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In My Blood | Part Two

In My Blood Masterlist

Curtis "Curt" Biddick x SOE!Female Reader

It is no longer safe for you to remain in Belgium. With the Gestapo closing in, Curt is finally ready to make his escape with you. But is it too late?

Warnings: MAJOR canon divergence, Language, Violence, Weapons, Spy Craft, Detailed Description of Murder, Death, Injuries, Angst, Grief, Fear, Inevitable Historical and Military Inaccuracies, Mature/Explicit Themes - 18+ ONLY.

Author’s Note: This story contains revisionist history, read at your own risk. Reader is half-Belgian, half-English and has been given an extensive backstory and family tree. While they have been given the codename of "Marie," no physical descriptions or Y/N are used.

Italics used for non-English words and to indicate dialogue spoken in a language other than English.

This is a work of fiction based off the portrayal by the actors in the Apple TV+ series. I hold nothing but respect for the real life individuals referenced within.

Word Count: 6929

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May 3, 1940

“Honestly Papa,” You protested in French, threading the telephone cord between your fingers as the line crackled and hummed with the standard overseas audio distortions,“I do not understand why you will not let me come home, nothing has happened in months–”

“Enough, my little monster,” Your father’s voice gently but firmly cut you off. “We have been over this a thousand times, it is simply too dangerous for you to leave England with war declared. Yes, it is quiet at the moment, but it is only a matter of time now that the weather has grown warm.”

Your eyes scanned across the neatly appointed Edwardian writing desk in your grandmother’s study before turning to eye the drizzly gardens of the Dower House through the spotless window behind you.

“If it is so dangerous, why do you and Mama insist on staying in Brussels? You are both more important than me and if those Nazi bastards invade you know that’s where they’re headed – straight for you.”

“Come, come now, don’t let your mother hear you using that language.” His chastisement was half-hearted and filled with laughter, pulling a reluctant grin from you. “Belgium is neutral, firstly, but if the worst happens, we will simply flee to the house in Wallonia. Chin-up my little monster, we are made of sterner stuff, are we not?”

“Yes, Papa,” You replied, feeling somewhat reassured and heartened, “we truly are.”

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October 28, 1943

The collision of your spine against the brick wall drove the air from your lungs, a strangled noise of pain seeping from your throat as the broken end of a bolt that had once affixed something to the side of the building tore through the fabric of your blouse and dug into the meat of your right upper arm. Gritting your teeth as your eyes watered at the searing pain and warm gush down your sleeve, your grip tightened on the handle of your knife, swinging it higher towards the vulnerable neck of the man you had lured into this alleyway.

He had been following you for at least twenty minutes, Gestapo most likely, on your way to pick up some material to then courier to another contact. You had been unsuccessful at losing him, and with the sun setting and curfew nearly upon you, confrontation had remained your only option. While sneaking out after curfew was perilous enough, being caught out around the fall of curfew was nearly suicidal. Parking your bike in front of a well-attended pub, you had made your way across the town square, wending your way through the emptying streets before ducking into this very alley to lay in wait.

Unfortunately for you, the man had proven to be much larger than you had first estimated, and along with a brutal case of halitosis, each sour breath assaulting your senses as it impacted your face, he was easily overpowering you, slowly turning your knife in your grip, threatening to use your own weapon against you. Unfortunately for him, you had been trained in all the ‘ungentlemanly’ ways one could undertake warfare, and he was utterly unprepared for the collision of your foot with his most tender parts.

A sound consisting of an intriguing mixture of a yelp and a wheeze escaped his mouth as he fell back, his oppressive weight finally easing off you. Seizing the momentum, you quickly struck with your blade, meeting the weak block of his forearm and drawing a yowl this time. While he was not proving to be a quiet kill, thankfully his racket resembled an alley cat, and could be explained away if necessary. Heart hammering in your ears, breaths coming in quick gasps under the heady influence of your own adrenaline, you swung the blade home into the defenseless flesh of his neck and tugged forward, sealing your opponent’s fate as he crumpled to the worn cobblestones.

Taking several awkward steps backward, you inhaled deep, greedy gulps of air as the man exhaled his last and grew still. It was both relieving and unsettling. Casting about for the large metal bins you had glimpsed earlier, you darted across the alley to quickly remove the lids from both, shifting the filthy contents from one into the other to make space for your deposit. Returning to his lifeless form, you assessed his bulk before struggling to strip him of his large, navy wool coat before dragging him down the alley and hoisting him into his final resting place. The wound in your triceps screamed in agonized protest with every breath until you had resecured the lid, the scene unremarkable enough in the long shadows of evening.

Shrugging into the bulky coat to conceal the damage to your blouse and retrieving your luggage, discarded moments before the altercation began, you forced yourself to exit the alley at a perfectly normal pace in the direction of Doctor Legot’s clinic, trusty bicycle abandoned for the sake of a speedy departure. Reaching the clinic well after closing, you slid around the back, setting down your suitcase to root around in the hedges for the upturned pot hiding the spare key known to only a select few. You took a moment to compose yourself, taking a deep breath and brusquely wiping at the tears of discomfort that had been stubbornly welling in your eyes the entire journey.

The lock turned soundlessly under your practiced hand, the door swinging inward to an unexpected shaft of light spilling from the patient washroom. Peering around the doorjamb, your eyes widened to see Curt standing at the small sink in the powder room, stripped down to his undershirt, carefully dragging a safety razor across one lathered cheek. Exhaustion and injury got the better of you, making you sway unsteadily, forcing you to catch yourself on the frame of the door, immediately attracting his attention.

“Marie?” He turned to look at you, well-defined muscles of his arms flexing with his movements, shaving cream adorably still adorning a great deal of his face.

Hastily lurching forward into the clinic, you quickly closed and latched the door behind you, depositing your luggage and shoulder bag before shrugging out of the claustrophobic overcoat.

“Jesus Christ, look at you!” His outburst, followed by the sound of his razor hitting the porcelain bowl of the sink, made you drop your gaze to your clothes, only to be greeted by the sight of your late opponent’s blood drenching the fabric.

“Oh, do not fret about me…” You had hoped to put on a display of bravado, but your voice was aggravatingly thin, “…the other fellow is much worse off.”

His startlingly warm palms cupping your elbows made your head jerk back up, meeting his furrowed brow, eyes darkened with concern. “That isn’t very comforting, gorgeous.” He muttered and began tugging you towards Doctor Legot’s office where a crack of light shone from beneath the door. “Doc?” He barked out before open the door without any further preamble.

Only a small noise of protest sounded before the doctor was shooting to his feet, quickly ushering you to take his recently vacated chair, rapidly looking you over before his eyes settled on your arm.

“I’m not going to ask how such misfortune befell you, Marie. I am a wiser man than that. But what, specifically, happened to your arm?” He murmured in Dutch as he retrieved a set of suture scissors to begin cutting away the sleeve of your ruined shirt.

“I backed into the shorn off end of a bolt with rather a bit of force.” You sighed wearily, glancing at Curt who remained in the room, eyeing the pair of you intensely from where he leaned against a filing cabinet. “Why is your guest upstairs?”

Your sentence ended in a hiss as you inhaled sharply through your teeth at the feeling of the doctor’s fingers prodding at the wound on the back of your upper arm.

“He cut himself shaving by candlelight one too many times. Once the cast came off, we made an agreement he could come upstairs between closing and dinner to wash up. You’ve had your tetanus vaccine?”

As Legot began to aggressively paint your wound with disinfectant, you pressed your lips together tightly against any further mortifying outbursts, and thus only managed a nod in confirmation.

“Good.” The room fell silent as he applied a square of gauze to your wound, securing it in place by wrapping your arm in a bandage, tying it off.

Your eyes drifted back to Curt who had not seemed to move an inch, not even changed position, the shaving cream on his face drying out, growing crusty against his skin. His silence was perhaps the most unnerving thing you had encountered this evening, his voice seeming to have filled every waking encounter you’d had with him thus far.

“It’s a lot of blood…” He muttered, eyes rising from your clothes, marred by scarlet quickly turning a mottled brown as the blood dried and aged.

“Mostly someone else’s.” You reminded him gently, earning a non-plussed grunt in reply.

A heavy sigh fell from the Doctor Legot’s lips, making you look up at him slowly. “Marie there has been…an increase in the Gestapo around town. A contact of mine was even questioned about a woman bearing a remarkable resemblance to you. And now that you seem to have had a run in, I’m…concerned.”

Despite similar thoughts ricocheting about your brain the entire flight back to his clinic, the breath you drew in felt like it contained thousands of tiny shards of glass which imbedded themselves deep inside your breast as you heard it from an external source. Rationally, to have survived so many months in your occupation was a feat worth celebrating.

An SOE agent typically had a life expectancy of six months, and yet to watch your ability to remain in Belgium, to remain useful to your fellow Belgians, crumble before you was incredibly painful. You allowed your exhale to accumulate in your cheeks before releasing it all at once through pursed lips with a nod, the feeling of having failed your people, your family, once again a yawning pit deep in your gut.

“It is time for me to move on.” You conceded flatly.

“If you are headed in a certain direction, might you be able to take a certain guest with you?” He asked with a nod in the American’s direction.“Couriers are still stretched thin.”

