corners, catch it lingering behind your eyelids. He was attractive, appeared personable, messy dark hair and distinct brow that matched the boy next to him.

“Reiner…” you whispered, still unmoving from your spot between the bed and the window pane, “who is this?”

He peered over his shoulder, any hint of a smile now vanished like etchings being erased from a page.

“You don’t recognize him?”

Him, a photo full of faces, and he knew who you were asking about. He’d probably stared too long at the ghost himself. You wondered if he ever placed the frame down at night to sleep better; you would have, if you’d killed someone you cared about.

“You know I do.”

Reiner held his hand out, long arm stretched across the back of the couch. You finally talked your feet into moving, shuffling across the hardwood as you placed the offending item into his upturned palm.

Then, you sat next to him, your knees bumping together as you tried to analyze the emotions stirring within. You couldn’t quite place any of them—Regret? Fear? Curiosity? Sadness? But they were quelled when Reiner placed his hand on your twitching thigh, pressing that anxiousness away for a moment.

“Marcel Galliard, Porco’s older brother.”

Your lips parted, both of your attentions centered on the souvenir held between you.

“It was his birthday, and we hadn’t had the chance to celebrate mine and Zeke’s yet either, so we all went out for drinks. I unfortunately don’t remember much from that night, but I remember being…happy, content.”

“Why’d you do it?” you asked it a little quickly, “why would you…save me, not him?”

“I told you, some things I don’t have a choice about.”

“But you—you could’ve said he killed me and got away, right? You did have a choice.”

You saw how his jaw clenched, muscles in his cheek flexing.

“I don’t know.” Agony lined his voice, the words soft, hushed.

That situation was something you both thought about far too often than you’d like to admit, a late-night mulling that never led to conversation.

“I’m sorry.” You took the photo away, placed it face down on the coffee table.

“Don’t be. We can’t change the past,” he said solemnly.

You could, however, lament it. Which is something you did perhaps too often.

━━━─── • ───━━━

Reiner wasn’t ready for what was to come. He knew he never would be, which is why he threw precaution to the wind and decided to lay his cards on the table now.

He had to pick a side. Even if these wars didn’t truly concern him, even if the fate of countries ultimately didn’t matter to his conscious, you did—you mattered, he mattered, and he had to start thinking about things on a smaller scale.

He wanted to go back to Paradis. He practically yearned to go back in time, to return to a place where being Eldian didn’t matter, where his status didn’t matter, where he could remake himself into something new. If it hadn’t been for his binds connecting him to Marley, he could’ve actually seen hope instead of sorrow on the horizon. He could never seem to cut the vines, could never actually get away from the people controlling his life.

But now, now he saw an out, and it was with you. When this cataclysm first happened, all he wanted was for you to be dead, for you to go away and leave him and his miseries alone to rot and wither. Being with you, however, reminded him of a life he could have. He just had to make it happen, he had to start molding his own clay, had to keep bearing the weight of the world like the weary Atlas until he could find a way to make it turn in his favor.

He was tired of wishing for death.

Which is why he had to bring you here and why he would handle the consequences that were waiting in the distance.

You might not be very helpful to Marley, but he could be of use to Paradis.

“I believe you,” he hadn’t noticed he was still touching you, fingers gripping onto your leg like a lifeline, “about Zeke. I believe you because I—we, Pieck, Annie, Bertie—we know he’s up to something beyond what he tells us and the generals. He is working with someone in Paradis. We don’t know who, but we do think we know what for.”

“Oh my god…oh my god. Why didn’t you—”

“You think I can just fucking say that when anyone could be outside my door listening?”

“I thought you said I wouldn’t like what you have to show me.”

He noticed how your shoulders relaxed, like you’d been holding in tension for far too long.

“That’s not…I have something else for you.”

He didn’t move just yet, not quite ready to actually set this all in motion.

This all hinged on you. As much as he hated to admit it, he knew you quite well; of course, that was the you of four years ago. The you he had next to him now was older, scarred, burdened, but he still felt that same magnetic pull to you that he could never explain. He was just a moon consigned to orbit you, to be connected to you even when neither of you desired the attachment.

He knew you were going to be upset, livid; his skin was already prickled at the thought of how you would possibly punch him if when you read what he had to give.

At least you always looked pretty when you were angry.

He could still remember how Jean had cowered undeath his desk when you’d stomped into the office after discovering he’d used the branch’s own money to play in a high-stakes poker game while undercover. He’d been fishing for information on the elites, found himself tipsy, and then found himself on the receiving end of your fury. The only thing that stopped your yelling was Erwin, who, for personal reasons, didn’t want any fuss made over government money being gambled away.

Erwin. He’d never cared for how close you were to him.

Reiner finally stood, expecting you to sit and wait, but you were following him like a shadow, small hand wrapped around his forearm as he moved to his computer. When he sat down, that hand moved up to his shoulder, your fingers squeezing into his muscle with encouragement. It didn’t really put him at ease.

He turned the desktop on, the monitor flashing to life. He typed in his password quickly, then went searching for that folder he’d kept hidden away so he’d never bother to look at it again.

“Hand me one of those,” he nodded his head in the direction of a small container of flash drives on the other side of his desk. You plucked one out of its resting spot and went ahead and placed it into the port on the computer. He knew you wouldn’t question why had so many on hand—you both knew how it all worked, you both kept important documents that had to be shuffled around digitally.

Familiar names lined the inside of the folder, ones he’d once tried to forget. He heard you suck in a quick breath and took a moment to look up at you. Your brow was set, tongue obviously caught between your teeth to keep yourself from saying anything.

This was his job. He was in charge of keeping tabs on The Scouts, he was the one who fed Marley all the information they could. Well, almost all of it.

“These are files I never gave over. They’re yours now. I never gave Marley everything they wanted I…I thought I was protecting you. There’s also a few files on Zeke that Pieck created in here, too.”

You both watched as he copied the folder over to the flash drive, one by one the names and dates slowly dropping into a new safe place for them.

He touched your waist, signaling you to step back. He rolled his chair out, ducking under the desk for a split moment to gather a box of the printed documents he had actually handed over; the action was a mistake.

You were leaned over him in an instant, hand clutching and moving the mouse so quickly it scraped against the desk. He attempted to reach up and stop you, but he paused—there were still bruises on your wrist, on your fingers, faded watercolors of surviving pain. He’d gripped your hand, your wrists, all day, why hadn’t you stopped him?

He already knew which file you opened; he didn’t need to look. But he did anyways, moving the crate to the side and sitting back in his chair, arms crossed across his chest. His poor heart felt like it was going to burst.

Marco Bott’s face filled part of the screen, all sweet and freckled like he remembered. Those kind eyes were looking straight at him, judging him. Reiner was just waiting, he knew what was said in there, he wrote it all, still recalled how puffy his eyes were when he did it, how much he regretted it.

There was a pregnant pause, one so heavy he felt like he was being crushed.

This all hinged on you. He needed you to help him, needed you to help you.

“I fucking knew it.”

He was already flinching, shrinking. He watched the screen scroll, the black letters and white spaces all a blur.

“Threat eliminated by gunfire, killed by organized crime members after…” you hesitated, eyes dancing as you reread the words, “after his gear was removed to ensure death.”

He was on his feet before you could hit him, backing away from your clenched fists, chair rolling to be forgotten in the corner.

“What. Did. You. Do?”

Each word came with a step toward him. He was running out of space, nearly tripping over the edge of the couch as you encroached upon him.

“What did you do?” Your voice was getting louder, pain written across your face like he’d just stabbed you. “You told me there was no fucking truth about Marco!”

“There isn’t! Marco’s dead, there’s no changing—”

“There’s no changing the past,” you mocked his words, venom dripping from your tongue.

━━━─── • ───━━━

Your blood was boiling, wrath itching between your fingers.

You were going to kill him. You were going to wind your fists around his neck and watch the life drain slowly from his eyes like he fucking deserved.

You couldn’t believe you’d let you guard down, that you’d started to trust him. You always knew something had gone awry the night Marco died. He’d been slaughtered, ransacked with bullet holes across his body. It was like he had been dropped into the line of fire, dangled out like a piece of meat to be eaten alive.

And he didn’t have his gear, that’s what stumped everyone looking into the mess of it all. It was like he had walked in unprepared, like a boy on a suicide mission walking straight to his death. Thirty-six bullets and even more empty, splattered holes littered had riddled his corpse. Jean had fallen to his knees. Connie didn’t speak for a week. Sasha didn’t eat for days.

Because of Reiner’s decision, that man suffered, you all mourned, and you felt like you most of all had let him down. Marco had been your protégé, you’d taught him everything he knew, and that was the first mission he was allowed to go on after his training. You’d been tailing a rather violent gang, found their hideout, and were infiltrating for arrests and to see what was inside. Marco had been paired with Reiner and Bertholdt to lead the first wave of infiltration, while you and the rest waited for the signal to rush the back doors to the run-down ranch not far out of the city of Trost. They’d been up ahead by the barn that was sandwiched between stables.

But your signal turned to sounds of gunfire. You could still hear it echoing in your ears as you approached Reiner. The sounds of metal clicking, of repeated blasts from automatic weapons ringing across the hillsides like single note windchimes in a raging storm.

“Tell me why.”

Your fingers were digging into his shirt before you could stop yourself, the threads of the worn Henley threatening to rip from your nails sinking into it. You could actually feel his heart beat against his chest, a frightened bird trying to flee his ribcage.

When he didn’t speak right away, your anger flared, made you shove him back against the wall with all your might. It made your arms hurt, like you’d just slammed your hands against brick, a sharp pain that made you hiss.

“He overheard us—”

“Overheard what?”

You could tell he was getting a little infuriated as well, nostrils flaring as he looked down his nose at you. It must look funny, you pressing him against the wall of his own apartment. Reiner was nearly twice your size—he was bigger than most people, and he towered over you like a looming threat.

“Let me fucking finish,” he took a deep breath, eyes nearly glazing over, “He overheard Bertie and I talking about how we should relay the details of that gang, of organized crime in general, to Marley. We—we hadn’t had time to talk alone since we’d been prepping that shit for days. We didn’t know Marco followed us around to that side of the rooftop.”

“That’s it? He heard you whispering little secrets and you killed him for it?”

One of the buttons near the neckline of his shirt popped as your knuckles dug deeper into the fabric.

“He literally heard us say that we needed to find a time to call General Magath of Marley. If he lived and told someone that—,” his breath caught for a moment when one of your nails started to pierce his skin, “it would have compromised our entire mission. We’d been there for three years, and he could’ve ruined it all.”

You were at your breaking point. You could feel that terrible heat that comes with sadness creeping up your neck, snaking around to your cheeks. If you weren’t careful, you were going to cry. All this time, all this time spent wondering why, and this was why he had to die?

Killing wasn’t unusual in your life. It was part of the job, something you’d unfortunately had to do on a few occasions. You knew those strangers who ate your bullets or your knife had families, that they were people too, but most of them were monsters, thieves, rapists, threats to the corrupted balance of the governmental structure. But Marco…he was like family, and finding his limp, almost unrecognizable body had sent even the most hardened veterans into despair. Levi took off from work the next day; the only time he had ever missed a day on the job.

“Tell me how!” You truly didn’t mean to scream it, but the emotions raging in your stomach, your chest, it all ached too much.

“Be quiet, I have neighbors—”

“I don’t give a fuck about your god damn neighbors, Reiner!”

He finally moved then, his once idle hand now jerking up to your face to fiercely hold your cheeks beneath his fingers. You tried to smack his hand away, your own fingers digging and tugging at his wrist.

“Letme-go!” Your words were jumbled, your open mouth allowing his fingers to press your cheeks in between your teeth.

“You have to be fucking quiet,” he hissed, a whole new light shining in his eyes, a familiar rage you had seen when you’d fought against him the day Paradis was invaded. The reality of how large he was sunk in again; he looked like a vengeful god peering down at you, all hot-blooded and incensed.

You thought for a moment he wouldn’t hurt you, but then you remembered he already had. He had the inclination to be just as cruel as you could be.

His fingers stayed firm against your cheeks, holding you like he was daring you to speak again.

“Tellmehow,” you managed to spit out, wincing when he took the leverage he had on your face and used it to shove you back. You stumbled, banging into the side of the couch as you rubbed at the sore flesh of your mouth.

But he was unmoving, back straight against the wall, a statue built on the foundation of wrath and agony, waiting to crack and fall onto you if you made the wrong move.

“We knew their guards were patrolling. Bertholdt covered his mouth while I stripped him of his equipment, of his guns, and I pushed him off the roof and into their sight.”

He said it so calmly that it made you sick. But that was a reality he had to live with every day, wasn’t it? He had to replay in his mind over and over again that he had done such a vile thing, he had to justify it else it would eat him alive.

Your tears were hot, but contained, your lashes blinking them aside as you just stared at him. You opened your mouth to scream at him, you were so ready to spew hatred and let it burn him, but he was quicker than you.

With one step, he was on you, your hair wrapped in his fast as he wrenched your head to the side, smarting your scalp to silence you.

“Marco’s dead, and I’m sorry for it. You fucking screaming will do nothing but have the assholes who live below me calling the authorities and you’ll find yourself in a much worse prison than before.”

You didn’t like how he was right. Still, you glared up at him, brows pinched together in pain.

It felt like you’d merged into him, those rapid hearts within your chests suddenly beating as one with the same suffering, the same torment. You both had to live with the poor reality of your lives; you were killers, you were monsters too.

You were too close to him, could smell the heat of his skin, could feel his breath against your sore cheeks. Your hands were flat against his chest, trapped between you, his arm an anchor as it tugged at the roots of your hair, keeping your face turned towards his.

You couldn’t help but look at him, there was nowhere else to focus, only on him. It was like you could see the pages of a book open across his face, wretchedness and anguish painted in broad strokes in the fair wrinkles around his eyes, in the curve of his brow. It was beauty and pain bleeding together, the amber color of his eyes swirling as he searched your own face like he was looking for something. What would he find hidden behind your own grief?

“I hate you,” you whispered, breath long gone.

“I know.”

“And I’ll never forgive you.”

It was like he was moving closer, the time you were losing now completely stopped, frozen between your bodies.

“Don’t want forgiveness,” he caught your whisper and gave it back, “just judgement.”

His lips met yours with a bruising fervor.

The hand in your hair flexed, pulled you closer, made you gasp as your hands slid up his chest. Your fingers found his rumbling throat, and in the back of your mind, you recalled how just moments ago you were waiting to snatch the life from his neck. You felt his pulse beating beneath your thumb, a war drum beating hot and fast in his veins. Your mouth was moving against his, eyes closed, suddenly greedy and hungry; for what, you didn’t know. All you did know was that this felt so wrong, like you’d taken a misstep and landed right into the lion’s lap, but that it also felt like absolution, like he was devouring your sins and taking them for his own.

Your mouth slanted for him, a hum resounding from both your throats as you fell into this new, strange rhythm. You’d thought about it before, kissing him like this, feeling those plush lips against yours, angry and hot and needy. You cherished the taste of him, like a dark, rich wine filling up your mouth, spilling over and enveloping your senses. Your tongue tempted him to open his lips, to let you in. There was no hesitation.

His other hand found your hip, fingers mean and pulling you impossibly closer. Your palms drifted up from his neck, found his face, thumbs smoothing over cheekbones. You could feel the soft hairs of his cheeks, his chin, sweeping against your skin. It all felt too good, like you were getting lost, delirium taking over. Nothing else mattered anymore, just the gratification of tasting his emotions, of taking his groans into your mouth and echoing them back. You pressed harder into him, kept your tongue tangled with his, noses brushing as you found new beats to your rhythm.

It was wicked, sinful, something your heart was pleading for and your mind screaming out against. But you couldn’t stop. You didn’t stop. It was as if you kissed for as long as you’d known each other. Every year passed by, every regret, every sharp turn of your tongues against one another, all the hurt and longing, placed into one moment of your bodies finding one another.

When the heat began to die, you were both still stroking the flames, deep, languid kisses turned into smaller presses of your lips against one another. It was intoxicating and you felt so drunk, so, so drunk off of him.

There was a stillness between you, like the gentle sigh and breaths of the world as it awoke to the morning sun when you finally stopped. A lulling peacefulness lingered in the wake of what you’d done.

His hands were still on your body, in your hair, looser now. Yours were still on his face when your eyes fluttered open.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, lips plump, wet.

“I know.”

Next Chapter

#reiner braun #reiner braun x reader #reiner x reader #snk reiner #snk reiner braun #AoT #aot reiner #aot reiner braun #aot fanfiction #aot x reader #snk fanfiction #snk x reader #reiner x you #reiner braun x you

331 notes · View notes

blackswaneuroparedux · 4 years

Text

Anonymous asked: Who are some women in history that would be comparable to Napoleon or Alexander? Women who rose to power because they sought greatness and not because they used the feminine form to seduce for an easier life? How can the feminine mind come out of the mentality of being “the weaker sex”?

The short answer is that there are no women in history comparable to Napoleon or Alexander but equally I would quickly add that there are no other men in history either. These two contrasting men are unique. Alexander and Napoleon share similarities in their warfare, and how they used it to conquer and establish new lands. Both left legacies in which their very name has been equally loathed and loved down the ages. But they were unique.

Both were outsiders whose personal qualities rose above obstacles. Alexander was Macedonian and the Greeks looked down upon him as uncultured barbarian in the same way Napoleon was Corsican nobility and the old French aristocracy pulled up their noses in snobbish superiority. And yet able to rise through the grit of discipline and learning, luck and skill.

Both were great battle field commanders with a greater understanding of how to use one’s forces at hand to the terrain. Both were not quite true innovators as many might imagine. Alexander's military brilliance is beyond dispute but the groundwork for his superior tactics and strategies were laid by his father Philip of Macedon. Much of Napoleon’s greatness relied on the conscription model that the French revolutionary wars ushered in.

Alexander used new technology in new ways, invented new formations, and used his battlefield successes to accomplish his strategic goals with the innovative use of propaganda that was unseen before. Alexander was very unmatched in winning battles against much larger enemy formations as he was often outnumbered 2:1. He was a tactical genius in finding the weakness in the enemy’s lines and making the surgical strike necessary to ensure victory. He was quick witted at being able to make quick tactical decisions in the thick of the battle.

He was able to snatch victory from the claws of certain defeat, time and again, always against overwhelming enemy superiority in numbers, always in a terrain that his enemies had carefully chosen to maximise their advantages.

Any city he ever attacked he conquered. His own father the great Philip II failed to take Byzantium, and was defeated by Thracian tribesmen, but not Alexander. He made land out of a sea and conquered the heavily fortified island city of Tyre, and he used rock climbers to take the Sogdian Rock in Bactria/Afghanistan, an impregnable citadel that was compared to an eagle’s nest. Moreover he never lost a battle.

Napoleon was a brilliant general and even in his time earned grudging respect from his enemies. Napoleon was very successful in most of his military campaigns, and that laid the foundation necessary for his political achievements.

He fought 60 battles in his career, losing only 8 with two being considered “tactical victories” only (Second Bassano and Aspern-Esseling) . Nevertheless in the vast majority of his defeats (as well as victories) he was horrendously outnumbered, logistical suffocated, or betrayed by his allies.

He was exceptionally talented both strategically and tactically. In campaign after campaign he defeated larger armies with a smaller force, through methods like moving boldly and quickly, defeating them in detail, cutting off their lines of retreat, and doing what his enemies least expected.

Less glamorously but even more important he was great at logistics. One of his most famous maxims is that, “An army marches on its stomach.” If troops are not well equipped and well fed, they can not be expected to fight well. Napoleon had his armies live off the land, and marched faster than his enemies. While Napoleon still had supply lines, much of the food, clothing, and pay for his men was looted from conquered territory. This allowed him to march faster, and he often did forced marches where his men would march twice as far each day as the enemy predicted.

His opponents were often shocked at how quickly he outmanoeuvred them. At Ulm he surrounded an enormous Austrian army and forced them to surrender - while they thought he was over a hundred miles to the west and were waiting for reinforcements. Again, another thing that got him into trouble in Russia: the Russians retreated even faster, and burned everything in their wake, so there was nothing to loot.

He was innovative too in his use of light horse artillery - smaller cannons were pulled by fast horses, ridden by their crew - who could get into position rapidly and move into a new area when required. Napoleon loved these guys and used them in combination with his slower artillery to great effect often in support of heavy artillery.

Both were inspirational leaders of men in battle. In Alexander’s case he almost killed himself jumping into the Indian city of the Malians alone, a wound which weakened his body and eventually probably contributed to his death. He was simply fearless. Like the Carthagenian Hannibal, and all ancient Greek military leaders, Miltiades, Epameinondas, Philipos II, etc, and Romans, like Caesar, Alexander was always leading from the front line. In Napoleon’s case he too was fearless At Arcole he tried to inspire his men to attack, by grabbing a flag and stood in the open on the dike about 55 paces from the bridge. Both were loved by their men and their very presence on the battlefield was an inspiration to their fighting men.

Both were superb political strategists who were able to build on military gains with statecraft skills. Alexander the Great’s strong perseverance and incredible battle strategies led to increase his power over his empire. Napoleon used his intelligence and skill of manipulation to earn respect and support from the French people, which gained him great power.

For all this, they were both losers in the end. Both lost because they failed the most valuable lesson history can give: success is a bad teacher. Their military victories made them increasingly cocky and their political gains made them overreach. In the end their own personal qualities that brought them so much unprecedented success was the harbinger of their downfall.

So we are left with the question: what is greatness? The judgement of history seems to suggest that glory is fleeting but true greatness lasts the test of time.

There are simply too many women to list that would be worthy of anyone’s attention to show that women have achieved greatness throughout history.

Here is a good basic list of warrior women in recorded history https://www.rejectedprincesses.com/women-in-combat

Indeed one doesn’t have to stray too far from antiquity to show that women as warriors did make an impact.

I shall just focus on a few from antiquity that stand out for me and and a few more modern choices that are very personal to me.

Penthesilea

I had heard of Penthesilea and the Amazons before as a small girl. But the first time I really understand just how impressive and unusual it was in the ancient world to be a woman who “fights with men” was when I was taking Latin at my English girls’ boarding school. Contrary to popular belief, Penthesilea’s story isn’t actually told in the Iliad (which ends with Hector’s funeral, before the Amazons arrive), but in a lost ancient epic called Aethiopis. This poem continued the story of Achilles’ great deeds, which included the killing of several famous warriors—Memnon, King of Aethiopia, and Penthesilea most prominent among them.

The Amazons had a number of famous Queens, but Penthesilea is perhaps the most storied. She was a daughter of the war-god Ares, and Pliny credits her with the invention of the battle-ax. She was also sister to Hippolyta, who married the hero Theseus, after being defeated by him in battle. Penthesilea ruled the Amazons during the years of the Trojan war—and for most of that time stayed away from the conflict. However, after Achilles killed Hector, Penthesilea decided it was time for her Amazons to intervene, and the group rode to the rescue of the Trojans—who were, after all, fellow Anatolians. Fearless, she blazed through the Greek ranks, laying waste to their soldiers.

