#PA National Guard | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fastlikealambo · 11 months

Text

Connubium.|| Coriolanus Snow x Black Fem Reader

Chapter Two

table of contents.

Chapter One.

Summary: Stealing from The Capitol is a deadly offense, yet you’ve done it more times than you can count but when you do something you should not have done, Volumnia Gaul decides a fate for you that might just be worse than death.

Notes: This takes place post The Ballad of Songbirds And Snakes and Coryo is in his last year at The University, studying under Dr. Gaul. This will not follow canon, I’m not an expert on all the lore so I apologize if I get things wrong.

Disclaimer: You know Coriolanus is a POS, I know Coriolanus is a POS, please don’t yell at me because this is just a fun little story, something for thee hotties, and if you feel that strongly against President Snow, please let me know if you’d like me to sign you up for tessarae.

Warnings: blood, violence, poison.

Thanks for the love on chapter one! If you want to see chapter three, comment or reblog, feedback makes me want to continue!

Perhaps before you begin those games, you should understand how you got in the protective arms of one Coriolanus Snow.

You had three rules.

Never be seen.

Never take what you could not carry.

Never intervene.

How did the daughter of teachers from District 6 make it all the way to and from the capitol not once, not twice, but multiple trips over multiple years?

Desperation and sick parents do it every time.

It’s thought that most folks from District 6 hate transportation but the glassy eyes and wet coughs from the people you loved most in the world had you sneaking onto trains, hovercraft, anything that moved when you aged out of tesserae.

Some thought you’d take over teaching for your ma and pa, you certainly had the education but none of the patience and sugar that is required to work with children.

What was the point of them knowing about a nation that would bleed them before it would feed them?

There were no books on your mother’s shelf that would tell the truth of Panem:

The best future was no future.

This is tedious, let’s just skip to the show.

“Hippity, hoppity, you took someone’s property.”

You weren’t exactly sure what a jail cell in The Captiol looked like but a science lab with bright lights and sterile white walls made you question if this was just a scenic detour before getting shot by Peacekeepers.

Peacekeepers forced you to your already bruised knees as Dr. Volumnia Gaul descended a staircase with a pep in her step. You had seen the Head Gamemaker on tv once being interviewed during The Games and you hadn’t forgotten that face since.

“Not only did you take Capitol property, you destroyed property, you injured multiple citizens, all for an Avox. I’m sure if it still had a tongue it would have definitely said thank you for all your help. I know, why don’t we ask her?” Gaul said, skipping to a shelf and pulled a large circular jar into her arms and placed onto a table spinning it in front of you.

The head of the Avox you had tried to help faced you, eyes open in the fluid.

It all had happened so quickly, you had waited for a couple to leave their home for the evening before scaling the side and entering through an open window one of their guards who kissed with his teeth left open. You followed your rules, had the fancy fur underwear in hand, and headed out the window when you noticed the couple had a son.

A son that liked to hit a woman who couldn’t speak, let alone fight back.

It all went downhill from there.

“Are you happy now? Did the little thief save you?” Dr. Gaul asked the head, lifting the jar to her ear for a moment, before proceeding shaking it from side to side as if the head was shaking itself to say “no.”

You gave no inclination of fear, forcing your mind to pretend Gaul was holding a jar of sugar instead and wet your cracked lips to speak.

“If you’re going to kill me, may I ask that you do it now?”

The peacekeeper raised their gun to bring it down upon your head but Gaul merely lifted her hand to stop the guard and cocked her head in front of you.

“Good skin and clear eyes which tells me you haven’t seen a drop of Morphling in your life, good girl! Let’s see those teeth! ” Dr. Gaul’s gloved fingers wrench your mouth open, quick enough to avoid your attempt to bite down hard.

“Not a crooked canine in sight, what a marvel of district 6 dentistry! I’ve been watching you for the last year and a half, you know. At first I thought you were a rebel spy lurking here and there in a sad attempt at revolution but you have a pattern: you seduce, you steal, you scatter. Never the same capitol house, never the same loot, but always the same goal: self-servitude. You, little girl, are smart, silver tongued, and most importantly, you are selfish.”

Was the doctor incorrect?

You had stolen enough and traded enough to keep your parents healthy months ago, why did you keep coming back here?

“What do you want from me?” You asked quietly as Gaul finished her examination of you and hopped into a chair.

“By yourself you managed to steal anything you wanted, charm anyone you wanted, all while going unnoticed in The Capitol for years. Instead of cutting out that silver tongue of yours, I’m going to use it for the future of Panem.” Dr. Gaul said, damn near giddy.

Gaul pressed a button that dimmed the lights in the lab and brought a screen down from the ceiling. In a few short seconds, the screen came to life and footage of a blonde man in a crimson suit and coat going about his day, sharp face never once cracking a smile.

“Let me introduce you to Coriolanus Snow, top student, heir of Strabo Plinth, and the product of exemplary Capitol breeding. He’ll be graduating from The University in a month and in a few short years with proper backing, he will be President of Panem. He’ll be taking a position at President Ravinstill’s office upon graduation but before that he’ll need to take a spouse. That, my pretty thief, is where you come in.” Gaul said.

“Don’t you have Capitol people for this? What about that ‘fine capitol breeding’? A district girl such as myself would only sully that.” You said slowly as if talking to an infant.

“With society families there’s dowries, overinvolved mothers, there isn’t time to mold one in the image Panem requires. Why pin a veil on a peacock when I can dress up a viper instead? For the good of Panem, you will charm Coriolanus Snow, you will court him, you will spy on him, and in one month, you will marry Coriolanus Snow, little thief.”

You’d rather die.

Wouldn’t you?

“And if your precious protege can smell District on me?” You snarled and a peacekeeper made you regret that decision immediately.

“ He’ll never know. You and Mr. Snow share the same look of distinct dissatisfaction in your eyes, dissatisfaction is a bitter root but it can be pulled, can be twisted into something powerful and no Capitol dove can accomplish that. Only those who have tasted blood in their mouths desire it again.”

“And if I refuse?”

“It’s easier to show you.” Gaul said, clicking another button. The video of Snow vanished and in its place was the grainy footage of a man and a woman hooked up to various tubes and wires.

It took longer than it should have for you to realize those were your parents.

“You’re not the only one who can slip in and out of people’s homes, little thief. Just a little something I’m working on in their morning porridge and by this afternoon, their lungs belonged to me. This is a live feed by the way, so if you’d like to refuse, you are welcome to do so and we can watch your ma and pa stop breathing together. I’ll get my milk and crackers! ”

There was no guarantee she wouldn’t just kill them tomorrow or the next day or the day after that.

A rebel would stand up and refuse Dr. Gaul no matter the cost.

A fool would plead for their life and the lives of their loved ones.

Neither a fool nor rebel, you were something else entirely.

A survivor.

You stood up, shoulders back, head up, and completely ignored the sounds of the machines keeping your parents alive to look straight at Dr. Gaul.

“When do we start?”

Coriolanus Snow studied people.

He studied his classmates, his professors, he knew the routines and habits of everyone he did and did not come in contact with on a daily basis whether they knew or not. There was a great tragedy in the fact that he would have made an amazing officer with sight like his. Not a thing got past him, nothing useful anyway.

Except you.

He had never seen a coat so cut to the human body before outside of Tigris’ handiwork, from across the street he studied the exact spot he could put his hands on that coat, on your body. The book obscured your face but it mattered not to Coryo as no one with a coat like that could be anything short of divine.

And as Coriolanus Snow was never wrong, he was given a glimpse at that magnificent visage when you dropped your book in the street, those full lips and smooth brown cheeks, oh what a vision that befell him.

A vision that was soon to be flattened by a car.

If he was honest with himself, had you been someone he knew, someone he had previously studied, perhaps he would have let the car hit you, but this was useful for him, he’d make the Captiol News that night with Flickerman spinning tales of his heroism.

He could not let blood spoil such beauty.

He surprised himself at how quick he was, one moment on the top of the university steps, the next tumbling to the side of the road, his body covering yours as you both came to stop, his hand on the back of your head to keep it from slamming into the curb.

Words died on his lips, the question he had mentally prepared to ask with careful false concern left him the moment he truly looked into your eyes, and Coriolanus did not only want to know if you were injured.

He wanted to know everything.

He carefully removed himself from your person, attempting to keep the displeasure at his previously perfect now filthy wardrobe and scraped hands from his features as he settled beside you.

“Are you hurt?” He asked, impressed at the hint of actual sincerity that bled into his voice as you sat up gingerly.

“I don’t think so. Thank you, I wasn’t paying attention, are you hurt?” You asked, a voice like velvet that seemed to surround him and he shivered as he took inventory of his own injuries and shook his head.

True to their nature, not one person on the street offered to lend a hand and a Peacekeeper was making their way to them. He would hand you off to a peacekeeper and that would be that.