Your eyes widened slowly as it dawned on you that it was well over two months since Curt had become a guest in his cellar and should be well on his way to Spain by now. “He is well enough to travel then? Have they made him papers yet?” Your rapid-fire questions were greeted by frantic blinking from the doctor before he nodded quickly in the affirmative to both.

Turning back to Curt you tilted your head, reinvigorated by the chance to be useful one last time as you tried to remove yourself from occupied Europe, saving another’s life infinitely more important than simply trying to preserve your own. “Tell me, Curt, are you ready to head back to England?”

The apprehension that had drawn his features tight melted away, yielding to a bright smile, his eyes fairly sparkling with anticipation at the promise of beginning his escape at last. “You have no idea.”

You could do nothing to stop the uplift at the corner of your mouth in response, nodding slightly. “I’m going to change out of these clothes and then we’ll get ready to leave in the morning.”

Straightening from his lean against the cabinet, he moved to the door. “I’ll just go grab…” His voice trailed off as he disappeared down the hall before returning with your suitcase, setting it on the floor with a nod before departing once more, not loitering long enough to accept your gratitude.

Legot produced an old flour sack for you to deposit any clothes beyond saving, to be burned upstairs in his fireplace, before leaving you alone in his office. Feeling the chill of autumn in your damp clothes, you quickly stripped, using a towel to wipe any bloody remnants from your skin with water from the sink in the corner of the room, before changing into fresh clothing. Your mind was already occupied with plotting your route – to Antwerp, fetching supplies from the small flat you kept as a base of operations there, and then boarding a train to the border before crossing on foot then onto another train at Lille to Toulouse before meeting up with the Ponzán group to be guided across the Pyrenees. But this time, you would be one of the party making the crossing in neutral Spain.

Bringing your damp towel to try and blot any blood from the pilfered overcoat, hoping to save it for Curt’s benefit during the mountain crossing to come, you turned off the office lights and headed toward the storeroom, grabbing the garment from the floor on the way. Dropping it through the open trapdoor followed by the wet towel, you smiled to Curt as he appeared below, passing him your suitcase with your good arm before beginning your own descent down the ladder. Pushed well beyond all possible limits, your battered and bandaged arm gave out at your demand to bear your body weight, a yelp escaping as your right hand lost its grip on the ladder as a result.

Strong hands quickly landed on your hips, steadying and supporting you.

“Easy, gorgeous, good as you got the guy, he still hurt you.” Curt muttered behind you, the fresh scent of soap and aftershave radiating from his warm skin as he helped you down the last few rungs.

“Th, thank you, Curt.” You stammered, hugging your throbbing limb close as your feet settled onto the cellar floor, watching him easily climb up the ladder to swing the heavy trapdoor shut almost silently even from inside. “You’ve come a long way in the past few weeks…”

He smirked a little, carrying your luggage over to set on the foot of your bed for you. “Been doing a lot of shadow boxing down here.”

“Boxing!” You breathed in surprise, gathering the abandoned coat from the crumpled heap it left on the floor, trying not to notice the way his muscles moved as he pulled on a thick knit sweater in the cool damp of your hiding space. “If I had known, I would have gotten comics related to your interest…”

“I enjoyed the ones you brought, even read the book too. My teachers would be proud.”

A small laugh escaped you as you settled onto the edge of the bed, inspecting the coat for bloodstains and methodically beginning to blot them out. His own laughed intertwined with yours all too melodically, making you swallow tightly.

“That coat is awful big for you, gorgeous.” He teased, watching you from where he stood at the end of your bed.

“It’s not for me, Curt, it’s for you – you’re going to need it where we’re headed. Just need to get all the blood out first.” You murmured, turning the right sleeve inside out knowing you had surely bled on it yourself.

“Do I get to know where we’re going?”

You peered up at him a moment before shaking your head. “Other than England. That will suffice for now. I will share the goal with you day by day, but the less you know the safer you will be. Aside from a few key portions, the majority of the trip will be by train to start. Tomorrow, though, we shall have to try something new.” You trailed off into a mutter at the last, wrestling with the heavy fabric, shooting him a grateful look as he grabbed the hem of the coat to help you position it, allowing you to reach one of the last stains.

“What’s so special about tomorrow?” He prodded, clearly still listening even though your final statement had more been musing aloud than for his ears.

Pausing a moment you sighed before meeting his eyes. “I suppose you ought to know that I appear to be a known entity to the Gestapo, at the very least locally, and so we will take extra evasive manoeuvres when we leave town. I shall be disguised, we will leave just before dawn, and avoid public transportation. I have a few ideas for how we might reach where we are going first, do not worry.” You offered a reassuring smile, to which he returned a small nod. “Jan will have been by the take your photo and give you papers?”

“Oh, yeah, nice fella if a bit quiet. Gave me a couple sets of papers.” He stepped over to his cot to retrieve two well forged sets of identity papers, bringing them over for you to inspect.

Laying the now-cleaned coat to dry across your suitcase, you accepted them from him, looking them over before holding out those in your left hand. “These are your Belgian papers. I suggest you put these in your usual pocket – the one you will reach for first, so that you can produce them as naturally as possible. We will destroy them as soon as we have left Belgium.” You watched as he took them from you.

“Belgian papers, got it.” Curt made a tiny salute with the papers before grabbing a leather jacket from the back of a small chair that was a new addition to the cellar, sliding them into the inner left breast pocket.

“And these,” you held out those in your right hand, “are your French papers. You will want to keep these close, in a safe place on your person, but not somewhere you will mistakenly hand them over until they are needed.”

His eyebrow shot up playfully. “Hold up, Marie, I thought you just said you weren’t going to tell me where we’re going…”

“Did I?” You blinked innocently and his guffaw of amusement threatened to pull another unintentional smile from you.

Since when had your expressions become so very difficult to control?

“The most important thing for you to remember on our journey,” you soldiered on despite your inner struggle, “is not to speak. Your voice absolutely gives away the fact that you do not belong here. Many of the airmen whom we guide find the most success by feigning deafness. It explains both their inability to speak and the fact that they do not understand the language.”

“You could just teach me French, or whatever you speak with Doc…”

“Flemish?” You found yourself fighting back laughter. “We do not have enough time for you to master either, Curt. We leave tomorrow. Now take your French papiers and get some sleep, we leave in a few hours.” You nodded firmly, but with a kind smile.

“You too, Marie, you need dinner or anything?”

Shaking your head softly, certain you could not bring yourself to eat even if you felt hungry, the pair of you settled in to sleep, the damp wool coat taking over the chair in the middle of the room to dry, looming in the flickering candlelight like some grim reminder of your actions. Huffing at your melodramatic thoughts, you pulled the blankets over your head and rolled over to get some rest.

As agreed upon, Legot woke the pair of you shortly after four with warm bread, apples, and granola. You could almost taste the ghost of butter, jam, sugar, and cream on your tongue – heavily rationed delights that had been hard to come by in England and all but non-existent here under Nazi rule. Downing your dry, brown breakfast, you opened your suitcase to retrieve a wig from its depths, gathering your hair and securing it beneath the false strands to disguise your apparently known appearance.

“I dunno Marie…” Curt’s musing were interrupted by an exaggerated yawn as he smoothed his hair with a pot of borrowed pomade. “Your natural hair looks so much prettier on you.”

Fighting the girlish urge to preen under his indirect compliment, you shook your head. “It’s a good thing I’m not trying to look pretty then, just different.”

“Well in that case you look nothing like your usual self.” He shrugged into his leather jacket before snagging the hard-won navy coat from the back of the chair and folded it in perhaps the most unmethodical way you had ever witnessed, but it still wound up flat and small enough to fit into his suitcase.

“Good.” You muttered and snapped the latches on your own luggage closed, heading over to the ladder to climb up.

“Wait, let me help you.” He hurried over, reaching out to grasp your waist. “You sure you can pull the cases up?”

Huffing a little, more in annoyance at being injured than his offers of help, you nodded firmly. “Absolutely.” Clenching your jaw, you forced your way up the ladder, stubbornly ignoring the ache in your still-healing arm, turning to reach out expectantly for the first piece of luggage once you were kneeling on the floor above.

A bemused expression greeted you before he easily hoisted the first, waiting until you had it tucked aside before sending the second up. Taking a moment to extinguish the candles still burning below, he then quickly ascended the ladder to join you, silently securing the trapdoor behind him.

“Right, this is it then.”

About to make your way down the hall to bid a final farewell to the doctor, you turned with a soft gasp to find him stand there with a small canvas bag of food.

“For your journey.” He held it out, nodding as Curt quickly stepped forward to sling it over his shoulder.

“Be safe, Doctor Legot, thank you for all your assistance.”

“The very same to you, Marie. Best of luck on your travels.”

A small, sentimental smile poked through your serious expression before your eyes widened. “If you are in need of a bicycle, mine remains outside the pub across from the town square. Farewell.”

At serious risk of lingering too long, you turned then and headed out the backdoor, glancing over your shoulder in the faint light of early morning to ensure Curt was following you. You kept a quick pace, cutting and winding through town towards a familiar farmyard, dairy cows grazing the fields, lowing softly, as the farmer and his daughters loaded containers of milk into the back of a worn truck. The sun had escaped the confines of the horizon by now, flooding the landscape with the golden light of an autumn sunrise as you cast another glance of confirmation over your shoulder, nearly tripping over your own feet at the unjustly stunning quality of Curt’s eyes in daylight.

