#PA National Guard

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[thevoidstaredback]

Clark hadn't meant to spend so long in Gotham. In fact, he'd intended to leave as soon as he was done interviewing Misters Wayne! But then his train had been delayed. And then he'd seen Signal...

Staying was a huge risk. He didn't know why Batman didn't want any of the Justice League in Gotham, but he was willing to bet that it had something to do with the amount of rogue attacks.

It's a miracle that neither a rogue or Batman showed up. Though, Batman' wouldn't have recognised him, he was not willing to risk messing up like that.

Until now.

Clark had decided to see what exactly goes on in Gotham City, New Jersey. Despite it being known nationally, there isn't really a clear picture about what goes on within the city limits. Maybe he can convince his boss to let him do a story on it? Then again, Bruce Wayne is his new boss, now that he's gone and bought the Daily Planet. Thoughts for another time.

He did not mean to get tied up like this. Literally. His exploration was only meant to last just until the last train of the day! But then he'd gone and gotten himself kidnapped!

Lois is going to laugh so hard at him.

And it's not that it's too hard for him to escape. These ropes are weaker than the ones Ma and Pa use on the farm, and the knot's easier to untie than a slip-knot. He can't because there's people watching him.

Batman can never know.

Batman probably already knows.

If Batman could laugh, Clark's beyond sure that he'd be rolling.

There was no fanfare when he was taken. Just someone pulling him into a van he walked by before diving off a they tied him up. Honestly, if it wasn't such an inconvenience, he'd admire how smoothly it was pulled off.

Things like this don't happen in Metropolis. They do! But, he's never really had to deal with them. That's usually the police's job, so he stays out of it. Unless nothing gets done...that's when he steps in.

Does this happen a lot in Gotham? From stories he's heard, he assumed drugs and big Rogues were the more constant threats, but this was too well done to be amateurs.

Regardless, this is a humiliating situation to now be in. Ridiculous, really, that he'd let his guard down. And if Batman or Lois don't lord it over him until they die, Diana will.

The others can never know.

With a quiet sigh, Clark does his damndest to look like his struggling without shredding the ropes or shattering the chair. It's much harder feat than first assumed. After a while, he 'gives up' and surveys the room.

There's a group of people mulling about a few yards away from him, though three of them are looking at him at a time. They're all armed with at least two weapons each.

Focusing his hearing, Clark picks up quiet discussion of a randsome. He has to do a double take.

Are they- They're trying to randsome him? He doesn't even live in Gotham! And, he can feel his wallet in his back pocket, so they obviously don't know his name or work. Also, he doesn't like his picture (as Clark Kent) taken, so there's no way they picked him for his face!

More of the group's - there's ten there, not that he's focusing - discussion reveals the name Bruce Wayne.

Why would they be talking about Bruce Wayne while holding Clark Kent hostage?

He sends his hearing to the police station, listening for the keyword 'randsome'. When that gives no results, which is very unfortunate and another thing that is different from Metropolis, he goes to the rest of the city. Maybe the note was en route?

Clark picks up a conversation from five different places in the city. One, the female, is stationary near the middle of the city; the oldest voice and the youngest are together; the other two are spread out. They're all nearing him.

Oh. He knows that voice.

He was right. Batman does already know.

He can do nothing but drop his head and sigh in dispaire.

Why couldn't these guys have been cultists? At least then he'd have an excuse - however flimsy - to have been caught off guard!

If that's Batman, than Robin must be with him. That means that Red Robin is one of the two already closing in on him. (Judging by the weight and movements, he's the closest one) Clark doesn't recognise the other two voices, but he can assume they also work with Batman while in Gotham.

It could be worse, he supposes. It could be Nightwing rescuing him.

He's already never living this down. nightwing would make fun of him for this incident in the afterlife, too.

The only warning that something had entered the build was the slow dawning of terror that Clark felt. He knew that his captors felt it, too, because they all snapped upright, weapons in hand and aimed at every entrance.

There was a presence behind him just as the rope trying to hold him down was cut.

"Hello Uncle Clark," said a voice that Clarks sure he's heard, but can't quite place, "Nightwing's gonna be all over this when he gets back on-world."

Clark doesn't move, even though the rope's been cut. "Please don't tell him..."

"Too late, C. The message is ready to be sent the second he's back in the solar system."

Clark curses under his breath while the voice laughs, the presence fading just as quick as it had appeared.

I the rafters, the sound of bat wings draws all weapons up. Clark still doesn't move. Then, as the shadows grow darker, the chirps of three birds start to softly call. His captors start firing, shattering the glass in the windows.

He takes this as his cue to get the hell out of dodge, though he only moves to the roof of the next building over.

From outside, it looks as though there's nothing going on inside the building his just left. A closer look shows shadows moving, but not a single sound. The clouds covering the moon makes the entire thing worse.

There's a pressure before his best friend is right behind him.

"What are you doing in Gotham, Kal?"

"I'm here for work, actually."

"You finished your assignment hours ago. Why are you still here?"

He shrugs. "Can't I visit my friend in his home?"

"You did."

"What?"

"You came, you saw. Go home, Kal."

"Wait a second!" He finally turns to the dark silhouette beside him. "What do you mean I already saw you?"

Batman hums quietly. The buzz of the woman's voice in his ear tells him that the area's clear and that the others are heading back out. Slowly, Batman reaches for his head and pulls off his cowl.

Clark knows for a fact that his best friend loves messing with people. Underneath all his brooding, he's a ridiculous person at heart. So this? This suddenly makes sense. But, also not at all.

"Clark." Bruce Wayne greets with a smirk.

Clark bluescreens for a moment. "Mister Wayne?"

He laughs. Laughs! "You've known me long enough to call me by my name, Clark."

"What the fuck?" He finds these words very appropriate.

"Those guys thought you were me," Bruce fucking Wayne says with a laugh in his voice. "I can see why they'd get confused. We do look alike, after all."

"You guys could practically be twins!" the woman's voice calls from the comm inside of Batman's cowl.

Side note: Turns out that the cowl and cape are not, in fact, connected.

"I need a goddamn drink." Clark sighs again.

"Come back to the Manor; I'll join you for a nightcap." Bruce smiles.

Prick.

Part 2 Storyboard

[ettraxx]

Kara Kent Opening

A new day dawns over National City. The golden light of the sun crests over the horizon and begins to fill an unassuming loft apartment. Its lone occupant rises with a joyous yawn. The blond stretches taking in the invigorating sunlight and is swiftly energized. With impossible speed she rushes to her bathroom. 

In a blur she showers, dries her hair, and dresses in her most impressive dark blue pants suit. She completes the look with a thick pair of glasses stopping at the door to her former storage room. She looks inside once more to ensure that the bedroom is ready for its new occupant. A sky blue comforter lying perfectly atop the queen sized bed.

Heading through her living room, she grabs her briefcase and ID before heading out of the door. Today is the first day of the rest of her life, in more ways than one. She has finally completed her orientation and security clearance, so she begins her new job in earnest. She’s a cyberneticist working under one of the most brilliant minds in the field, Dr. Amelia Hamilton. 

And more importantly than that, she works for one of the most brilliant minds in the world, Lena Luthor at Luthor Bio-Tech. Her doctoral thesis project on synthetic nerves is what got her recruited by Ms. Luthor personally. The other way her life is changing for good is her brother coming to stay with her. The high school freshman to be was looking forward to starting at Smallville High, but that wasn’t to be. 

Ma and Pa are just having too many health problems back in Smallville and Clark just needs more specified assistance. He’s only thirteen and he’s already smarter than his classmates. She’s had her spare bedroom set up for him for over a week. And she would normally be on the phone with him already but there’s a two hour time difference. 

She knows exactly when his flight arrives though, so she just has to be at the airport. She’s planned out her entire day to maximize her efficiency. And it all starts now with her first real day in the big leagues. As she steps over the threshold and up to the security guards her phone buzzes in her pocket. 

She ignores it as her badge is swiped. The guard all but ignores her as she is ushered through. Riding the elevator is not as rough today, she is lucky enough to catch an empty one. Getting out on her floor she makes it to Dr. Hamilton’s lab in time to be greeted by the middle-aged scientist. 

Her lightly greying hair is precisely trimmed and matches well with her dignified eyes. She half smiles at her new assistant as she enters, she has been to the lab area once before but today is the first day to really get her hands dirty. She stores her briefcase and slips on her own lab coat. It’s a small thing but just feeling the corporate logo above the pocket makes everything more real. 

“So Dr., how are you today?” She asks with too much enthusiasm. 

“Please Miss Kent, just call me Amelia or Hamilton.” She insists with a faint sigh. “We will be working together entirely too much for added formalities.” 

“Of course.” She responds quickly, tempering her excitement.

“Now before we begin any real work, our benefactor will be visiting us for a quick meeting.” She looks to her watch to confirm the time. 

Right on cue, the lab door opens once more. In walk two women, both around Kara’s age, though the difference in their demeanor is unmistakable. The shorter of the two is holding a tablet and her eyes remain mostly down turned and focused on the tablet. The taller of the two is wearing a form fitting black dress and stands with more confidence than Kara could hope to muster. 

Her eyes shine a brilliant emerald green, and her smile is as bright as the dawning sun. Kara can feel her heart skip in her chest. She momentarily loses focus and can’t help but hear every other heartbeat in the area. Her eyes unfocus briefly, seeing through everything around them. 

And that’s when she realized what was wrong. The distinctive sound of a heavily armed man rushing up the stairwell. The sight of the lone figure clad in body armor and carrying a high tech rifle sends a chill through her spine. Her smile falters for a brief moment, as she tries to come up with a plan. 

The man still has a flight to climb, but how did he avoid the alarms? Before she can focus too much on the thought, the pale hand of the gorgeous raven-haired woman is presented for her to shake. She takes the offered hand and applies the perfectly pressured grip that Pa had taught her. Smiling back to the brunet, she catches the faint increase in her heart rate as well as the soft blush that presents. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you properly Miss Luthor.” Exclaims Kara gently, turning the two so that she would be in between Lena and the door. 