He did not want that.

So he did what he did best, took control of the situation and an opportunity arose when he heard you admit a small moan of pain, eyes wide and fixated on your ankle.

“May I?” He asked and you nodded.

Coriolanus removed your shoe, tender fingers brushing over the swollen skin and he briefly wanted nothing more than to know what his lips would feel like on that silky skin.

He cleared his throat and regained control of himself, sitting straight up.

“ It’s not broken. I don’t live far from here, my grandmother can take a look at that if you’d like? I promise you’ll be perfectly safe.”

Grandma’am would rather lick a tribute than tend to an injured stranger but you didn’t need to know that.

“Are you sure? You don’t have to go to the trouble.” You said, attempting to slowly stand, crumpling just enough for Coriolanus to quickly steady you before gently putting your arm around his shoulder and his other under your knees, lifting you into his arms.

“It’s no trouble at all. I’m Coriolanus Snow, it’s a pleasure to be of service.” Coryo said with that winning Snow smile, adjusting you in his arms with care.

After all, roses were to be cradled.

Until that day, Coriolanus Snow noticed everything and everyone, useless and useful.

Yet while focused on you, he had not noticed that the car that had almost killed you both was nowhere to be found.

That’s chapter 2! If you’d like this story to continue, please comment, reblog, give me feedback! Let me know what you think about this story! Thank you for reading.

#coriolanus snow x reader #coriolanus x reader #Coriolanus Snow x black!reader #coriolanus snow #not me changing the visuals every chapter to reflect the story

252 notes · View notes

scribbleseas · 9 months

Text

Straight Laced, Chapter VII: To Be A Prima Ballerina (Act II)...

Description: After the London’s Royal Ballet company’s prima ballerina goes missing within a string of mysterious disappearances among the ballet’s young ballerinas, you finally get your chance to debut in the leading role, taking on the position’s physical toil and immense social pressure. Although this role was supposed to be your grand jeté into the spotlight, it is quickly complicated when these disappearances catch the eye of Ciel Phantomhive — the Queen’s Guard Dog. He is a captious and shrewd man who also happens to be one of London’s most eligible bachelors.

For enough profit for you to secure your freedom for the first time, Lord Phantomhive double casts you as both his accomplice to solving these dancer disappearances and… his pretend lover. While debuting as London’s new prima ballerina, you must perfect a brand new routine: deceiving all of the nation’s polite society while actively searching for a serial killer — all while being an immigrant from France with a dancer’s reputation.

What could go wrong when you realize this off-stage performance of yours may not be an act at all?

Story Warnings: detailed description of gore, pain, and violence, detailed death, smut & explicit sexual scenes, allusions to non-consensual sex, objectification, prostitution, allusions to under-aged prostitution, smoking, drinking, eating disorder tendencies (food restriction, frequent references to wanting to maintain a certain weight, over-practicing & exercising), infidelity, fake courtship, swearing

Author’s Note: Hi! I don't know what happened. I sat down thinking I'd add a scene and chill for the night...but I just let everything flow. So now it's done! Please let me know how you feel about this chapter! I'm incredibly proud of it.

Just a quick note before you read: Maman is French for Mom. There is also some explicit content in this chapter! Please make sure to double check the warnings above!

Happy Reading!!

Dan

⇐ PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER ⇒

MASTERLIST

Early November, 1895

Ciel’s Bedroom

“I’ve needed this,” Ciel mumbled in your ear, planting another impassioned kiss on your lips, caging you in against his bedroom door. “Je ne sais pas combien de temps j'aurais pu attendre,” he said, insinuating that he had a similar lustful desire to yours, his fingers laced in your hair, tenderly keeping your head in place as he kissed you.

Goosebumps speckled your arms, equal parts from the late autumn night and the innate sensuality that came with Ciel purring your first language into your ear. While French used to drag you back to the pain that your birth country carried, now it was an inside joke between lovers...

The Next Morning

You woke before Ciel did, peering at the sunlight that streamed in through the drapes. In your sleep, your naked bodies were tangled with one another, giving you more than a sufficient reminder of last night’s…celebration.

Not that you would ever admit it to the shrewd man, but it was the experience you had with a man until that point in your life. Ciel didn’t treat you like a plaything who was there to enrich his experience; he spoiled you— delightfully so. You had a constellation made of contusions sucked into your skin to prove it, some running down your breasts, your back, and even your backside. Ciel impressed you— especially for a man who told you to cover more skin upon your first meeting. He was too flustered to speak to you candidly at the time.

Ciel broke the kiss to start unbuttoning your nightshirt, waiting for your approval before truly continuing. You nodded your consent, more than confident in your body, and more importantly, more than willing to proceed with Ciel. The chemistry residing between the two of you was thick enough to cut with a knife.

The Earl sighed, enraptured with the look of your bare breasts on display. His thumb caressed one of your nipples as he returned his attention back to your lips.

Now, Ciel was asleep next to you, his chest rising and falling. From the way the side of your head lay on his chest, you could hear his heartbeat. A glance upwards told you his regal features were relaxed— seldom for a man who tended to sneer and scowl. You felt his idle hand rest on your lower back, keeping your body close to his, even in slumber.

Your fingertips traced up his sternum, between his firm pecs and above his loosely etched abdominal muscles. He was a noble— his body wasn’t trained to be durable, and yet, it was strong and lean under your touch. Just as it performed last night.

You felt his biceps flex as he picked you up once more, only to dispense you on his bed. He pulled your drawers down and spread your legs, unwilling to allow you to focus on his pleasure. He kneeled on the ground, leveling his face with your core.

It was the first time a man’s desire to plunge you into euphoria outweighed his need for you to pleasure him.

“Ciel!” you gasped at the shock of his lips lapping at your slickness. You were wet with tipsy anticipation and desire, surprised that a nobleman of his stature was willing to be so crude in his ministrations. His tongue lapped between your folds, the tip gently stopping at your clit to lick at it slowly. Your fingers wove into his raven hair as if you needed to encourage him further.

The amusement in your voice was palpable as you coaxed the Earl out of his sleep. He wasn’t a heavy sleeper so it only took your ascending touch up his chest to rouse him. His left eye fluttered open, the right remaining closed by instinct, you imagined.

“Good morning,” you flashed a knowing smile as he rubbed at his eye, yawning to shake off the rest of his drowsiness. If you didn’t have a strict morning regime to tend to in moments, you might have opted to retreat under the sheets and wake him a different way.

“Y/n,” Ciel mumbled, hesitating to say more. He squinted at you, equal parts confusion and surprise. He looked at your hand, realizing that one of his own sat squarely on your ass. As if your skin was burning, he moved his hand.

“What…. Wait. We…?” The Earl started to ask, his eyebrows drawing together in uncertainty. He knew the answer. He didn’t like it.

Your stomach sank.

You knew this expression. Mild regret, disbelief— all of your patrons regarded you similarly after sleeping with you. It was always at the moment they remembered their real lives. Their responsibilities. Their wives. Their statures.

You were a fantasy, drawn out in the dead of night under the sweet influence of wine. They preyed on your beauty and your charm only to retreat after realizing that their greed cost them. And yet, they still returned. Night, after night, after night.

Ciel was supposed to be different.

Even after playing a pivotal role in solving the case, you were a temporary celebration. A reward. A trophy. He didn’t want you beyond the night, and now that the case was solved, he was musing the best way to rid himself of you. After all, your courtship was merely an investigative ploy. A strategy.

There was simply no evolving. No change. Conditional desire.

“Yes,” you answered, your smile melting. “We did. You remember,” you declared. He didn’t drink enough to forget. You knew he didn’t. Your wine bottle sat a little less than half full on the table to your side.

“I do,” he confirmed. There was a beat of silence.

Observing your growing hurt, he cleared his throat and spoke again, “I… enjoyed last night.” It was an ironic sentiment, given that he was in the midst of sitting up and ensuring the bed sheets covered his waist and down. He was creating distance between you, purposeful and methodical.

Why?

As Ciel’s hips sunk into yours, he pressed a long kiss against your lips. “Vous êtes une tentatrice. Je ne sais pas combien de temps j'aurais pu attendre. J'ai besoin de toi. Maintenant,” he experimented by thrusting his hips, forcing you to gasp.

“As did I,” you replied cautiously. “Though do you—” love me? wish for this to happen again? want to legitimize our courtship?

“— We should discuss how we mean to proceed with the public,” Ciel interrupted, “I think allowing our courtship to slowly burn out over the next month should suffice.”

You felt no different than him slapping you across the face. You winced.“What do you mean?”

“If we sever our public relationship immediately after William’s arrest, it would be suspicious,” Ciel explained, rolling his shoulders back in a morning stretch. He pulled the bedsheet around his waist as he stood.