“Whoa, easy.” He hurried a few steps forward to steady you by the elbow, catching the attention of Tillens who quickly sent his children back into the house.

“Hush.” You whispered firmly before waving to the farmer, who squinted at you a moment before relaxing as you greeted him warmly in Dutch.

“That you, Marie? You’ve done something new with your hair, didn’t even recognize you for a moment…”

“The point, I am afraid. Are you by any chance headed to Antwerp today?” You asked hopefully, stomach falling as he shook his head.

“Could take you to Brussels, but Antwerp is tomorrow.”

Brussels was the one place you avoided, far too many familiar faces and even more Nazis along with their collaborating government.

“How much could I offer to convince you to take us to Antwerp today?”

Tillens’ brown eyes studied your disguise before looking over at your companion. “It’s only one hour out of my way, Marie, for you there is no charge. Hop in the back and I’ll pack the rest of these around you.”

Your eyes widened before you quickly gestured Curt forward, digging into the bag on his shoulder and pulling out the loaf of the bread you found there. “Then please accept this, for your family.”

“Marie…” Tillens protested but you pushed it forward insistently and he accepted it with a grateful nod. “Thank you, every bit helps.”

“Thank you, for it truly does.” Grasping Curt’s elbow, you pointed into the back of the truck, watching him step up and weave his way towards the back.

Setting your suitcase on the tailgate, you reached for the handhold with your left arm, gasping as Curt’s hands were suddenly around your waist to hoist you in amongst the containers of milk.

“Gorgeous but stubborn.” He muttered under his breath, grabbing your suitcase and leading you over to a gap he had found just large enough for the pair of you to settle on the floor.

Pulling your shoulder bag against your body, you tucked your skirt beneath yourself as you sat down beside him, nodding to Tillens as he peered in at the pair of you before sealing you in with the last of his cargo.

“It’s about a two-hour drive, feel free to sleep.” You whispered, the back of the truck going dark as Tillens secured the doors shut, the motor growling to life shortly thereafter.

“So he speaks Flemish too?” Curt asked curiously as the vehicle jolted into motion and you nodded softly.

“It’s Dutch, really, with some regional differences. In the bigger cities you’ll find more of a mix of Flemish and French.”

“And you speak it all.” Curt smirked and you nodded, hugging your knees to your chest as the cargo rattled around you. “Really somethin’…” He muttered, leaning back to close his eyes and try to get some rest as you had suggested.

The drive smoothed out as the truck navigated onto the main road, and you felt yourself relax a little after the first hour of distance was put between you and Beverst. You were by no means out of danger – the Gestapo was an insidious organization, their network a far-reaching and interconnected tangle. The fact that at least one agent had come looking for you specifically meant that, if the entirety did not know of you yet, they soon would. You had to run all the way to be truly safe.

Of their own volition, your eyes drifted towards Curt’s sleeping form, his handsome face grown slack and soft in sleep, the youth of him both striking and painful. What would his life look like if Hitler had been able to keep his hands to himself…or better yet had never even come to power? What would your life look like? Certainly neither of you would be in the back of a dairy truck sneaking your way to Antwerp.

A roughened patch of road jostled his body, threatening to wake him and you quickly wrenched your eyes away, studying the handwritten labels from Tillens’ farm. Thankfully Curt remained asleep for the rest of the drive, the truck pulling to a stop amidst the hum of the city, and you gently prodded him awake with a shake to the shoulder.

“We’re here.” You whispered before pressing a finger to your lips and he nodded drowsily before straightening.

Light flooded into the back of the truck, the pair of you blinking owlishly as Tillens shifted the cargo to make a path of exit into a familiar alley. Climbing out carefully, you turned to unload the suitcases as Curt passed each, nodding sharply to the farmer before you and the airman assembled yourselves, and strolled casually out into the foot traffic on the sidewalk.

The interference and unpredictability of humans had you on edge, not appreciating the way Curt always seemed to be not where you expected him to be with every glance over your shoulder. After the fourth time you looked for him a little too long, your heart in your throat, you stepped around a rather annoying blonde making eyes at him, and seized his free hand with yours. To keep better track of him, of course. The fact that your throat tightened slightly as his blunt fingers wrapped around your hand in return, requiring a forceful swallow to clear it, was utterly irrelevant.

Turning the corner, you looked both ways before tugging on his hand, guiding him across the street to the unassuming building of flats from which you were intending to collect your warmer clothes and some other supplies. The sight of the rather nice car out front was the first sign that something was off. The next was the sound of your neighbour, an ancient, haggard woman named Josephine De Smet, speaking loudly in the stairwell, her creaking voice cascading down the tiled stairs to the lobby, halting your feet immediately.

Clearly distracted, Curt’s body collided with your back, forcing you to brace against the wall lest you topple over.

“Geez, why’d you sto–” His less-than-hushed whisper was cut off by your palm, forcefully freed from his grasp, slapping over his mouth as you quickly pushed him back into the corner of the lobby under the stairs, casting a sharp look at him before craning your ear back upwards.

Holding your breath, you listened intently, trying to hear the rest of the conversation. To confirm if the alarm bells ringing in your head were warranted.

“Just what has that hussy gotten herself mixed up in then, sir?” The old crone rasped in French, not her usual choice of language, and you pressed your lips into a line thin.

“I cannot say, madam, other than she is a monster and you’d best be wary.” The deep male voice, a German accent poisoning his pronunciation, made you inhale sharply through your nose.

Hand dropping from where it pressed against Curt’s remarkably plush and soft lips to grasp the lapel of his jacket, you pulled hard, yanking him out of the building and back onto the street. They were a lot closer on your trail than you had realized. Pulse rabbiting at your throat, you held your suitcase out to Curt in a silent request, grateful when he took it without question, following you as you took off down the sidewalk at a brisk clip.

Darting around the next corner, you led him on a chaotic, unpredictable, and hopefully untraceable path to a tramway stop several blocks away as you dug through your shoulder bag for the coins to make fare for both of you. Once that was secured, you traded his fare for your suitcase, tucking your own coins into the pocket of your light jacket, trying to suppress your grimace at the loss of your winter clothes in that now unvisitable flat. The feeling of Curt’s sturdy hand slipping into yours, enveloping your skin in warmth and his strong grip, halted you for half a step before releasing some of the tension in your lungs.

Propelling forward across the street, the pair of you jumped onto the tram just as it was about to pull away, shuffling into the heart of the crowded carriage to purchase your tickets and keep your faces away from the windows. It was not an overly warm ride to Antwerpen-Centraal station, but you could certainly feel sweat prickling in your armpits and rolling down your back between your shoulder blades. Tugging on Curt’s sleeve, you disembarked one stop short with him and ducked into an alley to yank the wig free, hanging your head upside down to shake out your hair before repining it. It surely looked sad, but given that identity papers were required to board a train, you needed to resemble your photo and thus the wig was shoved into a nearby trash bin.

“We will be asked for papers, there will be a lot of soldiers, try to remain relaxed and do as I do.” You whispered to Curt, and he nodded, patting the left breast of his pocket with an easy smile, though you watched his adam’s apple bob sharply as he swallowed. “We will be buying tickets and travelling to the border where will stop for the night, alright?”

“Lead on, gorgeous.” He nodded and turned to following you toward the grand, stone-clad station built at the turn of the century.

The presence of Nazi soldiers was pronounced, their bright red swatiskas flashing about the otherwise pleasant square like blemishes on a beautiful face. Keeping your expression perfectly neutral yet pleasant, confident yet not cocky, you took a moment to exhale slowly as you made it past the first hurdle into the building before heading to the ticket counter, requesting two tickets to Kortrijk. It was nothing short of a miracle that you managed a polite nod rather than kissing the ticket seller full on the mouth when he informed you the train would be leaving in twenty minutes. Pulling the bills from your bag, you accepted the tickets in return before leading Curt to track three.

Rolling your shoulders in and down your back, you confidently offered your identity papers to the Nazi soldier standing at the carriage door, immensely pleased when Curt did the same without prompting.

“Where are you two headed?” The soldier asked in clipped, stilted French, his piercing blue eyes wholly unsettling as they flicked between you and Curt before coming back to you.

“Kortrijk, sir.” You answered simply.

If he wanted to know more, he would need to ask more. You certainly had a lie prepared should he require one. He made a noise of displeasure, looking over your shoulder, implying the accumulation of other passengers.

“Off you go.” He grunted, returning both sets of papers to you and you nodded rapidly, climbing aboard quickly, even as your arm shook under the strain of hauling your body up the steps.

Shuffling down the hallway of the carriage, you at last came to an empty compartment, stepping inside and setting your luggage on the bench. As soon as Curt stepped in behind you, you slid the door shut behind him, knowing it was rude with a full train but not wanting anyone else to join you. As you turned back, he was already hoisting your suitcase up onto the luggage rack, making you smile fondly.

“Merci.” You murmured, hoping he would understand your meaning.

Judging by his responding smile, it seemed he certainly did. Despite your longing to collapse onto the bench seat, you sat with decorum, trying not to stare at your watch and count down the minutes. As the last whistle blew and the cars at last shunted into motion, you finally relaxed back into the cushion behind you.

“Is it always like that?” Curt whispered and you shot him a rueful look before shaking your head.

“I am deeply sorry, that…that is solely a complication of traveling with me right now.” You murmured in response, digging out his ticket and papers, returning them to him. “The conductor will arrive closer to our destination to check your ticket, then we show the papers again in the station after we detrain.”