“The pleasure is all mine.” Responds Lena with a widening smile. “I have to say, I am expecting great things from you Miss Kent.”

“I am hoping to fulfill all of your expectations and more.” Responds Kara her enthusiasm almost getting the better of her. 

As Lena pulls her hand back at the surprising increase in pressure, a single shot rings out through the lab. The bullet shatters the supposedly bulletproof glass, and zips through the room and past all four occupants. Kara stands tall and uses her body to shield her employer, as her boss and Lena’s assistant crouch to the floor. Lena stands tall and stoic, looking with deathly intensity at the door. 

The man steps through the shattered glass his riffle humming with a soft unearthly tone. Silently the man looks across the room, his goggled eyes scanning over the four. Lena focuses her attention on the gunman, as Kara’s eyes find the nearest alarm. The riffle barrel trains itself upon Lena, who tries but fails to move Kara out of the line of fire. 

As a second shot rings out, the alarm on the wall bursts. The screech of the alarm echoes out across the building. The shooter hesitates but turns away from the women. He rushes out and back towards the stairs, Kara immediately turning to make sure Lena was okay. 

*****

this is the opening for my Supergirl AU, I'm working on the rest of the story but its slow going, so i wanted to share this as a tease i guess.

[scribbleseas]

Straight Laced, Chapter X: To Be A Hidden Treasure…

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: mentions of suicide, 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, body shaming, eating disorder tendencies (food restriction, frequent references to wanting to maintain a certain weight, over-practicing & exercising), infidelity, fake courtship, swearing

REMINDER: This is a heavier chapter that hits MOST of those warnings and your safety and comfort comes before everything! Please don’t hesitate to reach out to me if you would like clarification about this chapter’s subject matter.

Author’s Note: Hi Everyone! Thank you so much for reading Straight Laced, I'm so happy I can finally show you the last chapter of this exhilarating story. Including this chapter, you will have read 70,249 words of my writing, and I'm so, so grateful for your time. I have more to say about this fic all the way at the bottom of this post, so I'll keep this brief and leave you with one helpful hint: the part of the grand pas that Y/n is talking about can be found at 2:56 in the video I linked. With that, I hope this chapter is everything you've all been so patiently waiting for. And more.

Happy Reading!!

Dan <3

⇐ PREVIOUS CHAPTER |

MASTERLIST

Postlude

February, 1889

The Imperial Ballet School, Russia

The frosty draft of St. Petersburg’s unforgiving winter slipped underneath The Imperial Ballet School’s multitude of long windows, sending a chill through the air. A thick layer of frost shrouded the dance studio’s large windows, both shielding the expansive room from both the outside, and the outside from seeing inside. 

The soft piano played the beginning notes of Giselle’s Act I scene where she realizes that the young man who had been courting her had been lying about his identity. The Duke Albrecht had been posing as a peasant to woo the beautiful village girl, but now, one of the woman’s competing suitors exposed his lie. With the truth exposed, Giselle fell into heartbroken panic. 

The first ballerina of two in consideration for the role started to arrange her body into the beginning steps into Giselle’s pained rendition of her previous pas de deux with the disguised duke. The dance, once loving and serene, was now supposed to be frantic and wrecked with pain, as displayed by the ballerina’s stricken expression. 

Seconds before she could begin, the ballet master knocked her cane into the floor, halting all—the ballerina, the music, any onlookers. When the cane came crashing down, nobody breathed.

“Anastasia Gusev. How many hours did you rehearse this week?” Irina Abramova demanded, scrutiny weighing heavily on her drawn eyebrows and pursed lips.

Without waiting for Natasha’s response, the ballet master continued in Russian, shaking her head, red-rouged lips pursed. “Whatever it was, it is far from enough. The combination has not even started yet, and I can already see you are doing it wrong. In fact, if I made you step outside naked and beg for change, holding a sign that says ‘I cannot dance,’ you would not feel anywhere close to the amount of shame I feel at this moment for considering you,” the retired prima ballerina noted. “I may even hate myself now. Because of you.” 

No matter the chill of the gelid weather that the winter sighed into the room, nothing was more biting than Irina’s commentary. Still, in the face of her heart shattering, Natasha held her chin high and rolled her shoulders back, biting down on the fact that she’d put in over 50 hours of work in that past week. She’d skipped most meals, most full nights of sleep, with the specific intent to secure Giselle. 

Now? The young ballerina felt her eyes sting with tears that threatened to fall. Fury squeezed at her chest.

Clearing her throat, Irina addressed the rest of the class. Her gnarled hands tapped her cane against the smooth floor, her onyx gaze alight with determination. Per usual, the ballet master kept her wiry gray hair pulled back in a tight bun, reminiscent of the ballerina bun she wore in her prime. 

“Does Anastasia here resemble our Giselle, right now? Does she portray a woman descending into madness after her lover has betrayed her? I want to see a heartbroken tour de force. I want to be rendered speechless from the sheer depth of emotion on your face.” 

Giving Natasha another bored once over, Irina looked disinterested. She addressed the class once more. “Honestly! Is anyone rendered speechless? I certainly am not.”

As Natasha expected, the rest of the company betrayed her, mumbling their doubts, shaking their heads, weakly suppressing their snide smiles. They never failed to disappoint her. Natasha bit her tongue, swallowing down her desire to challenge them to portray Act One’s infamous Mad Scene better than she. No one else wanted this role like she did.

The wrinkles marring Irina’s face creased with her satisfied expression, watching Natasha’s face redden. She was well-aware of the young ballerina’s hatred of her first name, her hatred of her company members. This humiliation was more effective than anything—more than the feeling of Irina’s cane digging itself into Natasha’s lower back to correct her posture, or dodging a swing at her lowering leg. Irina swung at lowering legs to inspire dancers to hold arabesques more firmly. 

The young dancer could withstand any pain, save for this public humiliation.

“Anastasia, show yourself to the barre. I am growing tired of your mediocrity—your intent to waste our time. Faina Nikotinova, you will be my Giselle. Anastasia, do try to improve. Before I send you outside to freeze some talent into you,” her eyes flashed meaningfully, insinuating that her earlier words were not just a threat. They were a promise If Natasha couldn’t improve her dancing. 

But she had. Irina was simply refusing to allow her to perform.

“You did not let me start,” Natasha snapped, raising her blue eyes to meet Irina’s. Her hands curled into fists, her manicured nails digging into her palms. Faina wasn’t half the dancer she was—her jumps were lazy, she was too chubby to last much longer. Irina had said it herself, and that was the most offensive aspect of this.

“There was no need to. Now, go away. Better yet, leave my school. I do not tolerate this attitude in my company and I have no desire to see you again,” Irina replied coolly, motioning for Faina to take the center of the floor. She tapped her cane against the floor to cue the piano back. 

Hot, angry tears brimmed in Natasha’s eyes, but she refused to allow them to fall. Fine. Fine. If Irina wished for Duck Butt to lead the company as Giselle, she was more than welcome to choose her and watch the company sink under her mediocrity.

The force Natasha slammed the door with caused the walls to tremble. The muffled laughter from behind her sparked molten rage to flow through her veins. Surely she’d go mad if she was made to face such a stunning defeat again.

May, 1890

The Royal Opera House

No one could compare to Natasha Gusev‘s Aurora in The Royal Opera House’s first and breathtaking run of Sleeping Beauty, the product of sleepless nights spent slaving at the barre. Spent rehearsing her expressions in a mirror, forcing herself to learn to tear up on command, envisioning the very moment that Faina stole her opportunity. 

Anastasia died in Petrograd. Natasha would never allow herself to be humiliated in such a way again. She’d sooner die.

Natasha practiced until she passed out, until her feet bled and swelled, and her legs cramped. She worked herself harder than Irina could ever dream of, drilling the same moves and sequences into her body until she could dance them in her sleep. 

The ballerina had fought for this, brandished her soul for it, pushed herself through classes that were taught in a language she couldn’t understand. The only language Natasha shared with Londoners was the French terminology used in ballet. She could hardly decipher the rest: not the abuse, not the praise. It took much longer for her to master English than it did for her to secure this coveted role.

And Natasha’s reward was thundering applause, night after night. Each adoring yell louder than the last. They had come to watch her, in spite of the lies that cursed school poisoned her mind with. She made this company the best in London—if not, Europe. She had no idea what came of Faina and The Imperial Ballet’s run of Giselle, but it didn’t matter.

Nonetheless, it didn’t take long for Natasha’s star to capture more attention than she had initially bargained for, either. Alongside the unabashed adoration for her dancing came competition for her. That was how she found herself at the center of William Wood’s attention—his gray eyes lingered on her, no matter where she found herself. 

They would narrow each time she met with a new subscriber, they’d scan her with consideration each time he pulled up a chair and watched the company rehearse. William liked to claim that he was merely interested in the artistic integrity of the show, but from the way he’d bite his lip and adjust his trousers, everyone knew better. Everyone understood that he was the heir to the business supporting the Opera House—everything would belong to him in a decade or so. 

Natasha was the center of her own world. She had her patrons to satisfy, the stage to alight with her talent. The ballerina made a careful effort to rebuff William without ever needing to speak with him. 

That was, until he outsmarted her one dawn. He’d waited in the Opera House’s main rehearsal room—Natasha’s favorite because of the tall mirrors that lined the walls. 

“Hello, there,” William said, flashing his most winning smile at her. He couldn’t have been much older than Natasha. “You’re the principal dancer, aren’t you?” The young man had been poised on his usual chair from the side of the studio, but he stood to meet her. 