During the battles, Penthesilea was not a queen who sat by and watched the men fight. She was a warrior in the truest sense. It is said that she blazed through the Greeks like lightning, killing many. It is written that she was swift and brave, and fought as valiantly and successfully as the men. She wanted to prove that the Amazons were great warriors. She wanted to kill Achilles to avenge the death of Hector, and she wanted to die in battle. I love Vergil’s glorious description of her in battle: “The ferocious Penthesilea, gold belt fastened beneath her exposed breast, leads her battle-lines of Amazons with their crescent light-shields…a warrioress, a maiden who dares to fight with men.”

Although Penthesilea was a ferocious warrior, her life came to an end, at the hands of Achilles. Achilles had seen her battling others, and was enamored with her ferocity and strength. As he fought, he worked his way towards her, like a moth drawn to a flame. While he was drawn to her with the intention of facing her as an opponent, he fell in love with her upon facing her. However, it was too late.

Achilles defeated Penthesilea, catching her as she fell to the ground. Greek warrior Thersites mocked Achilles for his treatment of Penthesilea’s body after her death. It is also said that Thersites removed Penthesilea’s eyes with his sword. This enraged Achilles, and he slaughtered Thersites. Upon Thersites’ death, a sacred feud was fought. Diomedes, Thersite’s cousin, retrieved Penthesilea’s corpse, dragged it behind his chariot, and cast it into the river. Achilles retrieved the body, and gave her a proper burial. In some stories, Achilles is accused of engaging in necrophilia with her body. In other legends, it is said that Penthesilea bore Achilles a son after her death. Yes, I agree, that does feel creepy.

Penthesilea’s life and death were tragic. She is portrayed as a brave and fierce warrior who was deeply affected by the accidental death of her sister. This grief, compounded with her desire to be a strong warrior who would die an honourable death on the battlefield, led her to Troy, where her tragic death weakened Troy, but also led to unrest in the Greek camps due to her death’s impact on Achilles and his revengeful acts. In the end, she died the ‘honorable’ death on the battlefield that she had longed for, at the hands of the legendary Achilles, no less.

The heroines of Greek mythology tend towards thoughtfulness, fidelity and modesty (Andromache, Penelope), while the daring and headstrong personalities generally go to the antagonists–Medea, Clytemnestra, Hera. But Penthesilea is something else entirely: a woman who meets men on her own terms, as their equal. Perhaps in honour of this, Virgil doesn’t give her the standard heroine epithet of “beautiful.” For him, it is her majesty and obvious power that make her notable, not her looks.

By the way, the word that Virgil uses for warrioress is bellatrix, the inspiration for Bellatrix Lestrange’s name in the Harry Potter books. So she lives on in immortality through our modern day Virgil, J.K. Rowling (just kidding)

Cynane (c. 358 – 323 BC)

Cynane was the daughter of King Philip II of Macedon and his first wife, the Illyrian Princess Audata. She was also the half-sister of Alexander the Great. Audata raised Cynane in the Illyrian tradition, training her in the arts of war and turning her into an exceptional fighter – so much so that her skill on the battlefield became famed throughout the land. Cynane accompanied the Macedonian army on campaign alongside Alexander the Great and according to the historian Polyaenus, she once slew an Illyrian queen and masterminded the slaughter of her army. Such was her military prowess. Following Alexander the Great’s death in 323 BC, Cynane attempted an audacious power play. In the ensuing chaos, she championed her daughter, Adea, to marry Philip Arrhidaeus, Alexander’s simple-minded half-brother who the Macedonian generals had installed as a puppet king. Yet Alexander’s former generals – and especially the new regent, Perdiccas – had no intention of accepting this, seeing Cynane as a threat to their own power. Undeterred, Cynane gathered a powerful army and marched into Asia to place her daughter on the throne by force.

As she and her army were marching through Asia towards Babylon, Cynane was confronted by another army commanded by Alcetas, the brother of Perdiccas and a former companion of Cynane. However, desiring to keep his brother in power Alcetas slew Cynane when they met – a sad end to one of history’s most remarkable female warriors. Although Cynane never reached Babylon, her power play proved successful. The Macedonian soldiers were angered at Alcetas’ killing of Cynane, especially as she was directly related to their beloved Alexander. Thus they demanded Cynane’s wish be fulfilled. Perdiccas relented, Adea and Philip Arrhidaeus were married, and Adea adopted the title Queen Adea Eurydice.

Olympias and Eurydice

The mother of Alexander the Great, Olympias was one of the most remarkable women in antiquity. She was a princess of the most powerful tribe in Epirus (a region now divided between northwest Greece and southern Albania) and her family claimed descent from Achilles. Despite this impressive claim, many Greeks considered her home kingdom to be semi-barbarous – a realm tainted with vice because of its proximity to raiding Illyrians in the north. Thus the surviving texts often perceive her as a somewhat exotic character.

In 358 BC Olympias’ uncle, the Molossian King Arrybas, married Olympias to King Philip II of Macedonia to secure the strongest possible alliance. She gave birth to Alexander the Great two years later in 356 BC. Further conflict was added to an already tempestuous relationship when Philip married again, this time a Macedonian noblewoman called Cleopatra Eurydice.

Olympias began to fear this new marriage might threaten the possibility of Alexander inheriting Philip’s throne. Her Molossian heritage was starting to make some Macedonian nobles question Alexander’s legitimacy. Thus there is a strong possibility that Olympias was involved in the subsequent murders of Philip II, Cleopatra Eurydice and her infant children. She is often portrayed as a woman who stopped at nothing to ensure Alexander ascended the throne. Following Alexander the Great’s death in 323 BC, she became a major player in the early Wars of the Successors in Macedonia. In 317 BC, she led an army into Macedonia and was confronted by an army led by another queen: none other than Cynane’s daughter, Adea Eurydice.

This clash was the first time in Greek history that two armies faced each other commanded by women. However, the battle ended before a sword blow was exchanged. As soon as they saw the mother of their beloved Alexander the Great facing them, Eurydice’s army deserted to Olympias. Upon capturing Eurydice and Philip Arrhidaeus, Eurydice’s husband, Olympias had them imprisoned in squalid conditions. Soon after she had Philip stabbed to death while his wife watched on.

On Christmas Day 317, Olympias sent Eurydice a sword, a noose, and some hemlock, and ordered her to choose which way she wanted to die. After cursing Olympias’ name that she might suffer a similarly sad end, Eurydice chose the noose. Olympias herself did not live long to cherish this victory. The following year Olympias’ control of Macedonia was overthrown by Cassander, another of the Successors. Upon capturing Olympias, Cassander sent two hundred soldiers to her house to slay her.

However, after being overawed by the sight of Alexander the Great’s mother, the hired killers did not go through with the task. Yet this only temporarily prolonged Olympias’ life as relatives of her past victims soon murdered her in revenge.

Artemisia I of Caria (5th Century BC)

Named after the Goddess of the Hunt (Artemis), Artemisia was the 5th century BCE Queen of Halicarnassus, a kingdom that exists in modern-day Turkey. However, she was best known as a naval commander and ally of Xerxes, the King of Persia, in his invasion of the Greek city-states. (Yes, like in the action movie 300: Rise of an Empire.) She made her mark on history in the Battle of Salamis, where the fleet she commanded was deemed the best against the Greeks. Greek historian Herodotus wrote of her heroics on this battlefield of the sea, painting her as a warrior who was decisive and incredibly intelligent in her strategies. This included a ruthless sense of self-preservation. With a Greek vessel bearing down on her ship, Artemisia intentionally steered into another Persian vessel to trick the Greeks into believing she was one of them. It worked. The Greeks left her be. The Persian ship sank. Watching from the shore, Xerxes saw the collision and believed Artemisia had sunk a Greek enemy, not one of his own.

For all of this, her death was not one recorded in a great battle, but in legends written by the victors, the Greeks - so one must obviously be skeptical of accepting what they said as 100% truth. It's said that Artemisia fell hard for a Greek man, who ignored her to his detriment. Blinded by love, she blinded him in his sleep. Yet even with him disfigured, her passion for him burned. To cure herself, she set to leap from a tall rock in Leucas, Greece, which was believed to break the bonds of love. Instead, it broke Artemisia's neck. She's said to be buried nearby.

But much like Penthesilea, she lives on in our modern culture, but arguably more dubiously through Hollywood in the sub-par action movie 300: Rise of an Empire. Now I forever think of Artemisia as the beautiful and sultry French actress, Eva Green.

Boadicea (also written as Boudica)

Boadicea was a Celtic queen who led a revolt against Roman rule in ancient Britain in A.D. 60 or 61. As all of the existing information about her comes from Roman scholars, particularly Tacitus and Cassius Dio, little is known about her early life; it’s believed she was born into an elite family in Camulodunum (now Colchester) around A.D. 30.

At the age of 18, Boudica married Prasutagas, king of the Iceni tribe of modern-day East Anglia. When the Romans conquered southern England in A.D. 43, most Celtic tribes were forced to submit, but the Romans let Prasutagas continue in power as a forced ally of the Empire. When he died without a male heir in A.D. 60, the Romans annexed his kingdom and confiscated his family’s land and property. As a further humiliation, they publicly flogged Boadicea and raped her two daughters. Tacitus recorded Boudicca’s promise of vengeance after this last violation: “Nothing is safe from Roman pride and arrogance. They will deface the sacred and will deflower our virgins. Win the battle or perish, that is what I, a woman, will do.”

Like other ancient Celtic women, Boadicea had trained as a warrior, including fighting techniques and the use of weapons. With the Roman provincial governor Gaius Suetonius Paulinus leading a military campaign in Wales, Boadicea led a rebellion of the Iceni and members of other tribes resentful of Roman rule. After defeating the Roman Ninth Legion, the queen’s forces destroyed Camulodunum, then the captain of Roman Britain, and massacred its inhabitants. They went on to give similar treatment to London and Verulamium (modern St. Albans). By that time, Suetonius had returned from Wales and marshaled his army to confront the rebels. In the clash that followed–the exact battle site is unknown, but possibilities range from London to Northamptonshire–the Romans managed to defeat the Britons despite inferior numbers, and Boadicea and her daughters apparently killed themselves by taking poison in order to avoid capture.

In all, Tacitus claimed, Boadicea’s forces had massacred some 70,000 Romans and pro-Roman Britons. Though her rebellion failed, and the Romans would continue to control Britain until A.D. 410, Bouadicea is celebrated today as a British national heroine and an embodiment of the struggle for justice and independence.

Queen Zenobia

In the 3rd century AD, Queen Zenobia, natively know as Bath Zabbai, was a fierce ruler of Palmyra, a region in modern day Syria. Throughout her life, Zenobia became known as the ‘warrior queen’. She expanded Palmyra from Iraq to Turkey, conquered Egypt and challenged the dominance of Rome.

“Zenobia was esteemed the most lovely as well as the most heroic of her sex,” Gibbon wrote in an awestruck account of her brief reign. “She claimed her descent from the Macedonian kings of Egypt, equaled in beauty her ancestor Cleopatra, and far surpassed that princess in chastity and valour.” The only contemporary representation we have of Zenobia is on a coin, which makes her look rather witchlike, but Gibbon’s description of her pearly-white teeth and large black eyes, which “sparkled with uncommon fire,” cast a spell over future historians, both in the West and in the Arab world, who quarrel over nearly everything having to do with Zenobia and her confounding legacy.

Many legends have arisen about Zenobia’s identity, but it seems she was born into a family of great nobility who claimed the notorious Queen Dido of Carthage and Cleopatra VII of Egypt as ancestors. She was given a Hellenistic education, learning Latin, Greek, the Syriac and Egyptian languages. According to the Historia Augusta her favourite childhood hobby was hunting, and she proved to be a brave and brilliant horsewoman.

Despite this, many ancient sources seem to gravitate to one quality – that she was an exceptional beauty who captivated men across the whole of Syria with her ravishing looks and irresistible charm.

She was probably in her twenties when she took the throne, upon the death of her husband, King Odenathus, in 267 or 268. Acting as regent for her young son, she then led the army in a revolt against the Romans, conquering Egypt and parts of Asia Minor. By 271, she had gained control of a third of the Roman Empire. Gibbon sometimes portrays the warrior queen as a kind of well-schooled Roman society matron. “She was not ignorant of the Latin tongue,” he writes, “but possessed in equal perfection the Greek, the Syriac, and the Egyptian languages.” Palmyra’s abundant wall inscriptions are in Latin, Greek, and an Aramaic dialect, not Arabic. But to Arab historians, such as the ninth-century al-Tabari, Zenobia was a tribal queen of Arab, rather than Greek, descent, whose original name was Zaynab, or al-Zabba. Among Muslims, she is seen as a herald of the Islamic conquests that came four centuries later.

This view, popular within the current Syrian regime, which boasts Zenobia on its currency, also resonates within radical Islamic circles. Isis radical fighters have believed Palmyra to be somehow a distinctively Arab place, where Zenobia stood up to the Roman emperor.” Indeed, Isis fighters, after seizing Palmyra, released a video showing the temples and colonnades at the ruins, a unesco World Heritage site, intact. “Concerning the historical city, we will preserve it,” an Isis commander, Abu Laith al-Saudi, told a Syrian radio station. “What we will do is pulverise the statues the miscreants used to pray to.” Fighters then set about sledgehammering statues and shrines.

Zenobia’s nemesis was the Roman emperor Aurelian, who led his legions through Asia Minor, reclaiming parts of the empire she had taken. Near Antioch, she met him with an army of seventy thousand men, but the Roman forces chased them back to their desert stronghold. During the siege of the city, Aurelian wrote to Zenobia, “I bid you surrender, promising that your lives shall be spared.” She replied, “You demand my surrender as though you were not aware that Cleopatra preferred to die a queen rather than remain alive.” Zenobia attempted to escape to Persia, but was captured before she could cross the Euphrates. Palmyra was sacked after a second revolt. Aurelian lamented in a letter to one of his lieutenants, “We have not spared the women, we have slain the children, we have butchered the old men.”

Some Arab sources adhere to the theory that Zenobia committed suicide before she could be caught. Gibbon follows Roman accounts that place her in Rome as the showpiece of Aurelian’s triumphal procession. “The beauteous figure of Zenobia was confined by fetters of gold; a slave supported the gold chain which encircled her neck, and she almost fainted under the intolerable weight of jewels,” he writes. The grand homecoming apparently elicited a snarky response from the commentariat. According to the “Historia Augustus,” Aurelian complained, “Nor would those who criticise me, praise me sufficiently, if they knew what sort of woman she was.” Instead of beheading her in front of the Temple of Jupiter, once a common fate of renegades, he awarded her a villa in Tivoli. The historian Syncellus reported that she married a Roman senator; their descendants were listed into the fifth century. She is said to have died in 274 AD in Rome.

Eleanor of Aquitaine (1122-1204)

Eleanor was a formidable Queen twice over – first as Queen of France, then of England! Her father William X died in 1137, leaving Eleanor to inherit his titles, lands and enormous wealth at just 15. Suddenly one of France’s most eligible bachelorettes, she married Louis, son of the French King, and not long after became Queen of France, still in her teens.

Famously fierce and tenacious, Eleanor exerted considerable influence over Louis, and accompanied him on the Second Crusade of 1147-49. After their marriage was annulled in 1152, she stayed single for just two months before marrying the heir to the English throne Henry Plantagenet, and in 1154 they were crowned King and Queen of England. Eleanor took a leading role in running the country, directing church and state affairs when Henry was away, and travelling extensively to consolidate their power across England. This was all while raising eight children, and finding time to be a great patron of courtly love poetry!

Eleanor and Henry separated in 1167, and after Eleanor sided with her children over Henry during a revolt, she became Henry’s prisoner. She was held under house arrest for over a decade, and it was only in 1189 after Henry died and her son Richard the Lionheart became king that Eleanor was freed.

By now a widow in her 70s, instead of retiring to a quiet life away from court politics, Eleanor became more badass than ever. While Richard was away on crusade she took a leading role once again in running the realm and fending off threats of attack, and when he was taken hostage by the Duke of Austria she personally collected his ransom money and travelled to Austria to deliver it and ensure his safe return to England.

After spending many of her final years criss-crossing France and Spain on diplomatic and military missions, Eleanor died in 1204 at a monastery in Anjou. The nuns there described her as a queen ‘who surpassed almost all the queens of the world’.

Elizabeth I of England (1533-1603)

Elizabeth I is one of my favourite Queens of all time. She reigned for 45 years and is well remembered for her defeat of the Spanish Armada, her progresses, her economic policies, and her patronage of the arts – as well as her virginity. The history books talk much of her make-up and spinsterhood, but there is no doubt that she was one of the most badass monarchs England ever had.

Elizabeth’s early life did not start well. By the age of three, her father had had her mother executed, and Elizabeth had been deemed illegitimate. Nonetheless she was given a rigorous education. One tutor even noted that her mind showed “no womanly weakness”. She excelled at Greek, Latin, French and Italian, as well as theology – knowledge that would equip her for diplomatic leadership so necessary in later life.

In 1554, under the reign of her devout Catholic sister Mary, Elizabeth became the focus of a Protestant rebellion. She was arrested and sent to the Tower of London, but was found innocent and escaped with her life a few months later. Her true commitment to the reformed church was only openly revealed upon her accession to the throne.

Indeed, as Queen Elizabeth promptly expressed her support for the Protestant church, and yet her reign is celebrated for bringing relative religious stability to the country. She adopted a policy to not “make windows into men’s souls”, which allowed for a margin of freedom beyond that of the monarchs before her. Her astute appointment of ministers and officials along with careful housekeeping also led to a period of relative economic stability, which in turn allowed for the arts to flourish during this time. Elizabeth attended the first performance of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream and appointed the acclaimed miniaturist Nicholas Hilliard as a court painter.

Elizabeth’s choice not to marry was radical (and wholly understandable given her monster for a father and abusive step-father.) Yet, throughout her reign the expectation remained that she would find a husband and give birth to an heir. Instead, the Queen used her ‘eligible bachelor’ position as a political tool, while creating an image of herself as married to the nation. Her popularity with her subjects and her own self-styled image as Gloriana made Good Queen Bess into a legendary figure; today, she has been portrayed in more films and television shows than any other British monarch.

Her most amazing achievement is the fact that her name defined a chapter of Western history so that even today we talk of Elizabethan era. A feat matched only by Queen Victoria to define the 19th Century.

Tomoe Gozen

When I was living in Japan as a child I began to appreciate Japanese history. I also took an interest in the Japanese martial arts as well as being thrown in at the deep end to struggle to learn the language. So as an outsider I was happy to discover that Japanese women were not always demure and subservient or even passive witnesses to history. Some even made it. Outsiders don’t truly know how some Japanese women had shaped their own destiny as well as their country’s within the constraints of the rigid social structures of Japanese society. Contrary to what many think there were indeed female samurai. Not many but one or two who became the stuff of legend and lore.

The most famous onna-bugeisha (female samurai) in Japanese history was Tomoe Gozen. Gozen was a title of respect bestowed on her by her master, shogun Minamoto no Yoshinaka. She fought alongside male samurais in the Genpei War, which lasted from 1180 to 1185. While a woman fighting among men was highly unusual, it seems Yoshinaka's high esteem for Tomoe and her fighting skills overcame prejudice.

In the history tome The Tale of Heike, Tomoe was described as "a remarkably strong archer, and as a swordswoman she was a warrior worth a thousand, ready to confront a demon or a god, mounted or on foot." She was also said to be beautiful, fearless, and respected.

Her hobbies included riding wild horses down intimidatingly steep hills. She regularly led men into battle and to victory. Her last was the Battle of Awazu, where Minamoto no Yoshinaka was killed. Tomoe escaped her enemies there, and gave up her sword and bowed to retirement. From there, some say she married. Years later, when her husband died, it's believed Tomoe became a nun.

Nakano Takeko

The other known onna-bugeisha (female samurais) in Japan's history, Takeko was educated in literary and martial arts before distinguishing herself in the Boshin War, a Japanese civil war that lasted from January 3rd May 1868 to 18th May 1869.

In the Battle of Aizu in the fall of 1868, she and other females who chose to fight were not recognised as an official part of the Aizu army. Nonetheless, Takeko led her peers in a unit that was later dubbed Jōshitai, which translates to the "Women's Army." Her weapon of choice was the naginta, a Japanese pole arm. But while it helped her earn glory, it would not safeguard her through the war.

Takeko was shot in the chest while leading a charge against the Imperial Japanese Army of the Ogaki domain. Fearing that her enemies would defile her body and make her head a gruesome war trophy, she asked her sister to cut it off and bury it. This was her final wish, and her head was subsequently buried beneath a pine tree at the Hōkai-ji Temple in modern-day Fukushima. Today, a monument to her stands nearby, where girls come each year to honour her and her Women's Army during the Aizu Autumn Festival.

Laxmibai, the Rani of Jhansi (1828-1858)

Laxmibai would have made any of warrior women of Classical antiquity proud. She was the last of the true warrior queens. The fact she was Indian and bitterly fought the British to the death doesn’t deter me from admiring her hugely in the same way the British still admire Joan of Arc.

Like many other families scattered across the British Empire, my family lost brave relatives who died during the tragic Indian Mutiny of 1857 (the Indians call it the First War for Independence). But however ugly and bloody that chapter of British imperial history was, I find myself in awe of the life of Laxmibai, the Rani of Jhansi.

When as a family we moved to India I learned a little about her from Indian school friends. I learned a lot more from a couple of Indian officer cadets at Sandhurst (Sandhurst takes in officer cadets from the Commonwealth and other countries) with whom I struck an affable friendship because I could speak Hindi and we used to watch Bollywood movies with our platoon mates. Laxmibai is every bit as remarkable as Jeanne d’Arc and much more. I can say I am humbled when I try to retrace her steps of her life when I visit India from time to time.

By the time Laxmibai (or Lakshmibai) was a teenager, she had already violated many of the expectations for women in India’s patriarchal society. She could read and write. She had learned to ride a horse and wield a sword. She talked back to anyone who tried to tell her to live her life differently. But where those spirited ways might have been scorned in another young Indian woman, they would prove to serve her well as she went on to leave an indelible mark on Indian history.

In the mid-19th century, what became the modern nation of India was dotted with hundreds of princely states, one of which, Jhansi, in the north, was ruled by Queen Laxmibai. Her reign came at a pivotal time: The British, who were expanding their presence in India, had annexed her realm and stripped her of power. Laxmibai tried to regain control of Jhansi through negotiations, but when her efforts failed she joined the Indian Rebellion of 1857, an uprising of soldiers, landowners, townspeople and others against the British in what is now known as India’s first battle for independence. It would be 90 years before the country would finally uproot the British, in 1947.