You watched as he carefully took the items and tucked them back into his inner pocket.

“No apologies, gorgeous. We’re both not wanted here, so it’s a good thing we’re leaving.” He nodded and you looked out the window when rain pelted the glass as the train left the shelter of the station, biting the inside of your cheek savagely to keep your emotions in check. “Why don’t we have some lunch?”

He started to root around in the bag from Legot and you forced a smile, sharing the few apples and the small wedge of cheese, akin to a rare jewel, that the man had gifted the two of you with. After a minor squabble over who ought to be resting, Curt finally gave up and obstinately remained awake as you insisted that you must, staring out the window as the fields of Flanders rolled by. The train made numerous stops until the conductor arrived to check your tickets, signalling you were about to arrive in Kortrijk, the final stop.

Courtesy of your preparation, the process went remarkably smooth, and the pair of you stepped off the train once Curt had retrieved the suitcases from overhead. Another successful check of your papers and you were melting into the population freshly departing from their workday and making their way home. Within thirty minutes, you had arrived at an unassuming home on the southern edge of town, knocking the door in the prescribed way.

A young woman with a toddler perched on her hip opened the door, eyeing each of you cautiously.

“May I help you?” She asked in Dutch.

“Good afternoon, Ma’am. We were wondering if you might be interested in some new cosmetics?” You smiled broadly, delivering the passphrase.

A flash of recognition crossed her delicate features, her plump cheeks flushing in excitement as she briefly went rigid before she reined in her emotions. “Why don’t you come in and show me what you have for sale…” She stepped back, holding the door open wider for you and Curt to step inside.

Once the door was secured behind you, she led you through her small but tidy home up the narrow stairs to a small half door before opening it slowly.

“Here you are, dinner will take some time.”

“Whatever you can spare is truly appreciated, thank you.” You thanked her softly, sliding your suitcase into the attic before crouching down to crawl in after it.

The space was smaller than Legot’s cellar but larger than the back of Tillens’ dairy truck, enough room for each of you to lay flat, high up in the very peak of the small house. It was not a safe house you would have employed for a larger group. For the first time, you were grateful it was nearly November and not the heat of summer.

“Ouch!” Curt hissed as he cracked his head on a low beam, and you frowned, shifting up onto your knees to make sure he was alright. “Yeah, yeah, m’fine Marie, just an idiot.” He gave you a lopsided grin and you shook your head.

“Sorry it’s not the Ritz, but it’s not a cellar either?” You tilted your head hopefully.

“Never stayed at the Ritz, you?” He asked, settling onto the centuries-old wooden planks beside you.

“Hmmm.” You hummed noncommittally. “She says she’ll have something for us to eat in a bit, we will rest and then start out walking after midnight.”

“Walk…?” He prompted, eyebrow raised.

“It is not easy to cross the border, we cannot simply take the train into France, so we must walk. It is best to do so at night, and even better to do so rested. I promise we can linger a little longer at our next place, but we must get out of Belgium.” Despite your efforts to quash it, a slight tremor remained in your voice and Curt shot you a look of sympathy and utterly threatened your ability to maintain your composure. “So sleep.” You tacked on firmly and pulled off your jacket, folding it up to make a pillow before laying on your side with your back to him.

There was a decidedly awkward silence as he remained seated, looming above you, before laying down with a heavy exhale, clearly frustrated with you. Well that made two of you.

Dinner arrived two hours later with a soft knock, driving home the fact that you had not slept, but the warm vegetable hash was so very welcome and filling, giving you hope that you might be able to actually fall asleep for the last few hours of your stay here. As you lay back down onto your make-shift pillow, Curt’s breaths almost immediately evened out into the heavy sighs of sleep, making your lips twitch in a mixture of annoyance and amusement. Yet as you closed your eyes, all that echoed through your mind was the voice of your father ‘mon petit monstre’ and the Gestapo agent from the stairwell of your flat building ‘elle est un monstre.’

Petit monstre

Un monstre

Monstre

Grief clawed at your throat, making you sit up sharply as you gasped for air, eyes brimming with tears as the realization that you would never again hear that nickname in your father’s voice – that it would now only come to you by way of anger and insult – sank like a stone in the pit of your stomach. Sniffling petulantly as your nose began to run, you jumped at the feeling of Curt’s hand on your shoulder.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong…” He whispered groggily, shifting closer.

Shaking your head quickly, you roughly wiped the tears from your eyes trying to hide the evidence, huffing as the action only caused fresh ones to spill onto your cheeks.

“Don’t tell me then, just c’mere.” He replied and gathered you into his arms, cradling you close against his chest.

Every muscle in your body went rigid at first, your rational, well-trained self knowing this was utterly inappropriate. And yet…

And yet, he was so warm, so kind, and he was holding you so tightly that maybe you could fall apart just a little without crumbling entirely. Surrendering to the fact that no arms had attempted to hold and comfort you in years, you yielded to his embrace, becoming pliant as you loosened the clenched-fist-grip on your grief just a little, allowing tears to slide freely down your cheeks in the darkness of that attic as his palm soothed up and down your spine.

“Shhh, I’m right here, you’re not alone…”

How very much you wanted to believe him.

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

Read Part Three

In My Blood Masterlist

Tag list: @precious-little-scoundrel, @luminouslywriting, @polikabra, @beingalive1

#curtis biddick x reader #curt biddick x reader #curtis biddick #curt biddick #mota fanfic #mota fic #masters of the air fanfiction #mota #masters of the air

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the-californicationist · 10 months

Text

Guile & Guilt (Ch. 02)

Soap x Reader AU

Link to AO3

THE NEXT DAY

The Ettrick was the best pub in town, and you could smell the spicy blend of their famous curry halfway down the block. It was close enough to Pidge’s house to walk but far enough to be a bit of a trek, and so you were trailing behind her and Hamish as you made your way out to dinner. Hamish had called up some friends, and Pidge had done the same, for a little impromptu celebration party. You were not a fan of crowds, really, but you had promised yourself (in some small secret way) that you would be the best maid of honor there ever was for your best friend. If that meant partying down at the local bar, so be it.

After bringing you and Pidge your morning coffees, Johnny had taken his Jeep and sped off somewhere, saying he “needed to clear his head.” But, even though he promised to show up to dinner tonight, you doubted he would show. Pidge had rolled her eyes and shrugged at you, expressing her doubt as well.

You weren’t supposed to be worried about him though. You needed to focus on the goal: Pidge having fun. Be fun. She needed you to be fun. Smile, or something, c’mon. Your internal pep talks exhausted you, and you grew frustrated with yourself. Surely you could stand to be in a crowd for just an evening?

Lachlan Black, Hamish’s man of honor and college roommate, was already at the restaurant. You could tell because his lime green Aventador was parked out front, covering both the street and the sidewalk and shining like a penny. Stepping around it as carefully as you would a coiled snake, you squeezed past the car, making sure not to even breathe too roughly on it.

When Hamish opened the door for you, you stepped inside to find Anjali, Bekah, and Cherise already waiting for Pidge, half-circled around Lachlan and Johnny like hungry birds - waiting to be fed more sweet nothings, you assumed. The three girls were Pidge’s friends from grammar school. They had grown up with Johnny and Pidge, and they knew them well, but they were not the most reliable bunch. If there was a party, they would turn up, but if you needed a ride to the airport, better call someone else. There was a reason none of them made the cut for maid of honor.

“Pigeon!” Johnny shouted from his end of the bar.

He had changed clothes, and he was in a half-open, rolled-sleeve button down with a pair of black canvas pants. Casual, but he looked like he was built to party. Lachlan, on the other hand, looked like he owned the party. You didn’t know what kind of fabric his clothes were made out of - probably something to do with baby alpacas - and he was shining all over. His high (surgery-induced?) cheekbones and bright blond hair made him look like a movie star, and the girls doted on him as if he was one. He had thrown an arm around Cherise, and she seemed perfectly content to be nestled there in his expensive armpit.

Johnny hugged Pidge and shook Hamish’s hand. He didn’t know what to do to you, so he just leaned back against the bar and shoved his hands in his pockets, smiling at you and mouthing the ghost of a “hey.” You did the same, matching that awkward energy and immediately regretting it.

“Hey, babes,” Lachlan smiled at you in a sort of sneer, “Aren’t you that bird from…New York?”

“Florida,” you corrected, tearing your eyes away from Johnny’s and looking hard at Hamish’s friend.

“Right, well,” he took a swig of his whisky, “All the same, innit?”

Hamish shook his hand, and then, he sort of pulled him off balance a bit to speak to him closer,

“No, mate, it isn’t.”

They laughed, but you could tell that Lachlan had been temporarily cowed.

“Good to see you again,” Cherise kissed you in the French sort of way, the imaginary cheek smooches that you were supposed to have memorized when you crossed the pond. Did you lean left first or right?

“You, too, Cherise. Glad you could come,” you tried to be as friendly as you could, but Cherise was into her own ventures and there wasn’t much that could shake her from that. She was tucked back into Lachlan’s side, trying to return herself into his missing rib. If she just squeezed in close enough, maybe…

“Can I get you a drink, from one Of Honor to the next?” Lachlan showed you his teeth again. White. Straight. Sharp.