“Sever our public relationship?” You repeated as if you didn’t understand his English.

“Certainly. I don’t mean to inconvenience you further, and naturally, I must resume my search for a Countess… as fruitless as it may be,” Ciel explained, blind to your hurt.

Resume his search?

You couldn’t help but recall Ciel’s words to Alexander Huntington: “That is quite enough,” he replied, as cold as a glacier. “You will not speak of her in such a manner. She may very well be the next Countess of Phantomhive.”

You also recalled Alexander’s response; it seemed to grow truer by the second: “Just because you’ve dressed her pretty, doesn’t mean she’s worth anything more than a common prostitute.”

You used a blanket for your modesty as you stepped out of the bed. You couldn’t be a countess. You were a commoner from France who grew up in a ballet school because you were an illegitimate love child between a maid and a duke. Maman did her best to raise you and your father had no desire to associate himself with you.

You were an embarrassment to Ciel, too.

You were not a Countess. You danced on a stage and entertained men in order to feed and house yourself. There was no value in you beyond celebration.

“For your assistance with this case, you will always have Phantomhive support. You’ve brought my attention to a foul practice within the theater industry. I will ensure Her Majesty abolishes it, and if there is ever anything else I can do for you, don’t hesitate to contact me.” Ciel affirmed. It was a kind offer. A fair one, even. He was severing your only social protection from seeing selfish patrons nightly but committed himself to end the very practice itself. Not to mention, he gave you more than a generous salary--- you could likely afford your own townhouse now without having to rely on pleasing a patron.

He cared for you. That had been his duty from the start of his investigation, after all. This wasn’t a storybook; it wasn’t Ciel’s duty to fall for you.

Your mouth was cotton dry, the rest of your face warm with embarrassment. You had never felt your heart strain in such a painful, deliberate way. It was heavy in your chest, threatening to implode right along with your pride and vulnerability.

“Thank you,” you managed to reply, gritting your teeth into an appreciative smile. It was the vacant stage smile you used during the performances that required the most technical focus. “I told you that you cared for me,” your joke was wry in your mouth, and there wasn’t enough humor in it for Ciel to engage.

Instead, he searched between your tired gaze and your false smile, hesitating because he was unsure of how he needed to reply. Ciel didn’t want to upset you; he didn’t think he was. He must have thought these encounters were meaningless to you because they were merely another facet of your career. It must have been meaningless to him because he was a high-powered man who likely had numerous sexual partners.

He was the Earl of Phantomhive. He could have anyone for his Countess. When would there ever be merit in choosing a prima ballerina?

You had to remain amicable. Your responsibilities with Lord Phantomhive were not complete— you still had to facilitate this slow end to your courtship (the one that had never been real in the first place) and lead it to a very passive and public breakup.

“As for the art gallery reveal gala tonight?” You asked. Ciel was invited to the renowned painter, Terrence Stannard’s, annual party to show off his newest body of work. He’d invited several prosperous businessmen and aristocracts known for philanthropy in the arts because he was an “avarice-infected bastard that used most art investments he receives to fill his pocket and buy lavish luxuries rather put it towards the production of any canvas of value,” according to the Earl.

Stannard was influential enough for The British Museum to readily host these galleries, but Ciel wanted to put Stannard in his place by subtly flaunting Phantomhive prosperity. You doubted he would skip the appearance, even if he was on the heels of closing a case for the Queen. There were too many high-profile guests invited— nobility, celebrities, businessmen, government officials. It was too crucial for the Lord of Phantomhive to miss.

“We will be in attendance. Natasha already canceled your rehearsal tonight to manage her husband’s affairs— we can leave ahead of schedule,” Ciel said, stepping towards his washroom meaningfully. He wanted you to leave, and he was blissfully (or purposely, knowing him) unaware of the pain he caused you.

“Fine. I should start rehearsing if we are leaving earlier this evening. Do not interrupt me for breakfast, please. I can send for Mey-Rin when I am ready,” you declared, allowing your face to fall back into somber neutrality. You fully pulled the blanket around you, tucking a corner under your arm to keep the makeshift robe fastened around your body. You didn’t meet Ciel’s gaze as you started towards his bedroom door, your eyes painfully catching the wall directly next to it.

That was the very spot he had you pinned not eight hours prior. You couldn’t stand to be in his quarters much longer, ripe with silent mortification. You twisted the doorknob —

“Y/n?” Ciel started, confusion rising in his tone. “Are—”

— and shut the door behind you.

What made you think this man would be any different?

They all wanted the same thing. Maman was right-- your father, the duke, wanted her for her body and cast her aside like trash after she told him she was with child. With you.

Later

The Rehearsal Room

The only place you could regain your control was on pointe shoes. You immediately slipped into a practice leotard, stretched on the barre, and started warming up.

You were Y/n Y//l/n, one of London’s foremost prima ballerinas. Not only that, you solved a series of murder cases and didn’t hesitate to engage in a plot to rightfully arrest the owner of your opera house.

Your skill was so prominent and breathtaking that you transformed yourself every day through practiced steps and expressions.

No one had the right to demean you so.

You weren’t Y/n Y/l/n when you danced in front of a mirror. You were The Sugar Plum Fairy, Odette, Odie… the character you were pouring your body and soul into encompassing. You were a regal fairy queen, an innocent girl trapped in a curse, a spoiled and deceptive daughter… All you needed was the choreography, the music, and a pair of pointe shoes. You could be anyone.

No one’s validation meant nearly as much as your own, and you were beautiful. A well of talent.

Your breathing came in strained exhales, your hands resting on your kneecaps to support your upper body. You didn’t notice how much time passed — as the autumn grew deeper, nights came sooner. The sun was already beginning to retreat starting the earliest stages of dusk. The sky from the small window looked orange.

Sweat rolled down your back, tracing your spine. You could feel your heart pound in your ears, thumping like a drum. White and black spots danced in your eyes, your head swimming as you leaned against the wall in an attempt to stay upright.

This was the result of practicing coupé jetés for hours without sufficient breaks and fuel. You knew this nauseous, dizzy feeling quite well. You were old acquaintances, by now.

“Miss Y/l/n, I apologize for interrupting, but I must begin preparing you for the gallery— oh dear,” Sebastian’s approaching voice sounded distant, even though his lanky figure appeared to be much closer as he stabilized you. “Mey-Rin!” he called out, taking you in your arms like a pathetic rag doll, “get water and two slices of banana bread!”

“Sebastian,” you grumbled in protest.

“You have absolutely no say in the matter,” the butler insisted, crisply admonishing you as he brought you back to your room and sat you upright on the bed. Mey-Rin came rushing in after several short moments, Sebastian thanking her for her efforts while you accepted the water like a woman deprived for years.

The cold stung your throat and cleared your head.

“The banana bread,” Sebastian reminded you.

You looked at it, tempted, but not convinced. Upon glancing back at the butler, he offered you an insistent glare, communicating that if you didn’t take a bite of the thick slice yourself, he would find a way to force you to do so. This very same attitude had to be how he forced his master to be so perfect— at everything.

You had to admit, your body settled much more once you finished the slice of bread (and swallowed down another from Mey-Rin). Of course, it was delicious, and it started to soothe the complaining in your stomach. You were so accustomed to the sharp pain of starvation, that it settled in the back of your mind.

You even accepted a cooked cut of salmon cooked in lemon juice and garlic, paired with a side of rice. Baldroy was putting his finishing touches on his master’s supper, and Sebastian ordered him to bring a plate to you. Ciel never liked to go to events on an empty stomach, as heavily grazing on a host’s offerings too much made him feel much too in their debt. (“I can afford my own meals, I’m Ciel Phantomhive.”)

Sebastian returned to your room after ensuring Ciel had everything he needed to enjoy his dinner. “I told my Lord that you are taking your meal in your quarters to save time, given how late into the day you practiced. We still must prepare you for the gala tonight. You seem up to it,” he gauged your color, given how you must have been shades paler from your previous state. It wasn’t the first time, and it certainly wasn’t the last.

“I am,” you started to confirm, only for Sebastian to interrupt.

“Miss, you are a professional. You should understand that your body requires energy to perform,” Sebastian chastised. “Eating less than an ascetic monk will only degrade those muscles you need so much.”

“Do not tell Ciel,” you grumbled, unwilling to hear this lecture from both the Earl and his head butler.

“Surely you are aware that I am not permitted to lie to my master,” he replied placidly, causing you to roll your eyes.

“Lying and failing to mention something are two different things,” you argued, finishing off the last of the fourth refill of water you guzzled down in the last half hour. You knew Sebastian was correct— you couldn’t push yourself to your limits without properly eating, but sometimes, it was impossible to bring yourself to do so. Ballet demanded particular physiques, and patrons favored the same. Maintaining your appearance was more than a career investment; it was part of your occupation.