The queen, or rani, went on to train and lead her own army, composed of both men and women, only to perish on the battlefield in June 1858. In the decades that followed, her life became a subject of competing narratives. Indians hailed her as a heroine, the British as a wicked, Jezebel-like figure. But somewhere between these portrayals she emerged as a symbol not just of resistance but of the complexities associated with being a powerful woman in India.

Laxmibai wasn’t of royal blood. Manakarnika, as she was named at birth, is widely believed to have been born in 1827 in Varanasi, a city in northeast India on the banks of the Ganges River. She was raised among the Brahmin priests and scholars who sat atop India’s caste system. Her father worked in royal courts as an adviser, giving her access to an education, as well as horses. In 1842, Manakarnika married Maharaja Gangadar Rao, the ruler of Jhansi, and took on the name Laxmibai. (It was — and, in some parts of the country, still is — a common practice for women to change their names after marriage.)

By most accounts she was an unconventional queen, and a compassionate one. She refused to abide by the norms of the purdah system, under which women were concealed from public view by veils or curtains. She insisted on speaking with her advisers and British officials face to face. She wore a turban, an accessory more common among men. And she is said to have trained women in her circle to ride and fight. She attended to the poor, regardless of their caste, a practice that even today would be considered bold in parts of India. While she was queen, the powerful British East India Company was beginning to seize more land and resources. In 1848, Lord Dalhousie, India’s governor general, declared that princely states with leaders lacking natural born heirs would be annexed by the British under a policy called the ‘Doctrine of Lapse’.

Laxmibai’s only child had died, and her husband’s health was starting to deteriorate. The couple decided to adopt a 5 year-old boy to groom as successor to the throne, and hoped that the British would recognize his authority despite the declaration. “I trust that in consideration of the fidelity I have evinced toward government, favour may be shown to this child and that my widow during her lifetime may be considered the Regent,” her husband, the maharaja, wrote in a letter, as quoted in Rainer Jerosch's book, “The Rani of Jhansi: Rebel Against Will” (2007). His pleas were ignored. Soon after he died, in 1853, the East India Company offered the queen a pension if she agreed to cede control. She refused, exclaiming: “Meri Jhansi nahin dungee” (“I will not give up my Jhansi”) - a Hindi phrase that to this day is etched into India’s memory, stirring up feelings of pride and patriotism.

Beyond Jhansi’s borders, a rebellion was brewing as the British imposed their social and Christian practices and banned Indian customs. The uprising spread from town to town, reaching Jhansi in June 1857. Dozens of British were killed in the ensuing massacre by the rebels. The British turned on Laxmibai, accusing her of conspiring with the rebels to seek revenge over their refusal to recognize her heir. Whether or not she did remains disputed. Some accounts insist that she was wary of the rebels and that she had even offered to protect British women and children during the violence.

Tensions escalated, and in early 1858 the British stormed Jhansi’s fortress.

“Street fighting was going on in every quarter,” Dr. Thomas Lowe, the army’s field surgeon, wrote in his 1860 book “Central India During the Rebellion of 1857 and 1858.” “Heaps of dead lay all along the rampart and in the streets below….Those who could not escape,” he added, “threw their women and babies down wells and then jumped down themselves.” As the town burned, the queen escaped on horseback with her son, Damodar, tied to her back.

Historians have not reached a consensus on how she managed to pull this off. Some contend that her closest aide, Jhalkaribai, disguised herself as the queen to distract the British and buy time for her to get away.

In the end, the British took the town, leaving 3,000 to 5,000 people dead, and hoisted the British flag atop the palace. Left with no other options, Laxmibai decided to join the rebel forces and began training an army in the nearby state of Gwalior.

The British troops, close on her heels, attacked Gwalior on a scorching summer morning in June 1858. She led a countercharge — “clad in the attire of a man and mounted on horseback,” the British historians John Kaye and George Malleson wrote in “History of the Indian Mutiny” (1890) — and was killed. However accounts differ on whether she was stabbed with a saber or struck by a bullet. It was the last battle in the Indian Rebellion.

“The Indian Mutiny had produced but one man,” Sir Hugh Rose, the leader of the British troops, reportedly said when fighting ended, “and that man was a woman.”

The violence left thousands dead on both sides. The British government dissolved the East India Company over concerns about its aggressive rule and brought India under the control of the Crown. It then reversed Lord Dalhousie’s policy of annexing kingdoms without heirs.

Today, Queen Laxmibai of Jhansi has been immortalised in India’s nationalist narrative. There are movies, TV shows, books and even nursery rhymes about her. Streets, colleges and universities are named after her. Young girls dress up in her likeness, wearing pants, turbans and swords. Statues of her on horseback, with her son tied to her back, have been erected in many cities throughout India.

And, almost a century after her death, the Indian National Army formed an all-female unit that aided the country in its battle for independence in the 1940s. It was called the Rani of Jhansi regiment.

There are plenty of other women that one could write about of great women leaders who while not on the front line of battle did lead their countries to greatness or skilfully pulled the strings from behind the throne. History is littered with many examples.

What metrics we determine to define ‘greatness” is very much in the eye of the beholder. It’s not a matter of masculine or feminine virtues - although they are important in their own way. Above all I would say what makes a leader great is character.

There is no ‘weaker sex’ - that would be a terribly unfair slur on our men.

I’m joking of course. But my point stands. I don’t believe it’s about who is the weaker sex. But let’s talk of character instead.

Character defines the essence of leadership. I say this because I often encounter a perception among women that they need to become more like men to be considered equal to them. Nothing could be further from the truth. What makes you uniquely who you are as a woman is highly important.

We are all called to become the best versions of ourselves, and as women, we don’t do that by trying to be more like men. It would be a mistake to put one’s heroines on a pedestal because they are all flawed and have feet of clay - just like men. Character knows no gender. Character is virtuous. Character is rising to greatness despite one’s flaws.

As early as the 1300s, Catherine of Sienna wisely said, “Be who you were created to be, and you will set the world on fire.” More than 500 years later, Oscar Wilde reiterated that notion: “Be yourself, everyone else is already taken.”

So be the best version of yourself.

Thanks for your question.

#question #ask #warrior #women #femme #leadership #history #military history #heroines #napoleon #alexander #personal

105 notes · View notes

astraeagreengrass · 4 years

Text

The Queen’s Husband [1/?]

When her reign is threatened, the Queen of Ergona must find a husband to secure her throne.

Pairing: King!Steve x reader AU

Word Count: 2.875

Warnings: Minor descriptions of violence. No smut - but there will be in later chapters. English is not my first language so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

A/N: This was originally my submission for a writing challenge that never came to be. My prompt was “Elizabeth”, the original score composed by David Hirschfelder for the 1998 movie starring the incredible Cate Blanchett. I thought it was the perfect opportunity to try and sate my King Steve obsession - which I blame entirely on @invisibleanonymousmonsters‘s Heart of Steel and @shreddedparchment‘s Pseudo Princess (two masterpieces written by incredible authors whom I look up to so much!).

Series mastelist

The air smelled like salt water, blood and smoke.

Your face was damp from the sea spray or your tears, you weren’t sure. Wiping your eyes furiously you stood still, staring straight ahead at the burning fleet of Zerbolian warships.

Their soldiers were still screaming.

Closer to the cliffside, Ergona’s armada stood in defense position. Over one hundred ships at the Queen's command, making it the most powerful and feared navy in the world. The Zerbolian king had been a fool to think that, out of all ways, he would win this war at sea.

He hadn't believed his advisors, choosing instead to put his faith on the assumption that he could never be bested by a woman, and a young one at that. His mistake, you pondered, hadn't been to think that Ergona would bend to his will as it had during your father's reign, but to think that you would.

You, however, were not your father. And tomorrow you'll ride into the capital city of Albeon like he never did, celebrated by your people as the ruler who put an end to the Zerbolian threat.

But today you would mourn.

It didn't matter that most casualties had been on the enemy's side. Death was still death. Across the Muir Sea women would cry for the men they had violently lost at the hands of Y/N of Ergona. Women such as yourself, albeit none of them had to carry the heavy crown of their kingdom, and for that they were better than you were.

The sound of hooves broke through the howling of the wind. Looking back you saw a beautiful black stallion making its way to you. His rider was a blonde man you could tell from afar, whether from his distinct shield or from the sheer strength of his presence.

“Your Grace” he said, moving his horse to stand next to yours.

You cleared your throat, trying to disguise your choked voice.

“Captain Rogers” you answered, sounding as stoic as you possibly could. “I thought you were at sea.”

“I was. But I noticed your horse standing at the edge of the cliff so I sailed ashore.”

“Isn’t it reckless to sail ashore while the enemy’s fleet is still burning?” you retorted.

He let out a dry laugh.

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but this is far from the most reckless thing I’ve ever done.”

You didn’t answer. Captain Steven Rogers indeed hadn’t made his fame by being careful. The son of a wealthy Duke, he had traded the comforts of a life at Court for a military career. He had yet to reach his third decade of age, but his accomplishments on the battlefield were well known in all of Ergona, earning him the respect of powerful men much older than him.

For the five years you had been queen he had stood by you. A man of unquestionable loyalty and honor, Captain Rogers not only managed to unify the army, but to restore the naval forces to their glory in an incredibly short time. You owed him the defeat of Zerbolia, as well as your safety in the face of the assassinations attempts he managed to uncover.

Twice now you had questioned him about his future aspirations during small council meetings and twice he's given the same answer:

"My duty is to Y/N of Ergona. As long as my queen judges me fit to fight for her and her kingdom, then so I will."

His words unsettled you. Your experience taught you that no man could be that virtuous. They always wanted more. And Captain Rogers, with his prestige and influence, could very well be coveting your crown.

"I hope I'm not being too forward" the man himself said, as if he knew you were thinking of him. "But are you alright, Your Grace?"

His concern surprised you.

"I suppose it is odd for someone to cry for their enemy's loss" you answered.

"Not odd, just surprising. But I shouldn't have expect less from you."

You turned to him, brows furrowed.

"Whatever do you mean?"

Under your questioning gaze, Steve blushed, his cheeks turning a subtle shade of light pink.

"Pardon me, Your Grace. I didn't mean to offend you" he quickly apologized. "But, in my eyes, crying for those poor dead soldiers doesn't make you weak or odd. It only showcases you humanity. And maybe it is unwise for you to show yourself like this - God knows you have enough criticism as it is. It is strange this world we live in where humanity is seen as a vulnerability, but, in my eyes, it just makes you greater queen."

Smiling, he added:

"Not that I ever doubted your greatness."

The screams were gone now. Only the strong wind remained, bringing ashore the distinct smell of burning flesh. And although you were starting to feel nauseated, you couldn't take your eyes off Captain Rogers.

"Do you think we did well by crushing the Zerbolian fleet the way we just did?" you finally inquired him.

"I think our worst decisions are made during war. But yes, I doubt we'll have any more conflicts with Zerbolia after today."

"I don't want to be a warmonger queen. I don't want my greatness to come from the blood of my enemies or the tears of my people" you continued.

Captain Rogers was silent but his eyes were filled with an affection you can't place.

"You are repairing your father's mistakes and they were many. There will be blood to pay, but ultimately, Ergonia will rejoice. It already is. The people call you The Golden Queen - the one who brings glory back to the land", he said.

You are lost for words. Your most basic instincts, the ones who recalled the way your father mistreated your mother and the everyday hardships of negotiating with men who didn't take you seriously, willed you not to fall for his kindness. But another part of you - young and carefree on the fields of Foghar - found solace in the hope his words brought you.

Before you could answer another rider arrived, bearing a red flag with the dragon sigil, your House motifs.

"Your Grace. Captain Rogers" he greeted, bowing while still astride his horse. "Lord Stark calls for you, Your Grace. He wishes to ride back to Albeon as soon as possible."

You nodded.

"Thank you, Mister..."

"Peter Parker, Your Grace".

"Thank you, Mr. Parker. Please tell my uncle Captain Rogers will escort me back to camp."

"Yes, Your Grace", the boy bowed once again, before returning the way he had come from.

Turning to Captain Rogers you realized the moment was gone. Whatever talk you had shared today would stay here, atop the Gaothach Cliffs, only the restless sea as your witness.

"Thank you for your company, Captain Rogers" you said and your voice was back to the detatched tone you usually spoke in.

Steve glanced at the last remains of the enemy's ships, before pulling the reins of his horse.

"Anything for you, Your Grace."

A fortnight after the events at the Gaothach Cliffs you sat in the council room surrounded by your advisors.

"A letter arrived today from the King of Zerbolia" Lord Fury, the master of warfare, announced. "He wishes to sign a peace treaty, putting an end to the conflict between our nation and his."

The corner of your lips lifted slightly, in a discreet but satisfied half-smile.

"And what do you propose we do, Lord Fury?" you asked from the head of the table.

"The peace treaty is what we coveted, but it may be a trap. I suggest we send a diplomatic party to the Isle of Solas, which is neutral ground, and celebrate the treaty there. Furthermore, to protect Your Majesty's well-being, I suggest that you send someone to sign it, rather than going yourself."

"Very well" you said. "You'll be responsible for organizing the diplomatic party and the signing of the treaty for as soon as possible. And when the day comes you'll sign it as the queen's representative."

Lord Fury bowed. His face, usually an inscrutable front adorned only by his eye patch failed to hide his surprise. He expected you to oppose him, instead going on to sign the treaty yourself. And to deny what you felt was an obligation as a ruler was another blow to your pride - a king would have braved any threats on his life to ensure his country's peace. But a queen such as yourself - young, unmarried and childless - was expected to sit still.

You'd had a small victory when the council agreed on you going to the shore to accompany the army as it faced Zerbolia. You suppose you could grant them this concession.

"Lady Natasha, what news do you bring?" you turned your attention to a beautiful redheaded woman standing on your left, Natasha Romanoff, the master of whispers.

"Your Grace" she begun in an uneasy timbre you hardly ever heard. Natasha was anything but meek. Whatever one of her spies had discovered was not good. "Earlier this morning your cousin, Queen Margaret of Beathan, gave birth to her first child."

Lord Fury coughed on his wine. It would have been comic if the news weren’t dreadful. Natasha’s heavy words rung in your ears, distorted, as if your body had been been dunked underwater and the pressure kept you from doing anything other than allow the current to plunge your body deeper.

Lord Stark, master of coin, finally broke the silence.

"Is it a boy or a girl?"

"It is a boy" Lady Natasha answered. "Heir to the throne of Beathan… And Ergona."

Lord Stark cursed. Lord Strange, master of trade, stood and began pacing the room.

"Are you positive that this child has a claim to the throne?" he said.

"Of course he has" Lord Fury cut in, face red from all the coughing. "Your Grace has yet to bear children, therefore she has no heir. And Queen Margaret is her closest living relative. If Queen Y/N dies before securing her lineage, then the throne goes to Margaret. And since Margaret is already queen the crown falls upon her son, who would unify the kingdoms of Beathan and Ergona."

Queen Margaret was your cousin on your father's side - the royal side. Her mother, your aunt, had married the King of Beathan and Margaret was their oldest child, thus becoming queen upon his death. Since you had no siblings, Margaret was next in line to the throne of Ergona which was always a very remote possibility considering she had her own kingdom to rule. But the birth of a son changed things immensely.

Under the table, Natasha squeezed your hand.

"My Lords" you faintly rose your voice, silencing the debate between your male advisors. "What shall we do about this matter?"

They were dumbfounded, each one not-so-subtly staring at the other wondering who’d be brave enough to answer. Sighing, Lord Strange spoke:

"Your Grace, there is only one way for us to end this threat. You must marry and produce an heir."

“Once you have an heir, then he or she will be the next in the succession, guaranteeing the future of you House" he completed.

"No, Lord Strange. Only a son will guarantee the future of my House. A daughter will be just like me - as prepared as any man, as educated as any man, but in the end she'll still need a husband to secure her reign. It happened to Margaret and apparently it is what will befall me: queens, it appears, are only means to an end. It looks to me that we're not meant to rule with our hearts, but with our wombs".

Lord Strange slumped on his chair, embarrassed. But his words were true: you had tried, day and night for the past five years to establish yourself as a strong ruler. You ended wars and initiated policies which benefitted commoners and royals alike. The taxes were controlled, the public coffers were full and the military thrived. Ergona had established itself as a key player in international trade routes. However all your accomplishments failed to quell public demands for your marriage. Your gender threatened to topple everything you've built.

You weren't oppose to marriage, per se. Lord Stark and his wife had a long, happy marriage and so did Lord Strange and others you knew. Your anxiety came from having to share your crown and the responsibility that came with it. As queen you had a wide variety of suitors, Ergonans and foreigners alike, but anyone could fake their intentions in order to secure power. The wrong husband could mean a hellish life to you and your people.

Lord Fury, never one to be subtle, landed the final blow:

“There has been much talk about your lack of commitment to marriage, Your Grace. I know you’re aware of it. And they will only get worse with the news of Margaret’s son. Your father weakened the kingdom, but you’ll never restore it to its full glory on your own. Fight as many battles as you want but in the world we live in a queen can’t rule without a king.”

"I am well aware of the world we live in, Lord Fury" you replied. "More so, I am well aware that my position demands sacrifices."

For the second time that morning, he was visibly surprised.

"I only ask that you be very careful as you chose my betrothed. Not only for the safety of the kingdom, but for my well being as well."

"Your Grace?" Natasha asked in a whisper but you didn't answer. There would be time for you to confide in her privately.

Lord Stark cleared his throat. His eyes were filled with unshed tears.

"Your Grace" he said. "My beautiful niece Y/N. I have raised you as my own since you were nine years old. My sister's spirit lives in your words and deeds and in the way you rule this country with all of your heart. I protected you with everything I had until that fateful morning when you were forced to abandon your youth to carry this heavy crown and since then I've felt that my everything is no longer enough to spare you from suffering."

"Right now, not as your advisor, or as the Duke of Foghar, but as a man who loves you like a father, I ask that you please consider Captain Steven Rogers to be your husband. He is the best man I know and the only one I trust to treat you as you deserve."

Surprisingly, Natasha agreed.

"It is not a bad idea" she turned to you with a gentle gaze. "He is related to the Asgardian royal family. His late mother was Queen Frigga’s sister and his father is the Duke of Arvenia, who was one of your father’s closest advisors."

“Well that brings me no comfort” you muttered dryly. “We are all well aware of how costly my father’s and his advisors' actions have been to the kingdom.”

"The Duke of Arvenia was indeed a terrible advisor" Lord Fury said. "However he wasn't chosen as an advisor for his expertise, but because whoever controls Arvenia controls the West. It was how your father managed a stable relationship with that part of Ergona, a relationship that is now at risk without a strong western representative at Court."

He continued:

"You have secured good support in the East because of Lord Stark and your mother's family. Besides, your House is traditionally an eastern house. Be that as it may, the western lords never fully accepted your House's ascension to the throne, which lead to seven rebellions in less than five hundred years. That is a lot. The Duke of Arvenia is rich and powerful on his land and if his son becomes king then we’ll no longer have to worry about the West rebelling."

Ergona was traditionally divided in two provinces – Arvenia do the West and Foghar to the East. Once two separate countries, they were unified by your ancestors after a bloody war centuries ago, in a move that established Ergona and it’s capital, Albeon, a fortified city strategically located between the two regions.

History made dealing with the West a tricky matter. When it’s lords weren’t blatantly questioning your House’s authority, they were either demanding more representation at Court or fomenting new conflicts which resulted solely in dead soldiers.

A Western king could shift this dinamic positively.

“Your heir - the son of an Eastern mother and a Western father. Ergonia united. You'll secure your crown and the safety of the kingdom" Lord Strange professed.

You squeezed Natasha's hand under the table for the third time. Your grip was so strong your knuckles had to be white. Your gaze landed on Lord Stark - Uncle Tony - and he gave you a reassuring smile, tears now streaming freely.

He knew this day would come, when you, much like your mother, would mary out of duty instead of out of love. He could only hope you’d have better luck than she did.

Taking a deep breath, you said:

"Please summon Captain Rogers to Court. I will speak with him myself. This council is dismissed."

#steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x y/n #steve rogers x you #steve x reader #steve x you #medieval!au #marvel au #steve x yn #king!steve #steve rogers au #king!au #steve rogers #my writing #corneliabarnes

393 notes · View notes

lovelyirony · 4 years

Note

“But I remember you the way that we rehearsed” for winter13, please?

Fake dating. Bucky didn’t like that it had come to this. He glared at his agent, Natasha, who pays him no attention.

“And this is necessary exactly why?”

“Because you scare people,” Natasha says. “And it proves on some level that you have a heart somewhere in there.”

Bucky snorts. “Let them think I don’t have one. It’s how I get all my roles, right?”

He had had previous experience in the military. With squared shoulders, a deadset gaze, and good-enough looks to be noticed by a talent scout? He’d been shipped off to Hollywood and gotten typecast as a handsome military man in every single movie. He didn’t mind it. As long as it paid the bills, he’d do it.

Natasha didn’t like this. Apparently he had to be a “real person” and “interact with people.”

He did not like that. Why interact with people? He talked with Steve. He made fun of Sam. This was enough!

“At some point, people grow bored of the whole ‘I’m tough and distant, watch me gaze stoically’“ Natasha tells him. “And I know it goes quickly. With a dating life, it proves there’s more to you.”

“There’s really, really not.”

“Then it will boost Carter’s career,” Natasha says. “You don’t want to kick a fellow star down, do you?”

“I don’t particularly care.”

Sharon is dragging her heels in the dirt.

“Maria, what the hell? What’s all this about me dating Barnes?”

“It’ll be good for his image.”

"What, to prove he can date someone?”

“On the nose,” Maria says. “He needs someone that shows a...softer side of him.”

“Does he have a softer side?”

“You can make one.”

“And if I don’t?”

"Then you have a lower chance of breaking out.”

“Still a chance.”

“Do it and I’ll make sure that you get a wine cellar,” Maria says.

“...fine.”

They both look at each other carefully.

“I’m Bucky.”

“Sharon. Good to meet you.”

She sticks out a hand for a shake. It’s firm, to the point, and they’re both thinking this might not be the worst.

“So, how do you want to spin this?” Natasha asks Maria.

“They meet at a red carpet event,” Maria says. “Bucky asks after her, she gives him her number. They meet up for coffee. Become a thing. Short and sweet, exactly how it should be.”

They nod.

Sharon stares.

“So we don’t get input?”

“What would your idea have been?” Natasha asks.

“I meet her at the shooting range,” Bucky mutters.