Before you could say a word, Johnny moved in front of him and held out an outstretched hand. He gave you a full whisky cocktail, complete with an orange rind on top - something Pidge already had a copy of - and shrugged,

“Sorry, mate. You can get the next one, yeah? Here ya go, bonnie.”

The way he looked at you was meant to be dismissive, or perhaps he hadn’t meant to look at you at all. Johnny barely glanced your way, pale irises hiding under thick, dark eyelashes that then quickly fixed themselves back down at the counter. But, the look in your eyes must have called him by his name, because he found himself caught in the snare of you. His gaze met yours in a second glance and studied your skin, your cheeks, your nose, and finally your mouth, covered in sticky gloss and glitter, shining under the warm glow of the bar.

You watched him study you, his enormous Adam’s apple bobbing along his scruffy throat as he swallowed, and his face wore a mask of heightened uncertainty and… rejection? You couldn’t tell what emotion he was trying hard not to outwardly express. It was not a swoon, that was for sure. It looked as if he was concerned. You felt the blood rush to your cheeks and you broke away from him, muttering a thanks for the drink. Staring down at your hands, suddenly feeling insecure, you became hyper-aware of everything he could have seen and had apparently found wanting.

A soft hand grabbed you around the arm and pulled you in,

“C’mon,” Pidge said, “Let’s get a booth.”

You took a sip of your cocktail as you were dragged away by your friend, and the whisky stung you like a hornet. One of these would be enough to put you down, and Christ did you want to be put down.

Seeing Johnny dressed like that had been enough to shake your determination, but his look of dismissal or distaste (or whatever it was) had shattered your self-esteem. To make matters worse, you couldn’t get away from him for a single second. He had given you a drink at the bar. He walked behind you as you moved deeper into the pub, and he slid around the slick pleather crescent of the booth seat, finally sandwiching you between him and his sister - the last nail in your coffin. You could smell his cologne, a musky, woodsy scent that mixed with his earthy citrus that you knew so well. You remembered the arch of his muscular shoulders as he squeezed himself into the seat, and you could almost taste his sweet breath on your tongue as he talked over you to his sister. If you were still in grade school, you thought about having to write: “I will not fuck my best friend’s brother” five hundred times on the chalkboard - or however many it took for it to sink in. How many sticks of chalk would turn to dust just to slake your forbidden thirst?

You felt his huge thigh, warm and tight, press against your bare leg through his slacks. The thin cotton was a poor barrier, and all you could think about was the skin underneath it. Was it covered in dark coarse hair? Shaved smooth like a swimmer? Did it have black, inky tattoos or jagged scars? Sharing his heat was unimaginably difficult to deal with. Your body stirred, wondering why you were hiding your interest from him. Your traitorous heart was joyful like a bird with a juicy worm, expecting revelry and finding only cold, white-knuckled repression.

“A wee toast!” Johnny lifted his cup, smiling in that half-cocked way that he wore in all of his photos, “To Hammie and Pigeon; and whilst we thus should make our sorrows one, this happy harmony would make them none. Congratulations, sister. Slàinte mhath.”

“Slàinte mhath!” The tables’ voices rang out with proud approval.

Pidge rolled her eyes, but she wore a sweet smile,

“Thank you, Johnny boy. That was not the toast I was expectin’ from you, you weapon.”

Johnny, who had been wearing an innocent grin, turned it into a cunning one that a wolf might wear,

“Ya mean, this one?”

“No, Johnny, don’t -” Pidge tried to pull him down, reaching over you to get at his arm.

He broke through her grip as if she was a petulant child, and stood, raising his glass and his voice so that the entire pub could enjoy his toast,

“Let’s drink our drop o’ barley bree,” boisterous cheering came from the older menfolk who recognized the rhyme, “Though moon and stars should blink tae’gether, to each leal lad wi’ kilted knee…” a pause for effect prompted raucous whistles and table-pounding, “and a bonnie lass among the heather!”

Loud, jeering applause filled the cozy room, and Hammie was being shoved by his mates, blushing like a nun. Pidge cut a sharp glare at her brother, red not for shame but for fraternal rage.

You wanted to stick up for her, being stuck between them as you were. So, you put on a wry smile and raised your eyebrows to deliver your sarcasm,

“Wow, Sergeant, didn’t realize you were such a poet.”

While he was laughing and basking in the crude attention, he now paused and swiveled his head over to you, looking at you intentionally this time, and there was no second take. He laughed a little lower, and looked ruffled that you would challenge his poetic authority. He needed to save face, so he made quite a show of clearing his throat and settled himself nice and close to you before he said,

“Perhaps the bonnie lass would like to hear another?”

You noted his tone on the callback line, and you shrugged, feigning disinterest.

“Of that quality? No, thank you,” you tried to erase all traces of interest from your voice.

He was not to be deterred. Johnny’s face turned serious, and he delivered the next lines as earnestly and without satire, taking your request to heart,

“We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go, always a little further. It may be beyond the last blue mountain barred with snow, across that angry or that glimmering sea…”

When he stopped his performance, the applause and the cheering erupted again, praising him for his fancy delivery. Thinking he’d won your little challenge, he took a big sip of his own straight whisky and grinned like a cat who caught the mouse. You snuffed it out with the frigid precision only a graduate student would possess,

“White, on a throne, or guarded in a cave,” you enunciated as clearly as you could, matching his volume, and you watched as his pompous attitude was extinguished. He froze, just like a fox caught in a trap, staring at you with wonder. You continued,

“There lives a prophet who can understand why men were born. But, surely we are brave…”

He said the last line with you, his face blank in disbelief and his voice almost a whisper,

“Who take the golden road to Samarkand.”

More cheering than before. You’d won. You borrowed his smug attitude and looked at him, sipping your drink as he did, pleased as punch. He looked wounded but blissfully happy about it. Everyone around you went back into their conversations, chittering and drinking and eating the appetizers that were waiting for you. But, Johnny kept you locked in his sights, staring back like he was seeing you again for the first time, just like when he thought you were a thief. You wondered what it was that you had stolen this time. His pride? The other bridesmaids’ admiration?

“You know Flecker?”

You nodded,

“I’m at Glasgow. Doing a bit of graduate work in poetry, actually. Shakespeare, to be specific.”

You tried to be casual about it. In truth, the “bit” of work was a mountain, and if you were being “specific”, you could talk for days and still not cover the details in full. But, normal people didn’t want to hear about that sort of thing.

Johnny was about to say something with a wide grin on his lips, but it fell as soon as Lachlan interrupted from across the booth’s table,

“My father is an Emeritus at Glasgow. He’s hardly in residence, but he could help you get into the ARG, if I put in a good word.”

There it was again, that sharpness. You smiled genuinely, refusing to be unsettled by his intrusion and his mention of the invitation-only advanced research group,

“I’m running my own research in the ARG now, actually. But, thank you. That’s very generous.”

Johnny was speechless for a moment, but there was something dark roiling around in him as he cut his eyes at Lachlan,

“Aye, mate. Very generous. Did you attend uni as well, or just your da?”

A cruel dig. Everyone knew that Lachlan hadn’t been accepted to his father’s own department. Johnny was dragging out the skeletons of his vast, walk-in closet, a dog with a bone.

Lachlan Black was not one to be bullied, though,

“I went on invitation to Oxford, actually. A full merit scholarship…”

Johnny wasn’t done playing with his food,

“Och! Of course. I've been forgetful lately. And what, uh…degree was it, then?”

Silent tension struck the table like a too-tight guitar string, ready to pop someone across the cheek. Lachlan was clearly rattled, but he recovered with ease. He took a sip of his nearly empty glass and rose as if to get a refill, reigning hellfire as he did so,

“I had already made my first million by the end of my starting year. So, I thought I’d leave the monastery to the monks, right boyo?”

Lachlan stayed standing over the table for a beat, making sure the dog he’d kicked stayed down. Johnny didn’t produce a comeback, but he was close enough to you that you could feel his body prepare itself to deliver one in a more physical format.

When Lachlan left the table, Cherise in tow, Pidge spoke across you again,

“Johnny! What’s gotten into you?”

Her brother rolled his eyes and didn’t answer. He turned his attention back to you, emboldened somehow even in defeat,

“Another round, hen?”

He pointed to your glass, and you nodded,

“Sure, but let me get it. Pidge? Do you want another?”

“Yes! And tell them to bring two tequilas. My wee brother is driving me to drink.”

“I’ll help you carry ‘em back. C’mon, then,” Johnny held his hand out to help you out of the booth, and as you slid your fingers across his palm, he grabbed it with confidence.

He led you to the other side of the bar, as far from Lachlan as he could get, and let you place the order. You sat on the stool to wait and he stood beside you, one arm on the bar and one on the back of your chair, caging you in,

“So, Shakespeare, huh?”

“Yep,” you nodded, hesitating to elaborate.

“You’re after his poems, I take it?” Johnny’s face looked like he was trying to piece together an impossible puzzle.

You sighed, steeling yourself for the ordeal of telling someone all about your project only for them to respond in the most milquetoast way. You told him,

“I’m trying to determine why Sonnet 145 has such an abnormal structure. Some scholars have even claimed that Shakespeare didn’t compose it. It’s the black sheep of the collection, and I am performing an analysis on its rhyme scheme and meter.”

“Do you know it by heart?” He asked, practically begging for a performance.

“Here are your drinks, love. Tha’s twenty pound,” the barkeep stopped you from delivering your encore.