“Touché, Miss,” Sebastian conceded, the corners of his mouth pulling into an affirmative smirk. You could never figure out where you stood with the enigmatic man, but to you, this treatment was a suitable show of kindness. It was uncharacteristic of Sebastian’s strict countenance, but you appreciated the gesture. He could have left you panting on the dance floor and pried you to your feet when it was time to prepare for the fundraiser “I will begin to draw your bath, now,” he turned to your washroom, only pausing when you stopped him.

“Sebastian. Do you know that Ciel and I…” you started, letting the question die on your tongue. You regretted the question the second you asked.

“It is my duty to be aware of everything that transpires in my master’s life, private or not,” Sebastian admitted. “Why do you ask?” he maintained his typically perky intonation, though he seemed to be searching your face.

“…No reason,” you looked away, your cheeks burning. There was nothing to be accomplished in that line of thought. Even if Ciel made you feel seen for anything beyond your looks and dancing prowess, that was never an indication that he felt anything more than physical attraction towards you. In the end, he wanted to sleep with you and maintain the same lukewarm relationship you had prior because it was most convenient for him given your lack of noble rank, or he simply didn’t share the same connection you had so vividly succumbed to.

And you didn’t need him to. You never needed anyone in your life; there was no need to start now.

“As you wish, Miss,” Sebastian proceeded to prepare your bath.

The long process of preparing you for these events was somehow expedited between the combined and coordinated efforts of Mey-Rin and Sebastian. In half the time it might have taken you to achieve a similar loose updo, soft makeup, and flawless, shimmering accessorization, you once again resembled a Countess’ dignity.

However, you refused to allow yourself to feel that superficial. In the floor-length mirror, you regarded your reflection.

Again, your reflected visage was never Y/n Y/l/n. Instead, you channeled the Sugar Plum Fairy — her effortless confidence, whimsy, and unfailing charisma that commanded the fairy court and the audience alike.

Your gown was a statement purple, an homage to Natasha’s surprising decision to make one of your Sugar Plum leotards a vivid lavender with darker purple and gold detailing. This gown reflected the same palette; your skirts fell in ruffled waves, intricate with golden and floral patterns down the sides. Your sleeves were long and merged with purple gloves that ended just before your elbow.

You were flawless, and you would see this role to its very end. No matter how you felt about Ciel, you had a job to complete, and you would do just that. A prima ballerina never abandoned her role, and she never allowed her personal theatrics to distract from her professional. Ever.

That Night

The British Museum

“Remember: no one knows about William’s arrest,” Ciel mumbled into your ear, causing your smile to drop for a fraction of a second. It was as brief as a flickering light, irritated by the Earl’s frequent need to remind you of aspects of your performance that you were more than cognizant of.

You were arm in arm as he led you into Stannard’s gallery, ignoring the nosy journalists snapping photographs of your backs. The displays seemed to show off a particular brand of oil paint, a brand that paid the artist to create such blunt advertisements for the company. Still, they were lovely works from your perspective, displaying different ethereal scenes in nature.

You merely hummed in response, discomfort stiffening your body. As he had for Huntington’s ball, Ciel’s tie matched your purple gown, making you both appear as a matching set. The rest of his suit was black, causing his blue eye to appear somehow more vibrant, and his pale complexion to glow. You wanted to kiss him almost as much as you wanted to kick him.

“Stannard is making his rounds. We’ll let him approach us later on,” Ciel said, gesturing to a man around his age with his chin. While there wasn’t anything particularly notable about the tall painter, you recognized the young woman at his side. Her name was… Maisie?--- She was a talented dancer, cast as The Snow Queen in your Nutcracker production. After all, she was second in the running for prima ballerina behind you. You defeated her.

Maisie’s honey blonde hair paired with her emerald gown flawlessly as she smiled boredly. Her eyes searched the room for something more gripping than her patron’s conversation. You could’ve sworn Ciel said Stannard was married--- or was it previously married?

Right. Stannard left his wife for Maisie. A proud young woman, she loved to show off her new husband. After all, it used to be the only aspect of her life that was better than yours. Before you and Ciel started this ruse, at least.

Stannard was now Maisie’s husband. No one knew where Stannard’s former wife was after she went missing.

“I know her,” you started to whisper, only for the words to die on your tongue. There was no need to point out your work acquaintance-- it was only a gala. You only needed to play the part of an adoring young woman, polite and thankful. Gracious.

Instead, you took the opportunity to observe the rest of the gala. Light dancing music played for those who danced in the greater atrium below. The gallery was situated on a balcony that ran around the perimeter.

Everyone was dressed in their best ensembles, the finest materials, their finest jewels. You wondered how much all of these accessories were worth-- how much of a difference even one of these necklaces would make to a factory worker. Even the dusty purple choker around your neck had diamond and amethyst pendants falling from it in the shapes of teardrops--- it had to be worth thousands.

The movement below made the participating women’s gowns appear like blotted paint on a distant canvas.

“Yes, thank you,” Ciel accepted two glasses of champagne from a server and offered one to you, leisurely investigating the painting closest to you both. He peered at Stannard’s signature in the lower right corner of the canvas, appearing stoic to the common acquaintance but askance to you.

“You do not believe Stannard is the artist behind these,” you claimed, turning your back to the rest of the party. Like Ciel, you faced the painting. You took a smug drink of your champagne.

“What?” he asked, pulled out of his train of thought.

You took a drink from your champagne to settle your irritation with the Earl. “You think he is lying about his talent,” you reiterated as if he didn’t understand you the first time.

Your lips pulled into a poisonous half-smile at his silence. You were right, and the realization made you chuckle to yourself.

“Don’t say such things so loud,” Ciel admonished with no real force behind it. If anything, he seemed amused, casting a barely-there grin at you. You had to make a clear effort to kill the flying butterflies in your stomach.

There was nothing between you.

But even so, the familiar exchange helped unravel a great deal of tension in your shoulders. There could be normalcy…at least for the last few days he was at your side for. Without the butterflies, there was a melancholic guilt to fill the space in your abdomen, not unlike the pain of starvation. You could push it to the back of your mind all the same. You would.

“Lord Phantomhive? Is that you?” An aged, motherly voice greeted. You both turned to meet its source.

You didn’t recognize the woman, nor the young woman at her side. They hardly resembled one another, the young woman’s fiery red hair a stark contrast to the mature woman’s graying brown hair.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” Ciel bowed, the gesture causing you to lower yourself into a curtsey. Of course, their rank was higher than his; no one dared approach Lord Phantomhive without a looming stature. “And to you, Lady Caroline,” he addressed the young woman. Her black gown made her red hair and deep brown eyes all the more soulful. She blushed at him.

“Hello, Lord Phantomhive,” Caroline smiled, chuckling as if he did more than greet her properly.

“You know how I feel about Your Grace,” the elder woman joked but it was far from reaching her eyes, despite the smile lines that creased next to them. It was a quip that was intended to make her seem humble and approachable, but it was a mere reminder of her status. “I want you to call me Gwen,” she said airily, lying through her teeth. Ciel was smart enough to know that.

“I could never do such a thing, ma’am,” Ciel replied, mirroring her fake smile. His was much more convincing. Painfully so. The fact you couldn’t introduce yourself to another human being was horrifically demeaning. At least Lord Tiverton addressed you at the last ball--- Gwen and Caroline couldn’t seem to care less about your presence. In fact, they had yet to spare you a glance.

To your relief, Ciel started to introduce you. “I’m here with---”

“This is a lovely gala tonight, wouldn’t you say? I heard they had this orchestra sail from Germany,” Gwen cut in with her dazzling smile. “I wish we could have found you an accompaniment tonight, my dear.” she fixed her attention on Caroline for a moment, only to resettle her expectant gaze on Ciel. “It’s such a once-in-a-lifetime waltz.”

There was a distressing lack of courting suitor at Caroline’s side. Your mouth was dry, your eyes stinging. You didn’t want to be right. You prayed you weren’t.

“It wouldn’t be too much to ask you to go with her for a number or two, would it?” Gwen ordered. She spoke as if she was simply asking Ciel to fetch her her own flute of champagne.

Your stomach plummeted to the gates of hell.

There was a beat of silence, Caroline’s big eyes pleaded, and Gwen’s cold gaze demanded.

You were being suffocated--- socially executed. They may as well have pulled out a gun and aimed.

He wouldn’t, would he? Could he? Honestly?

“Of course,” he answered after a second too long.

Ciel pulled the trigger.

“I will only be a moment,” Ciel finally addressed you, dropping his unfinished champagne on a server’s tray. Before you could reply, Caroline was leading him down the stairs and to the bottom level. You remained at the top, an unfamiliar rage igniting in the front of your head. You could feel the stinging of lingering eyes on you, the soft hum of hushed chatter around you --- about you.