“Yes,” Natasha’s words were clipped because she could see through his disposition. He knew who she was—he was pretending not to. “If you would excuse me—” she immediately took a step back, preferring to rehearse in private. Or anywhere William was not. The prima ballerina shouldered her bag and turned to leave, only to freeze at the sound of her full name.

“Anastasia is a powerful name. Did you know it means resurrection?” William asked, chancing several steps closer. He caught her wrist, but maintained a lax grip. She could pull away if she wished to. 

“My name is Natasha,” she corrected crisply, her blank expression unchanged. 

“I’m William Wood,” he ignored her, gently guiding her closer. Now, she could see a kaleidoscope of different gray shades, ranging from near-white to intense storm clouds. “Did you know my name means desire?” 

Natasha’s eyebrows furrowed, unimpressed with his onomastics lesson. “How lovely,” she answered flatly, extricating her hand. Now, his sterling gaze landed on her thin lips, wanting to kiss her, presumably. “I really should be going. I have to rehearse—if you know that I am the prima ballerina, then…” leave me be, she wanted to conclude.

Instead, Natasha let her words hang in the air, allowing William to put them together on his own.

“Look—wait, all I mean is…” William paused, moistening his lips. Clearly, he was unused to the prospect of no.  “You’re flawless. And I would simply like the chance to…”

“To what?” Natasha asked indignantly, allowing the offense she took to show on her face. Normally, she wasn’t quite so harsh against these advances—she had a tendency to simply allow herself to enjoy the attention she received from such men—but William? Now? The sun hardly had a chance to start the day, and this man had put all of this time and planning into seducing her? 

“I like you. I would like the chance to get to know you. Beyond the dancing because there’s clearly so much more to get to know,” he clarified, softening his expression into something more intimate. “Please, Natasha.” 

The ballerina was unsure if she relented because of William’s honeyed words, the way his steel gaze reminded her of a singular spotlight focused on her, or because he was the heir to the Opera House, but she felt her resolve crumble. After all, there were plenty of other ballerinas who glowed with envy of her in the first place. Natasha loved to imagine how their hatred of her would intensify with William Wood courting her. That thought would feel better than any seduction tactic he could try on her.

It took weeks of flowers, lavish gifts, and fiery touches stolen between rehearsals before Natasha agreed to marry him. They were in William’s Southampton home, entangled with one another in his bed, unclothed. Sweaty after a round of passionate sex because it made William tired and affectionate. The perfect combination for an agreeable mood in a man. 

“Marry me. Be my wife,” the man practically begged, kissing Natasha’s knuckles. It wasn’t the first time he asked, his father John having pressured him into proposing ever since the rumors of their sneaking around began. It was indecent behavior of William—not unexpected, but embarrassing to the Woods, their eldest son messing around with a foreign dancer. “Please. You’re all I want, Nat,” he sighed, burying his face into the crook of her neck, kissing the clammy skin there as well. 

No one in the company could claim that Natasha was the principal dancer because she was sleeping with William, either. Her talent more than spoke for itself, illuminating the stage just as much as the spotlights did. The ballerina was addicted to this pining of his, the fortune she’d come into by taking his name. He was a puppy of a man that would be at her side, hanging onto her every word, touch, and glance so long as she could maintain her perfection. It just so happened that he had direct access to generations of wealth and influence.

“All right, Will. We can get married,” she relented, only for the man to pull her into an intense kiss, his fingers running through her unruly brown curls. 

For months, her life was blissful. 

Natasha maintained her position as prima ballerina, and they were married, which also ended her responsibilities at the dance foyer. Being married to William gave Natasha the right to all of the Opera House’s paperwork, granting her information on each of her company members, the ballet’s revenue—noting the spike in sales with delight, considering it had come in tandem with her publicity. Having a run of the same show continue for so long was unprecedented, but Natasha’s performances sold out each night. The company was only beginning its considerations for the next ballet’s lead.

Accordingly, Natasha would dance almost day and night. She ate once a day, if she remembered to, more intent on maintaining the lean body that kept jealous suitors leering. The more they looked, the more William spent for her, the more he doted on her. All the more fulfilled the young dancer felt, the more she desired.

Another starring role, more lovers, more press coverage. More rehearsal time. 

Natasha etched the hard work into her bones... until it broke her. 

She remembered searing pain in her hip, crashing to the floor. And she found herself undone against the rehearsal room’s floor, the clammy wood cold against her cheek. Yelling out for William, lips pursed with pain she refused to allow to surface past. She would never allow herself to cry. 

The doctors had given her a prescription for morphine powder for the pain. They suggested she stop dancing for the next year or two, but the morphine had done plenty for her discomfort. Enough for Natasha to refuse giving her position to a ballerina who couldn’t have put a quarter of sacrifice into earning her role. 

No—anyone else interested would need to pry it out of her cold, dead grip. 

Each day, Natasha’s extensive routine only grew harder to sustain: rehearsing for the company’s future run of Mlada and perfecting any movement she might have mishandled as Aurora from the evening before. She would mix the morphine powder into her tea between rehearsals, between acts, before she met her husband each night.

Stopping now would be a death sentence with early casting for Mlada so close…there was no doubt the director would care to cast Natasha in the lead if she seemed unreliable. 

Anyone who wanted it enough would see themselves through, Natasha reminded herself. In time, my body will learn to keep up. 

Smile through it. Hold back your tears. Smile through it.

Natasha held her life together through the painkiller and sheer force of will, but it was only a matter of time before the injury became unbearable. Overly stiff, Natasha’s hips began to lock, ruining her range of motion. She could no longer hold her arabesques. 

The pain had spread down to her groin and her backside, those joints as good as rusting door hinges, stiffening with each movement.

Weeks after her initial fall, Natasha collapsed on the rehearsal floor. Again. Only this time, she couldn’t hold her tears at bay, an incredibly dark (and realistic) part of the young woman knowing fully well that it had been her last day in pointe shoes. 

“You need a break. Be reasonable, Nat.” William ordered bluntly, shoving the cane in her hands days after. Weary of her and the same tedious argument. “Would you prefer to need a full-time wheelchair before 25?”

Natasha held the ivory cane in her hands, testing its weight. She frowned at the medical accessory, feeling her life slip away each second she held the cursed thing. Her husband, as typical of him, didn’t understand. Ballet had been her purpose—she’d been put on the Earth to capture the breath of an audience. And now?

She was a disturbing failure. How could she look at herself in the mirror?

“Will…” Natasha fixed her hard gaze on her husband, reading his mounting frustration with her like a book. 

“Shut. Up.” She all but threw the cane back at her husband and the offending doctor who brought it into their home. She slammed the door behind her in an attempt to charge back to their shared bedroom. Though unsurprisingly, she only accomplished a few short paces before her hip locked, failing Natasha’s next step and sending her to the ground again.  

The former ballerina couldn’t hold back her tears, this time. They fell in droves, in pained sobs. The grievous sound of an ingénue knowing her life was over.

“Come on, Nat,” William said in the same tired voice, attempting to help lift her off the floor. 

“Leave. Me. Alone.” Natasha waved him off haphazardly, hiding her face. She heard William's heavy, retreating steps.  

Nearly a year into Natasha’s injury, she’d become proficient with her walking cane. Technically, she could hobble clumsily without the assistance, but watching the rest of the company’s pitying gaze at the sight of her ungainliness became overwhelming. If she was to be the Opera House’s new ballet master and director, no one could pity her.

There was no room in ballet for pity. Only perfection.

So, she preferred to test the dancers around her. Break the weak ones—the ones who turned to dancing out of desperation, failing to understand that it was an elusive skill that required years of nurturing. She liked to push them until they fractured like a mirror, leaving the company on their own accord or giving Natasha a valid reason to excuse them. Particularly the ones her husband was bedding behind her back and mortifying her with. 

“I’m so sorry, Natasha, I didn’t even– I don’t even want him!” Norah Vincent cried out, “please just listen to me, please!” 

The young ballerina chased her director up the cement stairs leading from the Opera House’s lowest floor—where the largest rehearsal room was located—to the first floor. It was late at night, and there wasn’t a soul on the property, save for them. Natasha had reserved the pleasure of informing Norah that she knew fully well of the liberties she’d taken with William until they were alone, more interested in watching the young woman’s composure implode as a private show. To ensure such an outcome, Natasha waited until the end of their private rehearsal to inform Norah of her termination. The ballerina didn’t even have the chance to unlace her pointe shoes. 

“No. You will make yourself scarce from my company. I like Analisse better for Mlada, so you were bound to be let go soon, anyhow,” Natasha answered indifferently, keeping her face impassive. She knew that the aloofness in her statement would make Norah feel just as worthless as she was as a dancer.

“I don’t understand, please. I need this work. Please. Just allow me one more chance,” Norah continued, struggling to keep pace with Natasha. 

“You sleep with my husband, and even worse, you continue to curse my stage with your mediocrity, and you have the audacity to ask me for another chance? After all of the chances I’ve already given you?” The ballet master plunged her cane against the top of the final stair for leverage to reach the top. “I told you that if I gave you Mlada, you would need to work on your stamina and flexibility night and day. I see no change.” 

Natasha finally turned around to face the weeping ballerina, watching her trudge up the remaining stairs. Crying was so ugly.

“I swear I practice every day, I-I-I…” Norah couldn’t even decide which claim to refute first. “I only…I just,” she wiped her face. “I love this company, and dancing, and…” she begged. “I do my very best each and every day, I practice, I stretch, I observe, I listen. Don’t you see?”

Norah still had a functioning body. Her health and mobility. All the time in the world. There was no excuse. Natasha practically gift wrapped and handed Norah her career.

The director’s head pounded, frustrated tears begging to fall from her eyes. What was there to not understand? Norah simply didn’t want the success enough or she would give every spare moment to cultivating her skills.

“Stop. Blubbering.” Natasha ordered sharply, turning on her heel to continue to her office. Norah had just stepped up to the level floor, the expansive staircase behind her. 