You paid him and balanced the cups in your hand. Johnny took the majority of the burden and made his way back through the crowd with you trailing behind him.

“Ahh!” Pidge squealed with pleasure, “Shots! C’mon, babe. Show these nuggets how it’s done in America. This girl’s a real cowgirl, she is. Watch this.”

You grabbed the salt from the center of the table, shy and miffed at Pidge’s callout, and licked the meat of your thumb to wet it. You sprinkled the salt on it and reached for the lime. Then, you licked the salt, downed the shot, and sucked on the flesh of the fruit, keeping your face as straight as an arrow. Pidge clapped with joy.

“Okay, me next.”

“That’s quite the process, cowgirl,” Hamish commented, admiring your shot-taking ritual.

You didn’t have the heart to tell her that downtown Miami didn’t have any cows, but you just smiled, folding yourself back up into hiding in the booth. The conversations left you behind and your head began to swim from the alcohol. By the time everyone was ready for their next beverage, you were done. Pidge didn’t notice. She’d moved on to champagne and spritzers. You were alone in a crowded room again, as usual.

“Hey, you feelin’ alright, bonnie?”

Johnny’s voice seemed too quiet for a loud bar. You smiled weakly,

“Mmm. Just drank too much, I think.”

“C’mon. I’ll get you home.”

Before you could protest, he was helping you out of the booth and onto your feet. You heard Pidge shriek,

“Johnny! What did I say?!”

“Pigeon! Is that really what you think o’ me? Gonna tuck her in, and tha’s it. I’ll be right back.”

“I swear on Christ and -”

“Yeah, yeah, and all the actual saints. I heard you, you wee dafty. I promise. Not a hair on her head, yeah?”

“You can touch all the hairs on my head, Soap,” Bekah cackled, and the table laughed with her.

Johnny laughed too, which felt like a knife twisting in your chest for some reason. You’d forgotten all about his nickname. Everyone except Pidge used it for him. You thought it was a callsign for the military, but you’d never had to call him anything, so you didn’t remember. But, Bekah did. She called him the right name. You had failed, obviously. Put it on my tab , you thought. You screamed it in your mind, punishing yourself for your mistake: Soap, Soap, Soap…

“C’mon,” he held you by the arm, “I’m out back.”

He loaded you into his Jeep and climbed into the driver’s side, adjusting the knobs for air and music. Some early aughts alt rock was blaring too loudly, and he cut it down, apologizing under his breath. His car smelled like cigarettes and beach sand. It was cleaner than it should’ve been. You felt too hot and too cold, and you wanted to sleep, so you did.

You woke with a jolt after the short ride had ended, and he had you in his arms, nestled close to his chest. He felt you come to and he whispered,

“Shh, lass. We’re almost in. Gonna get you some water and a paracetamol, and you’ll be right as rain in the mornin’.”

“God,” you groaned, “Soap, I’m so sorry. I didn’t really eat anything, and I -”

“Tha’s fine, hen. You’re alright. We’ve all been there, trust.”

He deposited you on his bed, pulling off your shoes and tucking you in. Then, he was gone and back in a flash of your semi-unconscious state. He handed you the pills and the water. It was cool in your hot mouth.

“Here, lass. Take that for me. Tha’s it. Good girl.”

You groaned, feeling sick with drunken stupor and sick with drunken desire all at the same time.

“And, hey,” he bent his face so he was eye-level with you as you lay back down, “Call me Johnny.”

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Chapter 03

#soap mctavish #soap x reader #soap x you #soap cod #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mactavish #johnny soap mactavish #soap mw2 #cod fanfic #cod mw2 #cod mwii #call of duty fanfic #guile and guilt

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littlesunshine1223 · 7 months

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Hello, I would like to know if you can do something from Hamilton specifically with John Laurens, I don't know if it can be something like an arranged marriage and they don't take it very well at first,but After time they fall in love

Arranged Marriage

(John Laurens x GN!Reader)

You had just got back to your house after walking the town with the Schuyler sisters but when you entered your house you saw your parents sitting down at the table with a man sitting across from them. “Ah, there they are now. Please Y/N come sit with us.” Your mother called happily with a big smile on her face. As you walk closer to the table you see a man that you had gotten into an argument like 20 minutes ago. You scoff as he looks at you with a disgusted look and an eye roll.

You sit down at the table as Laurens’ father kept talking to your parents but that’s when something caught your attention, the word marriage. Both you and John look at each other with widened eyes as your parents keep encouraging the idea. “Pardon my language for a moment but, WHAT THE FUCK?!” John exclaims outraged while jumping up from his seat to stand.

His father grabs him by the hair and tugs him back down to sit in the chair. “John sit back down, you and Y/N don’t get a say in this! We are the adults here and we’re doing what’s better for you!” John’s father stated loudly which caused the room to go completely silent. You got up from the table and before your mother could stop you, you were already out the door and back outside.

A few minutes after you had left you watched as John stormed out of your house and didn’t look back even as his father was screaming at him. John keeps walking until he sees you and groans in annoyance, “What do you want now?! The whole marriage thing was your idea wasn’t it?!” He accused which soon lead to another argument.

Eventually the two of you stop fighting and make it to town where you once again meet up with Mulligan, Lafayette, and Hamilton who were enjoying their down time at the docks. Mulligan looks at the two of you while he balances on the wooden post of the dock, being shoved into the water seconds later by Lafayette who was laughing hysterically. Hamilton looked up from his writing and placed his hand over his mouth to try to stifle his outburst of laughter.

“Laurens, what’s the matter? You seem pissed off.” Hamilton asked in a partially concerned tone after calming down a little. “My dad is trying to make me marry Y/N. And he got mad that both of us said fuck no.” Laurens explained which made Lafayette look over and crack a smile that was until Mulligan lifted himself up from the water and tugged on Lafayette’s hand, successfully pulling him into the water with him.

“If you both truly can’t stand one another then why not prove that to both of your parents? If all you do is argue then they’d have to listen at some point.” Hamilton suggests but Lauren’s just rolled his eyes, “I’d rather lick the bottom of that boat then marry that dull minded creature.”

Screams and swears in French distracted everyone from the conversation. Turning your attention to the scene unfolding with Mulligan and Lafayette. Both men were soaking wet from the water and now wrestling around trying to push each other back in the water.

Eventually you and the four ended up at a pub where all of them got absolutely wasted. About an hour later is when John blacked out against you with his head on your shoulder. His three friends began poking fun at the two of you and making suggestive hand gestures while wiggling their eye brows. You huff as the three continue but the comments get more in detail and R-Rated. You sigh and help John up before wishing the three goodnight then walking out of the bar.

The day of the wedding

You stood at the alter as the preacher gave the two of you permission to kiss each other. John crossed his arms and reluctantly kissed you. It was a simple peck on the lips but it satisfied the two sides of the families and bystanders.

That night after the wedding party when both of you were about to fall asleep in bed he wrapped his arms around you and held you lovingly, it surprised you at first but after a deep breath you relaxed into his touch. “Let’s try to make this work, I-I think I’m starting to be more open to this idea.” He mumbled to you before leaning over you and kissing you properly unlike he had before. With couple exchanges of the words “I love you” you both fell asleep in each others arms.

#hamilton fanfiction #alexander hamilton #hamilton musical #hamilsquad x reader #john laurens #marquis de lafayette #lafayette x reader #John Laurens x reader #hercules mulligan #aaron burr

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lulublack90 · 8 months

Text

Prompt 20 - Lethal

@jegulus-microfic January 20 Word count 642

I think this one is going to be a few parts. I'll link the parts together so they're easy to find.

“Party? Party? Party?” Marlene asked, pointing at her friends, who were already drinking around the table in their local pub. It did not take much persuading for the others to agree to call everyone they knew and start a party back at James’s.

“Can Reggie come?” Sirius asked. “He doesn’t have many friends, and I don’t think he’s left the house for a week.”

“As long as he doesn’t bring the party down,” Mary replied, sticking her tongue out at Sirius when he stuck his out at her.

“We need to go get some booze in and food, guys, or else the party will be a bust,” Lily told them all. Downing her drink as she stood up.

Thirty minutes later, the group was shoving bags of shopping into the back of James’s mum’s old minivan. They had left Sirius sprawled across the back seat with all their phones, texting as many people as he could.

“Budge up,” Remus said, giving Sirius less than a second to move, before lifting his legs into the air and sliding into the seat. He dropped Sirius's legs ungraciously. Sirius nearly fell on the floor.

“Hey, rude!” Sirius squawked at Remus, his bottom lip pushing out into a sulky pout. He didn’t have time to complain before Mary shoved him off the other seat so she could sit down.

“Okay, guys, let’s go!” James cried out jovially before twisting the key in the ignition. The minivan choked to life. He pressed his foot down and he sped away, causing Sirius to actually fall off the backseat and into the footwell. Remus dragged him up by the scruff of his neck and wound his seatbelt around him.

“Buckle up, dumbass.” He growled.

“Sorry about that,” James apologised over his shoulder as he pulled out of the car park and onto the main road.

“No worries, mate. Could we swing by mine so I can grab Reggie? I think if I don’t literally drag him there myself, he won’t come.