Your mind raced between unmitigated rage and desperately wondering what Sebastian might tell you to do. He never prepared you for an incredibly acerbic duchess and her entitled daughter, or a situation where you would be left adrift at one of these events without Ciel.

Do not engage in argument, do not interrupt anyone when they are speaking, do not lose temper or speak excitedly, do not speak of personal matters, you remembered Sebastian say. But there was nothing of substance there. Nothing to train you for watching the man you had butterflies for and kissed and touched simply… walk away from you and dance with a woman you’d never heard about.

From the balcony, you watched Ciel bow in front of Caroline, her black gown pooling on the floor as she curtsied. They looked striking next to one another, stately and striking. Caroline knew the etiquette expected of a young woman, she was a noble. She didn’t need hurried lessons, and she never had to lay her dignity bare for a man.

“Beautiful, aren’t they? It makes perfect sense,” Gwen’s voice returned at your side.

Your head jerked to look at her, startled. “Oh--- hello,” you couldn’t recall her title quick enough, it seemed.

“Your Grace,” Gwen prompted. All kindness aimed at Ciel was now absent from her face.

Do not lose temper. Do not argue, Sebastian reminded you.

“...Your Grace,” you finished pathetically.

“Do you know who Caroline and I are, Y/n?” Gwen asked, showing that she did know who you were.

“No,” you replied breathlessly, keeping your gaze steady on Ciel and Caroline as they moved with one another.

“I am the Duchess of Norfolk. Caroline’s father is the Duke of Norfolk, Henry Fitzaland-Howard. The new Postmaster General--- he was just appointed this year, isn’t that amazing?” She over pronounced her words for you, making a joke out of your first language being foreign. The same one Ciel whispered in your ear and kissed into your lips just last night. You hated the language, once again. “Caroline is our only child. We need a Duke of Norfolk. You understand.”

You wished you didn’t understand. Unfortunately, you recalled hearing of the Howard line, carelessly skimming an article that traced their lineage back to 1425. Your line traced back to a beautiful maid and an enamored--- yet embarrassed--- Duke. You were his secret shame.

Caroline was her father’s pride.

You felt hollow.

“We cannot have Ciel distracted with you any longer,” Gwen said, regaining some of the sick kindness she spoke with, now that individuals were passing behind you. By now, most of the gala attendees were dancing below you. “And it’s clear that he no longer wishes to be distracted.”

Despite your silence, Gwen continued. “But perhaps we might see you on your way out of the estate; Lord Phantomhive invited us for tea next week,” she added pleasantly. “Be sure to start packing. I’m not sure he’ll allow you to keep all of this.”

“I need to go to the washroom. Excuse me,” you snapped, finishing off your champagne. You shoved the glass into the duchess’s hand, storming down the staircase and through the onlookers as they watched couples dance. Tears blurred in your eyes, threatening to fall, but not quite doing so.

You pushed past attendees, walking as quickly as you could in the heels Sebastian put you in. They were short, but your feet ached from your vehement rehearsing. They were probably bleeding.

“Y/n!” You heard someone call. You continued.

You had no obligation to let yourself fall to the back of Ciel’s agenda. You solved his murder case. You thought you could love him. You thought he could love you. That wasn’t something he could simply erase by scheduling afternoon tea with Her Highness. No matter how much he wanted to. No matter how much you embarrassed him.

You could exit his life on your own. You didn’t need help. You weren’t Maman--- you had more to offer than wiping windows and dusting bookshelves. Maman made sure of that. She put you in a ballet academy so you were assured to have a career. To ensure that you would never have to sweep after the wealthy or beg for their scraps on the street. You were her kindness, her smile, her patience. You were the best of her, and she used her final breath to tell you just that.

You owed it to her to stand with pride as Y/n Y/l/n, prima ballerina. To stand as a star; a brilliant supernova on stage and en pointe.

And now, you had the financial freedom to rebuff any man who tried to change that.

“Y/n! Stop!”

You took to a run, pushing past the security guards near the museum’s entrance, ignoring their confused shouts. Surely you were moving too fast for them to recognize you, but that wasn’t what informed them of your identity. You held up your gown the best you could as you navigated the front stairway. The front of the museum was barren, reporters bored with being on the wrong side of the armed guard, and all gala attendees successfully captured in the throes of revelry and opulence.

“Y/n!” Ciel shouted, catching your hand in yours.

“What?” you demanded, the tears welling in your eyes finally falling down your cheeks. “What is it, Ciel?”

“Just let go of me,” your voice broke with a sob, your tears warm against your cold cheeks. “Please, just let me go.”

Ciel was never at a loss for words. His grip was still iron around your hand as he regarded you, panting from the exertion you put him through. His exhales came out in puffs of condensation from the frigid evening.

“I know what this was,” you continued. “I know what it was supposed to be, but what was here between us was real. And you- all you want to do is…throw it away. And why? Because I’m not h-her! Maybe I’ve never met my father, and I only have a small closet of a townhouse --- that you had no desire to even sit in! --- to my name, but I---.... we…were---” you were at a loss for words.

There was no putting this into words.

Not the stolen touches last night, not your intuitive knowledge of one another, and certainly not the euphoria of waking up entangled with one another.

You wiped your eyes and pulled your hostage hand from his. Swallowing deeply, you put all of your emotion into six words: “You are a coward, Lord Phantomhive.” You turned to continue on your way. You didn’t know where. All you needed was away.

“That’s not! Y/n, stop!” This was the most frenzied you’d heard the Earl’s posh accent get. You didn’t care.

“Stop!” He followed. “You don’t understand!”

“What is there to understand?” You turned on your heel.

Before Ciel could reply, a distant gunshot rang out, accompanied by a choir of shrill, terrified screams from the far side of the street. The back of the museum. The security that had been at the museum doors --- now a sizable distance from you --- ran towards the source.

In an instant, Sebastian was poised both in front of you and Ciel. Ciel brandished himself in front of you, as instinctive as his butler’s desire to protect him. You hadn’t even seen Sebastian nearby at all--- but then again, you were more than a little distracted.

“Call the Yard! She’s bleeding! Fast!” A man called out.

“Come, Y/n. Sebastian, watch for gunfire. Let no one within an arm’s length from us,” Ciel ordered, separating his personal distress with ease. He was trained for this. The man guiding you to the source of the calamity wasn’t the man you were berating across the street from the museum. This was The Queen’s Guard Dog, and he needed his partner.

Someone was shot. Not even you were selfish enough to continue your tirade. “Fine,” you mumbled, drying the last of your tears. You let Ciel guide you, Sebastian trailing behind your back.

Within moments, you were staring at the dead body of Maisie Stannard.

84 notes · View notes

mikeandikeschmidt · 10 months

Text

🎄Christmas with Mike & Abby: Headcanons

•I think Mike would either be a Scrooge like, “great. One more thing I got to worry about.”

OR he’d go crazy trying to make Christmas perfect. He remembers a time when Christmas used to be such a huge thing for the family and he wants Abby to experience that too. And with you in the picture now, it makes him that much more motivated to make this the happiest holiday ever. So I’m leaning towards the latter. That Mike would try way too hard to make a good Christmas.

•First step? The tree. Mike gets a real tree. He’s very particular about it, he likes the smell of the pine, it brings back memories. Then he’s quickly reminded of how much of a pain in the butt they are and he regrets everything

•Abby’s favorite Christmas song is the Chipmunk one. Just because it’s Mike’s least favorite. The high-pitched voices annoy the crap out of him and Abby likes watching him try not to show how big of a headache he’s developing. His second least favorite song is Mariah Carey’s All I Want for Christmas Is You. When he was a mall security guard, he had to listen to that on the PA wayy too many times.

•Mike’s payback is singing along to Bing Crosby’s White Christmas. And he always jokingly exaggerates the crooner’s voice, making Abby complain she hates his singing. You giggle and reassure him you like when he sings but Abby just comments, “I guess love is deaf too.”

•When it starts snowing and actually packing, you take Abby out to build a snowman. But when you see Mike pull into the driveway, you both get a mischievous idea…and you start pelting him with snowballs.

At first, he’s grumpy from just getting out of work and he shouts at you both to knock it off. So you and Abby pout and go back to your snowman…letting your guard down long enough for Mike to get payback. (And that guy has a good arm. He can throw a mean snowball)

•Three words for you; Christmas. Movie. Marathon. I’m talking Home Alone, Christmas Story, Charlie Brown Christmas. Cocoa with marshmallows. Watching movies together. And seeing how long it takes Mike to fall asleep. (Hint, not very long)

•Mike is a bit of a klutz sometimes. He’s so tired all the time, it manifests itself in occasional bursts of clumsiness. One of those unfortunate times was when he was trying to put up the Christmas lights. He got tangled up in the wires and you found him hanging from the roof, upside down. Like something from National Lampoon or Home Improvement. Abby was laughing hard and you were just panicking, trying to get him down without letting him fall.