“N-No! I need you to hear me! Haven’t you ever made a mistake? You know, I don’t understand why you always have to demand perfection! From everyone! No matter how hard we try or how hard we–” 

“That’s enough!”

Without another thought, Natasha found herself turning around. Her cane fell to the floor as she put all of her strength into shoving Norah down the stairwell. Of course, it hadn’t been her plan to dispose of the ballerina in such a way. Really, it should have been horrifying, but Natasha couldn’t force herself to feel any bit of remorse. Her squealing had given her quite a headache.

In fact, when Natasha failed to find a pulse from the young woman’s lifeless body, she felt the first sense of true gratification she’d felt in months. As her shoulders had been relieved of a burden as heavy as the world.

And each time afterwards, it only grew easier. Each time, Natasha planned a bit more intricately. She could only win: if the Yard took notice, all signs would point to her power-drunk husband, leaving Natasha to his assets. Revenge.

It became a game of strategy: who, when, where, how. 

Louise, Georgina, and Mabel were a blur over the course of the next few weeks. They disappeared, Natasha explained they couldn’t handle the burdens from the company and resigned, no one questioned her. Most ballerinas didn’t have family, the profession often a last resort for income. The public deemed them prostitutes: unworthy of care.

Sophia, Harriet, and Analisse had moved to new companies, but that didn’t stop her. Natasha knew who her husband had seen. Who betrayed her. They wore their guilt on their sleeves. It didn’t matter if they transferred to new companies—how could they be allowed to live after betraying their mentor? They were mediocre ballerinas, anyhow, merely ensemble members that Natasha stuck in the back of formation. 

The Yard was never finding them.

Eliza had a host of lethal allergies. All it took was a well-timed cross-contamination—it was only a matter of time. 

Janet was weak. Natasha probably could have asked the girl to jump off of the Tower Bridge and she would have done it, surely. 

Amelié never noticed that her perfume bottle was tampered with. Dimethylmercury was a life-changing discovery on Natasha’s part. Honestly, Natasha wished she’d used it with all of the nuisances that came before her… and after. 

The new success should have satisfied Natasha. Until Maisie—her first mistake. As if marrying some fraud was a feat to be proud of. Maisie thought it appropriate to inform Natasha that she was leaving the Opera House company for a new opportunity, an unseemly topic at her husband’s gallery reveal. Somehow, Terrance had offered to co-found his ballet company with Maisie as the star. And this came a week after the Yard fell for the trap Natasha had set, having followed her carefully planned trail of breadcrumbs that implicated her dear, cheating husband for murdering his company members. She simply had to make an appearance at the event to save face for the Wood family—setting the narrative straight before the press could.

Natasha would have been able to successfully send William to prison in her stead, had she not lost her temper the night of that bloody gala. She;d only gone to safe face after William’s arrest, after all. To manage the poor publicity his infidelity would poison Natasha’s hard work with.

“My husband is renovating the Pavillion Theatre. You know what that means? It means that I don’t need you pestering me anymore! You’re practically an old maid, a bloody relic now, you know that?” Maisie grinned, euphoric with the ability to finally speak freely. She’d asked Natasha to step out from the museum with her, and the ballet master had suspected it was to discuss something unseemly when there was a lack of witnesses around. 

“You have no idea how much we all hate you, Natasha.”

Those were Maisie’s last words. Because Natasha had pulled out William’s Flintlock Pocket Pistol and shot her. She hardly had any time to ensure Maisie was dead before fleeing the scene, tucking her walking cane under her arm. Best of luck with your new company, Blondie. 

After that blunder, Natasha had a choice. Herself, or Y/n Y/l/n, a French girl who happened upon the wrong man and his misguided investigation at the wrong time. In Natasha’s haste, she’d also lost control again, landing her at a criminal sentencing at London’s City Hall. 

Y/n was willing to destroy her opponents to succeed. Y/n had been the first ballerina Natasha had finally considered to be somewhere near the eminence of her own former glory, and had ended her, handing her a crushing defeat. 

Natasha should have put the dimethylmercury in Y/n’s make-up much sooner, arsenic in that wine she self-soothed with. By the time Natasha had offered Y/n that toast, there was no chance that she would have accepted a drink from her. Waiting had sealed Natasha’s fate to this wretched courtroom. 

Thundering applause and scarce cheering pulled Natasha from her thoughts. She must have missed her sentencing, lost in her ruminating, judging by the immediate lift in the courtroom’s somber atmosphere. 

This entire audience wanted her punished for her choices. Why? She felt the magnitude of her decisions spoke for themselves.

The former prima ballerina stared back into the prima ballerina’s vacant gaze from the defendant’s table, attempting to dissect the poison Y/n regarded her with. 

For the first time since St. Petersburg, Natasha could confidently say what Giselle was supposed to look like.

November 25, 1895

London City Hall

“Anastasia Natalia Gusev-Wood, this court sentences you to lifelong service in the Reading Gaol Correctional Facility with no chance of appeal,” the judge announced. 

The room— the press, sparse onlookers including the few bereaved family members of victims, cheered, but the woman only stared at you. She didn’t react to her sentencing or the relief that erupted from the room. All she fixated on was you, her face illegible. 

You refused to give the killer the satisfaction of analyzing your mood, the opportunity to insert herself in your head. Violent narcissists like her craved attention like flies to fruit. Instead, you released your captive breath and sent a tired look to Ciel to signal your readiness to leave. This woman was nobody to you: the result of a vain monster picking and choosing which lessons to take from ballet.

It was an art form before it was a competition. And certainly, no competition should ever lead to bloodshed. 

That was why you failed to feel any semblance of relief, even as you watched the officers escort Natasha away in handcuffs. You had still failed so many of your kin: eleven dead, their stories stolen and suppressed. The killer had painted them as weak after their deaths, dishonoring them, but she couldn’t have been more wrong. You couldn’t have been more wrong to ignore each and every one. 

You hardly remembered the sound of Norah Vincent’s voice. The color of her hair. In fact, save for Amelié, you didn’t know any of these victims on a personal level—you remembered how tall Mabel was because you were envious; Louise had trouble with her stamina because she was newer to the company; Georgina always had a smile on her face, she let you borrow her scissors to break in a new pair of shoes. That was all you could recall. Other than these minute instances, you hadn’t bothered to concern yourself with anyone besides yourself, and failed to notice these disappearances happening right under your nose. The Yard couldn’t even find the bodies of Norah, Mabel, Louise, Georgina, Sophia, Harriet, and Analisse, severely limiting the investigation you and Ciel could accomplish for them.

Even worse, you failed to piece together the evidence pointing to Natasha and refused to listen to Ciel’s concerns. You had allowed your personal feelings to erode your judgment, delaying the investigation. 

How could you feel a sense of victory, when so much had been lost? 

The only way you could proceed was honoring them in death, especially now that their true killer was brought to justice.

“Ciel, I want to bring the flowers over before it becomes too dark” You requested, referring to the bouquets you asked Sebastian to arrange. Given that most of the victims did not have any next of kin— or were the sole earners for their destitute relatives— Ciel personally took on their burial expenses. Apparently, he had a personal contact working in the burial industry. An Undertaker. 

Additionally, you wished to always honor their memorials with fresh florals. 

“Certainly. Our work is complete here, for now,” Ciel answered, ending the officer he’d been talking to away with a nod. 

Later 

The Tower Hamlets Cemetery Park

The sun started to descend below the treeline, casting a shadow over the graves lined in front of you and Ciel. Norah Vincent, Louise Crowley, Georgina Dawson, Mabel Hughes, Sophia Ludwig, Harriet White, Analisse Sterling, Eliza O’Malley, Janet Fischer, and Amelié Langston. All of the victims, save for Maisie Stannard. Distraught, her husband opted to bury her with his family.

“Do you think this really makes a difference?” You asked Ciel, standing from your kneeling position. You dirtied the front of your plain dress from kneeling in the dirt to arrange the flowers around the headstones. It was too cold to plant them, but they did make a lovely display of white and baby blue among the warm autumnal foliage.

The wind made the bare tree branches rustle and their fallen leaves dance, but thankfully, it left the white flowers you placed unmussed. You placed a combination of daisies, blue irises, and calla lilies around them, hoping their serene beauty might bring some peace to the souls around. Though most of these graves were missing bodies, you still hoped their spirits would resonate with the resting place. Body and mind were separate entities, no?

“I believe it does.” Ciel answered, dusting off his knees. He righted himself after you, having helped you arrange the flowers. You were clear that the flowers were a project you were set on seeing through with your own two hands, and apparently, that resonated with the Earl. Enough for him to accompany you and even help. You vowed that you would visit these graves as often as you needed to keep the flowers fresh. 

Remembrance was the least you could do, given that you hardly remembered most of the ballerinas in life.

Stepping back to admire the full picture of your work, you lit a cigar. You always kept a small humidor box in your deep coat pocket, along with a small knife to cut the cap and cedar spills to light it.

“My aunt adored the color red,” Ciel recalled, nostalgia softening his stoic face. “Sebastian and I filled the church with red rose petals, and I brought her favorite scarlet gown—she would have thought that white gown they had her in the most plain thing she’d ever seen. I believe she rested easier, knowing that she was being honored.”

“That sounds lovely,” you said, looking up from your igniting cigar to properly look at Ciel. He’d gone through those extra lengths just to make his aunt’s soul feel better at rest, despite never being able to know if the efforts made a difference. And yet, he liked to act like the most selfish man to walk the Earth. But he wasn’t. Far from it. Instead, he pulled at your heart and tugged at your stomach. “She must have enjoyed that. I’m sorry to hear you lost her.”

“I believe she did,” Ciel said, addressing your apology with a miniscule smile. It was barely there, no more evident than the corners of his lips pulling upward. He watched you take a long drag of your cigar in slow, deliberate puffs, as always. “And I think these women know that you brought their killer to justice, above all. Surely that matters a great deal to them.”