“That’s literally the worst idea I’ve ever heard,” Maria says flatly. “Nope. Red carpet. We’ll coordinate outfits a bit, leave the public saying ‘aw’ that it was ‘destined in the stars’ or whatever bullshit they’re going to put in the magazine. Any questions, concerns?”

“Can I pick the coffee shop?” Sharon asks.

“Yes.”

The red carpet event. One of Sam’s newest spy flicks, and Bucky can’t lie and say he isn’t excited. Sam makes a good spy with smooth looks, an easy smile, and a way with a suit and acting like he’s acting for espionage.

It also helps that he can make fun of him while they’re at the theater.

Sharon looks nice in a simple blue dress. He’s wearing a blue tie.

Coordinating. By chance. He almost laughs at the absurdity of it all.

She saunters over to him.

“Bucky Barnes, right?” she asks.

“You, uh, got it,” Bucky says.

“I’m Sharon. I liked your last movie. You pulled an impressive move with the motorcycle. Was that a stunt double?”

“Nah, although I did have a nice guy for the building leap,” Bucky answers. “You were in the last murder movie, right?”

“The detective, yeah,” Sharon says. “How’d you meet Sam?”

Conversation goes smoothly. Sharon fills in where Bucky breaks off. She doesn’t say anything about his short, blunt answers that so many others flounder over. She doesn’t even pause for any pity when he mentions the prosthetic.

“Is it a Stark model or something else?”

“Um. Stark.”

“Good choice,” Sharon says. “I was reading about the success rates.”

“What, because you knew I have one?” Bucky asks.

“No, my cousin’s Tony,” Sharon says. She puts on a teasing smile. “Not everything is about you, Mr. Barnes.”

“I wouldn’t presume, Ms. Carter,” he answers, a smile playing at his lips. “Mind if I escort you to your seat?”

Take notice. Pictures. He knows it’ll be on one of those late night “News” stations. (News. What a fucking joke.)

He gets her number at the end of the night. She slips him a notecard.

“Special occasion and all,” Sharon says. “I’ll send you the address for the coffee shop once you text back.”

That night he stays awake a bit longer. He tells himself it’s just because of the fancy, late event.

It is not because he thinks Sharon may just be one of the most interesting people he’s ever met, and not just because she’s his type.

Besides, coffee is nice. He can drink it and not answer anything while he’s sipping on it.

He’s early. By half an hour. She is five minutes late, orders some fancy concoction, and sits down. She looks very nice, put-together. Bucky can already see everyone staring and taking pictures.

“So, how was your night?” Bucky asks.

"Not anything happening besides sleep after the premiere, you?” she asks, stirring the foam around.

“Not really. Ate a hot pocket.”

He cringes.

He really made the choice to say that, didn’t he? Ugh.

To his surprise, Sharon laughs to herself.

“Glad I’m not the only one who still eats garbage food. The amount of people who say they eat a smoothie bowl...”

They launch into conversation about stupid foods that celebrities eat, and how much they both would kill for a grease-stained-paper burger that honestly tastes like your aorta is gonna fail. That’s how unhealthy it is.

Sharon finds out that he likes rock climbing, and she offers to host the next outing at the club she goes to.

They get photographed exiting. She admires the beat-up car that he refuses to get rid of.

“Still runs, don’t see why I would get rid of it,” Bucky mutters.

“Can I just say, for one, that I don’t know why anyone in Hollywood would deny having a car that’s fifteen years old and has a ‘My Son is an Eagle Scout!’ sticker on the back,” she says. “Oh my god, did you get this from your mom!”

Bucky laughs.

Dating is easy.

Feelings are hard.

Because Sharon can go on dates. They go on walks and answers questions and grin for pictures, and that’s all good. She can do that.

What she can’t do is at least attempt to stop trying to feel the way his fingers press into her waist, the way she smiles at him. She knows how she’s smiling at him.

She needs to stop sitting with him at an old diner at sunset, cheeks red with laughter and long-faded sun, and they bicker over who has the best shake.

She needs to stop taking his jackets and shirts and wearing them out and feeling a sense of pride that other people know that she knows him more than anyone else. The way that he only smiles at her.

They’ll have to talk to the Oscars board to get him nominated for Best Actor. Hell, maybe she can even convince them to have him win. He’s convincing like that.

Bucky hates that he has feelings as well as memories. Had lobotomies not been highly risky and (mostly) illegal, he probably would have signed up for one right about now.

Dating is...nice. He likes Sharon. He hopes that she likes him, at least. Tolerates maybe.

Natasha says their break-up is scheduled for a month from now. Mutual parting, careers in the way. Whatever excuse is cooked up, he’s sure it’ll make sense. Sharon probably has a life to get back to, and Bucky...he’s sure he’ll think of something to say in the interview when they invariably ask him about it.

It’s Sharon who comes to his house at ten-thirty at night in old cut-offs, a t-shirt that’s paint-splattered from when she helped him paint his kitchen table chairs one boring afternoon, and her eyes are rimmed with red.

“Feel free to tell me I’m stupid, but I don’t wanna break up,” Sharon says. “We have a good time, I think you’re probably the only actor in this whole scene that I’d ever date, and you’re the best guy I’ve ever met.”

Bucky blinks.

“Are you...me? The best guy you’ve ever met?”

Sharon giggles a bit.

“Yeah, you.”

“Sharon as long as you’ll have me, I’m yours,” Bucky confesses. “Can’t promise I’m the most interesting guy alive.”

“Says the guy who drives a beat-up town car with stickers on the back,” Sharon says with a snort. She pulls him into a hug. “But yes. I want you, Bucky. I really, really do.”

They inform Natasha and Maria, who already saw this coming from the moment they met.

“Another match in the books,” Maria says, pouring a glass of wine for herself. “Who’s next on your list?”

Natasha thinks, sliding her sunglasses down. “Well, I think Sif and Jane would do quite nicely together, don’t you think?”

“It’s gonna need more planning than Bucky and Sharon,” Maria says. “You sure you’re up for that?”

Natasha grins.

“When have I not been, dear?”

#winter13 #acting au #sharon carter #winter soldier #bucky barnes #agent thirteen #maria hill #natasha romanoff #lovelyirony writes

38 notes · View notes

chickensarentcheap · 4 years

Text

Sanctuary - Chapter 7

Warnings: SMUT

Tagging: @innerpaperexpertcloud, @valkyrie-of-the-light, @c-a-v-a-l-r-y, @alievans007

Nik calls the moment they step through the front door; using his personal cell as opposed to the SAT, and when he announces who it is, he sees the look that immediately appears on his wife’s face. The annoyance that Nik has the nerve to call so after a mission when she’d already agreed to give him a minimum of two weeks off, and the worry that he may actually consider accepting an offer.

“It’s probably nothing,” he assures her, placing a hand on the back of her neck and pulls her into a kiss.

He can taste the alcohol that lingers on her lips, feel the press of her body against his when she stands on her tip toes and leans into him. She’s normally not a drinker; not a single sip of booze had touched her lips since she’d gotten pregnant with the twins five years ago. She used to be able to keep up with him, now she’d reverted back to a light weight. The four glasses of wine she’d consumed causing her face to flush and both her body and brain to completely relax. And he’s tempted to say ‘fuck it’ and not even answer the call. Just rush through getting the kids to bed and take her into their bedroom and worshipping every inch of her.

“It’s never nothing with Nik,” she grumbles, and pulls his bottom lip between her teeth before departing, hustling the kids out of the front foyer and up the stairs.

“I’ve got some information,” Nik says, before he even has a chance to offer a greeting, and he steps out onto the back deck, sliding the glass door shut behind him.

There’s a chill in the air; a steady wind coming from over the mountains and bringing significantly colder temperatures with it. And he pulls the hood of his sweater over his head and leans against the deck, elbows on the top railing.

“About this girl that Ovi’s seeing, yeah?”

“She checks out clean. Not even an outstanding parking ticket. Her employment is solid; runs her own day care and has had extensive police background checks done on her and passed every one. Her father is ex Air Force. A chief warrant officer that flew Blackhawks during Desert Storm. Extensive military service on his side. Including an uncle that was a POW in Vietnam and a cousin with who was awarded a Purple Heart in Iraq. Your kind of people, Tyler.”

“Let’s not go that far, Nik. Not many people are my kind of people.” There’s a big difference between career military men and ex army turned mercenary.

“Things get a little shady on the mother’s side. She’s a nurse at Denver Memorial Hospital. ICU. Has been there for twenty-five years and doesn’t have a single blemish in her employee file. But there are some issues with siblings. Minor drug possession arrests, drunk driving charges, a couple of drunk and disorderlies, assault with a weapon, forcible confinement. Those last two came from a domestic abuse case in 2009. One of the uncles beat up his wife and held her at knifepoint when he came home and found her cheating on him. He’s in Atlanta now and hasn’t had a run in with the authorities since.”

“So nothing much to worry about,” he concludes.

“Nothing that I think you should worry about. But I get it. Why you wanted me to do this. I wouldn’t want to be bringing strangers into my house and around my children either. Especially considering your history of making enemies. But I don’t think this is anything to get worked up about. I don’t see any possible threats. I’d be telling you to keep her far away if I sensed even the smallest thing.”

“I appreciate that Nik.”

She gets it. The lingering uneasiness that comes with the job. With the knowledge you’ve pissed off a lot of people who have every reason to want pay back. And while he knows the chance is always out there that someone could show up, he hasn’t really worried about it since their last stint in Dhaka. The move to Colorado bringing about a sense of peace that had been missing in his life for years. Ever since he’d made the epic mistake of leaving for Afghanistan when his son was dying.

“How are you?” she asks. “How’s the ribs?”

“Sore. But I’m fine. I’ve had worse.”

“A lot of things went wrong.”

“Seems to be a recurring theme, Nik. If things didn’t fuck up, I’d be worried.”

“There were too many mistakes. Too many mix ups. A lot is going to change. Things will run smoother next time.”

Next time. Two years…or maybe even twelve months ago…those words would have been welcome to hear; it meant unbelievably good money coming in and a chance of feeding that constant crave for danger. That urge to live on the edge for a few days and then return to his normal life. Now those words just fall flat. He feels nothing. Not even the thought of that kind of cash sparks even the smallest bit of excitement.

“No more mistakes,” she vows.

He chuckles. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Nik.”

She gives a soft laugh. “Are you okay, Tyler? You sound tired.”

“I am.”

‘Trouble sleeping?”

“What else is new? Knees been bugging the shit out of me. The shoulder’s fucked again. I have a lot on my mind. Personal things.”

“But things are okay?” she presses for more information. “You and Esme…”

“There’s no problems there. Things are great. Kids are great,” he sighs heavily and turns around to face the house; watching his wife through the thin curtains in the baby’s room as she stands at the side of his crib. He thinks of stranger from that day. First in the ice cream shop and then in the restaurant. And how he’d noticed the way the man had watched her intently when she had taken Millie to get cleaned up. “You have someone watching me, Nik?” he asks.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you have a detail on me? Or my family? Is there something I need to worry about?”

“I would have told you if there was. What’s wrong?”

He tells her about the newcomer to town; a brief physical description followed by how he’d been watching Ovi and Millie together before Tyler had showed up with the boys. There’d been a short interaction: nothing more than a stranger talking about being on a business trip and missing his own family. He wouldn’t have thought any more about it had he’d not seen that same man at the restaurant hours later, and if he’d not noticed the way the stranger’s eyes had followed his wife and daughter on their walk to the bathroom.

Nik listens intently; never interrupting or asking questions. But he can hear the light tapping of laptop keys as she takes down everything he’s saying. She’s meticulous when it comes to gathering info. And he knew she’d go back later and analyze everything he’d said. Looking for clues. If there were any to be found.

“You said he had tattoos,” she speaks only after a period of silence between them. “Can you describe any of them to me?”

“Not really. I didn’t really focus on them. He had sleeves. Shoulder to wrist. Both arms. I’m not sure what they’re of. He said he was from Chicago but he didn’t have an accent. I don’t know if that matters or not. Don’t they usually have accents?”

“What about the baseball hat? Was there anything written on it?”

Sighing heavily, he briefly closes his eyes and runs a hand over his face, laying it across the bridge of his nose. Thumb and forefinger pressing into his temples. “It was camo. The standard green. Had a mesh back on it. Not one of the fits to the head type. The kind with the snaps. Orange lettering across the front. The initials CRPC.”

More typing. Faster this time.

“What about a vehicle? When he left did you notice if he was driving? Walking?”

“I had my back to the door. I can ask the kid later when he gets home. I wasn’t paying attention to much after we talked. I had my kids with me.”

“Find me the exact address of where you were. I’ll see if they have security cameras. Are they any crosswalks or streetlights in the area?”

“Not for a couple of blocks. It’s pretty much just a long stretch of road. No marked crossings, lights, anything like that. “

“I’ll contact the store. And the other ones around it. Did he say where he was staying?”

“No. But there’s a couple of hotels and a handful of bed and breakfasts. You don’t need to put that many resources into this. Nik. I’m probably just reading too much into it.”

“When do you ever read too much into things? That isn’t something you do, Tyler.”

“Maybe becoming a dad has made me soft,” he scoffs. “Or paranoid. Or both.”

“It’s made your instincts even sharper. I noticed that about you on this last job. Your instincts were always top notch, but they’ve gotten even better. If you feel something is off, it probably is. I’m coming to town in a couple of days. We need to talk. In person.”

“About?”

“I have a business proposition for you.”

“I’m not taking another job right now, Nik. I already told you that. I need some time off with my family. Especially with my wife. She’s been the one holding everything together. Least I could do is stick around awhile. She needs me Nik. A lot more than you do.”

“I’m not trying to take you away from your family, Tyler. That’s the last thing I want. And this isn’t about a job. It’s about the job, but not about a job. I’ll look into this man and get back to you. I’ll see you in three days.”

“Nik, I don’t think...”

“Three days, Tyler,” she stresses, and disconnects the call.

***

He checks on the kids. Fixing blankets, fetching favourite stuffed animals and glasses of water, reading stories that he damn well knows have already been read but he finds it too hard to resist those little voices and pleading eyes.

“You’re the best tucker inner, daddy,” TJ had declared, blankets so tight around him that he couldn’t even move his legs or his arms. “I wish you could do this every night.”

There was no guilt trip quite like a guilt trip being laid on you by a four-year-old.

In the end, the three oldest had all ended up curled up together in the bottom bunk in the twins’ room, listening to one last story before finally giving in to sleep. And he’d spent some time kneeling alongside of them watching them sleep, listening to their soft breathing, stroking their hair, pressing kisses to their forehead. So many things that he wanted to say but didn’t have the courage to say them. About how feared that he would fail them. That one day maybe he wouldn’t come home despite fighting like hell to get there. Or if they found out the truth about his past when they were older, and they were disgusted and ashamed of him and wanted nothing to do with him.

That thought hurt the most. At least if he was dead, he wouldn’t have to live with the guilt that he’d royally fucked them up.

Next, he went to the baby’s room and held him until he fell asleep. That little body tucked into his chest, breath warm and sweet on the side of his neck, a tiny hand fisting a piece of his shirt. Swaying back and forth in the rocker by the window, eyes closed as he breathed in that fresh, powdery scent that clung to the baby’s sleeper.

He’d been taking those moments for granted; cuddling with his kids, playing with them, kissing them goodnight and hearing them tell him they love him. Letting the job take up way too much of his time both mentally and physically. When he’d been declared healthy enough to get back into the game, he’d thrown himself into it with far more intensity than he had planned to. Feeling as if he had something to prove to not only the people who’d tried to destroy him, but himself as well. It became an obsession. Addicted to chasing that next high; the one that came with destroying evil instead of drowning his self loathing with booze and painkillers.

He finds his wife in the tub; immersed in hot water and bubbles all the way to her chin, eyes closed, and head tilted back, a half empty bottle of beer in her hand.

“I take you out one night and you’re already turning into a drunk?” Tyler teases, as he closes the door and locks it behind him. Just in case. You never know when curious little bodies might come bursting in.

“I only had…two…or three…” her eyes narrow as she attempts to count on her fingers. “…or something like that.”

“Four,” he helps her out, and then crouches down alongside the bathtub, grimace when his knee cracks and a pain shoots right up to his hip. “And one beer. You’re usually not like this. What’s gotten into you?”

“It’s what I want to get into me,” she retorts, and then giggles.

“You can have that without getting drunk. Although this is kind of cute. Seeing you like this. It’s been a long time.”

Their second night during their first stint in Dhaka she’d gotten so drunk that he’d had to carry her up the three flights of stairs to their room. And tend to her while she threw up all night long. He figured it that didn’t scared him away, nothing would. “Just don’t throw up on me. You know how I feel about puke.” Blood he could. Brain matter. Entrails. None of that got him. But if he so as much heard someone in the act of throwing up…

“What did Nik want?” she inquires. “Phone sex?”

“Let’s not start that okay?” his voice is gentle, hand dipping into the water to scoop up an abandoned washcloth. Sure, booze made her uninhibited, but it also made her extremely combative. Well, more so than usual. “That’s a long time ago.”

“You still fucked her though. More than once.”

“That’s a long time ago,” he repeats, refusing to let it get under his skin. “Way before you. It doesn’t matter. Just like all the guys before me don’t matter.”

“I don’t see the guys that came before you. You still see Nik. Are you still attracted to her?”

“We’re not going to fight,” he runs the soapy face cloth along her leg; the fabric and his fingertips slowly drifting from the top of her foot to the inside of her thigh, then sliding around the back. Smirking when he hits that sensitive spot behind her knee and her entire leg jerks. “So if you want to fight, just stop.”

“Are you?” she challenges. “Do you still think she’s attractive? Do you still want to fuck her some times?”

“No,” he’s being truthful; all connection he and Nik had had in that way had ended a long time ago. He no longer wanted her. In the same way he didn’t want any other woman. “Why would I want to? I have you. I only want you.”

“I bet she still wants to fuck you. I see the way she looks at you, you know. The way she bats her eyes at you and wears those low-cut blouses and her tight pants and…”

“I think you’ve had enough,” he plucks the bottle of beer from her hands, finishing it one gulp and then reaching over to place the empty on the counter. “And you know what…” he begins the soapy exploration of her other legs. Eyes never leaving hers, watching the way her breath hitches when he nears the knee, her body anticipating the sensation. “…it doesn’t matter what she wants. Because I don’t want her. I want you. I married you. Not her. There’s no other woman I want in my bed.”

His hand travels higher; the cloth now discarded and his palm sliding along the inside of her thigh, their gazes never wavering. And when his fingertips brush against her mound, she draws in a shaky breath; eyes darkening with lust, nipples hardening.

“Only you,” he says, and when his fingers push past those swollen, slick lips and make contact with her clit, her eyes closed and her head tilts back. “You are so beautiful,” his voice is low as he praises her; full of lust and need and the strain it takes to hold back. His cock painfully hard in his jeans. She’s stunning; all the lines and curves of her body, the smoothness of her throat, the way the water glistens on her milky skin. And he longs to get his hands on her…his mouth on her.

She gives a small cry when he pushes a finger inside of her, the fingers on one hand biting into the ledge of the tub, as the other disappears under the water to latch onto his wrist, keeping his hand firmly in place.

He adds a second finger, swallowing noisily as she grinds against his palm. Unable to keep his eyes off of her as she begins to grind against palm. Pressing her body down against it, forcing his fingers as deep as they can possibly go. Letting her do all the work in an attempt to get herself off. It is always hot when he can sit back and watch her pleasure herself, but this was on another level all in itself. Allowing her to use him…or at least part of him…to give her what she needed. And he fights the urge to unzip his pants, reach into his boxers and jerk himself off.

“You gonna come?” his voice is raspy now, overwhelmed by the sight of her, of how much ne needs her. Wants her. “Tell me when you’re going to come.”

He adjusts the angle of his hand, so his palm is flush against her pussy, enabling his thumb to come in direct contact with her clit. She bites down hard on her bottom lip, body jerking and sending water splashing over the edge of the tub, onto him and the floor below. And when he increases the pressure of his thumb against the painfully hard nub, she reaches for him, grabbing a hold of his shirt and yanking her towards him.

“Kiss me,” she demands, and then shoves her hand into his hair and aggressively pulls him down into her. Her orgasm hitting her hard and fast, his tongue and his mouth muffling the sound of her scream.

His fingers continuing to move inside of her as those inner muscles contract and twitch around them and her entire body shuddering violently. Resting his forehead against hers as he waits for her to come down from her thigh. Listening to her breathing settle and waiting for her body to full relax before removing his hand from between her legs.

“You’re welcome,” he grins, drying his hand off on the thigh of his jeans. “You okay?”

“Mmm…hmmm…” she manages, her eyes fluttering open, regarding him with a content smile.

He stands, grimacing at the discomfort in his knee and lower back, fetching her a towel from the back of the door and then offering her a hand. Slender fingers curling around his own as she stands on shaky legs, her hands on his shoulders as he uses the towel to try her off.

“You’re too good to me,” she says.

“So we’re not going to fight? I was pretty sure you were trying to pick a fight.”

“No. No fights. But you can fuck me like we were fighting if you want.”

Smirking, he leans down to kiss her, a hand tangled in her damp hair.

“You can even do that thing with your tongue that I like,” she suggests. “I mean, only if you want to.”

When didn’t he want to?

***

He does that ‘thing’ with his tongue she likes. Twice. Each orgasm powerful. Her entire body arching off the bed, hands in his hair holding his face tight against her, his palm stifling the sounds that erupt from her. Then he flips her onto her stomach, slides an arm around her waist and forces her up onto her knees. Taking her like that; one strong, powerful thrust filling her, one hand on her hip, the other on her shoulder. Fucking her as if he hated her. His movements hard and fast. Unrelenting. Punishing. Grabbing a hold of her hair and pushing her face down into the mattress. And even though it’s what she wants…what she had asked for…he’ll hate himself in the morning for it. When he sees the bruises that his hands have made on her hips and the pained way in which she walks. It’s always surprised him: how a little thing can take so much. How she can enjoy it as much as she can. When he’s aggressive and mean and uses her solely for his pleasure.

Trust. It’s the trust she has in him. Knowing that he’d never intentionally hurt her. That it’s all just a game and never done with cruel intent. The humiliation and the pain stopping at sex. Never crossing that line in any other aspect of their life together.

He comes before she does. The agony of having to hold back in the bathroom finally releasing. Pressing into her and holding her there, a strangled groan emerging from deep inside his throat as hot, thick semen bathes her womb. Eyes closing and his head falling forward. Legs shaking, chest heaving, feeling as if he’ll never stop filling her.

And when he finally recovers, he reaches between her and the bed to find her clit, rubbing at it while trailing the tip of his tongue the entire length of her spine. Over the curves of her ass. Biting at soft flesh of her hips. Fingers working her until the fourth orgasm of the takes hold; not as powerful as the first three, but enough to have her crying out in the mattress.