James hit the curb more forcefully than was probably good for his mother’s poor old van. Sirius jumped out and ran into the grand Georgian house he’d inherited when his parents had died. Two minutes later, he was dragging his brother down the front steps. Regulus was putting up quite a fight. Sirius pulled hard at him, almost yanking his hoodie from his body. Eventually, he bundled his brother into the back of the van and yelled at James to go, go, go!

Regulus wasn’t happy. He glowered at the car’s worn carpet, not saying a word.

At the next red traffic light, James turned as far as his seatbelt would allow him to and grinned broadly at Regulus.

“How’s it going, Reg?” He asked. Regulus looked up at him, scowling.

“That good, huh?” James laughed as he ruffled Regulus’s short curls. Regulus yanked his head away, pulled his hood up and crossed his arms across his chest.

“James, green light,” Lily said as she jabbed James in the arm, forcing him to pay attention.

They got to James’s and had to hurry to set everything up. Sirius and Remus sorted out the music, bickering over which songs to put on the playlist. Lily and Mary put food into bowls and onto plates. James set out the bottles of alcohol and mixers on the kitchen counter. While Marlene was doing what Marlene does best and creating a truly lethal punch. James looked at the concoction warily. Deciding, there and then, it would probably be best if he stayed clear of Marlene’s punch.

Regulus leant against the wall near the French windows, refusing to help with anything. He had his phone out and was endlessly scrolling. James was just about to go over to him and try to chat when the doorbell rang, signalling the arrival of their guests.

Next part

#January 20 #jegulus #jegulus microfic #james potter #regulus black #sirius black #remus lupin #lily evans #mary macdonald #bob marley #marlene mckinnon #james fleamont potter #regulus arcturus black #james x regulus #regulus x james #regulus and james #lethal #james that poor van #marlene the liquor queen

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literarylondonhq · 5 months

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London Literary Pub Crawl last night.

🇬🇧/ 🇺🇸 A trans Atlantic Pub Crawl. Great fun! Here in Bradley’s Spanish Bar #Soho http://www.LondonLiteraryPubCrawl.com

View On WordPress

#Anthony Burgess #bohemian #Books #Charles Dickens #drinking #French House Pub #George Orwell #Literary London #literature #London #London Literary Pub Crawl.com #poets #pubs #Soho #USA #west end #Writers

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useless-catalanfacts · 9 months

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Mariquita Tennant (born Maria Francesca Eroles i Eroles) was a Catalan woman who protected abused and poor women in Windsor (England).

How did she end up in England?

Mariquita was born in the village Pla de Sant Tirs, in the High Pyrenees of Catalonia. During the war between those who wanted an absolutist monarchy and the liberals, Mariquita's father was involved in the liberal side and between 1821 and 1823 he was the leader the local miquelets (militia). When the King of France sent the army known as the Hundred Thousand Sons of Saint Louis to help restore the absolute monarchy, many liberals went on exile to England. Mariquita followed her father, mother and three siblings on exile to London.

They settled in Somers Town, a neighbourhood that had become home to many exiles from Catalonia and the Valencian Country and that had previously also become home to exiled French revolutionaries and American independentists. In February 1833, Mariquita married David Reid, son of a Scottish beer maker who had become wealthy running a pub chain in England. But in November of the same year, David threw himself down a window during an epileptic attack, resulting in his death. Soon after, Mariquita's first and last daughter Mary was born, but she also died soon. Some years later, Mariquita married again. Her new husband was Robert Tennant, but he died a sudden death in 1842.

In 1846, at 38 years old, her first husband's family allowed her to live in one of their properties. She turned this house into a shelter for girls who had been abused by society. There were many girls and women in this situation, so the house was full very soon. Quickly, Mariquita looked for funds and allied with the Anglican church to create a local branch of the House of Mercy. In 50 years, this institution attended and housed 2,500 girls in Windsor, many of which were girls who had been forced into prostitution by poverty and until then had had no way to escape.

The house that Mariquita's first husband's family let her live in, and which she turned into a shelter.

Mariquita suffered bad health for most of her years of service, and in the end died in 1860. She's buried in Saint Andrew's cemetery, overlooking the house she turned into a shelter.

In 2005, the Windsor and Maidenhead city council uncovered a blue plaque to remember her (in England, blue plaques mark the place where a historical event happened or recognise a historical person), though there's a small mistake because it says she was born in 1811 but she was actually born on November 9th 1807.

She's the only Catalan person to have an English blue plaque.

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josefavomjaaga · 3 months

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Napoleonic daily soap - special. Bonn, December 1795

I'm not sure if anybody still remembers the idea of a napoleonic daily soap. Briefly, I was quite fascinated by the idea but, as usual, I got quickly distracted. By that time, I had begun a little "special", featuring an event unrelated to Napoleon. Because, after all, the napoleonic saga is so much more than only one monsieur Bonaparte.

I had gotten halfway through the plot before I broke off. Now I've finished it - rather hastily and badly, but finished, and I'm posting it in case somebody is still interested. It's heavily inspired by some real complaints found in German sources 😋.

-.-.-

Napoleonic daily soap, special 1 – what was everybody else doing at the time [i.e.: September/November 1795]?

-.-.-

[Scene: Bonn. The Council Room/Ratsstube of the pub located in the town hall’s basement [that every German town hall seems to have]. Darkened wood lining the walls, carved ceiling, heavy oak furniture. Some dozen town officials, visibly well-off members of the local bourgeoisie in old-fashioned 18th century overcoats, gold watch chains hanging out of their waistcoats, are drinking and chatting happily]

[Mayor, raising his glass]:

"Gentlemen, we have every reason to be satisfied. The French army of the Rhine has continued its retreat." [Applause, town officials knocking on the table, cheering.] "The French headquarter has left our beloved Bonn for good. No longer will French soldiers rob our peasants, squeeze the money out of our working class and misappropriate the contents of the city's coffers."

[Town official, interrupting]

"Damn right! After all, that’s our job!" [Laughter, more cheering]

[Door opens. Kinzinger enters, an open letter in his hand.]

[Kinzinger]

"Don’t you rejoice too soon, gentlemen!"

[Mayor]

"Herr Kinzinger, you’re late for this meeting of the city council. Where have you been?"

[Kinzinger, handing him the letter]

"I was kept up by a courier who brought me this. Apparently, the French are returning."

[Groaning all along the table. The mayor hastily studies the letter]

[Mayor]

"The corps of one general Lefebvre will be stationed in our region … some brigadier general is even supposed to stay in our town … soldiers to be quartered in private houses … officers to be lodged and fed at the town’s expenses …"

[Town official]

"The usual, obviously."

[Mayor, gets agitated]:

"And there we have it. This brigadier general is not even here yet but already sends ahead a list of what he wants to be delivered to his personal cook on his entry into town."

[Town official sarcastic]:

"Efficient. What does he ask for?"

[Mayor, eyes bulging]

"He demands – get this: 12 pounds of ox meat, one mutton, half a calf, vegetables, white bread, chicken …" [some of what he reads is lost in a flurry of upset murmurs in the audience] "… coffee and sugar."

[Town officials all talking over each other]

"Outrageous – what sort of glutton is this? - this guy must weigh a ton! - do we really have to comply with this?"

[Kinzinger]

"We’ve had some bad guys here already but that one seems to be the worst so far."

[Mayor, knocks on the table calling for silence]

"Gentlemen, I say we must not put up with this. It is time to reign those Frenchmen in. We have met the demands of those French officers long enough. That's the last straw." [Cheers, applause and approval] "We will let this general …" [checks the letter] "... Soult know that the city’s coffers are empty, that the town’s resources are exhausted, that the things he asks for are nowhere to be found and that he has to come up with another way to indulge in his culinary vices."

-.-.-

[CUT to Soult’s office in Bonn. His younger brother Pierre is standing at attention before his desk.]

[Soult, confused]

"What do you mean you’re not going to stay here with me? You’re my aide de camp."

[Pierre]

"That does not mean I have to always sleep under the same roof as you, right? I mean, I will show up for my job, obviously. But Jean, I’d really love to have some time for myself occasionally."

[Soult stares]

[Pierre]

"Look, the only thing that will be different is that I won’t be there for dinner."

[Soult, aghast]:

"You will even eat elsewhere?"

[Pierre]

"You will barely notice! You always invite half of our officers to dinner…"

[Soult]

"For good reason. I want to have my people close by. At least then I know where they are and that they are not committing any excesses or stupidities in town on that evening. Which reminds me: Where precisely do you plan on staying in Bonn?"

[Pierre, a bit embarrassed]

"There’s a house close to the city gate."

[Soult's eyes narrow]

"You would not be talking about the one on the left side of the road? The one with the red paper lanterns in all its windows?"

[Pierre regards a corner of the room with great interest]

[Soult]

"You have to be kidding me!"

[Pierre]

"Look, Jean…"

[Soult]

"That’s general Jean to you, monsieur!"

[Pierre]

"I’m 25, okay? Plus, technically, it’s just another kind of inn. The rooms are clean and comfy, the girls are very nice, the food is excellent …"

[Soult]

"You’re staying at a brothel because of the food? When we have our own cook? Wait until Perrou hears about that!" [stares at Pierre]

[Pierre stares back]

[Soult, exasperated]

"Just so you know, I am appalled! And Perrou will be even more so! Do I really need to explain to you what an impression those good Germans will have when they see one of our sous-lieutenants, who is not only an ADC to the commanding general but also closely related to him, openly stay at a brothel? I do not have words to express my disappointment. This idea is outrageous. You're giving the French army a bad name by such behaviour. Even worse, you're giving me a bad name. You make us look like insatiable womanizers, you're confirming all the prejudice the Germans may have about French vices. How could you even dream about staying at a house of bad reputation?"