Watching smoke from your lips dissipate into the atmosphere, you chuckled sadly. You shook your head, rejecting the notion that you brought Natasha to justice. “You would have caught onto her sooner without me—you mistrusted Natasha from the start. You warned me last week, and I’m confident she tried to poison me that night.”

“She did a masterful job of framing her husband. I would have arrested him regardless, and I wouldn’t have access to investigating either of them without you. I’ve told you once, I shall repeat it a thousand times, if I have to: you were instrumental to our investigation,” Ciel took a short pull from your cigar. The days where he would admonish you for the habit felt like decades past.

Our investigation. You could have sworn your traitorous heart skipped a beat. Your palms felt clammy. After you confronted Natasha and her subsequent arrest last week, you and Ciel had been, for the most part, cautious around one another. The two of you were unsure of the boundaries that mutual forgiveness meant without a proper conversation. There simply hadn’t been any time, given the legal chaos that erupted between convicting a wife and husband for separate, yet related, crimes.

“A thousand times, you say? I may have to consider that request,” you said, smiling to denote your joke. Your cheeks felt traitorously warm, your smile unfortunately bashful. The Earl did this to you without trying.

Because you still loved him. The first man to notice anything about you beyond your looks and your dancing. The first man to care for your wellbeing, and take the time to unlearn the bitter beliefs that his class instilled into him. He fought for you, even when you had demanded he didn’t. But that didn’t mean he didn’t reject you the morning after you gave yourself to him. It certainly didn’t erase the fact that he’d danced with another woman in front of you. 

The misunderstanding between you may as well have been a chasm at the time. But now, you were each gradually bridging that gap in equal strides. 

Was that fair? You supposed not— Ciel was made to dance with another woman, just as fiercely as her duchess bullied her way into afternoon tea with him. And she had lied to you. Ironically, given the way she’d considered you vulgar. Was it not vulgar to lie in British polite society? Or was it only acceptable because she was lying to a commoner? 

“So long as you don’t overdo it, I shall oblige,” the Earl relented, meeting your eyes in the longest bout of eye contact you shared in two weeks. You almost forgot the sheer depths of sea Ciel’s eye held, and the intelligence those sapphire leagues captured. Mesmerizing—it was a shame that the fire damaged his other eye so severely. He, like you, was alone. Save for his staff. 

You accepted your cigar back, enjoying the taste of it on your tongue, the heat in your lungs a burning constant. You closed your eyes for a moment, appreciating the crisp air. Less than a month away from winter, you relished in this weather. Chilly, but not freezing. The best weather for a cigar. 

“I…” you started, your face red. “Thank you, Ciel,” you said, a touch more earnestly than you had meant to. But honesty was the only way to move forward, you felt. 

“Ballet…the aesthetic differs from all other professions. We have to hide all of our pain and discomfort behind a smile— make an illusion for our audiences.” There was no retreating, now that you’ve started. Ciel had already seen behind your facade—there was no meaning in reinforcing capitulated defenses. “Growing up in it from a young age, I suppose… I started to hide too much. I stopped trying to be close with others, and I-I thought you didn’t care for me anymore…” you admitted. 

You thought about the way all of your ballet instructors reminded you to maintain a pleasant face during rehearsals and performances, even though all of the contortions were unnatural to the human body. The best ballerina in the world was worthless if she couldn’t shroud her pain behind her character.

No matter how you felt, you had to maintain a pleasant face for the audience, the ballet patrons that paid your school (and later, the Opera House) for the right to your body. All to allow you to make a salary that kept you just above the poverty line. You had never dropped your pleasant face until you realized how false it was, the product of habit and sheer necessity. Everything had to appear effortless, even when it was excruciating. That was the industry.

You couldn’t help but chuckle; not even two weeks ago, you would’ve defended these sacrifices.

“I can see that now,” Ciel admitted, taking a guilty pull from your cigar. You both watched the smoke escape into the atmosphere. The light of dusk made the sky look pink. “I must have been a classist fool to assume that all aspects of this profession happened at dancer’s volition.” 

“You were certainly a classist fool,” you affirmed with a playful smile. After taking a final hit from the cigar, you extinguished it beneath your boot heel. 

“I am aware, thank you,” Ciel answered pointedly, making the corners of your lips form a smile. 

“Though unfortunately, most everyone still thinks that way,” he took your hand in his. The Earl ran his thumb over the top of your hand. You both wore gloves now, a measure against the cold especially now that autumn was in full swing with winter just on the horizon. 

You hummed in response, knowing fully well the social abuse you’d take for having Ciel at your side. For daring to love a man this privileged society deemed above your stature. Gwen, that miserable woman, was only the beginning. But you were no stranger to critique—nothing could possibly sting as much as some of the commentary you’ve suffered in ballet school and in your professional career. You were strong.

“But it is not a tradition I will allow to continue,” Ciel said resolutely, meeting your eyes again. “I brought accounts of the prostitution and power imbalances to Her Majesty, and she has decided to purchase the Opera House. She will also be instituting a series of Theatre Company Reform Acts to ensure it ends here—Swan Laws, they want to refer to them.”

The meaning wasn’t lost on you. 

You didn’t know how to start thanking him. Instead, you threw your arms around him, your gloves curling into his thick coat. Hot tears slid down your cheeks, they had been slightly chilled from the soft wind, the cold chapping your lips somewhat as well. 

“I do not know where to begin,” you mumbled, settling into the way the Earl’s stiff posture relaxed to accommodate you. His coat was soft against your cheek, his arms came around your back to embrace you. You let your eyes flutter closed for a moment, appreciating the safety and strength he offered you. 

Ciel held you close, his hand rubbing your back languidly as you sniffled, your appreciative tears  rolled down your cheeks. “I will always be endlessly fascinated and enamored by you. It would be a privilege if you could reconsider being with me, after the confusion I caused you. I… tend to push the wrong people away. But you? I never could have asked for a better partner for this investigation, and otherwise.”

A new warmth spread in your cheeks. Your heartbeat thumped with hope, light from Ciel’s confession. How could you reject that? He saved you. He listened to you. He seemed sure.

You wiped away any tears left on your face. Words were never a strength of yours, you had always thought. 

“Ciel, I want to be with you,” you declared confidently, your smile glowing as you looked up at the Earl’s thoughtful expression. The worry he tried to hide from you. Your eyes fluttered closed again as you kissed him, his familiar lips immediately responding to yours. A gentle hand held the left side of your jaw, lightly brushing strands of your hair out of your face.  

“That is an honor I do not and will never take lightly again,” Ciel promised, his pensive gaze inspecting your face. He was the most exacting perfectionist you’d ever met; you could never decide what he was thinking when he regarded you so closely. 

“I’m not sure you could if you tried,” you affirmed, a shiver running down your back. The wind picked up, causing the trees around you to rustle and whisper. 

“I’ll have Sebastian bring the carriage around. It’s getting rather dark out here, now,” Ciel mumbled against your lips, pressing on one more innocent kiss before he retreated, keeping your hand in his as he guided you out of the cemetery. 

December 13, 1895

The Royal Opera House 

From your dressing room, you could hear the orchestra begin to play The Nutcracker’s overture, a jovial melody on strings. The chatter of the live audience was palpable through the thin walls, you could hear the theatre fill with attendees. The run of this show was delayed an extra two weeks as your company appointed new interim leadership to run the performances—- she was one of the ballet teachers who worked under the Woods. She used to teach the classes for the newest ballerinas, the most patient of the staff.

Without the previous director and the short hiatus between the end of Swan Lake and this premiere, the entire company was revitalized. You could hear it in the music. You could see it in everyone’s faces. Rehearsal the past week was magnetic: you were all ready for this evening. 

You beamed at yourself in your vanity mirror, enamored with your matching pink corset and tutu combination. Humming the intense melody of the Act II pas de deux with the Sugar Plum Fairy and her Cavalier, you started to pin your tiara to the top of your head, careful not to ruin your sleek bun. You were made of pure anticipation and energy, a sense of certainty that you had never known in your life. Once you secured the accessory, you dabbled extra lip rouge and blush to your face in hope. Stage lights always washed out performers’ complexions. 

“You look brilliant,” Ciel told you, rising from the loveseat to the side of your vanity. He closed his copy of The Nutcracker and the Mouse King and left it on the small table to the side of the chair. The ballet adaptation of the story was fairly recent in comparison, having premiered three years ago in St. Petersburg. Your production was one of the first to happen in England. Despite having significant plotting differences from the novella, the Earl insisted on reading the source material prior to watching your opening performance. 

“How do you feel? Will you be alright if I join the rest?” he asked you, understanding that the overture signaled the audience to find their seats. 

You couldn’t have smiled more, your wide, childish grin was unbreakable. For the first time, it was starting to strain your cheeks. You had everything and more than you could’ve possibly asked for: the greatest love you’d ever felt, your stomach was full, your costume sparkled. All of this on the heels of a short performance hiatus that left you more rested than ever, each day supplemented with dance class and rehearsal to keep your body in shape during the break. You’d never had so much strength going into a performance. Ever. 

“I am indestructible, Ciel,” you answered, rolling onto the platforms of your pointe shoes for added height. Kissing the Earl left his lips a bright shade of pink, but he didn’t seem to mind. 

“I shall take my leave for the time being then, mon trésor,” Ciel said, employing that endearing name you loved so much. His treasure. “If you might need me, you know where to look. And I will meet you back here afterwards.” 

Ciel made a sizable donation to the theater to ensure that the box on to the right of the stage was exclusive to him. Although Her Majesty took ownership of the property, she could not dedicate state funding without the Parliament; the Opera House would have needed to function without two week’s worth of performance revenue, had Ciel not intervened. He’d been watching from the box during your final dress rehearsal yesterday, and watching you rehearse your arrangements hours earlier. When Ciel could steal time away from his executive work for his company, he managed to immerse himself in your career, playing the piano when you rehearsed at home, and now, publicly supporting your debut as The Sugar Plum Fairy. 