Afterwards, while resting on his good shoulder, he wraps an arm around her and pulls her towards him, her ass nestled into his front. Their hands joining and resting against her stomach, thumb repeatedly brushing against the top and side of her wrist. And he presses a kiss to the back of her head and buries his face in her hair; relaxing in the warmth of her body and that familiar yet still intoxicating smell.

“So what did Nik want?” she asks, and he can’t help but laugh.

“And you accuse me of having shitty pillow talk.”

“I’m not the one that always announces they’re hungry afterwards.”

“Now that you mention it, I am kinda hungry.”

She directs an elbow back into his gut and he chuckles into her hair.

“I can only imagine what she wanted,” she huffs.

“Can we not talk about this right now? Can we not just lie here and not talk about this? The last thing I want to talk about right after we fuck is the job.”

“You didn’t do it, did you?”

“Do what?”

“Take a job.”

He sighs.

“You promised you wouldn’t take something else for at least two weeks. You said…”

He tightens his hold on her. “I didn’t take a job. That isn’t why she called. Well it kind of is, but it’s not all at the same time.”

“You make no sense in your post orgasmic haze.”

“She was just telling me about the girl that Ovi is hooking up. That all the background stuff checked out. Except for some uncle with a penchant for beating up women. There’s nothing we need to worry about. She’s clean. He can do whatever the fuck he wants now.”

“I wonder if he’s doing her.”

“That’s another thing I do not want to talk about or think about right after we have sex. Like you said, he’s grown. He can do whatever and whoever he wants. As long as he’s not doing it under my roof, I don’t give a shit. He can go and get his rocks off at a cheap motel or in the backseat of a car for all I care. Just not where my kids live. Only rule. None of that shit here.”

“You really are going to be the father that doesn’t let his daughter date until she’s thirty.”

“If I had my way, she’d become a nun and never look at a guy.”

“Are you going to think the same when your sons are out getting laid by whoever and wherever?”

“If they knock someone up, I’m kicking their asses. And who cares right now. We have tons of times before we have to worry about shit like that. Go to sleep. You’re drunk. And rambling.”

She heaves a heavy sigh, wiggles her ass back against his crotch, rubs her cheek against her pillow. “Is that all Nik wanted?” she asks after several minutes, and Tyler groans.

“Esme…please…just go to sleep…it’s late…I’m tired…I’m fucking aching. Just go to sleep.”

“You aren’t lying are you? About taking a job?”

“Woman, you’re killing me here. How are you still awake? I just fucked the shit out of you and normally you’d be passed out cold. No. I didn’t take a job. She didn’t offer one. She just said she’d been in town in three days and wanted to talk to me. In person.”

“About what?”

“I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

She releases his hand and flops over onto her side to face him.

“Are you kidding me right now?” he groans. “Esme…please…just go to sleep. We can talk about this shit tomorrow. It isn’t important. I don’t know what she wants. She just said she wants to talk. That’s it. Now please…” he presses a kiss to her forehead. “…before I smother you in your sleep. You’re a chatty drunk and I love you, but it drives me fucking mental. Just close your eyes. Sleep. Please.”

“Fine,” she huffs, and tucks her head under his chin. “Tyler?”

“What?” he snaps. “What now?”

“I love you. Even if you are an insufferable pain in my ass sometimes.”

He smiles as he drops a kiss on the top of her head. “I love you too. Even when you are a raging bitch.”

“Me? Never.”

He snorts.

“You married me. You must be a glutton for punishment.”

“You give amazing head and fuck like a porn star. Why wouldn’t I lock that shit down?”

“So romantic,” she laughs. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you don’t have a soft side, baby. You are all fluff.”

“Close your eyes,” he implores. “Go to sleep. It’s late. The kids wake up early.”

She sighs once more, nuzzling her face into his throat. And he holds her, a hand stroking her hair, until her breathing slows and evens out and her body relaxes completely. Finding sleep quickly in the confines and the comfort of his arms.

#tyler rake #tyler rake fan fiction #tyler rake fan fic #extraction #sanctuary #chris hemsworth character

15 notes · View notes

olympedupuget · 5 years

Photo

Gif Request Meme - A Musical of my Choice + a Villain: Artois and Orléans

↳ Requested by @fallenidol-453

Philippe Égalité: The only legitimate son of the Duc d’Orléans, a prince du sang from birth, Philippe was a very unlikely revolutionary. And yet Philippe showed a strong level of compassion for the lives of the lower class, going down a coal shaft to see the conditions faced by miners, pulling a groom of his from a river with his own hands, and providing shelter for the poor during the bitter winter of 1788-89.

He was noted for his extravagant lifestyle; a noted lover of racehorses, gambling, architecture, his various and assorted mistresses, and all things English. Despite being the richest man in France, with a truly astronomical income, he nonetheless found himself frequently in debt. That was the impetus for him to totally redesign the Palais Royal over the course of two and a half years, opening it up to shopkeepers and establishing it as a major area for counter revolutionary activity, with the police being banned from intervening. As such, an overwhelming feeling of liberty prevailed there, with people from all social classes gathering to observe the spectacles and walk along the gardens there.

There was a certain amount of hostility to be expected between the two branches of the Bourbon family, going as far back as the first Duc’s tempestuous relationship with his brother, Louis XIV. Still, the relationship between Louis XVI and Philippe gradually deteriorated over time, despite several attempts to patch things up. Orléans blamed Louis for the loss of his naval career, with the controversial Battle of Ushant in 1778 being a major breaking point in their relationship. In 1788, he spoke up at a “Royal Sitting” where Louis tried to press the Parliament into obeying his will, saying “Sire, this appears to be illegal.” Louis responded, “It is legal, because I wish it to be so.” Orléans spent the next five months in a comfortable exile at his estate, and he returned more popular than ever.

When the Estates General was called, Orléans sided with the Third Estate, taking his place with the other delegates rather than sitting with the Royal Family as his rank entitled him to. His name was consistently brought up alongside revolutionary activity, with his bust being paraded alongside Necker’s on July 12, 1789, when the rash charge of the Prince de Lambesc into the Tuilleries heightened the people’s fears over an armed crackdown of Paris. It would be in the Palais Royal where Camille Desmoulins would jump on a table and call the people to arms, and even though the exact impact of that statement’s been disputed, the fact that Palais Royal was a huge locus point for revolutionary activity never has been.

Among the royalists, it was popularly thought that Orléans was behind the entire Revolution, masterminding the Storming of the Bastille, the Women’s March to Versailles, a famine, and various and assorted other disturbances, in lieu of believing that the common people themselves were discontent. However, the sources nearest and dearest to Philippe suggest that he had no intention of seizing power, and Philippe’s own action of going and staying in England at Lafayette’s suggestion between October 1789 and July 1790, when he had a strong chance of fighting back against the charges and seizing power for himself by riding off the highest point of his popularity, strongly indicates that he had no intention of seizing the throne for himself. Overall, while he was a man of undeniable courage, the popular consensus is that he was, by nature, too passive to do it on his own, generally being very diffident to those near him such as his former mistress and longtime friend, Madame de Genlis, as well as her rival for his attention, Pierre Ambroise François Choderlos de Laclos, and generally disinterested in long-form plans, preferring to throw himself into whims. It is far more likely that, if a plan existed to make Philippe king, it came from one of those brains, as opposed to anything Philippe himself considered in any detail.

He did, however, become embittered over the increasingly chilly reception he received at Versailles, including one occasion where a courtier shouted “Do not let him touch the wine!” when he entered, with him then being spat on as he made his leave.

In the latter half of 1792, Philippe faced a bevy of problems, both personal and political, as his long-suffering wife had filed for a separation, his daughter was put on a list of émigrés and was forced to leave the country very shortly after arriving (after Madame de Genlis, who he had instructed to take her back before her name could be added, lingered for too long, causing a final breakdown in their long relationship), his popularity was rapidly fading, and he had been called, as a Deputy of the National Convention, to sit at the trial of his cousin. According to one anecdote, found in William Cooke Taylor’s Memoirs of the House of Orléans, it was in that particular maelstrom that he changed his name, as a last ditch effort to save his daughter and prove his loyalty to the Revolution, to Philippe Égalité. Many options were considered for him to not sit the trial, and there is no reason to believe, despite the long-lasting enmity that the two of them had, that Philippe, when he went to sleep the night before the trial of Louis began on December 26, that he had any idea that when it came time to give the verdict on January 14-15, he would vote “yea,” a decision that shocked the entire room, not the least Louis himself. Perhaps it was a last ditch effort to save himself, perhaps he felt pressured to do it by everyone else in the room, perhaps in that moment he truly believed that Louis’ actions merited the death penalty. It’s impossible to truly know, but in the end that one decision, more than anything else, has defined his legacy.

However, the Royalists would soon be able to find some comfort, as, on the 4th of April 1793, his son, Louis-Philippe, Duc de Chartres, defected along with General Dumouriez, and Philippe’s enemies had the ammunition they needed.

On 7 April, 1793, he was arrested and sent to Fort Saint-Jean in Marseilles, along with two of his sons. Throughout his imprisonment, Philippe kept up an optimistic front, constantly reassuring his sons, the Duc de Montpensier and the Comte de Beaujolais, on the rare occasions he was allowed to speak to them after they were separated, that everything would turn out well, even expressing optimism about his trial in Paris. Whether this was real or simply an attempt at keeping up morale will never be known, but on November 2, 1793, he was sent back to Paris, to be imprisoned in the Conciergerie. He was tried on the 6th and, at his own request not to prolong things any longer than necessary, he was executed on that same day. By all accounts, he met his death courageously, his composure only threatening to break when the cart he was in stopped in front of the Palais Royal, so that he could very clearly see the sign on it that said it was now national property. His last words were to stop the assistants at the guillotine from taking off his boots, saying “You are losing time, you can take them off at a greater leisure when I am dead.”

Unlike his royal cousins, his body was never found, and to this day, he is generally considered as one of the great villains of the Revolution in media associated with it, though none of the serious charges against him (the October Days being prime) were ever proven.

Charles X- For most of his younger years, like his older cousin, Charles’ defining quality was his wild life, which was punctuated by multiple love affairs, copious gambling and alcohol, and even more copious debts, with his brother, Louis XVI, somewhat reluctantly paying the bills. He also had a close friendship with his brother’s wife, who he shared a love of high living with, the two of them often being seen together at the theatre and balls. This close friendship was much remarked upon, with Artois being a frequent subject of the pornographic pamphlets that circulated about the queen, along with Marie Antoinette’s favorite, Madame de Polignac. In the years preceding and following the Revolution, however, the two of them gradually cooled, with their later relationship being marked by political disagreements. Charles consistently pressured his brother into more conservative stances during the meeting of the Estates General, arguing against doubling the Third Estates’ representation and conspiring to get rid of Louis’ liberal finance minister, Jacques Necker. The dismissal of the Necker would end up being one of the leading causes for the Storming of the Bastille, with Charles’ temporary personal victory being quickly eclipsed by the blaze that the little spark of Revolution had turned into. In the days immediately following the Storming of the Bastille, Artois was ordered to emigrate by his brother, along with the rest of his family.

He wouldn’t see France again for decades, going from court to court in Europe asking for help and trailed by a small army of creditors (who would become some of his most frequent companions, the avid huntsman only being able to go out riding at his estate at Holyrood on Sundays, when his creditors would be unable to pursue him), but with very little materializing, even less of which was successful, with the Battle of Quiberon being particularly disastrous to any hope of a royalist win by military might. Instead, he set up his main residence in London, with his mistress, Louise de Polastron, sister-in-law of Madame de Polignac, upon whose death he swore a vow of celibacy, the former playboy becoming sober and religious in his later years. The family briefly returned to France in May 1814, with the exile of Napoleon to Elba, however his later escape and mustering of the troops led to them leaving the city in February 1815, only able to fully establish themselves back in the country shortly after Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo. Upon his brother, the Comte de Provence’s ascension to the throne as Louis XVIII (the space between XVI and XVIII being taken up by Charles’ young nephew, Louis-Charles, who died in prison and therefore never ruled), Charles became known as a leading member of the Ultra Royalist faction, who were, as the name suggests, “More Royalist than the king.” His brother dying without a male heir, Charles took the throne in 1824, though his highly conservative policies following his more tolerant brother’s reign made him highly unpopular with the public.

In 1830, he was forced to abdicate. His intent had been for the throne to go to his young grandson, however, it would go to Louis-Philippe, Duc d’Orléans, the son of Philippe Égalite (who would himself end up being deposed.) He spent the remainder of his life similarly to how he spent his exile, traveling from place to place, hounded by debtors.

Eventually, he would die in Austria, on 6 November 1836, 43 years to the day of his revolutionary cousin’s execution.

Sources:

The Chevalier de Saint-Georges: Virtuoso of the Sword and the Bow: Gabriel Banat

A French King at Holyrood: Alexander John Mackenzie Stuart

The Journalists and the July Revolution in France: The Role of the Political Press in the Overthrow of the Bourbon Restoration 1827–1830: Daniel Rader

Memoirs of the House of Orléans: William Cooke Taylor

The Perilous Crown: France Between Revolutions, 1814-1848: Munro Price

Prince of the blood : being an account of the illustrious birth, the strange life and the horrible death of Louis-Philippe Joseph, fifth duke of Orleans, better remembered as Philippe Egalite: Evart Seelye Scudder

Revolutions in the Western World 1775–1825: Jeremy Black, ed.

#perioddramaedit #asiantheatrenet #musicaltheatreedit #historyedit #1789 les amants de la bastille #marie antoinette das musical #keigo yoshino #mitsuo yoshihara #long post #ch: artois #Production: Toho #other musicals: MA #historical #on this day in history we mourn the death of two thots #one more than the other #(apologies if I smudged any facts given that it is rather late)

65 notes · View notes

antoine-roquentin · 5 years

Link

ASAD ABUKHALIL: Well, first of all, I need to say that it’s quite ironic for the mainstream media, especially the Washington Post, which has been invoking lofty ideals about democracy as a slogan of it — even though it’s owned by the wealthiest man in the world — has been speaking in the name of democracy, and yet has been serving as the mouthpiece for the intelligence apparatus.

Mainstream media, the Post and others, imply very directly that the president of the United States has to do whatever dictates from the military and intelligence apparatus, as if this is the chain of command. I mean, it is the president of the United States who should subordinate the military intelligence agencies to its role as somebody who is elected by the United States, the American public, and so on.

However, I think because the Washington Post in particular has been a mouthpiece of the intelligence service, particularly the CIA, it should be said that there is an agenda for the CIA on this. And I’m glad you quoted John Brennan. As you know, John Brennan, before he became CIA director, was the Middle East and the CIA — and he was CIA station chief in Saudi Arabia, where he cultivated very close ties with the royal family.

There is nothing about the need for accountability in the CIA leaks which wants to bring down Mohammed bin Salman. This is all about choosing between the various lousy princes.

As you know, Mohammed bin Nayef was ousted last year by Mohammed bin Salman, his cousin. He was the choice for the intelligence agencies and the FBI, because this man, when he was deputy to his father, the minister of interior for many years, was a very close ally — client, you should say — of the U.S. government and its intelligence agency.

Mohammed bin Salman was unknown. It’s not somebody that they know for a long time. But far from wanting great accountability for the murder of Khashoggi, as if the intelligence agencies are really up in arms about the death of anybody in the Middle East, this is about worrying about the future of the Saudi regime.

In other words, I feel that Donald Trump wants what is best for his administration. He has somebody, he has Mohammed bin Salman, as he best can have him. He is holding him by the neck. And if he survives, he — Mohammed bin Salman — will be greatly indebted to Trump, and to Netanyahu, because those two stood by him and kept him afloat. And because of that situation, Mohammad bin Salman will be obligated to make so many concessions — political, military, and financial — to the United States, and even to Israel. Some of it would be more direct now. Perhaps he would even visit the Israeli occupation state.

On the other hand, the intelligence agencies, I think, my reading, is that they do not think that Mohamed bin Salman is capable of steering the regime in a direction that is more in the interest of the stability of the regime. As a result they would rather make a change in order to save the regime. They worry that bin Salman is too reckless, and his thinking is ruled too precarious, which endangered American interests in that region.

BEN NORTON: There’s a lot to respond to there. I want to talk first, before we talk about the tension within the royal family — you mentioned Mohammed bin Nayef, who was slated to be the next king and was replaced by Mohammed bin Salman. Before we get to that, though, let’s talk a bit about the relationship between the CIA and Saudi Arabia.

As you mentioned, John Brennan, the former director, had a longstanding tie to Saudi Arabia, worked a lot in the kingdom. And of course, I mentioned the war in Afghanistan in the 1980s, in which the CIA worked with Saudi Arabia and Pakistan to arm Islamist extremists to fight against the Soviet Union, and the Afghan government backed by the Soviet Union.

We also saw in Syria that the CIA worked with Saudi Arabia to arm and train rebels, many of whom were also Salafi-jihadist extremists. So this relationship continues to this day. It’s a very close one.

So can you talk a bit more about the relationship between the U.S. intelligence services and Saudi Arabia, and maybe the different figures aside from Muhammad bin Salman and what their roles have been in the CIA? Because there is speculation that Jamal Khashoggi himself might have been a CIA asset.

ASAD ABUKHALIL: Well, I mean, I do not know about that. But I’m glad in your introduction you accurately — contrary to the way the media refer to the past of Jamal Khashoggi — accurately described his background. Jamal Khashoggi, it should be said over and over again, was part of the establishment and the propaganda outlets of the Saudi regime for many years.

This is a man who’s been made by Human Rights Watch and mainstream media as if he’s a longtime critic of the Saudi government. This is a man who spent a career making money from being a propagandist for the Saudi royal family, and moving between one prince and another.

And in fact, he only fell in trouble — he did not count on democracy. He counted on the wrong prince, which is the Prince Al-Waleed bin Talal, who fell out of favor in this new regime in Saudi Arabia. And as a result he was in trouble himself, and he fled.

And he suddenly discovered the love of democracy and freedom in the United States, in the really lame articles he’s been writing for The Washington Post, which reads to me as being heavily edited by his editors over there, which is fine.

I should also say that Jamal Khashoggi was very mild in his criticism of the Saudi regime. He did not in any way call for an overthrow. He always committed himself to the preservation of the monarchy, and even played, he even played on the crown prince of Saudi Arabia. This is left unmentioned in the media coverage.

So John Brennan himself — and this is a graduate of the Obama administration — suddenly now they are now posing as advocates of democracy in the Middle East when they themselves were characteristic of every administration since World War II; have been advocates of dictatorship and despots throughout the region.

In fact, propaganda brochures that I have seen in Arabic, produced by the Saudi regime, have quotations from John Brennan in praise of the Saudi regime and American-Saudi relations. And if you look now on social media to the graduates of the Obama administration, the various functionaries, you will see now that they are pretending as if Trump suddenly changed the course of American foreign policy and made it not in any way pay too much attention for democracy.

If you look at the agenda or the record of the Obama administration it doesn’t differ at all from the Trump record. If anything, Trump is more honest than the duplicitous Obama administration. And in fact, in Ben Rhodes’ book about Obama’s foreign policy, John Brennan himself is quoted as opposing any change for democracy in Egypt and for standing up to the dictatorship of Hosni Mubarak. And he made the old classical colonial point that “Arabs are not ready for democracy.”

So in that sense the military intelligence apparatuses basically have various intelligence agencies in the Middle East that they basically work at their pleasure. So they have a great relationship with them. Sometimes they are paid by them, like in the case of Saudi Arabia. Or sometimes they pay them, as in the case of Egypt and Jordan, where the intelligence agencies there are subcontractors of the CIA and the various intelligence agencies.

And it is, in fact, for this reason that the American intelligence agencies were caught totally by surprise with the Arab uprising in 2011; because they relied too much on the advice and wisdom of intelligence agencies in Jordan, Egypt, and elsewhere that they pay a lot of money for, in order to provide them with work that perhaps they were too lazy to do on their own.

BEN NORTON: And then, finally, let’s talk a bit — you mentioned earlier Mohammed bin Nayef — let’s talk about the internal dynamics. Mohammed bin Nayef, who was supposed to be the original crown prince; he was supposed to replace the current king, King Salman, who is likely senile. Mohammed bin Salman took his place, took Mohammed bin Nayef’s place.

MBN was the interior minister. He oversaw the so-called “counterterrorism” program inside Saudi Arabia. He also studied in the U.S., and he trained with the FBI. In 2015, in this kind of ceremony, when he was appointed crown prince, he visited with Obama in the White House. It was very clear that NBN was the U.S. man, who was going to be the next king.

Also, you’ve mentioned before in a previous interview here at The Real News that Khashoggi was very close to Turki bin Faisal, as well. Turki bin Faisal was the head of Saudi intelligence; he was the Saudi ambassador to the United States. And when he was here in the U.S., Khashoggi was actually his spokesperson.

So can you talk about who the U.S. and the CIA potentially — of course, this is largely speculation — but who they would prefer to have over MBS? It seems to me that they want to go back to MBN. Do you think that’s one of the main reasons?

ASAD ABUKHALIL: You’re absolutely right. And I want to say that — just one minor correction. Mohammad bin Nayef did study in Portland for college, but he did not graduate. Most Saudi royal princes study in the United States, but they never bother to graduate, for some reason. In fact, and this is scandalous, in my opinion, Turki al-Faisal is now a professor at Georgetown University. This man studied at Georgetown University in the 1960s at the School of Foreign Service, but he never graduated. He in fact was awarded a degree that he did not earn only many years later thanks to the generous donations he and his family made to the university.

As far as Mohammed bin Nayef is concerned, you are right in mentioning that he studied in the United States because, this has become very clear in many Western media writings. They really like princes who study in the United States. They assume that they are much easier to do business with, for some reason. And one of the complaints that I have read, I think even in Thomas Friedman’s article, as annoying as they are on the eyes, that Mohammed bin Salman is somebody who did not study in the United States.

Well, I think the preference has been very clear for many years that Mohammed bin Nayef is their choice. It is not that Mohammed bin Salman has been unreliable, or he has not been loyal. But they worry that by his recklessness and impulsiveness he may jeopardize the very security of the Saudi royal family. This is something that was missing of the coverage.

So I think the CIA’s interest is that they are really worried about the precariousness of the Saudi regime. More than ever, in a long time of contemporary history of the regime, maybe the first time since the 1960s, early 1960s, when the regime was really in trouble with the rising tide of Nasserism, there is a real danger about the cohesiveness of the royal family and the stability of the regime.

Because for this reason, I think that the CIA and other intelligence agencies of the U.S. government, and the military, would rather have any other prince. It doesn’t have to be Mohammed bin Nayef. But this guy in particular [Mohammed bin Salman] has proven to be too adventurous, too troublesome. And sometimes he seems to act on his own. And that really worries the United States. Not so much out of concern about the people of Yemen, or about about the plight of journalists who may be killed by this prince. But it’s more about the stability of the region due to his action over there.