•Helping Mike pick out gifts for Abby. He’s absolutely lost on what little girls like so you have to help him, but you both were in total agreement when you both saw a journal and marker pack for your little artist. She was ecstatic when she saw her presents.

•You got Mike a watch, some new comfy sweatshirts, as well as an expensive cologne. You felt he deserved to treat himself a little bit. Mike tried to act casual about it, but you could tell he was all bashful at your generosity. Abby also pointed out that he was blushing (which made his face turn redder)

•Abby made you a homemade card with a drawing of the three of you together at home with a rainbow overhead. There’s also a lot of unnecessary glitter that falls into your lap. But it makes you tear up, because it really makes you feel like part of the family.

•Mike’s gift to you is very humble. It’s something small but intimate. It shows he doesn’t have a lot of money but that he listens to you. It’s something you thought he wouldn’t have even noticed or heard you talking about. But he pays attention to you. And it was the sweetest gesture that melted your heart.

•Back to the topic of Christmas lights, it’s a Schmidt family tradition to drive around to look at other houses’ lights one last time.

Mike drives and he smiles softly, looking in the rear-view mirror and seeing Abby asleep in the back. ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ plays on the radio and Mike reaches over to hold your hand, softly rubbing your knuckles with his thumb. And everything feels right in the world.

#josh hutcherson #mike schmidt #mike schmidt fnaf #fnaf #five nights at freddy's #fnaf movie #mike and abby schmidt #mike schmidt fluff #mike Schmidt Christmas #Christmas fluff #christmas imagine #hallmark eat your heart out #hallmark could never #mike schmidt headcanons #mike schmidt imagines

69 notes · View notes

alyygx · 7 months

Text

Band of Brothers Easy Company Sorted Between Surviving and Not Surviving WWII: Part 1 of 2

Hey all! Here is part 1 of my big BoB post!!! I still have some work to do on part 2 but I will try to have it up as soon as I can. I hope you all find this useful and also a little bit interesting. I had so much fun doing the research for it. 🙂❤️

Enjoy!!! xoxo

Died During the War:

Company Commanders:

First Lieutenant Thomas Meehan III

Born: July 8th, 1921 (Philadelphia, PA)

Enlisted: March 16th, 1941 (Philadelphia, PA)

Died: June 6th, 1944/ D-Day (Normandy, France)

Age at Death: 22 years old

Cause of Death: Plane shot down and crashed after being hit by German anti-aircraft fire.

• His remains were finally returned to the U.S. in 1952 and he is currently buried at the Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery just south of St. Louis, Missouri

Awards/Medals:

• Parachutists Badge (aka Jump Wings)

• Combat Infantry Badge

• American Campaign Medal

• Purple Heart

• European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Medal (with 2 service stars)

• World War II Victory Medal

• French Liberation Medal

• Croix de guerre with palm

Wounded?: No (died before seeing any combat)

Family:

• Thomas Meehan II (Father)

• Marion Opp Meehan (Mother)

• Anne Shore (Wife)

• Barrie Meehan Meller (Daughter)

Non-commissioned Officers:

Sergeant Warren Harold "Skip" Muck

Born: January 31st, 1922 (Tonawanda, NY)

Enlisted: August 17th, 1942 (Buffalo, NY)

Died: January 10th, 1945 (Foy, Bastogne, Belgium)

Age at Death: 22 years old

Cause of Death: Killed when an artillery round hit his foxhole, shared with Alex Penkala, and exploded.

• Skip Muck is buried at the Luxembourg American Cemetery in Hamm, Luxembourg City, Luxembourg.

Awards/Medals:

• Parachutists Badge (aka Jump Wings) with 2 combat stars

• Combat Infantryman Badge

• Bronze Star

• Purple Heart

• Presidential Unit Citation (with one Oak Leaf Cluster)

• European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Medal (with 3 service stars and arrow device)

• World War II Victory Medal

• Army of Occupation Medal

• Croix de guerre with palm

• French Liberation Medal

• Belgian World War II Service Medal

Fought:

• D-Day/Battle of Normandy (Normandy, France)

• Operation Market Garden (Einhoven, Holland)

• Battle of the Bulge (Ardennes Forrest, Bastogne, Belgium)

Wounded?: Never wounded until KIA in Bastogne

Family:

• Elmer Julius Muck Sr. (Father)

• Loretta M. Muck (Mother)

• Elmer J. Muck Jr. (Older Brother)

• Ruth Muck (Younger Sister)

• Faye Tanner (Fiancée)

Enlisted Men:

Corporal Donald B. "Hoob" Hoobler

Born: June 28th, 1922 (Manchester, OH)

Enlisted: July 22nd, 1942 (Fort Thomas, KY)

• Joined the Ohio National Guard on October 15th, 1940 and served until October 1941.

Died: January 3rd, 1945 (Bastogne, Belgium)

• Don Hoobler is buried at Manchester IOOF Cemetery with his father (d. 1941), mother (d. 1976), and brother George (d. 1932).

Age at Death: 22 years old

Cause of Death: After acquiring a German Luger and placing the gun in his pocket the gun discharged due to the pressure of the multiple layers of clothing he was wearing and severed the femoral artery in his right leg. He bled out and died before he was able to be transported to an aid station.

Awards/Medals:

• Parachutists Badge (aka Jump Wings)

• Combat Infantryman Badge

• Purple Heart

• American Defense Medal

• European Theater of Operations Ribbon

Fought:

• Battle of Normandy/D-Day (Normandy, France)

• Operation Market Garden (Einhoven, Holland)

• Battle of the Bulge (Ardennes Forrest, Bastogne, Belgium)

Wounded?: No. Not until his fatal non-combat related gunshot wound to his leg in Bastogne.

Family:

• Sergeant Ralph Brenton Hoobler (Father)

• Kathryn Phyllis [Carrigan] Hoobler (Mother)

• John R. Hoobler (Brother)

• George B. Hoobler (Brother)

• Mary Kathryn [Hoobler] Lane (Sister)

Private First Class Alex Mike Penkala Jr.

Born: August 30th, 1924 (Niles, Michigan)

Drafted: February 27th, 1942 (Toledo, OH)

Died: January 10th, 1945 (Foy, Bastogne, Belgium)

Age at Death: 20 years old

Cause of Death: Killed when an artillery round hit his foxhole, shared with Skip Muck, and exploded.

• Alex Penkala is buried at the Luxembourg American Cemetery in Hamm, Luxembourg City, Luxembourg.

Awards/Medals:

• Parachutists Badge (aka Jump Wings)

• Combat Infantryman Badge

• Purple Heart

• Bronze Star

• American Campaign Medal

• European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Medal (with 3 service stars and arrowhead)

• World War Two Victory Medal

• Reconnaissance de la France Libérée

• Croix de guerre with palm

• Médaille commémorative de la Guerre

• Good Conduct Medal

Fought:

• Battle of Normandy/D-Day (Normandy, France)

• Operation Market Garden (Einhoven, Holland)

• Battle of the Bulge (Ardennes Forrest, Bastogne, Belgium)

Wounded?: Wounded by a mortar explosion in the arm in Bastogne.

Family: Alex Penkala's parents emigrated from Poland in 1906 and his father barely spoke English. All the Penkala children (including Alex) were fluent in Polish.

• Alexander Penkala Sr. (Father)

• Mary [Kinski] Penkala (Mother) *died in childbirth in 1927 delivering her 13th child

• Angela M. [Penkala] Sobczyk (Oldest Sister)

• Mary [Penkala] Setlak (2nd Oldest Sister)

• Helen E. [Penkala] Hawblitzel (3rd Oldest Sister)

• Matilda V. [Penkala] Budney (4th Oldest Sister)

• Genevieve A. [Penkala] Glujas (5th Oldest Sister)

• Edward F. Penkala (Oldest Brother)

• Clem J. Penkala (2nd Oldest Brother)

• Evelyn A. [Penkala] Tatay (6th Oldest Sister)

• Irene [Penkala] Lichatowich (7th Oldest Sister)

• Rose L. [Penkala] Kaczmarczyk (2nd Youngest Sister)

• Gertrude E. [Penkala] Picking (Youngest Sister)

• Sylvia (Girlfriend)

Survived the War:

Company Commanders:

Captain Herbert Maxwell Sobel

Born: January 26th, 1912 (Chicago, IL)

Enlisted: March, 7th 1941

Died: September 30th, 1987 (Waukegan, IL)

Age at Death: 75 years old

Cause of Death: Malnutrition

• In 1970 Sobal shot himself in the head in an attempted suicide. The bullet entered his temple and severed his optic nerve rendering him blind for the rest of his life.