“Thank you. Watch closely—I will be dancing for you,” you sent the Earl a playful wink as he left your dressing room. He left a parting kiss on your knuckles so as not to ruin your makeup. 

While you were heavily featured in most of the scenes of Swan Lake, now your appearance as Sugar Plum was concentrated into short, intense scenes back to back in the second act. That made your stamina all the more important as you needed to be regal and in control, detail-oriented with almost no breaks. 

That required every ounce of strength in your lower legs particularly, but you were prepared, when it came time. You were strong and fortified, learning to accept that as your vehicle, your body was beholden to better care. This full grand pas de deux consisted of a duet between you and Antoine, who played the Sugar Plum Fairy’s Cavalier—her romantic interest, followed by the Cavalier’s solo variation, your solo variation after, and finally, you both danced together again in the coda, or the finale. 

You were all but a firecracker. Knowing you had someone in the audience who mattered to you, feeling your body sufficiently rested and fed, were frankly magical sensations. For the past two weeks, Sebastian had you on an incredibly balanced food regiment— he suggested you eliminate the word diet from your vocabulary in a broader effort to reframe your thoughts around food— and you prioritized a full night of rest. The butler even had you dipping your feet in iced water after long rehearsals to reduce swelling and inflammation. You had no idea. 

Hard work was not equivalent to dragging your body through abuse each day and night. Skipping meals and sleep did not make you a better prima ballerina—it only made you vulnerable to injury.

In fact, with all of this care reinforcing your natural talent, you could have fought an army. You had already proven yourself a valiant soldier, maybe even more than you were a perfect heroine. You embodied many roles rather well. 

Now, your characters danced for Clara’s honor in Act II, signifying their gratefulness for her and the Nutcracker’s victory against the Mouse King in Act I’s battle scene. This grand pas came at the end of the celebration after numerous ensemble characters— Arabian princesses, Russian Cossacks, Spanish chocolate, as well as Dewdrop and her Flowers. 

You were serene yet playful, encapsulating the magnanimous fairy. You were one with both your partner and the music, the perfect unit. The Sugar Plum Fairy knew who she was quite well, independent of her Cavalier. Still, they moved together, perfectly in tune as the music built to its climax. You stopped on the exact same stage marks, your arms reached into the same space, even your legs mirrored one another. The Sugar Plum’s Cavalier lifted her confidently—there was no hesitation in the escort’s hold— he never once dropped her.

Even as he lifted his significant other atop his shoulder, Cavalier was unwavering. This strength was the physical manifestation of his love for his dear fairy: supporting her, reliably catching her in one of your favorite moments of the show. Running from stage right, you leapt into Antoine’s grip in the center of the stage. Your fingertips nearly touched above your head in the standard fifth position. 

At your high perch, you could only think to peer at the box where you knew the love of your life was watching you. While you couldn’t see any distinctive faces from the stage, all you cared to know was that Ciel was there. For you. 

You’d never been in such a partnership before, the object of someone’s genuine care and interest. Sure, you’d been a plaything, a temporary trophy to trifle with and discard when your novelty subsided. But no one had ever deemed you a treasure. Someone always worthy of an apology, protection, someone worthy of love—the sacrifice and hard work that came with it. All that value seemed to be hidden away, like precious gems. 

Catching you by the waist, Antoine tilted the upper half of your body towards the floor for a moment. Moving quickly to maintain momentum, he used the leverage to face the audience and place you back steadily on the platforms of your pointe shoes. You danced in tandem with one another, flawlessly showcasing the secure love between your characters: the adoring way the Cavalier cared for the Sugar Plum, and her own adoring trust in him as she jumped into his arms once again. He lifted her high, and she held him close. 

The Earl supported you, and you trusted him implicitly. 

On your pointe shoes, you let yourself tip backwards, knowing Antoine would catch you with the same certainty Ciel would kick down a door. For you. The Cavalier caught Sugar Plum by her waist and her extended leg, lifting slightly only to resettle her at his side. The characters were a couple in love. 

At the end of your second premiere as prima ballerina, you didn’t linger to further absorb the applause in front of you. Instead, you hurried back to your dressing room because you knew the most important person was waiting for you behind the curtains.

Epilogue 

“Ciel!” Your Earl had been awaiting you in the backstage wings, paces away from where you exited the stage. He’d opted to wear a black evening suit for this occasion, the raven suit making his deep hair and ultramarine eye all the more conspicuous. Much like the night you met him, it was a number composed entirely of neutral shades. Apparently, a tailored suit on the man came as natural as leotards and restrictive pointe shoes came to you. 

With the same intensity as the Sugar Plum Fairy had, you bounded towards your lover and held him close to you, in spite of the heat your body carried and the sweat that slicked your skin. You couldn’t help but snap to his side like an opposing magnet, your face burying into the side of his neck when you lifted yourself en pointe. He caught you just as Sugar Plum's Cavalier would have.

“You put on quite a show,” Ciel told you, pride palpable in his warm tone. “That was masterful. You always are.” An arm wrapped around your waist, his other hand flat against your bare back. His leather glove felt cold against your skin, a welcome change from the blazing stage lights. You swore that one day, they would cause you sunburn.

You were exhausted. Your heart pounded, droplets of sweat fell down your neck tracing the side of your spine. Your breaths came in hard bursts, your lungs working to their limit. The muscles in your legs and feet were molton. But you smiled in spite of this pain, and not out of necessity for once. It was because of the sheer love you had for this man.  Your heart beat for him—the slightest quirk of his lips as he watched you, the unsuppressed chuckle in his chest from your question.

“No flowers for me?” You smarted playfully, pulling away before you could damage your costume from the embrace. Not to mention, you weren’t anxious to allow the rest of the company free access to your private relationship with Ciel. You knew that The Queen’s Guard Dog had an infinite supply of enemies and British society had countless newspapers cautiously watching you. They were waiting for you to fail, but you would never give them the satisfaction. 

“I like to think I have something a little better in store for you than flowers,” your Earl’s arm remained around your waist, helping support your worn body between the bustling backstage to your dressing room. The moment the door locked behind the both of you, asked Ciel to unclip your corset, overwhelmed with the need to get out of your suffocating costume. As much as you adored its shining accents and the pink, it grew burdensome after expending every last bit of your energy. 

“What for? I mean, what could be better than flowers?” you quirked an eyebrow, your smile lopsided. Ciel never failed to bring you a bouquet, even when your courtship had been a ruse. You adored them every time, the least materialistic person.

You hurriedly unlaced your pointe shoes, stepped out of your tutu and stockings, and clipped on a simple navy blue gown.

“I suppose, they will just wither and die, eventually. I want to commemorate this night perhaps more…intentionally,” he explained as he hooked your costume onto a hanger. 

This night? More intentionally?

“Of course,” you turned towards your vanity mirror, wiping at your face with cold cream. The next day was December 14, after all. His birthday. Could that be what he was mentioning?  While you knew a share of the trauma he felt from that day—-losing his family in the fire— you also hoped to give Ciel some lingering sense of celebration with a waiting wine bottle you purchased for the makings of a relaxed night in. You’d been rehearsing a short self-choreographed piece for him, knowing his adoration for your dancing, and his lack of interest in making a spectacle out of his day.

There was a short silence that followed as you finished cleaning off your face. You were checking your reflection for any leftover face makeup when Ciel spoke again. You watched him approach you from the mirror, turning to face him properly as he stopped at your side. Still sitting in your vanity chair, you looked up at him, a curious smile on your face as you analyzed his serious expression.

“As you recall, I first met you here,” Ciel started, his hand toying with something square in his jacket pocket. “So, each time I’ve thought about how I wanted to approach this, I couldn’t imagine being somewhere else. This was the only right way.”

You snickered, thinking back to the best aspects of that night—an evening you never thought you’d come to look back at with fond nostalgia. That night, you would have told anyone who asked that you disliked Ciel Phantomhive. You thought he was classist and misogynistic, cold. Condescending. You never would have thought he would come to be the most intelligent, thoughtful, empathetic, and determined person you’d ever get to know. Loving not outright, but in his own way: re-considering his belief system, playing the piano, constructing a dance studio on his estate. For you. 

“You wore some red gown. I thought…you were breathtaking. I had to ask you to put on more clothes in order to let myself focus,” Ciel admitted, his face flushing to the tips of his ears from the admission. 

“To let yourself focus? I thought it was because–” you started to assert that he told you to cover up because he was a noble clinging to traditionalism, but your Earl interrupted you with a lovingly stern expression, fixating his gaze on you. He titled his head to suggest mild exasperation with your never-ending need to chime in.

You obeyed, silencing yourself with another dazzling grin at Ciel. As he…sank down on one knee in front of you and retrieved a small velvet box from his coat pocket, opening it to reveal a ring.

“Veux-tu m'épouser?” Ciel asked. You blinked, swallowing around the sudden lump in your throat. Tears immediately formed in your eyes, causing you to blink rapidly to keep them from blurring your vision. 

Because that meant…

Will you marry me?

You felt as if someone knocked the wind out of you. A scarlet blush spread across your face with the intensity of a wildfire. Goosebumps littered your arms, despite your gown’s sleeves. He wanted to marry you. He truly wanted you as his Countess. He was legitimizing your claim to his heart with this ring. To all.

“I couldn’t imagine my life without you, Y/n. You have broadened my worldview in so many ways. I never dreamed myself capable of accepting love from anyone, much less someone as breathtaking as you. You shine both on a stage and off, challenging me to better myself each day, inspiring me with your passion for ballet and that stunning intellect of yours. I would be incredibly fortunate to be enlightened by you each and every day, for as long as I may live. If you would do me the honor,” Ciel said. He always held such a noticeable degree of reverence for you, regarding you as some precious being.