46 notes · View notes

gluupor · 6 years

Link

A 10 Things I Hate About You AU written for the Andreil Week prompt: fake dating

Katelyn squared her shoulders as she looked up at her new high school. It wasn't the first new high school she'd attended, hell it wasn't even the fifth. Her father's military career led her family to moving so often that she was used to being the perpetual new kid. Not again, though. Her dad had promised this time. Even if he got transferred he would let her finish out the year at the same school. She had one chance to make friends in order to have the best senior year possible.

She found the administrative office easily and she was pleased to find that another student had been assigned to show her around. This was common practice, and it was generally an outgoing overachiever who volunteered to help her. Based on the biceps of the girl waiting to show her around, Katelyn guessed that she was involved in sports.

"Hi, I'm Dan Wilds," said her guide.

Katelyn introduced herself, and Dan led her out of the office making small talk. Dan walked her to her first period class, gave her directions on how to find her other morning classes, and promised to pick her up right before lunch.

Her morning passed easily: she was stared at a normal amount due to her new kid status and she even chatted with a few friendly people. In chemistry, they did a mini first day experiment. They were assigned partners alphabetically and she was paired with a short blond guy.

"Do you know why chemists enjoy working with ammonia?" she asked her lab partner, unable to stop from embarrassing herself in front of the cute boy.

He frowned at her, confused. "No," he said suspiciously.

"Because it's pretty basic stuff."

He stared as if he were worried for her mental state, before he cracked a smile. She had a feeling that it was a rare sight. "What do you do with a sick chemist?" he asked in return.

She smiled, wanting to dance in happiness that he was countering her nerdy joke with one of his own. "What?"

"If you can't helium, and you can't curium, then you might as well barium."

Her laughter caught the attention of the teacher, who instructed them to get back to work.

"That was your fault," her partner grumbled, without irritation.

"Not just mine," she said. "If you're not part of the solution, you're part of the precipitate." He gifted her with another sunshine smile.

By lunchtime, Katelyn's stomach was growling and she was happy to see Dan. Dan led her over to a lunch table that already had several occupants.

"This is my boyfriend, Matt," introduced Dan. "And our friends, Allison and Kevin. Guys, this is Katelyn."

After Katelyn fielded the usual questions about where she was from and whether she was liking South Carolina, Allison leaned forward expectantly. "So, seen any cute guys yet? Or girls? Anyone you're crushing on?"

"Well," said Katelyn, feeling her cheeks heat. "There was a guy in my chemistry class. Short, blond, named Aaron?"

"Aaron Minyard?" asked Allison. "Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no."

"Why not?"

"Hey Nicky!" Matt called out to a boy sitting at a nearby table. "Come join us for a sec."

The boy looked up and nodded, making his way over to their table and sitting across from Katelyn.

"The new girl's got a thing for your cousin," explained Matt.

"The saner one," added Allison.

"Oh, honey, no," said Nicky sadly. "You'll never get anywhere with that."

"Why not?"

"My cousin is a twin," said Nicky. "And a couple years ago his mother died."

"Oh no, I'm so sorry," said Katelyn with genuine sympathy.

Nicky waved her comment away. "Not the point of the story. Anyway, he and his brother promised to stick together after that. So now Aaron's not allowed to date unless Andrew does too."

"Guys," said Katelyn, looking around the table. "This really doesn't seem like an insurmountable problem."

Matt gestured over Katelyn's left shoulder. She turned, and saw a boy who must be Aaron's twin. He was a little more muscular than Aaron, and dressed in all black. A student passed close by the table where Andrew was sitting with a white-haired girl, and leaned over to say something. Andrew responded by brandishing a knife.

Katelyn gasped. "That must be against the rules," she said. "And the law."

"Andrew hates everyone," said Nicky. "He's never going to date. We thought that he and Renee-" he indicated the girl sitting with Andrew "-would start going out, but they both came out as gay last June. Now there's no hope. Aaron's going to die alone."

"No, this can still be fixed," said Katelyn, her stubborn nature showing itself. "I'm sure that Andrew's a good guy deep down." She glanced back and found Andrew's dead-eyed stare focused on her. "Er, very deep down."

"The only way that someone will date Andrew Minyard is if you paid them," said Allison flippantly.

There was a brief pause. "That's not a… bad idea," said Nicky.

"You'd have to find someone who isn't scared of him," said Dan.

"Everyone's scared of him," said Kevin, speaking up for the first time. "And for good reason. You remember how he reacted when I asked him to join the exy team."

"Well, you were slightly… over persistent," said Matt diplomatically.

"Anyway, it's not like I have money to bribe anyone," said Katelyn.

"Don't worry about that," said Allison. "I would pay just for the fun of it."

"That still doesn't solve the problem of who would agree to go out with him," said Matt.

Katelyn had gotten distracted, watching as Andrew said something to a boy passing his lunch table. The boy turned to regard Andrew and Andrew again slid a knife out from somewhere. The boy just rolled his eyes, gave Andrew a salute, and walked away nonchalantly.

"What about him?" she asked.

"Who?" asked Matt craning his head to see. His jaw dropped in incredulity. "Neil Josten?"

"He started going here at the end of last year," explained Dan. "We tried to make friends with him, but he blew us off."

"I heard that he killed his own father," said Kevin.

"I heard that he's in the mafia," added Nicky.

"He's at least half-cryptid," said Allison.

Katelyn shrugged. "But he didn't seem afraid of Andrew," she said.

"He was apparently raised by stabby psychopaths," said Dan. "Maybe Andrew just reminds him of home."

"Neil is very pretty," said Matt hesitantly.

"True," agreed Nicky. "If Andrew hasn't noticed then he was lying about being into dudes."

"And his clothes definitely indicate that he needs the money," mused Allison.

"And he and Andrew are perfect for each other, in that they're both terrifying assholes," said Dan.

"Great!" said Katelyn happily. "It's settled. We’ll bribe Neil to date Andrew so that I can date Aaron." She was certain that everything would work out in her favour: she'd made up her mind that she was going to have a perfect senior year and she was very good at getting what she wanted.

After classes ended for the day, Allison tracked Katelyn down and led her out to the school's football field. The field hockey team was practising and several students, including Neil Josten, were running around the surrounding track. Allison kept her attention on her phone as they waited, but Katelyn watched Neil run. He was faster than he should be, based on his height.

They approached him when he was finished, stretching out his leg against a bench and gulping down sports drink.

"What do you want?" he asked, wiping the sweat off his brow with the sleeve of his t-shirt.

"I have a business proposition for you," said Allison.

Neil snorted. "Pass."

"I will pay you $100 to take Andrew Minyard out on a date," continued Allison, ignoring Neil's input.

He straightened and eyed them in consideration. "Why?"

"I want to go out with Aaron," said Katelyn, making herself as earnest as possible. Maybe if he sympathized with her, he'd help her out. "And he's not allowed to date until Andrew does."

"That doesn't really take what Andrew wants into account," said Neil.

"Oh, don't put yourself down, Josten," said Allison. "You're a catch. He should be grateful to get a date with a specimen like yourself."

Neil gave her a flat look. "And what's in it for me?"

"One hundred dollars," said Allison slowly. She turned to Katelyn. "I already said that, right? I'm not imagining things, am I?"

"I have my own money," replied Neil.

Allison gave him a very judgmental once-over. "Do you?" she asked, sounding generally curious. "Then why do you look like… that?" She waved her hand, indicating Neil's entire body.

"Besides, I know you're aware that I'm not interested in dating," continued Neil. "I told you during your interrogation last year."

"That was a friendly getting-to-know-you chat, you giant drama queen," huffed Allison. "And it's just a date; we're not even asking you to get to first base. Just take him out somewhere nice, on me."

"I don't need your money," Neil reminded her. "But," he said, raising his voice to cut off Allison's reply, "you probably can get me something that I do want."

"And what's that?"

"I want on the exy team," he announced. "I missed the tryouts last spring."

"You can't be on the team just because you want to be," said Allison, rolling her eyes.

"You're friends with Kevin Day. Get him to agree to give me a fair chance at a tryout and I'll ask Andrew Minyard out on a date," bargained Neil.

Allison's eyes narrowed. "It's a deal," she said, and stuck out her hand to shake his.

"Why are you doing this?" Katelyn asked Allison as they took their leave. "You seem very invested in this."

Allison blushed slightly and averted her eyes. "Andrew spends all his time with Renee Walker. I was hoping that if he had someone else then she would be looking for some companionship."

"Ah," said Katelyn, sagely. "So you're also just a giant loser with a crush."

"Shut up," said Allison. "I'm not a loser, I'm a queen."

The rooftop access door slammed open and Andrew automatically lit a second cigarette, passing it over as Neil took a seat beside him.

"I received some interesting information," said Neil, clearly trying to get Andrew to ask him for his news. Andrew remained quiet, just to be contrary. Neil huffed, but continued anyway, "The new girl has a crush on your brother."

"It doesn't matter," said Andrew. "It doesn't affect me." Aaron wasn't going to break his promise and start dating, not until Andrew decided that he could.

"And that's where you're wrong," said Neil. "Somehow she's enlisted the help of Allison Reynolds and the two of them are bribing me to take you out on a date."

"They're bribing you?" repeated Andrew.

"Yup," said Neil. "Allison's going to get Kevin to agree to let me tryout for the exy team."

Andrew shook his head with mock severity. "I should have known better than to trust a junkie like you. All it takes is a single offer of your drug of choice and you're selling me out."

Neil knocked his shoulder into Andrew's. They'd met during Neil's first week at school, when he'd been searching for somewhere to sneak a cigarette. Since then they'd been meeting here regularly, slowly becoming almost-friends. Andrew was surprised by how much he liked the casual contact.

"Wanna go on a date with me?" asked Neil.

"I hate you," said Andrew.

"We just started sonnets in English," said Neil. "You could write me one: 'How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways.'"

"We don't have enough time for me to make a detailed list."

"Maybe just a Cliff's Notes version, then? Ten things you hate about me?"

The ten things Andrew hated most about Neil were also the things that Andrew found most attractive about him, so he didn't respond.

"The deal I made is that I have to ask you on a date, not that you have to accept," Neil said. "So technically I've already done what I said I would. After all, I can't take you out if you say no."

Andrew smoked and considered his options. Agreeing to date Neil, even as a ruse, appealed to him. Maybe he could take advantage of the situation and somehow convince Neil to date him for real. However, if Andrew suddenly started dating then Aaron would follow. Was this something for which he was willing to loosen his hold on Aaron?

"Where would you take me on the date?"

Neil blinked once, obviously not expecting the question. "I was thinking of doing something like paintball," he said casually.

"Why paintball?"

"What, you don't want to attack people without them threatening to call the cops?" said Neil. "I know you prefer knives to guns, but I'll teach you how to handle a gun: I'm a crack shot."

The fact that Neil had obviously put thought into where he would take Andrew, specifically, on a date made up Andrew's mind. "What will you give me if I say yes?" he asked.

"What do you want?" Neil volleyed back.

What he wanted was for Neil to not ask stupid questions. "A bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue," he said instead.

"Deal," said Neil, his eyes shining. "I'll see if I can get Allison to pay for it."

Andrew was aware that this was a stupid plan that was going to end in pain, probably his own. He was giving up his hold on Aaron for what would surely turn out to be a pipe dream. He should know better by now, but Neil hadn't let him down yet. Perhaps, if he played his cards right, this was something that he could have.

#AndreilWeek2018 #aftg #andreil #neil josten #andrew minyard #my fic

165 notes · View notes

nicolabarth · 6 years

Text

Loyalty

Read it on AO3

Square Filled: Waiter!Cas

Ship: Castiel/Meg Masters

Rating: Mature

Tags: Mafia AU, Mobster!Lucifer, Waiter!Castiel, Mobster!Meg, Mention of Murder, less than friendly interrogation techniques, Death Threats (it’s how they show love)

Summary: Castiel just got out of prison, where he was doing time for helping his friend Balthazar sell military equipment. Since Castiel knows his cousin Michael is a successful business man, he asked him for a job. He didn't expect to end up as a waiter in Dean Winchester's bar. And the Archangels don't expect him having a less than pleasant secret mission. This is part of the Mafia Archangels verse, but you don’t have to read the rest to understand this one.

Word Count: 6723

Written for @spnaubingo

Thanks to @askatosch for cheering me on and making me change the ending so that it’s much better now. Also thanks to @coplins for beta reading and letting me use her OC Aleksandr “Sasha” Chaadayev.

There are too many new faces at once in his bar for Dean’s liking. Not customers, of course, new customers are always a good thing. But people he has to work with. People he hasn’t chosen himself.

For one, there’s the guy with the silver hair and the silver eyes sitting by the bar with a coke. Aleksandr Chaadayev, a name Dean still isn’t sure how to spell right. He also still hates the thought that he needs a bodyguard now, but if it makes Michael worry less, he’ll learn how to deal. It would probably be easier, if silver eyes was the only addition to the team.

But then there’s …

“You should show me some respect,” comes a deep voice from the direction of a nearby table. Dean’s new waiter is frowning down on a blond girl that’s seated there.

The girl rolls her eyes. “Listen, I totally don’t care what you think I should. I ordered a skinny latte, but this is like totally not low fat milk. It’s really not that hard to get a simple order right!”

That makes Dean bristle. He got that order right for sure. He takes pride in getting orders right, no matter how many extra requirements. So he kinda wants to echo what the new guy said, but there are things you don’t say to customers no matter what. That’s why he just sighs and steps out from behind the bar. “What’s the matter here?”

In the end he gives up trying to convince the girl that she got low-fat milk and just makes a new latte for her. Then he sends the new guy into the cellar to stock up on things, where he doesn’t have to interact with customers for a while. When Dean settles back behind the bar, silver eyes is watching him with an amused expression.

“What’s so funny?” Dean grumps.

“Never seen anyone as useless with customers as Castiel,” silver eyes says.

Ah yes, Castiel, that’s the name. Michael had asked Dean to hire the guy. Apparently he’s family. A cousin or something, and he just got out of prison. What was it again? Helping a friend sell military equipment? Way to get a dishonorable discharge.

“What do you know about the guy, Silver eyes?” Dean asks.

His new bodyguard lifts and eyebrow. “Silver eyes?”

“Would you prefer Immortal?” According to Michael that’s what some people call his new bodyguard. Pretty overdramatic nickname.

“Oy!” Silver eyes complains. “Don’t call me that. It’s too much like tempting fate for my liking, you feel me?”

Dean laughs. “Yeah, fair enough.” He has to give it to the guy, he’s not that bad. “But your actual name is a quite a mouthful.”

“Call me Sasha.”

“Alright, Sasha. So, what do you know about the new guy?”

Sasha shrugs. “All I know is that the boss wants me to watch him and see, if he’s trustworthy. Apparently he just showed up. Not much contact before that. But he’s family and he’s already been doing shady business. Apparently pretty successful, before he was busted. So maybe he’s useful.”

“What’s your verdict so far?” It’s only been a few hours, but Dean is curious. Maybe you have to have some kind of super people assessing skills to become a mafia bodyguard. Who knows.

Sasha grins and takes a sip from his coke. “That he’s pretty useless with customers.”

“No shit,” Dean says.

Castiel fumes, when he gets off work later. The nerve some people have! It’s like by showing up to work this morning he had somehow resigned some human rights. Instead they use him as an outlet to their frustration and expect him to smile and nod along the way.

He still doesn’t get why Michael has sent him to wait tables here, either. Wasn’t there supposed to be some shady business going on? At least that’s what Naomi said. If the FBI was wrong about this, if they practically forced him into service and sent him here for nothing, he hopes the feds will at least keep their part of the deal anyway.

Well, at least they had been right about Michael and Dean Winchester. There is some kind of connection obviously.

Castiel walks home through the darkness, not particularly afraid of what might lurk there, even though Dean had warned him that the neighbourhood isn’t the best. He kind of hopes someone might try something. At least he could vent some of his anger that way.

He has a small apartment not that far away in a house riddled with graffiti. The stairwell stinks of something rotten all the time, and he holds his breath until he reaches his door and hurries in.

He has only just pulled off his shoes, when his phone rings. He thinks about not answering it, just out of spite, but then he does so anyway.

“Report,” Naomi’s voice comes from the other side of the line.

Castiel huffs. “I waited tables for ten hours.”

“I want a report on the important parts,” she says testily. “Did you get close to Sam Winchester?”

He wishes there was some way to tell her to just fuck off. The words are on the tip of his tongue. He swallows them down, though. “The bar my cousin sent me to work in belongs to Dean Winchester.”

“Excellent.” The self-satisfied smile he hears in her voice makes him scowl at nothing. “Sam Winchester will show up there eventually. Just work on winning his brother’s trust for the moment. And that of your cousins.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. That much was kind of obvious. “Yes, ma’am. When will you let Balthazar out then?”

“As soon as there are some results.”

Castiel’s fingers clench around the phone. “What if there are none?”

“There will be. People that don’t have anything to hide usually don’t quit the service as a police officer and start a stripping career at questionable joints. Don’t worry. Do your work right and your friend will be free soon.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says again through clenched teeth. Hopefully, this will be over soon.

It actually doesn’t take long until Sam Winchester shows up. Castiel and Kevin are on their own for the night. Dean is somewhere else, Castiel doesn’t know exactly where. But he recognizes Sam from the photos Naomi has shown him. Not that it’s easy to miss someone that tall.

He’s in the company of a small brunette woman and a blond man that looks somewhat familiar. Castiel squints at the later until Kevin nudges him. “Dude, stop staring. Go wait on the people on table three. They’ve been trying to get your attention for a while now.”

Table three is making things needlessly complicated, of course, by wanting to pay separately, but arguing over who pays for what. Castiel resigns himself to waiting and eyerolling. By now he knows that any input from his side will not be appreciated.

When he comes back, Sam and his companions are sitting at a table near the bar, talking animatedly.

“Who is that?” Castiel nods towards their table.

Kevin doesn’t even look up from taping beer. “You mean Sam? The tall one? That’s Dean’s brother.”

“No, the other man.”

That makes Kevin stop for a moment. “Oh.” He hesitates. “I’m not supposed to talk about them. But don’t make him angry, please. He’s bad news. I’m telling Dean for a while now not to mess with the bunch, but does he ever listen to me? Of course not. Sam and Dean never listen to me. Always heading straight into trouble.”

Kevin closes the tap and looks at him for a moment through narrowed eyes. “Wait … Aren’t you related to them?” he asks. “I heard Dean talk about it. You don’t recognize your own family?”

Oh, now that he knows, Castiel remembers the blond boy he’s last seen when he was five or something like that. He and his siblings had shown up unannounced, hadn’t they? He doesn’t know why, but his parents had been angry and they hadn’t stayed long.

So this must be Lucifer. He’s finally meeting one of his other cousins. “Haven’t seen them in a long time and not met all of them so far. What do you mean the bunch is trouble?” Naomi hadn’t said anything about trouble from his cousin’s part. There had only ever been talk about getting closer to his cousins, because Dean and Michael are apparently an item and that’ll lead him straight to Sam.

Kevin looks at him as if he’s joking, then he shakes his head. “Nevermind. Just don’t make him angry.”

Castiel inclines his head. That’s what Balthazar would do, isn’t it? Be friendly until he gets a better opportunity to collect more information. “I see. If Lucifer scares you, I can take over their table,” he offers. It would be a good opportunity to get this job done so he can finally move on.

For a moment Kevin seems torn. “At least try and be nice to them, okay?” he says finally. “I don’t want any trouble while Dean is away.”

“No trouble.” Castiel promises.

Kevin doesn’t look as if he believes it, but he nods. At the same time, a movement at the table catches his eye. The brunette woman is laughing at something Lucifer said, then answers, mischievous grin on her face. Castiel likes that grin. “Who’s she?” he asks.

Now Kevin finally actually looks towards the table. He shrugs. “Meg, I think? Haven’t see her here often. Probably trouble too.”

Yes, she looks like it. He likes that, too.

They stop talking when he gets close enough to listen, which just helps confirm what Kevin said. Meg – if that’s her name – looks at him with a quirked eyebrow and a smile that shows pearly white teeth. “Haven’t see you here before, pretty boy. What’s your name?”

He could’ve done without ‘pretty boy’, but at least she isn’t treating him like he’s part of the furniture. “Castiel,” he says. “What can I bring you?”

Instead of an answer, her smile gets brighter. “Another angel?”

Lucifer shrugs. “It’s a family thing. That’s my cousin.” He points from Meg to Castiel and back. “Castiel, Meg. Meg, Castiel.” Then at Sam. “And in case you didn’t meet your boss’ brother yet. This is Sam.” Then he looks at Castiel curiously. “Haven’t seen you since our dad last tried to dump us at your parent’s and they threw a hissy fit about it.”

“I barely remember anything.” That seems the safe thing to say. Usually he’d ask them to hurry up with their order now, but that would be contrary to his mission. Instead he turns to Meg. She had commented on his name, so he can use that to start a conversation. “I’m named after the angel of Thursday.”

She laughs. “Looks like your parents though you have big things ahead of you, Clarence.”

Castiel frowns. “It’s Castiel, not –”

“She got that,” Sam interrupts with an amused smile. “It’s a movie reference.”

Of course it would be. Castiel rolls his eyes and can practically hear Balthazar teasing him about missing that. At least now he has Sam’s attention, too, even though he’s not sure what to do with it for now. “So,” he asks instead. “What do you want to drink?”

The evening doesn’t get quite as shitty as a few others he’s had at the bar so far. Of course Castiel gets why Kevin is afraid of Lucifer and Meg. He isn’t stupid. Illegally selling military equipment with Balthazar has made him come in contact with enough dangerous people to recognize them when he sees them. But no matter how many skeletons they might be hiding in their respective basements, at least they treat him like an actual person.

When there’s a lull, he spends some time at their table. Catching up with Lucifer gives a good excuse for that.

And there’s one thing he catches on pretty soon. Sam and Lucifer try to be discreet about it, but there are frequent touches, glances and a familiarity between them that seems to hint at Michael maybe not being the only one of his cousins that got himself a Winchester boyfriend. Castiel wonders why they’re trying to hide it.

“So, how did you get caught?” Lucifer asks during one of Castiel’s stops at their table.

“Lucifer!” Sam hisses. “You can’t just ask about something like that!”

Castiel blinks. “What?”

“Come on, I’m just curious.” Lucifer leans back with a grin. “We know what you did. Not holding it against you. But share with the class. How did you get busted?”

Sam throws Lucifer a silent judging bitchface, while Castiel finds Meg looking at him with even more interested than before. “I don’t know what you did,” she protests. “What was it, Clarence?”