• He died a Lieutenant Colonel; serving in both WWII & Korea

• Sobel was cremated after his death

• Sobel is buried at Montrose Cemetery-Crematorium in Chicago, IL

• No one attended his funeral

Awards/Medals:

• Parachutists Badge (aka Jump Wings)

• Combat Infantryman Badge

• Bronze Star Medal

• American Campaign Medal

• European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Medal

• World War II Victory Medal

• Croix de guerre (France)

Fought:

• Battle of Normandy/D-Day (Normandy, France)

• Operation Market Garden (Einhoven, Holland)

• Battle of the Bulge (Ardennes Forrest, Bastogne, Belgium)

Wounded?: No

After the War: Worked as a credit manager for a telephone equipment company in Chicago.

• Sobel was born into a Jewish family, his wife was devoutly Catholic. This was a major problem for his family.

• Sobel and his wife divorced sometime in the late 1960s and he became estranged from his family shortly after.

Family:

• Max H. Sobel (Father)

• Dora Friedman (Mother)

• Julian Sobel (Brother)

• Maxine Sobel (Brother)

• Ruth Sobel (Sister)

• Rose Sobel (Wife)

• Michael Sobel (Son)

• Herbert Sobel Jr. (Son)

• Rick Sobel (Son)

• 1 daughter (died a few days after birth)

Major Richard Davis "Dick" Winters

Born: January 21st, 1918 (New Holland, PA)

Enlisted: August 25th, 1941 (place unknown)

Died: January 2nd, 2011 (Campbelltown, PA)

Age at Death: 92 years old

Cause of Death: Parkinson's disease

• Dick is buried at Bergstrasse Evangelical Lutheran Church, Ephrata Township, PA and was laid to rest on January 8th, 2011.

Awards/Medals:

• Parachutists Badge (with 2 Combat Stars)

• Combat Infantryman Badge

• Medal of the City of Einhoven

• Distinguish Service Cross [The second highest medal awarded by the US Military]

• Bronze Star with one Oak Leaf Cluster

• Purple Heart

• Presidential Unit Citation with one Oak Leaf Cluster

• American Defense Medal

• National Defense Medal

• European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Medal

• World War II Victory Medal

• Army of Occupation Medal

• Croix de guerre with palm

• French Liberation Medal

• War Cross (Belgium) with palm

• Belgian World War II Medal

Fought:

• Battle of Normandy/D-Day (Normandy, France)

• Operation Market Garden (Einhoven, Holland)

• Battle of the Bulge (Ardennes Forrest, Bastogne, Belgium)

• Western Allied invasion of Germany

Wounded?: Took a ricochet sniper bullet to the leg in Carentan.

After the War: Became a production assistant at Nixon Nitration Works, a plastics adhesive factory, in Raritan, NJ

Family:

• Richard Winters (Father)

• Edith Winters (Mother)

• Beatrice Winters (Sister)

• Ann Sheehan (Younger Sister)

• Ethel Estoppey Winters (Wife)

• Richard T. Winters (Son)

• Jill Peckelun (Daughter)

First Lieutenant Frederick Theodore "Moose" Heyliger

Born: June 23rd, 1916 (Acton, MA)

Enlisted: November 25th, 1940

Died: November 3rd, 2001 (Concord, MA)

• Moose is buried in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery

Age at Death: 85 years old

Cause of Death: Stroke

Awards/Medals:

• Parachutists Badge (aka Jump Wings)

• Bronze Star

• Purple Heart

• American Campaign Medal

• European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Medal

• Military Cross

Fought:

• Battle of Normandy/D-Day (Normandy, France)

• Operation Market Garden (Einhoven, Holland)

Wounded?: Was accidentally shot by one of his own men (a replacement) on October 31st, 1944. His wounds caused him to need to undergo skin and nerve grafts. He was discharged from the army in February 1947 after being in military hospitals for nearly 3 years.

After the War: Worked as a salesman for landscape and agriculture chemical companies.

Family:

• Theodore Godet Heyliger (Father)

• Bertha Louise Heyliger (Mother)

• Johannes Almon Heyliger (Older Brother)

• Pauline Louise Heyliger (Older Sister)

• Howard Francis Heyliger (2nd Oldest Brother)

• Vic Heyliger (Younger Brother)

• Evelyn Davis (First Wife) [divorced early 1960s]

• Frederick Heyliger Jr. (Son)

• Diane Heyliger (Daughter)

• Mary Heyliger (Second Wife)

• Jon Heyliger (Son)

First Lieutenant Norman Staunton "Foxhole Norman" Dike Jr.

Born: May 19th, 1918 (Brooklyn, NY)

Enlisted: January 22nd, 1942

Died: June 23rd, 1989 (Rolle, Switzerland)

• Dike is buried at West Thompson Cemetery, Thompson Windham County, North Grosvenor Dale, Connecticut.

Age at Death: 71 years old

Cause of Death: "A long illness" is all the info I could find

Awards/Medals:

• Silver Star

• Bronze Star with Oak Leaf Cluster

• Purple Heart with Oak Leaf Cluster

• Order of Orange-Nassau Netherlands 2nd class

Fought:

• Operation Market Garden

• Battle of the Bulge

Wounded?: Shot in the right shoulder in Foy

After the War: Dike opened his own law practice in Switzerland

Family:

• Norman S. Dike Sr. (Father)

• Evelyn M. Biddle (Mother)

• Barbra Tredick Dimmick McIntire (Wife) (m. June 20th 1942 - divorced June 1946)

• Catherine Pochon (2nd Wife) (m. March 12th, 1957)

• Anthony Randolph Dike (Son)

• Robin Dike Auchincloss (Daughter)

• Barbra Matilda Dike (Daughter)

• Deborah Ann Dike (Daughter)

Captain Ronald Charles Speirs

Born: April 20th, 1920 (Edinburgh, United Kingdom)

Enlisted: April 11th 1942

Died: April 11th, 2007 (Saint Marie, Montana)

Age at Death: 86 years old

Cause of Death: Died suddenly; cause unknown

• Burial details unknown

Awards/Medals:

• Master Parachutist Badge with 4 combat jump devices (stars)

• Combat Infantry Badge 2nd Award

• Silver star

• Legion of Merit

• Bronze Star with 2 Oak Leaf Clusters

• Purple Heart with ne Oak Leaf Clusters

• Army Commendation Medal

• Presidential Unit Citation with one Oak Leaf Cluster

• American Campaign Medal

• European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Medal with four Service Stars and Arrowhead Device

• World War II Victory Medal

• Army of Occupation Medal

• National Defense Service Medal with Service Star

• Korean Service Medal with four Service Stars and Arrowhead Device

• Croix de Guerre with palm

• French Liberation Medal

• Republic of Korea Presidential Unit Citation

• United Nations Korea Medal

• Korean War Service Medal

Fought:

• Battle of Normandy/DDay

• Operation Market Garden

• Battle of the Bulge

Wounded?: Wounded by fire from an enemy machine gun in Rendijk, Holland

After the War: After WWII Spiers stayed in the army for 22 years and served in both the Korean and Cold Wars. Once out of the army Speirs served as the Governor of Spandau Prison (where Nazi war criminals were held).

Family:

• Robert Spiers (Father)

• Martha McNeil (Mother)

• Margaret Griffiths (Wife) (m. May 20th, 1944 - 1946) * Divorced bc she was British and didnt't want to move to America with him.

• Leonie Gertrude Hume Fritz (2nd Wife) (m. 1958)

• Ramona Dolores Pujol Strumph (3rd Wife) (m. 1987)

• Robert (Son from 1st wife)

Junior Officers:

Captain Lewis Nixon

Born: September 30th, 1918 (New York, NY)

Enlisted: January 14th, 1941 (Trenton, NJ)

Died: January 11th, 1995 (Los Angeles, CA)

Age at Death: 76 years old

Cause of Death: Complications from diabetes

• Lew is buried at Forest Lawn Memorial Park in Hollywood Hills

Awards/Medals:

• Parachutist Badge (Jump Wings) with 3 combat stars

• Combat Infantyman Badge

• Purple Heart

• American Defense Medal

• European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Ribbion with 3 Battle Stars and a Bronze Arrowhead

• World War Two Victory Medal

• World Was Two Army of Occupation Award with Germany Clasp

• French Criox de Guerre (Cross of Valor)

• Presidential Unit Citation with Bronze Oak Leaf

• 5 Overseas Service Stripes

• Ruptured Duck Patch (WWII Discharge Patch)

Fought:

• Battle of Normandy/DDay

• Operation Market Garden

• Battle of the Bulge

• Operation Varsity

Wounded?: In the Netherlands he was hit by a bullet from a German MG 42 machine gun. The bullet went through his helmet, grazed his forehead, and left a burn mark.

After the War: Nix worked at his family's Nixon Nitration Works in Edison, New Jersey alongside his father and friend Dick Winters.