“Absolutely, I will,” you beamed as Ciel held your hand, gently siding the engagement down your ring finger. The band was gold, its diamond cut into a square. Two smaller diamonds sat on either side of the largest diamond. Still on his knees, Ciel was still tall enough for you to kiss by leaning down to meet his face. 

Lingering close to your Earl’s face, your smile grew sly. You blinked guilelessly. “Though are you certain you do not wish to discuss how we will allow our courtship to slowly burn out over the next month to avoid public suspicion? Would that suffice? That would allow you to resume your real search for a—”

He didn’t even let you finish your sentence, pulling you back in for another intense kiss. 

“There will never be a need for that. I put an end to that search ages ago, for all intents and purposes,” he admonished you with no real weight to his words. 

Before you could verbalize your next quip, your new fiancé interrupted you once more. “Yes, I am certain. Y/n… you are all I could possibly want,” his hand was gentle as it cupped the side of your face. His thumb caressed your jawline, a touch that was barely there against your electrified skin. 

“I cannot wait to see what our life looks like, together, my Lord,” you kissed Ciel, taking his hands in yours. As you rose from your seat, you guided Ciel to stand properly on his feet, clinging to him the moment he righted himself.

“That’s Ciel, to you, mon trésor.”

You welcomed your incoming new role, the future Countess of Phantomhive, with your widest possible port de bras.

Acknowledgements: 

First thing’s first, I want to thank you. Thank you so much for reading and interacting in any capacity with me!! I appreciate every second you put into checking out my writing, and I hope it really touched you! This story is meant to show copious amounts of growth in a person and the importance of empathy and compassion. I’ve loved Ciel since middle school and I like to think this love has matured with me, lol! 

This is also my first mystery storyline!! I put so much thought into every detail, and I don’t think I could have gotten to this point without you all being here and so so so supportive and patient at every turn. 

Thank you especially to my amazing friends here on Tumblr, @mylostleftfootsock and @earls-wife, and my amazing best friend IRL @readfreak03. (She literally made a Tumblr account to read my updates, I'm crying). Thank you all so much for being so inspiring and supportive of me—especially for hearing me and my chaotic ideas out. Without your endless support for both my writing (and my personal life endeavors) and your detailed feedback and ideas, there wouldn’t have been this. 

I want to thank everyone who reaches out to me in comments, asks, dms, mentions, and reblogs, everyone on my tag list, and all of my amazing anons. 

I want to shout out @katherine101, @endlesslovesick, @suniika, @goby10, @lavendervogh, @eunisyia, @luckyladylottie, @soleil-lei, @lottiehasadvice, and my lovely Random & Sweet anons: I always, always look forward to reading what you have to say!! It’s so much fun to chat, and your feedback is so amazing. I really do appreciate each comment you leave for me! You’re all so kind, it’s endlessly motivating for me. I read every single comment, ask, and reblog multiple times. 

I genuinely had so much fun writing this fic. I’ve wanted to write a ballerina!reader x Ciel for so long—probably since I was in the middle of writing The Indignant Pawn. I was developing this story as I was writing! Ever since I stumbled on a History.com article about prostitution in vintage ballet, I was hooked. I knew I needed a fire-brand reader experiencing this in real time, and a Black Butler-level scandal to draw Ciel into the fold. Their polar-opposite personalities essentially wrote themselves. Their natural chemistry, the arguments, the sweeter moments just flowed. 

To make this story as accurate as I could, I read countless interviews with real prima ballerinas regarding their interpretations of their characters—their hardships, their advice, their day-to-day lives. I watched so many TikToks (special thanks to @/lifeof.lori!) and tutorial videos, too. I really came into this knowing nothing about ballet besides having an excited curiosity, and now I can confidently say that I understand it a whole lot better and I definitely have a newfound respect for real ballerinas. What they do is incredible. 

Thank you so much for coming on this journey with me. I can’t believe this is my second complete fic ever! I’m so excited to show you what I have in the works. When I finished The Indignant Pawn, I gave you a hint about this story, my next full body of work, because I was a little mean with the way I ended my first story. Literally it was the tallest of cliffs I could leave you hanging from. This time, I was nice, so I think I’ll leave you guessing :)

Stay Tuned,

Dannnn

[mydaddywiki]

Tom Corbett

Physique: Average Build Height: 5′ 9″

Thomas Wingett Corbett Jr. (born June 17, 1949) is an American politician, lobbyist, and former prosecutor who served as the 46th governor of Pennsylvania from 2011 to 2015. A member of the Republican Party, he was also attorney general of Pennsylvania.

Handsome, nice build and a perfect crown of white hair. Hell… if I was casting a movie, he'd be my ideal governor. Or pornstar. Plus, from what I can tell. Corbett has a nice thick ass on him.

Born in Philadelphia, Corbett graduated from Lebanon Valley College and St. Mary's University School of Law and served as a captain in the Pennsylvania Army National Guard. He began his career as an assistant district attorney in Allegheny County, PA, in 1976. Corbett then joined the U.S. Department of Justice as an assistant U.S. Attorney for the Western District of Pennsylvania, serving from 1980 to 1983, upon entering private practice.

As usual, he's straight with a wife, grown kids and grandkids. After a legal career that included stints as an assistant district attorney, U.S. attorney and Pennsylvania attorney general, Corbett now days, is back in the classroom teaching law and is also registered lobbyist. I wonder if I should go to Pennsylvania and study law. For now, I'll just fantasize about Corbett and how good his ass would feel like.

[fastlikealambo]

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.

[alyygx]

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)

[randomlifeofmine]

National Museum of Natural History

Dito 1st time ko talaga makapunta and solo rin ako. Ang ganda sa labas at loob.

1 thing a memorable sakin eh nung nagtanong ako sa guard. Pabirit na sana si ate guard sa kanta niya bigla ako nagtanong. 😂 sabi niya bibirit na natigil pa. Natawa na lang kami pareho 😂

[locke-esque-monster]

I came into TOWL fully like, "I'm mildly curious.". I left with a sticky note of excited thoughts I couldn't contain during the episode.

First - general thoughts:

I don't know how to describe to you how much joy it brings my PA-loving heart to find out the secret city where this plot has been set is Philly. (I can't read maps or recognize skylines for shit - but words like "PA National Guard" and "Lincoln Financial Field" had me perking up in my seat with interest until they confirmed it.)

Oh Rick Grimes - being covered in blood in multiple separate scenes during the intervening years like you're making up for lost time. Good to know you haven't changed. (It's your MO - like Jon Bernthal in every role ever.)

I'm both a Lost and Lucifer watcher and I'm excited to see both John Locke and Maze in a new role. It's too early to tell, but they both seem to fit the given roles.

But if you think for one second when Terry O'Quinn opened his mouth and said the word "sacrifice" I didn't immediately think the phrase "that the island demanded", you'd be mistaken.

As I posted earlier - It's been awhile since I've spend time in the universe. I can admit I was rusty when it came to having any clue of Okafor's death after what in retrospect was a very "pre-death" TWD speech. Rick's arm I figured out about when I should of as the viewer. I figured out about Okafor's wife shortly before he said it. But as soon as Rick went down, I was really thinking Michonne would be part of whatever group struck him down. I was even more sure when I saw someone checking bodies, and positive when I saw they had a sword.

Second - the call backs:

The episode 2x8 - Nebraska - where 2 guys from the Philly area hear there's something in Nebraska area. The context that they seem wrong at the time, it's a pipe dream. But really, Omaha did survive, and they were close enough to Philly to hear that, but not close enough or Philly was struggling enough (at least compared to pre-walkers) they came looking for Nebraska anyway. But by the end of TOWL 1x1, Omaha is the pipe dream it seemed in 2x8, because it's destroyed now. (Who thinks Omaha being destroyed is 1000% suspicious with all the power issues? I sure do.)

Rick starting off the show having to cut off his own hand, ala Merle season 1.

Rick working himself up to cut off his own hand like he almost did to Carl per Negan's orders. Except instead of keeping his family alive, it's to get back to them.

The grenade used to escape ala season 1.

Meeting one of the guys who actually bombed Atlanta shown in season 1

The shot of Rick sitting one hand over his leg, dead look in his eyes, covered in blood, is giving me serious 4x16 vibes (leaning on the car, chatting with Daryl after ripping out a man's throat with his teeth).

Reintroducing Michonne at the end of the episode as a disguised and dangerous figure in the woods much like her season 2 finale introduction.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Dave Whammond

* * * *

Don’t be Glenn Youngkin. History will remember.

October 15, 2024

Robert B. Hubbell

In a speech on Monday, Kamala Harris significantly ratcheted up her attacks on Donald Trump's ugly threats to persecute his political enemies. She described Trump as increasingly “unstable and unhinged.” Harris’s comments came four days after Trump called for the military to be deployed against the “enemy within”—enemies identified by Trump as the “radical left.” See MSNBC, Trump suggests using the military to address ‘the enemy from within’. Trump later identified Rep. Adam Schiff as one of the “enemy within.”

Trump made the following statements to Fox personality Maria Bartiromo in an interview last Friday:

I think the bigger problem is the enemy from within. We have some very bad people. We have some sick people, radical left lunatics. . . . It should be very easily handled by, if necessary, by National Guard — or if really necessary, by the military, because they can’t let that happen.

Trump's threats of using the military are not idle. During his term, he repeatedly ordered his subordinates to use the US military against civilians—including “just shoot[ing] protesters in the legs”—but those subordinates refused or ignored his orders. See, e.g., Council on Foreign Relations (6/5/2020), Trump’s Threat to Use the Military Against Protesters: What to Know.

In her speech in Eerie, Pennsylvania, Kamala Harris strongly condemned Trump's threats to use the military against political opponents. See CNN, Harris uses Trump’s ‘enemy from within’ comment to portray GOP rival as dangerous and unstable.