“You really don’t have to answer that.” Sam leans forward over the table. “I’m sorry Lucifer brought it up. If you don’t want to talk about it, we all understand.”

Whatever Sam did to land on the shitlist of the FBI, Castiel decides, it can’t be that bad. At least not from his point of view. Sam seems like a pretty decent person so far. And usually Castiel hates talking about what got him into prison, but usually people ask out of some morbid kind of curiosity. Lucifer on the other hand talks about it like other people would about the weather. And Meg looks at him as if he managed to pull off a hilarious prank. “Me and a friend at the army sold military equipment,” Castiel explains.

Lucifer and Sam both nod, which is not a reaction he has gotten often to that kind of thing so far. Meg lifts both eyebrows. “Nice.” It almost sounds like she’s proud. “So, how did you get caught?”

Good question. “Someone must’ve betrayed us.”

“Another friend?” Sam asks.

“Most likely,” Cas agrees.

“Sorry to hear that.” Does Sam have to be so nice? Spying on him for the FBI would be so much easier, if Castiel didn’t like him.

“How long did you manage to keep it up without them noticing?” There’s interest sparkling in Lucifer’s eyes.

“Five years.”

That gets him an impressed whistle from Meg and a few more nods.

“Quite a feat,” Sam says.

There’s definitely something up with them. Cas tilts his head a little. “Dean mentioned you worked as a police officer until recently.” He makes it sound like a question: Why do you approve of what I just told you, if that’s the case?

Sam shrugs. “I was a police officer because I wanted to help people. But I realized I was too busy punishing poor people for being poor and desperate and not spending enough time hunting the real predators.”

That’s an interesting answer. Castiel thinks about it for a while. “So, what are you doing now?”

Sam smiles. “What I actually wanted to do. In a way.”

“I spoke to Sam Winchester today,” Castiel says on the phone with Naomi later. “I’m working on winning his trust.”

“Good. Keep it up.”

There are so many more things he should probably tell her about. What Kevin had said about Lucifer. Sam and Lucifer being close. Meg. What Sam had hinted at. Instead he says: “This would be easier with Balthazar’s help. My people skills are a bit rusty.”

“I’m sure you’ll do fine. We’ll let him out as soon as you get a lead. Have a good night.”

The line goes dead before he can say anything else. Castiel throws the phone against the wall, cursing.

Something is going on in this bar, Castiel is almost sure of it. People are coming and going in the back rooms and it doesn’t look like they’re playing poker there. He thinks about listening in, but on the other hand, his mission is Sam. If there’s other sketchy stuff going on here, it’s none of his business and probably won’t even help getting Balthazar out. He can see Naomi going: “Thanks for the tip, but you still have a job to do.”

He’s not going to rat anyone out to the FBI on that basis. On the other hand, telling Naomi that there’s something big going on here might make her finally grant him some backup in form of Balthazar. It’s probably a question of how much she trusts him by now.

Castiel is still pondering what to do, when voices are getting louder in the back of the bar. He sees Kevin backing away from it. Dean is busy with a customer at the bar at the moment. So Castiel heads right for it.

There are two guys discussing something drunkenly and increasingly aggressive. He is almost at their table, when one of them stands up abruptly and lounges over the table.

Castiel doesn’t think. He turns the tablet he usually uses to carry drinks and smashes it right into the guy’s face. Then he shoves it back far enough that the back of the man’s head hits the wall behind him. The drunk’s arms flail wildly, but he can’t see anything past the tablet that’s still right in his face. Castiel punches him right in the stomach, and the troublemaker folds into himself. As soon as Castiel removes the tablet, he slides down the wall, clutching his midriff.

“Hey, asshole! That’s my friend.”

When Castiel turns, he sees that the other guy has gotten to his feet, too. “You should thank me,” he informs the man. “Your friend was about to hurt you.”

“He’s still my fucking friend! And if someone punches him, it’s me!”

Great. Castiel rolls his eyes. Ungrateful lot. Before anything else can happen, though, the silver haired regular customer that had been sitting at the bar walks up to the man and lets a hand land heavy on his shoulder. “Oy! I’d like to enjoy my drink in peace. If you got a problem with how the wait staff here is resolving fights, why don’t you just leave, hm?”

The guy looks from Castiel to Silver hair and back. Castiel knows he himself doesn’t look particularly intimidating, but Silver hair definitely does with his military haircut and broad built. It doesn’t take long until both troublemakers are hurrying out the door.

Castiel nods to the silver haired customer. “Thanks.”

The guy nods back. “Looks like you could’ve handled it pretty well yourself. I just figured your boss might appreciate this getting resolved mostly peacefully.”

Castiel looks in Dean’s direction, who’s watching them with a mostly neutral expression. “I guess you’re right. Thanks again ...” He lets the end of the sentence linger a bit.

“Sasha,” silver hair says. “Where did you learn how to fight like that?” He points at the tablet, and only now does Castiel realize there’s a bit of blood on its surface. That’s probably against some kind of sanitary regulations.

“I’m ex military,” Castiel says.

Sasha chuckles. “Yeah, no, that’s not where you learn how to do stuff like that.”

Castiel shrugs, frowning down on the tablet. “I just work with what I have.”

“Good job.” With that Sasha returns to his seat.

Dean says the same thing a bit later, patting Castiel’s shoulder. “Good job, Cas.”

It’s nice to be appreciated for a change. Castiel decides not to tell Naomi about his suspicions for now.

Dean watches Cas hurry from table from table, then he finally sidles up to Sasha. “So what’s your verdict now?”

“I’m reporting to my boss, not to his boyfriend,” Sasha says, his smile probably meant to take the sting out of the words.

Dean doesn’t take offence. As far as he’s concerned, Michael’s men staying loyal to Michael is a good thing. “Come on, man,” he tries anyway. “I don’t want to know any details about what kind of tasks he would be useful for. But he’d fit right into the family, wouldn’t he?”

“He would,” Sasha agrees. “Still not sure, if he’s trustworthy, though.”

“Well, you not gonna find out about that by watching him serve drinks.”

Sasha makes a sturgeon face and shrugs a shoulder to concede to the point.

“Clarence! Wait up!”

Castiel turns. He’s one block away from the bar by now and apart from him and Meg, who’s currently running to catch up with him, there’s no one on the dark street.

Meg is waving a cell phone. “You forgot your phone in the bar. Dean sent me after you.” She stops right in front of him, barely out of breath, holding the cell phone out to him with a smile.

He never forgets his phone. Castiel frowns, while he takes it. It’s definitely his, but he’s so sure he had his phone in his pocket when he headed out. He eyes Meg suspiciously, but her smile never wavers. “Thanks,” he says after a while, puts the phone back in his pocket.

“You’re welcome.” She falls in step next to him, when he starts walking again. “By the way, who’s Samandriel? You have a missed call from him. It rang on my way here.”

Samandriel called? Castiel curses silently, then he goes to check his phone. Sure enough, there is a missed call. “Little brother of a friend,” he explains, unlocking his phone while he speaks.

“And then he calls you?”

“Friend is still in prison. I promised to look out for his brother.” He taps the screen to call Samandriel back.

“Aww.” Castiel isn’t sure, if Meg is mocking him or not. “A real angel, aren’t you, Clarence?”

Castiel doesn’t answer, because that’s the moment Samandriel picks up.

Samandriel needs money. He always needs money. Part of the earnings from deals Balthazar made always went straight into Samandriel’s college fund. Castiel promises to send some, but the job at Dean’s bar doesn’t pay enough by far. He’ll have to get Balthazar out soon.

“Good friend, eh?” Meg comments. She’s keeps walking beside him, and Castiel isn’t quite sure why. Not that he minds the company, though. He watches her in the light of the streetlamps for a moment. She must know that the neighborhood is bad, too, but she doesn’t look concerned in the least, her attention mostly on him with little side eyes and smiles.

He nods. “He saved my life once.” And he is failing at a much simpler task right now. Damn FBI!

“You could always ask your cousins for help,” Meg suggests.

Could he? After he hadn’t seen them for more than twenty years? And they definitely wouldn’t pay some random kid’s college fees. “I’m pretty sure they can’t get Balthazar out of prison.”

Meg grins. “I’m pretty sure they could.”

It’s bullshit, of course. Balthazar has been proven guilty. No lawyer can change that.

They talk about easier topics after that. Meg is fun, and she even manages to take his mind off his worries for a while. He can’t do anything about them until tomorrow anyway.

Somehow they end up against the door of his apartment kissing, Meg’s arms slung around his neck, her body pressed flush against his. She nips on his lower lip, then lets her head fall back against the door as he kisses down her neck. “I’ve seen you deal with the troublemakers at the bar today,” she says a bit breathless. “It was pretty hot.”

“Is that why you stole my phone?” Castiel straightens a little, watching her face for a reaction. “So you had a reason to follow me here?”

For a moment Meg blinks in surprise. Then she grins. “You realized that?”

She really isn’t fazed easily, is she? He appreciates that she stands by what she did, though. “I never lose my phone,” Castiel says. “And next time you want to follow me home, just follow me home. If you steal from me again, there will be trouble.”

Meg’s grin gets wider. Her hands start to wander, find their way under his shirt and leave tingling trails on his skin. “Is that an invitation?”

“Do you only ever hear what you want to hear?” At the same time he cards his fingers through her hair, making her lean into the touch. He kind of likes her attitude.

“Most of the time. But don’t worry. I got what you’re saying. No more stealing.”

Castiel smiles and kisses her again. She can follow him home anytime she wants.

Archangel Chat

Gabriel: Bad news, guys. I’ve analyzed the data Meg got from Cassie’s phone and he’s been talking regularly to someone with a number that belongs to the feds.

Lucifer: Aw fuck. I almost started to like the guy.

Michael: Dean has just recently stopped complaining about him, too, but we can’t ignore this.

Raphael: Do we know who he was talking to and what they were after?

Gabriel: Working on it. But it wasn’t easy finding out that the number belonged to the feds in the first place.

Lucifer: Michael, what’s the plan? Reassign him somewhere where he can’t make trouble and feed him false information? Or get him out of the way?

Michael: I want to know what he’s after. Which means, if Gabriel can’t dig anything up, we’ll have to ask him.

Raphael: And then we’ll have to get rid him for sure afterwards.

Lucifer: Great. Meg will hate this.

Raphael: Is she going to make trouble?

Lucifer: I know how to keep my people in line, sis. Don’t worry. She’s loyal. But I’ll probably have to make it up to her somehow. And everybody likes Cassandra. Sam, too. The little guy is weird that way. No social skills, but people adopt him like some lost puppy or something.

Raphael: Maybe you can learn something from him, Lucifer.

Lucifer: Fuck you, sis. I like making people nervous, okay?

Michael: I’m not happy about it either. He seemed like a good addition to the family. Even Aleksandr was impressed by him.

Gabriel: I’m not surprised by that. Sasha always takes to the weird, but resourceful ones.

Michael: Let’s wait and see what else Gabriel will dig up. But in case we have no choice: Any volunteers?

Lucifer: He already knows me and thinks I’m a friend. I’ll do it.

Raphael: You sure? Last time you had to kill someone you liked, you spent the next few weeks even more grumpy than usual.

Lucifer: I said I almost started to like him. I’m not emotionally attached yet.

Raphael: Just saying. I could do it, too.

Lucifer: Appreciated.

Gabriel: It’s always creepy watching you two get along too well, you know that?

Lucifer: Quick, Raph, say something sarcastic to put Gabriel at ease.

Raphael: *eyeroll emoji*

Lucifer: That’ll do.

Castiel wakes up with a splitting headache and no idea where he is and how he got into this situation. He mouth feels dry, which comes to no surprise as soon as he figures out that there’s a piece of cloth between his lips, gagging him. Automatically, he tries to lift his hands, but that only makes metal dig into his wrists. He’s sitting on a chair, mostly held upright by his arms that are bound behind the backrest. With a groan he straightens up, blinks, recognizes his own apartment. He’s sitting in the middle of the living room. And across from him is Lucifer on a chair that’s turned around, his arms on the backrest, watching him.

Lucifer makes no move to help Castiel, so he’s probably responsible for his situation. Castiel feels a pang of betrayal, while his memories come back. Lucifer had knocked on his door with a six pack of beer a few hours earlier. They’d had a pretty good talk, even though Castiel had thought the alcohol had a bit too much of an effect. Now he knows why.

Castiel tries to say something, but the gag prevents words from getting out.

Lucifer smiles. “Hello there, sleeping beauty. I’ll take the gag out and get you something to drink and something against your headache as soon as you promise not to call for help.”

It looks like he should’ve paid more attention to what had been going on in Dean’s bar. Apparently it’s even bigger than he thought. Worry makes a tight knot in Castiel’s stomach, but at least he isn’t dead yet and Lucifer offering painkillers gives him hope. He nods. His neighbors probably wouldn’t react to calls for help anyway.

“Knew you’d be reasonable.” Lucifer gets up and steps behind him to open the knot that keeps the gag in place. “But just to be absolutely clear. If you make any kind of noise that’ll draw attention to us, I’ll shove a blade somewhere where it’ll hurt.”

It shouldn’t be able to make threats in such a gentle voice. Castiel nods again, though.

Then the gag is out, and Lucifer walks away towards the kitchen area of the apartment. Castiel tests his bonds. Hands and feet are handcuffed to the chair. No way he’ll get out of that.

Lucifer comes back with a glass of water and a pill. On the basis that Lucifer could kill him any time he wants anyway, Castiel opens his mouth and lets his cousin place the pill on his tongue. Lucifer helps him drink a bit of water, wash the pill down. Then he returns to his own chair.

Castiel tries to sit up straighter, just to have pain shoot through his skull with every movement. “Did you roofie me?” he asks.

“I wasn’t very keen on fighting you.” Lucifer makes an almost apologetic gesture. “I have a few questions you wouldn’t have answered any other way.”

Castiel pulls a face, knot of worry getting tighter. “I figured.”

That makes Lucifer smile. He puts his chin on his forearms that are on the backrest of his chair again. “Answer truthfully and I won’t hurt you, okay?” That may or may not be a lie. “We know you’re working with the FBI.”

Of course he’d thought it might be that. But how did they find out? They can’t know for sure. Even the number he has been calling shouldn’t be traceable back to the feds. Maybe Lucifer is bluffing, trying to make him confirm a suspicion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t give me that bullshit,” Lucifer says. “I want to know what they’re after.”

“Lucifer,” Castiel says, trying to distract from more questions, “I don’t know what you have to hide, but I don’t care. I just got out of prison. I don’t exactly have the moral high ground here.”

“But you got out of prison early on good behavior, didn’t you? Which is interesting, because as it turns out, your behavior was anything but good. Unless starting fights has become the polite thing to do since I last spent time behind bars. It’s been a while, I have to admit.”

Castiel hadn’t know that and he files it away to maybe use it later. If there is a later. “I didn’t start fights, I ended them.”

Lucifer grins. “I really like you. Please answer my question. What is the FBI looking for?”

He’s dead anyway, isn’t he? Castiel stares at Lucifer for a moment. He can’t see any weapons, but he’s sure Lucifer has some on his person. And judging from the way he seems completely at ease with the situation this isn’t the first time he had done something like this. This whole thing really is way bigger than Castiel had thought. “Sam,” he says finally.

That makes Lucifer tense up. “What?”

Now that he’s started he can as well spill everything. “The way Sam quit his job made them suspicious. They know he spent the last few months stripping at questionable places now and then.”

“That’s it?” Lucifer asks. He visibly relaxes again.

Castiel nods.

Now Lucifer is the one staring, his jaw working in thought. Castiel shifts uncomfortably on his chair. The headache has receded a bit by now. At least that’s something.

“What did you tell them so far?” Lucifer asks finally.

“Nothing.”

Lucifer scoffs. “Oh, come on, Cassie. You’re trying to tell me you spent all this time at Dean’s bar looking for something off and didn’t see anything worth telling the FBI?”

“Of course I did.” He probably shouldn’t get angry, but how stupid does Lucifer think he is? “But I got promised that my friend gets out of prison, if I give them information about Sam. They didn’t ask for anything about Dean or his bar or you or your siblings.”

For a moment Lucifer blinks at him in surprise, then he throws his head back and laughs. It takes him a while to calm down. When he does, he takes a deep breath. “Oh, this is priceless. You really fit right in with the family. I wish you’d told any of us earlier. It’s hard to trust anything you say now, you know. Of course you’d take every offer to doublecross them now, would you?”

Castiel shakes his head, which makes Lucifer lift an eyebrow in surprise.

“I wouldn’t take any offer,” he clarifies. “I owe Balthazar my life and he’s still in prison. The FBI promised me to let him out as soon as I give them information about Sam. You’d have to offer something similar.”

Meg had been right, hadn’t she? His cousins probably could get Balthazar out. If you’re not relying on legal means only, a lot of things are possible.

Lucifer looks at him with a thoughtful look now, and Castiel holds his breath. That’s when they both hear someone fumbling with the lock of his apartment. Castiel’s heart speeds up, but before he can say anything, Lucifer has drawn a gun and goes into position next to the door. “If you make any noise, I’ll shoot you.”

“It’s me!” comes Meg’s voice from the hallway. “I’m coming in now.”

Lucifer relaxes a bit, but not completely. “Alright.” Still, when she steps in, he points his gun at her.

And that makes the coil of worry and fear in Castiel’s gut dissolve into anger. He know she’s working for Lucifer, but apparently he hadn’t expected her here. And she’d tried to help Castiel before, had told him how to resolve his problems without getting in trouble. Not her fault that he hadn’t believed her. Castiel pulls on his restraints. “Leave her alone!”

Meg stops in the doorway and lifts both hands to show that she is unarmed. She shoots Castiel an amused smile. “Aww, my hero.” Then she turns to Lucifer. “Boss, is there anything I can do to convince you not to kill him?”

So she’s really here for him?

“Will there be a problem, if there isn’t?” Lucifer asks.

“I pick a cause and I stick to it, boss. You’re that cause.” She doesn’t look happy, but she looks like she’s telling the truth. So much for her being on his side. Another sting of betrayal hits Castiel.

Slowly Lucifer lowers his gun. “I’m half convinced we shouldn’t kill him anyway. You got anything to add?”

Castiel doesn’t dare hope, while he watches Meg walk into the room and towards him. She steps behind the chair and cards her fingers through his hair in a way that’s soothing despite everything she just said. Castiel half closes his eyes, tries to enjoy it as long as he can. “Clarence, did you tell Lucifer about your friend Balthazar yet?”

“He did,” Lucifer says. “Apparently he’s the reason Cassie is working for the FBI.”

They could at least get his name right now and then, Castiel thinks.

Meg nods. “I figured as much. I heard him promise Balthazar’s little brother basically all the money he can spare. I’d bet my life on him being fiercely loyal to his friends, not to whoever he’s working for.”

The thoughtful look is back on Lucifer’s face now, and Castiel dares hope at least a little.

“You really think you could get Balthazar out of prison?” he asks.

“Of course we could,” Lucifer says. “Get him out, supply him with a new identity, resolve all money issues. But for that price, we’d want absolute loyalty from you.”

It sounds almost too good to be true. “Sure,” Castiel says.

Lucifer lifts an eyebrow. “That easy?”

“It’s not like I liked working for the FBI.”

“Told you,” Meg says.

Lucifer doesn’t look completely convinced yet. “So …” he says. “If I ask you to call your FBI contact right now and tell them something that’ll avert all suspicion from Sam, you’ll do it?”

So he’s fishing for a show of trust. Because there is the risk that Naomi will not release Balthazar for information like that. Castiel will have to trust that his cousins will keep their end of the deal. He isn’t sure why exactly, but he looks at Meg.

She smiles. “If the boss says something will get done, it will get done.”

Castiel nods. He thinks of Sam, who has either talked bullshit about helping people or found a bunch of criminals that somehow support him in exactly that. He thinks of Dean who doesn’t seem too bad either, but is obviously also involved in this. And then there’s Meg, of course, who had come here to try and save his life, even though not at all cost.

“I’ll do it,” he says.

Meg strokes Castiel’s cheek with the back of her fingers and leans down. “I promise you won’t regret that,” she whispers.

Castiel smiles, but looks at Lucifer. “May I make a suggestion, though?”

Lucifer tilts his head to the side curiously. “Go ahead.”

“Don’t just make it something I say. Give me something I can show her as proof and fabricate some more that she’ll find, when she verifies it.”

That makes his cousin smile. “I knew there was a reason why I like you.” He throws Meg the key to the handcuffs. “You’re under house arrest until we figured something out. Meg will keep an eye on you. Don’t give me any reason to shoot you.”

At least he won’t die today. “I’ll do my best.”

A few days later Castiel and Sam meet to have a scripted conversation that Castiel “secretly” records. It’s Sam telling him how much the death of Chief Henricksen has affected him (by the way his voice breaks a few times it really has), how he’s drifting since then, how he doesn’t feel like holding a regular job, and how he earns money stripping wherever they’ll take him whenever he needs it.

He claims having done drugs, which is something they can’t arrest him for unless they find some in his possession. For good measure they add a picture of some pills that Castiel “secretly” takes (he doesn’t ask where the pills are from and if they’re the real deal), and there’ll be some people at the places Sam had worked before that’ll claim having taken drugs with him and generally having witnessed him being the mess that fits his story.

After they’re done, Sam smiles and thanks him for not ruining his life. How someone that nice ended up with Lucifer is simply beyond Castiel. And he probably shouldn’t have commented on it, because he gets the stink eye from Lucifer for it. “You’re still not out of probation, Cassie.”

By now the death threats have lost their shock value a bit and Castiel just rolls his eyes.

He sends the file to Naomi. A bit later he gets a call from her. He takes it with Lucifer sitting next to him in a calm but slightly threatening way.

“Are you sure he’s telling the truth?” Naomi asks. She doesn’t sound happy. Apparently she wanted to find something.

“As sure as I can be,” he says. “Are you going to release Balthazar now?”

She hmpfs. “I’ll have to confirm this.”

“It’s not my fault there isn’t much to find. I did what you asked of me.”

“I’ll have to confirm this,” she says, voice sharper. And with that she hangs up. Castiel curses and only barely keeps himself from throwing the phone against the wall again.

Lucifer pats his shoulder. “Good job. And Michael will probably send some lawyers as a start, but your friend will get out either way.”

Castiel nods, still angry, but feeling less helpless at least.

“Oh, and Cassie?” Lucifer adds.

“Yes?”

“Welcome to the family.”