Family:

• Stanhope Wood Nixon (father)

• Doris Ryer Nixon (mother)

• Fletcher Ryer Nixon (brother)

• Blanche Nixon (sister)

• Katharine Page (1st Wife) (m. December 20th, 1941 - 1944)

• Irene Miller (2nd Wife) (m. June 1946 - 1962)

• Grace Umezawa (3rd Wife) (m. 1962)

• Michael Nixon (Son with 1st Wife)

First Lieutenant Lynn Davis "Buck" Compton

Born: December 31st, 1921 (Los Angeles, CA)

Enlisted: Was already ROTC (started 1940) when the war broke out (graduated in 1943 and assigned to the 176th Infantry Regiment)

Died: February 25th, 2012 (Burlington, WA)

Age at Death: 90 years old

Cause of Death: Complications from a heart attack he had in January 2012

• Buck was cremated after his death and his ashes were given to his family

Awards/Medals:

• Parachutist Badge (Jump Wings) with 2 jump stars

• Combat Infantryman Badge

• Silver Star

• Bronze Star

• Purple Heart

• Presidential Unit Citation with one Oak Leaf Cluster

• American Defense Service Medal

• American Campaign Medal

• European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign Medal with arrow device (airborne assult) and 3 campaign stars

• World War II Victory Medal

• Army of Occupation Medal

• French Croix de guere with palm

• French Liberation Medal

Fought:

• Battle of Normandy/DDay

• Operation Market Garden

• Battle of the Bulge

Wounded?: In 1944, during Operation Market Garden, Buck was shot in the backside. Then, in January 1945, Buck suffered severe battle fatigue after witnessing two close friends (Joe Toye and Bill Guarnere) badly wounded by artillery fire.

After the War: He attended Loyola Law School in Los Angeles and joined the LA Police Department in 1946 becoming a detective in the Central Burglary Division. He left the LAPD for the District Attorney's office in 1951 as a deputy district attorney. He was promoted in 1964 to chief deputy district attorney. In 1970, Governor Ronald Reagan appointed him an Associate Justice of the California Court of Appeal. He retired in 1990.

• (Fun Fact/Before the War) Buck played as the catcher on his college baseball team his junior year. One of his teammates was Jackie Robinson. Also, Bucks mother worked on movies and Buck was present on set with his mother and met actor Charlie Chaplin. Buck, being a child at the time, was so rowdy and disruptive that Charlie Chaplin kicked him off set.

Family:

• Roby Franks Compton (Father)

• Ethel Camille Compton (Mother)

• Geraldine Compton (1st Wife)

• Donna Faye Newman Compton (2nd Wife)

• Tracy Compton (adopted daughter w/ 2nd wife)

• Syndee Compton (adopted daughter w/ 2nd wife)

#band of brothers #thomas meehan #skip muck #donald hoobler #alex penkala #herbert sobel #dick winters #moose heyliger #norman dike #ronald speirs #lewis nixon #buck compton #part 1 #alyygx

46 notes · View notes

old-school-butch · 10 months

Note

What's your take on the settlements in the West Bank though?

Short answer: arrrrggghhhh

Longer answer:

I wrote and deleted a whole thing when I found this video of the history that I think it worth watching because it helps people visualize what's going on and how entangled Palestinian and Jewish settlements are. It's part of a series, and the whole thing is worth watching if you want to familiarize yourself with the basics although I think it has a bias and omits consideration of some of the bigger strategic aspects at play.

youtube

Politically, the West Bank is a jumble of ideas about people, power and land and all the ways these can be combined. There are several possible outcomes of the current conflict: a single state, a single state with enclaves, or 2 independent states. A state could be Jewish, Muslim, or secular with a spectrum of population and power balances. All of these options vary in popularity. Like any good foreigner, I favor a solution that is locally unpopular on both sides - a 2 state solution. And I think the idea of an international force running Jerusalem is pretty good too. The '2 states for 2 peoples' camp did gain ground in the early aughts though, so it may still take effect.

The West Bank settlers tend to be one of 3 types:

religious zealots who want all of Judea and Samaria for Jews because God gave it to them

Israelis looking for cheap housing and a subsidized quality of life as long as there are enough guards to ensure they feel secure

Americans who want to recreate the Wild West feeling but with Judaism (not kidding, they're a sizeable and loud chunk of this group)

The proportions wax and wane depending on government support. If Israel doesn't support a settlement with infrastructure and armed guards, the more radical elements populate it. But subsidies have also drawn in people for more prosaic reasons. You don't need to be too religious or radical, just confident that one day this land that exists outside of Israel's national boundaries (but has occupied since 1967) will be yours because it's not like anyone else might want it... wait, that is radical isn't it? Which is why I hate the idea of these settlements.

The process of radicalization happens on both sides, and I don't think people realize that this is a central aspect of the conflict. I hear commentary that Israel's campaign in Gaza will breed an entire new generation of radicals, but little thought is apparently given to the impact Hamas' attack had on Israelis. By targeting civilians and killing indiscriminately - even notable peace activists like Vivian Silver - it gives more radical Israelis justification for an increasingly hardline stance. The intense antisemitism of the Islamist movements fuels increasingly anti-Arab sentiment and actions. Few Israelis will look at the Oct 7 attacks and think these are people they want to live next door to. That is the desired effect of terrorism, after all - to strike terror into your heart. The reactionary rage comes later.

A notable feature in this conflict is that more moderate people are neutralized - often violently - by extremists on their own side. Signing a peace treaty with Israel has been hazardous to the health of multiple high-ranking officials. Hamas splintered from the PA because the PA made compromises with Israel, and if Hamas gets torn down, the PIJ is waiting in the wings with even harsher, hardline politics. Moderates in Israel have been pushed aside by increasingly right-wing governments. Any attempts at compromise are met with radicals who try to supplant moderates in power, or test the limits and will of those in power. So, the West Bank settlers are to Netanyahu what the PIJ are to Hamas. After Oct 7, WB settlers had easy access to retaliate against their Arab neighbours and, in turn, we see growing support for Hamas over the PA in the West Bank among Arabs as life sours as the conflict boils over. And so over time those currently in power are one step more radical than those who came before, and they are in turn under pressure from those who are a step beyond.

The West Bank faction don't just take action in the West Bank, they're the same faction that pushed for Israel to declare itself a specifically 'Jewish homeland' in 2018, which was a slap in the face for Arab Israelis and shifts Israel away from democratic values and toward a religious nation state, which makes peace ever more elusive. (Vox suprisingly has a fairly informative article explaining why people are critical of this move.)

So how do the settlers ruin the prospects for peace? The boundaries of Israel have shifted, mostly expanding outward, following numerous wars in the region. The borders of 1948 and 1967 aren't the same. And Palestinians are left negotiating for less and less land with every iteration. Now... Israel has largely fought defensive wars and it's not uncommon for the winning side to seize disputed territory when they've won the war. However, the Oslo accords carve out the West Bank to an almost uninhabitable degree for Palestinians living there. Maintaining enough security for Jewish settlers means operating under military law, with checkpoints and restricted roads that make economic development impossible. This is largely a result of settler actions, forcing the Israeli government to include them in their negotiations. One look at a map demonstrates how convoluted any separation would be. Settlers have, in essence, used the Palestinian tactic of refusing to declare their statehood to their advantage.

For anyone confused about how this works, Palestine has never and does not exist as a state. It has 'leaders' and 'de facto leaders' but not a president. Palestinian might, roughly, define a group of people, but Palestine isn't a real place you can find on a map. This has served groups like the PLO very well. By refusing to accept statehood, or even accept Israel as a state, or even accepting the war of 1948 is over... they are hard to pin down in negotiations. Thus their hopes that they can somehow win a better settlement in the future is kept alive. But it also means that settlers can move into the West Bank because it's not the country of Palestine, it's not anything, it's just Israeli occupied territory that is currently under dispute.

The kindest interpretation of this view I can give is 'if Arabs can live on Israeli land then why can't Jews live on Arab land'. Israel at some points has encouraged this settlement process, but is starting to find it expensive to police and politically limiting. It showed up as a major issue in the Abraham accords, with a proposed land swap for alternate territory to be given to Palestine in order to prevent the unpopular move of having to relocate several hundred thousand Israelis. But of course the land swap idea isn't popular either.

Personally, if Palestine decided to declare its independence along the green line - I'd support that move. I think Israel should as well and signal to its settlers that they would need to decide whether they want to relocate or live under a Palestinian government. Now, if a strictly Muslim state is going be created by hardliners, this won't work well, but if Israel can live with a 20% Muslim population then why can't Palestine live with a 20% Jewish population? Well, I know why... but I still don't think peace needs to be delayed because a bunch of people decided to ignore international law.

13 notes · View notes