Kamala Harris’s new aggressiveness against Trump's promised despotism is something that many (frustrated) Democratic faithful have been hoping for. Harris’s full speech in Eerie is here: YouTube | Kamala Harris in Eerie, PA. It is worth watching the entire thirty-minute speech.

If you don’t have time to watch the entire speech, I urge you to watch the final ten minutes. Kamala Harris is on fire as she describes Trump as the threat to democracy he is. And she uses a video montage of Trump's repeated threats to persecute his political enemies. It is a “must-watch” moment of history. See YouTube | Kamala Harris addresses Trump's comments re "the enemy within".

Go ahead and watch the final ten minutes of Kamala’s speech, here. I’ll wait!

Using the military against civilians is the common tactic of fascist governments everywhere. It is a singular moment in American history when a major party candidate is using threats of military force against US citizens as a campaign promise.

How did we get here? Answer: Glenn Youngkin.

Why Glenn Youngkin? Because Youngkin spent Sunday excusing and defending Trump's threat to use the military against Americans. Trump makes such threats because spineless cowards like Glenn Youngkin not only refuse to condemn him but rise to defend him. In the absence of the Glenn Youngkins of the world (and his ilk), there would be no cover for Trump's obscene threats against Americans and the rule of law.

On Sunday, Jake Tapper read Trump's comments to Glenn Youngkin and asked the governor of Virginia to condemn Trump's remarks. In a tortured five minutes, Youngkin refused, repeatedly claiming that Tapper was “misinterpreting” Trump's remarks. When Tapper repeatedly said, “I am reading his comments verbatim, let me show you the video,” Youngkin refused to condemn the comments and suggested that Trump didn’t mean what he said.

See CNN, Tapper presses Youngkin on Trump’s authoritarian rhetoric. If you can, watch five minutes of this interview. Warning: You may nauseous.

Youngkin clearly (and wrongly) believes he has a political future that is dependent on not angering Trump's cultish base. Youngkin has made the political calculation that advancing his future political prospects is more important than protecting Americans against a threat of military force to achieve the partisan pollical goals of the president.

Can you imagine what the Framers would say about such a proposition?

Glenn Youngkin is, of course, a surrogate for every Republican politician who pretends to be a reasonable and moral leader with the nation's best interests at heart. In reality, they are faithless cowards whose only loyalty is to themselves. They represent the worst of America. They are depraved, soulless, and spineless. The are cloyingly self-righteous as they look straight at the camera and lie for someone JD Vance called “America’s Hitler.”

There will be a time (soon) when Americans will face a moral and political reckoning for the depravity of the Trump presidency and MAGA movement. There is no ambiguity in where the moral and political judgments will fall or how future historians will view Trump's supporters, enablers, and co-conspirators.

They are hoping only that they can delay that day of reckoning on which their white nationalism, racism, misogyny, xenophobia, and depravity will be universally condemned. The historical precedents for such a reckoning abound.

On Monday, Kamala Harris began the process of moral and political reckoning. Good. She should keep it up until the major media begins every news cycle with this headline, “Candidate for US presidency threatens to use US military against Americans.” There is no story bigger than that��and it deserves to be at the top of the news 24/7 until Election Day.

Trump holds bizarre campaign rally that turns into a 39-minute Trump dance party

As Kamala Harris was calling Trump “unstable and unhinged” during her campaign rally in Eerie, PA, Trump was proving Harris’s point at his rally in Oaks, PA. Trump was supposed to host a townhall, but answered only two questions in his incoherent, non-linear, incomprehensible fashion. After two people in the crowd fainted, Trump said,

Let’s not do any more questions. Let’s just listen to music. Let’s make it into a music. Who the hell wants to hear questions, right?

 See WaPo, Trump sways and bops to music for 39 minutes in bizarre town-hall episode. (Accessible to all.)

The bizarre scene is described by WaPo as follows:

For 39 minutes, Trump swayed, bopped — sometimes stopping to speak — as he turned the event into almost a living-room listening session of his favorite songs from his self-curated rally playlist. He played nine tracks. He danced. He shook hands with people onstage. He pointed to the crowd. Noem stood beside him, nodding with her hands clasped. Trump stayed in place onstage, slowly moving back and forth. He was done answering questions for the night. [¶] . . . . Trump’s decision to cut the question-and-answer portion of the town hall short and instead have the crowd stay to listen to his favorite songs was a somewhat bizarre move, given that the election was only 22 days away. It also comes as Vice President Kamala Harris has called Trump, 78, unstable and called into question his mental acuity.

Trump is descending into madness. The major media should lead every news cycle with scorching questions about Trump's mental fitness—right after stories about his promise to use the military against the American people. Trump is unraveling in front of our eyes. Make sure everyone knows about this story. It is important—especially given that Biden was forced out of the race over a single debate performance.

[Robert B. Hubbell Newsletter]

[nullnvoid911]

Members of the US National Guard pass by Pennsylvanian State Police near the Pennsylvania State Capitol in Harrisburg, PA.

Jacqueline Larma, January 17, 2021

[justinspoliticalcorner]

MADINA TOURÉ and IRIE SENTNER at Politico:

NEW YORK — Speaker Mike Johnson said he will call Joe Biden and demand the president send the National Guard to Columbia University — an escalation after protesters constantly shouted him and other Republicans down during a visit to the campus Wednesday.

Johnson, flanked by GOP lawmakers from New York and elsewhere, repeated his calls for the university’s embattled president to step down. But protesters shouted “who are you people?” “Mike, you suck!” and chanted “free Palestine,” making it almost impossible for the gaggle of reporters and others to hear the speaker. “This is dangerous. This is not the First Amendment, this is not free expression,” Johnson said. He later added: “If this is not contained quickly and if these threats and intimidation are not stopped, there is an appropriate time for the National Guard.” Johnson directly faced the Gaza Solidarity Encampment that has thrown the Ivy League campus into turmoil over the past week — demonstrations that have drawn bipartisan anger over incidents of antisemitism. Johnson earlier in the day called Columbia President Minouche Shafik a “weak and inept leader” who can’t guarantee the safety of Jewish students during a radio interview.

While he’s the most senior elected official so far to push for Shafik’s resignation, numerous Republican lawmakers — including New York’s GOP delegation — and at least one Democrat, Sen. John Fetterman (D-Pa.), are also pushing for her ouster. “My message to the students inside the encampment is go back to class and stop the nonsense,” Johnson said. “Stop wasting your parents’ money.” Johnson’s comments Wednesday capped off a week of chaos at the school that started when Shafik and other university leadership testified before House lawmakers, followed by her calling in police to arrest around 100 pro-Palestinian demonstrators who had camped out on campus. The protests and arrests spawned similar demonstrations at NYU, Yale, MIT and beyond and have become the latest domestic flashpoint in the ongoing Israel-Hamas conflict.

“Columbia University is in a free fall,” House Education Committee Chair Virginia Foxx (R-N.C.) said Wednesday, accusing Shafik of presenting false testimony during the hearing. “I have a message for President Shafik and a message for you all too: The inmates are running the asylum,” she added.

[...] Rep. Jamaal Bowman (D-N.Y.) — who has accused Columbia of bowing to “right wing pressure” with its arrests of students — dubbed Johnson’s visit as another tactic in a conservative attack on educational institutions and an effort to silence “anti-war and pro-Palestinian sentiment.”

Yesterday, Speaker Mike Johnson (R-LA) was hellbent on making Kent State look like a picnic by demanding President Biden call in the National Guard to quell pro-Palestinian protests on campuses nationwide. Speaker Johnson got deservedly shut down by protesters.

See Also:

HuffPost: Speaker Johnson To Columbia Protestors: 'Go Back To Class And Stop The Nonsense'

[frevandrest]

Blérancourt drama: Thérèse Gellé's mother attacks National Guard and tells them to fuck off

I was going through Monar and I found about an incident from 1790 Blérancourt, involving SJ's arch-enemy (from the village), Gellé. Or, more precisely, his wife, Thérèse's mother. It's a small thing but it's sending me so much. Background: Gellé doesn't want to serve in the National Guard because he is a royalist. So a delegation is sent (possibly/probably) by Saint-Just himself to check why he is neglecting his duties.

Monar writes (Google translated; emphasis mine):

At nine o'clock, under the command of Captain Clay-Lefebvre, four men of the National Guard, a cook, a carpenter, a white tanner, and a day laborer, presented themselves with the letter before the Gellé's house. If the social status of the delegation, which was unquestionably quite low in the eyes of a wealthy Notabein, was intended as a provocation, it achieved its goal: Mrs. Gellé stepped out and immediately indulged in such indelicate words against the guardsmen that the expressions in question were only indicated by the first letter in each case in the protocol that was later drawn up. She [...] continued to shout at the National Guardsmen: que son mari la [la garde] monterait pas, n'étant pas fait pour se trouver avec des bandes de canailles, de coquins et de geux comme eux et ceux qui composaient leur f... milice. [her husband won't stand guard, as he was not the kind to find himself among groups of scoundrels, rascals and bandits like them and those who make up their f...(probably "foutu" so "fucking") militia] - translation by @robespapier Having already thrown ashes at the speechless, she finally picked up a stick to strike a blow at the captain, who flinched and drew his rapier.

It ended up with Gellé and his brother appearing and the delegation went back. But! A detailed report was made about the incident by SJ's best friend Victor Thuiller. Which was later used as a proof of Gellé's anti-revolutionary behaviour.

This hilarious (?) anecdote is just one of the many (many many) instances of Blérancourt bickering and drama early in the Revolution. There were a lot of tensions, often at the Gellé vs SJ front (well, royalist vs revolutionary front), and it's so, so interesting to me. I need to make a list of all the incidents and research them in more depth.

But seriously? SJ had a LOT of practice with political bickering before he got to the Convention. But also, since this is a village of 2.5 600 people, it also reads like a total soap opera.

[scribbleseas]

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.