Tagging: @brieflymaximumprincess @lucibae-is-dancing-in-hell @humongouscandycoffee @schizonephilim @little-boyking @solo-skywlker @talkmagically @whinywingedwinchester @samwise-the-true-hero

#spnaubingo #megstiel #castiel #meg masters #supernatural #spn #fanfiction #mafia verse

15 notes · View notes

birdysnow · 7 years

Note

Who is your favorite OC? Pls share their backstory I must know👀

to be honest it’s totally Devon. I’ve had him sinceee about the 6th grade, and he’s been concrete since about 7th grade (I’m almost a junior!). He’s so important to me :’). Whenever I feel sad I just work on him or write about him and it cheers me up real fast.

haha his backstory is a loooong, complicated mess. I literally went on an 1.5-2 hour rant about his backstory at a sleepover once, it was ridiculous how long it took for me to talk about him. I actually wrote a response for this ask yesterday, but it got deleted I hate my life. It was soooo long because I wrote it in the way I speak. You’re probably getting a lot more than you bargained for :’). I’ll put it below the cut so everyone else doesn’t suffer.

im gonna use bullet points bc i like them and theyre shorter

note: universe is like. sci-fi. there’s space stuff you know

full name: Devon Mateo Westmore

born: August 16th

a leo!!! do with that what you will

as far as parents go, they’re kinda dicks basically

Devon was a complete accident and he’s kind of treated as such

they’re pretty neglectful?? they really dont give a crap abt him frankly

they’re more interested in making bank with their jobs and turning up

has a sister who’s like graduating or smthn. she’s old. her name’s Lucía.

she also could give less than a crap about him and had a similar experience with their parents; just wants to be free and have no attachment to this rando baby

is a total Problem Child™ during school because of his messy life, just wants attention and love really but never really gets it

universally hated by teachers all his life

high school is especially rough he is a disaster

he’s basically like party all day every day bitches bc is parents are never home/probably wouldnt reprimand him for going out anyways

he drinks a lot, does drugs

he bangs a lot of people irresponsibly. A LOT of people.

is a player tbh he will flirt with anyone. very pansexual.

makes a lot of (bad) friends 2 fill the Void™ and does a lot of illegal things

anyway fast forward to when he’s like 17-18 and school’s like yep time to graduate!! and hes basically like

but he does graduate in order for the story to move forward

but now he’s like careers????????

all he’s kind of enjoyed is music throughout high school but he’s like thats not what i want to do.

yolo, he probably says to himself one day. I’ll just join the military and become a space pilot because thats what I wanted to do when i was 8

so BASICALLY i haven’t figured out how I want this space military to work but he ends up in like an academy (he’s like around 19ish) or smthn

this is where he starts to like chill tf out tbh

he discovers that he likes this a lot?? and he’s like dedicated to it???

a lot of like. coping happens and he has to figure out what kind of person he wants to be and recover™ himself

but yah he does well and he ends up being valedictorian nice going m8

basically if you’re #1 in your class you get the opportunity to go to this like. school/training thingy. and it’s very exclusive but if you like graduate from their you’re like. set

its like harvard except you could die there

yolo, he thinks in yet another life decision he really shouldn’t be taking lightly. I want $$$$ so i’m about to make that place my bitch

he does not make that place his bitch

he suffers so much

by the end of the year/2 years he’s there, he does pretty well

He makes a bunch of good friends, and he gets a ton of experience. he’s really good because of it, as to be expected

while there the top of the class is this girl and her name is Adella

shes my daughter

Devon likes her but she’s like super stand-offish and he’s a party kid so he’s like

“hard pass.”

but he has like mad respect and he thinks she’s chill

the feelings mutual

anyways like RIGHT before they graduate she gets recruited to this special program because she’s top of the class and like disappears he never sees her again

sike

but not for a while at least……………

so like fast forward he’s like 23 maybe

he’s got a good job, he’s living it up really?? he’s just like pretty happy all around he has a life, an apartment, friends

he gets an email from this girl and she’s like yo

I’m Tamara, my mother passed away recently but I discovered that our parents are apparently siblings?? I never knew I had a cousin, I heard you live in the area and I was just wondering if you wanted to get to know each other

and hes basically like damn if i’m about to pass up this chance!!!!!!!!

Tamara works as a programmer literally one (1) city away

basically they just?? end up getting along really well?? Devon spends a lot of his off days hanging out with her

he’s so ecstatic to finally have someone who’s his family like she treats him like a little brother

probably Tamara also has a younger sibling, their name is Calix. they work as a doctor and dont see Tamara often but the two are close regardless

they’ll be important later but for rn they’re not relevant

anyway, at some point they make plans for Devon to meet Tamara and he ends up at her work

and she’s chilling with this guy who is absolutely

fucking

gorgeous

Devon’s sure he died, right there, behind a goddamn cubicle,,

he’s frantically trying to think up something suave to say (are you the only tennessee no– wait–) when Tamara notices him

she introduces him to her hot friend, his name is Shay

Devon tries to play it cool

“Hey would you mind if Shay came w–”

“NO NOT AT ALL I WOULDNT MIND”

they go out for lunch

he chills out a little bit on the way enough to be his usual self

Shay mistakes flirting for good-natured joking

Devon suffers

They exchange numbers

cue pining

Shay continues to be oblivious

He has to be told point blank by Tamara whos like “Please, for the love of all that is good, fuck him go on a date with my cousin.”

“Has he been asking me on dates every time he takes me out?? every time??”

I love Shay so much u dont even know

Shay is basically a really pure and happy person, literally nothing can get him down ever he’s just trying to live his best life

he’s everything to Devon, he’s so sunshiney and nice and Devon has just been through some stuff and his life is going well and now he has been blessed with this beautiful, perfect boy….,,,

it’s not like Devon has never dated anyone before, most of his relationships have been purely physical but he’s been in romantic relationships w people

but this is like. it he knows it.

they date for about a year, everything’s fantastic

and then

things are heating up politically, and Devon’s in the military so they need him somewhere else

right now everyones living in like?? around india somewhere and they need him in like. canada.

hes understandably upset

he’s gotta move. acROSS THE GLOBE.

he’s not going to break up with bae but they’ve got to talk through this like Adults™

so they talk through it

and Shay’s basically like

“fuck no, i’m moving with you idiot

did you think you were just going to move away from me bench?? sike”

they move in together

I used to have their apartment layout drawn up on homestyler but they reset the system and it’s gone into the void so i’ll have to remake it :’)

so now they’re moved in which is super great everything is popping

remember Calix? they’re relevant again

basically, Calix has been dating this girl for a while now and they’ve gotten serious but their relationship is not working out because she is a mess tbh and they love each other very much but they are not good for each other

Calix isn’t emotionally receiving or helpful he’s very blunt so they end up splitting up because she doesn’t need a relationship

Said girl is Adella

Adella is a mess basically

the program she was recruited for made her very successful, very well known in her field and in a lot of ways, among common people

but downside is there was a lot of government dirty work she was kind of pressured into doing

there’s also a lot of hush hush skirmish’s that have been occurring that she had to stop

she’s been struggling with depression for a lot of her life and she has PTSD so when her contract is up she decides to take a break™

her and Calix’s relationship kind of falls apart but she’s friends with Tamara and she’s like I need to leave somewhere and get out of this messiness, i’m going to move back home (Canada)

Tamara is like

LIGHTBULB DING DING DING

she doesn’t think that Adella shoudnt be on her own, she wants someone to supervise her and make sure she doesnt accidentally starve or smthn

she has the best intentions but she kind of tricks Devon and Shay tbh

“Hey you guys got an apartment with an extra room?? Can you take in my friend for a while, she’ll pay rent, she has a job she’s just trying to find a nice place to live but she needs to move to the area rn”

the two of them are like “yeah sure lol sounds legit tammy we ly

Adella shows up on their doorstep with the intention to live there for like 2 years

cue Shay internally flipping his shit over this lowkey celebrity whos going to LIVE in HIS APARTMENT DEVON DID YOU CLEAN THE KITCHEN

Devon is not phased

he knows Adella from school so he’s just kind of like hey its u whats banging girlie

he basically just treats her like normal and she is so appreciative

basically they become SQUAD i love them and thats the beginning of my story and thus ends background

i’m sorry this was so long i tried so hard but i got carried away. double sorry for taking so long I have like 3 end of school projects due rip me

Thank you so much for asking!! I can’t tell you how much it means to me :’)) If you made it this far through my story I applaud you. thanks for reading!!! Feel free to message me if you have any questions

#ask #mine #im shook this happened im still dazed that anyone cares about my garbage children #i love my son so much #cheater157 #my ocs

4 notes · View notes

richmeganews · 5 years

Text

How to Write Poetry About Conflict

The poet Carolyn Forché has devoted much of her career to writing what she calls the poetry of witness. She coined the term in her introduction to Against Forgetting, a 1993 anthology in which she collected works by 145 “poets who endured conditions of historical and social extremity during the twentieth century.” Forché herself had not endured such conditions, but she had seen them. From 1978 to 1980, she traveled repeatedly to El Salvador, where she bore witness to the violent repression of Salvadoran citizens by that country’s military dictatorship.

Forché later called her time in El Salvador a “moral and political education—what at times would seem an unbearable immersion, what eventually would become a focused obsession.” In The Country Between Us (1981), she offered a set of poems reflecting that immersion and obsession. Her Salvadoran poems rang with clarity, and with horror. In “The Memory of Elena,” a meal transforms into “the lips of those whose lips / have been removed, mussels / the soft blue of a leg socket.” In “The Colonel,” a colonel empties a bag of ears “like dried peach halves” on his dinner table as he derides the notion of human rights.

Penguin Press

In her new memoir, What You Have Heard Is True, Forché explains how she arrived in El Salvador, and how she came to write The Country Between Us. The story begins with a summer Forché spent in Spain, translating the exiled Salvadoran poet Claribel Alegría. Alegría’s activist cousin, Leonel Gómez Vides, having read Forché’s debut poetry collection, invited her to visit El Salvador. Forché accepted his invitation in large part because she had struggled to understand Alegría’s poetry. Though she spoke Spanish well, she failed to grasp the poems’ “political and historical context, or, as [Alegría] would say, ‘the conditions from which the poems arose.’” In her memoir, Forché frames her decision to go to El Salvador with Gómez as a commitment to learning those conditions.

This framing is crucial. Forché never presents herself as an expert, an authority, or worst of all, a savior. She consistently emphasizes her myopia, reminding readers that “I was at the time quite young, with a romantic view of the world, and I was also an American, which made this worse.” Her memoir traces her journey from political innocence to experience, and in doing so offers a model to others who might take the same journey.

Gómez serves as Forché’s self-appointed guide and teacher, though his methods are unorthodox. He responds to each of her questions by placing her “in a situation in which you might find your answer.” Often, Forché has no idea what Gómez wants to teach her, but in one case, his purpose is clear. Toward the end of Forché’s first month in El Salvador, he drives her to a prison to observe its conditions, instructing her: “See as much as you can. Memorize everything. Especially the layout and the locations of everything you think human rights groups should see.”

In this way, Forché becomes both a student and an activist. During her second trip to El Salvador, Gómez guides her to guerrillas and Catholic dissidents whose messages she can convey to advocates in the United States. She volunteers with Amnesty International and the Universidad Católica’s human-rights office, where, she writes, “I didn’t always know what we were doing.” Sometimes, her role is solely to be American. Once, Gómez’s friend Margarita sends her to a seminary where several hundred peasants are hiding from the military. “You must go there in this moment and [pretend to] be una periodista,” she says. “The army might not attack if they see una periodista from the United States.”

Such pretending is not without risk, and danger is essential to Forché’s political education. When the memoir starts, the poet’s safety is never threatened, but she is always afraid. The first time she sees dead bodies, not long after her arrival, she writes, “I remember the light on the road ahead like a swarm of fish, as if the tarmac were water, and a buzzing in my ears, or a rush of air.” The poetic language highlights Forché’s internal experience, emphasizing her selfishness in that moment: She remembers her own shock and fear, not the loss of life she beheld.

Some months later, on her second trip to El Salvador, Forché is walking with a priest named Monseñor Ricardo Urioste when they see a panel truck stop in the street. “Men were leaping from the back. Two of them grabbed a teenager wearing a student’s rucksack and wrestled him into the vehicle. Everyone stopped, or moved away from where they had been.” This is the only time Forché sees a death squad in action, and she conveys the scene with clinical precision. While all those around her dive for cover, she and Monseñor Urioste remain in place. This time, Forché is in true danger, but she has learned not to let fear turn her inward.

As Forché changes, so does her memoir’s language. Her writing becomes quicker, less inclined to linger. Perhaps to replace the poetic writing of the memoir’s early chapters, she begins including notes she took in El Salvador, which function as prose poetry. One such note details her visit to a place called El Playon, which is “a rock strewn with refuse and sea wrack a body a tin spoon bottle glass purple from the sun a paint can a skull with hair … El Playon is a body dump. ‘Yo lo vi,’ Goya wrote beside his sketches. ‘I saw it, and this, and also this.’” Forché’s descriptions of her second trip to El Salvador read much like Goya’s claim. She strips emotion and lyricism from her memoir writing, leaving straightforward reports: I saw it, and this, and also this.

Forché invokes Gómez to explain her stylistic transformation. After she sees a suspicious-seeming man with an attaché case at Archbishop Óscar Romero’s Mass, she reports the sighting to Gómez, but can’t provide an exact description. He warns her to “guard your credibility. This is something that cannot be recovered once lost … Next time pay closer attention.” Decades later, Forché heeds his warning. She describes her final weeks in El Salvador with crisp rigor and as much remove as she can muster.

Forché left El Salvador days before Monseñor Romero was assassinated, an event that tipped conflict into full-scale war. Instead of returning, she traveled the United States, speaking about The Country Between Us and trying to raise public consciousness of American support for the Salvadoran junta. She wasn’t the only writer to do so; both Joan Didion and Deborah Eisenberg wrote about the Salvadoran civil war, but neither Didion’s Salvador (1983) nor the Central American stories Eisenberg published throughout the 1990s have the emotional heft of “The Colonel” or “Return,” in which a first-person speaker tells a friend, Josephine, how helpless she feels now that she’s returned to the United States. The poem ends with Josephine’s reply: “It is / not your right to feel powerless. Better / people than you were powerless. / You have not returned to your country, / but to a life you never left.”

Forché’s time in El Salvador changed her life completely. She married a war photographer, worked as a human-rights advocate in apartheid South Africa, and covered Lebanon’s civil war for NPR. Forché has confronted historical and present crises in each of her five poetry collections, writing not only about her experiences in Lebanon and El Salvador, but also about the Holocaust, the atomic bombings in Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and most recently, the refugee crisis in the Aegean. She has devoted herself equally to poetry and to witness. In “Return,” she wrote of straining “even to remember / things impossible to forget.” In What You Have Heard Is True, she does the same. She remembers as much as possible, and the resulting memoir, once read, is difficult to forget.

The post How to Write Poetry About Conflict appeared first on .

from WordPress http://www.richmeganews.com/how-to-write-poetry-about-conflict/

#Breaking News

0 notes

fictioncareercreativity · 6 years

Text

Uplifting Part One Cd created by the year 2012 And

Uplifting Part One Cd created by the year 2012 AndFebruary 05, 2018 I intend to create a freestyle story in this section and I am following both my intuition and logic to include a music playlist that I created on a cd by the year 2012 and I might create on youtube. However to allow myself enough time to get ready for work I am obviously going to save the story for either later on after work andor tomorrow morning. Uplifting Part One Cd created by the year 2012 Hold On Wilson Phillips first heard around the age of 10 Keep On Trying by 2Vibez first heard around 2008 via a Future Trance cd in Norfolk Virginia I Like To Like It by Masterboy Sing by Travis first heard around 2002/2003 in Yokosuka Japan Temptation Island by Smile.DK first heard around 2008 in Norfolk Virginia and a Smile.dk cd bought on amazon Adore by Smashing Pumpkins first heard in 1998 via radio Thong Song by Sisqo heard during my final year of high school by May/June 2000 Lullaby by Shawn Mullins Lovin Each Day by Ronan Keating 2 Hearts by Phil Collins first heard around the age of 8 or 9 Secrets by Pharao around 1995/1996 15 or 16 years old World of Magic by Pharao heard on the Pharao cd by Pharao by the year 2007 Sledgehammer Peter Gabriel I started to listen to more after 2007 when I heard it enough times via radio Games Without Frontiers Peter Gabriel sometime by the year 2007 It's A Fine Day by Opus One first heard around the ages of 14 or 15 You're Not Alone Olive I first heard around the ages of 16 or 17 Pocketful of Sunshine by Natasha Bedingfield I preface this creative fiction story by making it clear that I Stella Carrier feel blessed for my current food services job at the University of Maryland College Park which pays well for what I do, and allows me to work with both fair leaders and ambitious coworkers. I preface by making it clear that I am definitely not telling anybody how to live, Rather I am doing this for my own writing passions and spiritual creativity/spiritual evolution, as a healthy and constructive spiritual and creative art therapy outlet for the various dreams and desires that I discovered can be channeled into artistic writing therapy. Additionally, I am following both my intuition and logic in doing what I consider this activity to be fun/exciting as I have a strong instinctive feeling that this activity ties into my destiny andor life purpose in various ways that I may only fully understand after my current lifetime. I Stella Carrier Humbly Call Upon What I Imagine To Be The Influence of Benevolent Spirits From the Heavenly Realms, my higher self, and my celestial spirit ally team for creativity in both my writings and all other areas of my life both present and future. I also welcome any and all forms of spiritual assistance and divine intervention in all areas of my life both present and future. I Stella Carrier give thanks for the blessing of a sweet and handsome husband who is supportive of my education and career goals for both present and future. I Stella Carrier feel blessed to be an American born woman who has the freedom to live wherever I desire within the United States regardless of my economic andor career situation. Background info for quickie freestyle storyStart time to be decided 23 hours or less from nowCompletion time to be decided 23 hours or less from now I have to hand it to Nikelle Murphy for creating an article modeled after the song Business of Emotion by Big Data feat. White Sea and her previous articles also have potential of creatively stoking both negative and position emotion from her article portfolio on the cheat sheet. Regarding this bold article of Nikelle Murphy's 10 College Degrees That Are A Dime a Dozen Nowadays is a caveat that I see in her communications listing. First off, there are communication related careers available for both enlisted and officer in the U.S. Navy, U.S. government jobs, and even public relations related job openings for people daring enough to travel and live outside the U.S. (Canada, Australia, parts of Europe, military bases overseas etc). I even talked to someone just last night who has a cousin who works in a public relations field in the United States Navy and is majoring in a communications field as it is related to their job. My point; Nikelle Murphy is gifted with the talent of creating articles that garner attention and strong emotion but I can't help but notice she is also including majors that actually have an abundance of career options available that would steer people away from promising career fields who may have yet to know better about some gifted writers who are talented with manipulating the business of emotion. My second caveat with Nikelle Murphy including communications in her article; a look at the about Nikelle Murhpy in her cheat sheet article gives an important clue. As per her own words in her cheat sheet professional author profile; Murphy is a writer and editor who graduated with a degree in magazine journalism and political science from the S.I. Newhouse School of Public Communications at Newhouse University. In other words she herself successfully graduated in a college degree program that was related to communications. Had she took to heart an article similar to what she created by implying communications as a dime a dozen prior to her studying at Newhouse University then she could have missed out on enrolling in the S.I. Newhouse School of Public Communications that probably gave her important foundations for the career path she is on now as a writer and editor. https://www.yahoo.com/lifestyle/m/17d619cd-6e1e-35e7-ba46-1a378c60de07/10-college-degrees-that-are-a.html 10 College Degrees That Are a Dime a Dozen Nowadaysby Nikelle Murphy https://www.yahoo.com/lifestyle/m/17d619cd-6e1e-35e7-ba46-1a378c60de07/10-college-degrees-that-are-a.html from the website where I gathered my hypothesis that one must still follow their intuition and logic to pursue whatever degree they want due to the writer being paid to stir the business of emotion i.e. similar to the song Business of Emotion by Big Data feat. White Sea and that at least Sean Parker had the courage to admit and imply that Facebook is good at doing. I actually find it beyond funny and pretty scandalous that Nikelle Murphy is listing a degree program (communications) in her article that involves her college alma matter. I can only imagine how her former professors might feel that she included the educational hand that fed her in her latest article. Yes, I understand any wise andor influential critics for implying if I am being a calculating witch rhymes with b for pointing this out. However, someone has to in order to inform others so that more people could at least be aware of what is going on when various online articles are published to stir emotions. Additionally, any article writer that implies to other people that they should not even bother climbing an educational andor career mountain that they themselves have climbed need to be politely told that they themselves are actually serving as human examples of educational andor career examples to look into whether they realize it or not. The best example; I have already pursued one college degree successfully and finished in the 3 year timeline I set for myself yet I realize now the degree program I am better off doing the second time around as their are many career options for it in universities including the company I am currently affiliated with, the military, government etc. However, even pursuing a second degree I would encourage others to do the same and would not dare tell anyone else not to bother pursuing a college degree even if it is in something I have pursued. Yet that is exactly what Nikelle Murphy is doing when she tries to advise others to avoid pursuing a degree in communications when she herself pursued a college program in the public relations department and is doing a job similar to the field of study she included in her February 4 2018 article referenced under 10 college degrees that are a dime a dozen. I also respectfully disagree with her implication as I talked to a female who is a friend of a coworker less than 24 hours ago who has a cousin who works as a mass communications specialist for the U.S. Navy in Hawaii. Guess what degree program he is pursuing as he works in a communication/public relations field in the U.S. Navy-yes you guessed it a public relations related/communication major. I do wish Nikelle Murphy well in both her personal and professional journey even with respectfully disagreeing with her on including a college major (communications) that is related to what she studied as an undergrad. AUTHORNikelle MurphyNikelle Murphy is a writer and assistant editor for The Cheat Sheet. She graduated with a degree in magazine journalism and political science from the S.I. Newhouse School of Public Communications at Syracuse University. Fresh flowers, Sour Patch watermelons, and beach vacations are a few of her favorite things. https://www.cheatsheet.com/money-career/college-degrees-dime-dozen-anymore.html/?ref=YF&yptr=yahoo 10 College Degrees That Are a Dime a Dozen Nowadays by Nikelle Murphy https://www.cheatsheet.com/money-career/college-degrees-dime-dozen-anymore.html/?ref=YF&yptr=yahoo Despite the somber video, I have to concur with others on how thrilling this song Church by Fall Out Boy is, it is actually one of my favorite songs on their music collection Mania. the video on youtube is somber yet the Church song itself is amazing Fall Out Boy - Church I admit that I am glad that the PopSong Professor analyzed and shared his interpretation of Church by Fall Out Boy via his youtube commentary. The song itself is both unique and romantic and yet I still preferred a way to figure out the meaning because of seriousness of the music video. The PopSong Professor's commentary on the song helps me understand the spiritual and controversial aspects of the Church song. The Pop Song Professor Fall Out Boy's "Church"

songs for me to keep in mind; All Summer Long by Kid Rock, Luckystar by Madonna, Church by Fall Out Boy

0 notes