[Pierre, matter-of-fact-ly]

"I understand that, as brothels go, it actually has a very good reputation. The girls say that all important town officials are customers. The rooms are incredibly cheap, I'll have one all to myself, unlike when I’m quartered in town and can congratulate myself if I do not have to share the bed with some grenadier. And as a long-term client, I’ll get drinks and services at a discount."

[Soult]

"There’s a discount?"

[Pierre]

"I’m sure I could get my friends and family included into that."

[Soult]

"That does not make it any less outrageous."

[Pierre]

"True. But can I go now?"

[Soult]

"Unfortunately, you’re a grown up. I do not have any legal means to hinder what you do in your freetime."

[Pierre]

"Thank you, you’re the best big brother ever!"

[Soult, grim]:

"I may get back to you about that discount. And if Mum finds out, you’re on your own. I’m not covering up for you!"

[As Pierre turns to leave, the door opens. Soult’s cook Perrou enters the room.]

[Soult]

"Ah, Perrou, good you’re coming. We will be one person less for dinner tonight. And apparently all through the rest of our stay in Bonn. You can rearrange your plans for the meals accordingly."

[Perrou, furious]

"I’m sorry to say, general, but I fear there will not be any meals. At all. The town magistrate has refused to send anything for my kitchen. Am I supposed to conjure up dinner for everybody out of thin air?"

[Soult]

"What du you mean, refused?"

[Perrou]

"They flat out say there is no food in town."

[Soult, glares]

"They are trying to starve us. This means war. - Pierre?"

[Pierre, hastily]

"You already said I could leave for my inn…"

[Soult]

"You can. But make a quick detour. To the town hall."

-.-.-

[CUT to town hall. Kinzinger sitting behind a wooden desk. Pierre Soult standing in front of him. Both are engaged in a discussion that obviously has been going on for a while.]

[Pierre]

"I truly fail to understand you. A French army is quartered in your town. Of course the magistrate has to provide food for it. How else are the soldiers supposed to be nourished? Do you want them to just run around and grab stuff?"

[Kinzinger, menacingly]:

"Is that a threat?"

[Pierre]

"Actually, it was a question. This is not the first time you have a French army in town. You know how these things work. You have delivered provisions to the generals who used to be here before us, without any problems. So why not this time?"

[Kinzinger]

"Because our means are exhausted, because we are fed up with you guys, and because we have never before encountered such extraordinary demands. This is the first time a general already sent a list of stuff he wanted for dinner before he had even entered the town. What do you think our town of Bonn is? An all-you-can-eat buffet free of charge?"

[Pierre sighs]

"Look, Monsieur Quinzie …"

[Kinzinger, muttering, almost to himself, in the tone of somebody who has repeated himself several times already]

"That’s Kinzinger, actually…"

[Pierre]

"I do not know what the regular demands for the table of a brigadier general are. I’ve only ever served on this staff, so I cannot compare. What I do know: If you want to keep my brother in a good mood, you better keep him fed. And fed well!"

[Kinzinger]

"So you’re saying the general is your brother? - Typical. Greed, gluttony, nepotism."

[Pierre]

"Whatever. Just send him something to eat, or I don’t know what he will do. He’s cranky enough on a full stomach."

[Kinzinger]

"Very well. The town magistrate will provide the extraordinary amount of food stuff the general has demanded. But I let you know that we will send him the bill at the end of the week."

[Pierre]

"Fair enough, you do that. If you excuse me now, I’m off to the Towngate Tavern."

[Kinzinger, exasperated]

"You go where?"

[Pierre, grinning]

"Now don’t be jealous, Monsieur Quinzie. We French have had a long and exhausting campaign. I plan on making the most of my stay in your beautiful town." [mutters] "God knows I’ve deserved it. You, monsieur, only have to deal with my brother now. Can you imagine doing it every day?"

[Kinzinger]

"I admit you do have a point."

-.-.-

[CUT to Soult’s office in Bonn. Soult is sitting behind a desk covered with papers, making notes on some letter, obviously working hard. He picks up another document, studies it. Frowns.]

[Soult]

"Sublieutenant Soult!"

[CUT to anteroom. Pierre Benoit is on duty. Winces visibly at his brother’s call.]

[Pierre]

"Merde." [enters the office] "Mon général?"

[Soult hands him the document]

"What’s this?"

[Pierre]

"Looks like some kind of invoice."

[Soult]

"That much I saw myself. Why is the town magistrate sending me a bill for the food we consumed?"

[Pierre, regarding a corner of the room with great interest]

"Because they kind of expect compensation?"

[Soult glares at him]

[Pierre, exasperated]

"Look, it was the only way to get them to comply. You wanted food, you got the food. But they insisted on sending you a bill at the end of every week."

[Soult]

"So what am I to do with it now? You know we’ve not received any money from Paris in ages. How are we supposed to pay?"

[Pierre, shrugging]

"Maybe, if you explain this to the magistrate …"

[Soult, scoffs]

"Sure. Let’s tell the enemy that we do not even have enough money to pay for food expenses, let alone weapons and equipment. Great strategy, sublieutenant."

[Pierre]

"Then just ignore the bill, for what it’s worth. Who knows if they even expect you to pay? These are town officials, maybe they just needed some document to put a seal on and to file away in their archives. They’ve been difficult enough with all their bureaucracy."

[Soult, still frowning]

"They have?"

[Pierre]

"Sure. Refusing to honour a request because the list was not signed, or not signed by the right person, or not signed in the correct place… I’ve stopped counting how often they sent back one of the lists until we had corrected those mistakes. But in the end they have always played along so far."

[Soult]

"Keep me informed if these magistrates continue to harrass you. Who is the person responsible?"

[Pierre]

"A monsieur Quinzie. Quite a nice guy, actually. But stuffy as hell."

[Soult]

"Well, I hope he will remain cooperative. We’re expecting general Lefèbvre and his staff for the next weekend. And I want everything to be top notch for my old commander-in-chief."

-.-.-

[CUT. Town hall, one week later. Kinzinger’s office. Several town officials surrounding Kinzinger’s desk, all talking loudly over each other. A sheet of paper goes from hand to hand. General excitement.]

[Town mayor enters through a side door, regards the chaos for a moment]

[Mayor]

"Please don’t tell me this is Soult’s list again."

[Kinzinger]

"I fear it is."

[Mayor]

"But didn’t I already sign a supply list for French headquarters this morning?"

[Kinzinger]

"That was the regular list. This one is an add-on. For a special occasion. And I must say, we’ve really had to endure a lot from this glutton already. But this time he’s outdone himself. Here, have a look!"

[The mayor grabs the list Kinzinger hands him. We can see his eyes bulge and his jaw drop.]

[Mayor]

"Thirty … thirty bottles of red wine! For one evening! What, does he want to take a bath in it? And additionally two bottles of whisky, thirty bottles of beer, twenty pounds of ox meat, fish, several chicken … all sorts of jam and pastries, fresh and preserved fruits…"

[Kinzinger]

"We’ve heard that the scoundrel-in-chief of the French vanguard, general Lefebvre, and his staff are coming over to visit. That may explain it, but ..."

[Mayor]

"But it does not make the expenses in any way easier to bear, precisely! – Wait, what’s this? Whose name is that on the bottom on the list? Isn’t it usually the general’s brother who signs these demands?"

[Kinzinger]

"Most of the time, indeed. This is a different name. Possibly the cook?"

[Mayor, with grim satisfaction]

"Wonderful. In this case, we will regard this outrageous list as non-existent. The signature of a mere army cook cannot have any meaning for this town magistrate. Send it back, and inform whoever sent it that we will only accept demands through the proper channels. – And now, gentlemen, let us start today’s meeting. Surely we have more important concerns than the bottomless stomachs of our French guests."

-.-.-

[Half an hour later. The council meeting is in full swing. We see several bottles of wine and plates full of delicacies on the table, when the adress of some council member suddenly gets interupted by commotion outside the room. The door swings open, and in stomps Soult’s cook. All council members jump from their seats.]

[Mayor]

"What is this supposed to mean?"

[Perrou]

"That’s what I ask you." [points at Kinzinger] "Or rather you! Aren’t you that Monsieur Quinzie who sends me the supplies for my kitchen?"

[Kinzinger, annoyed]

"That’s 'Kinzinger', actually, and I’m not a grocery supplier but a member of this esteemed town coun…"

[Perrou]

"Don’t you dare deny your responsibility! I’ve sent you a detailed list of everything I need in order to create a true feast for the visit of general Lefebvre! And you? You have refused to send me anything! How dare you? Do you know who I am? I am Perrou, the best cook in the Armée de Sambre-et-Meuse, and I am working for the best general of the whole of France!"

[Kinzinger]

"Well, I do not know if he’s the best general but he surely is the most demanding."

[Perrou]

"Demanding you call him? Demanding you call these poor soldiers, who would be happy to live of nothing but bread and onions for weeks? Demanding? Ha! If you knew, Monsieur Quinzie, what it takes to turn these boys into accomplished gentlemen, to teach them to even appreciate the finer qualities of life, to train their tongue and taste buds enough for them to recognise the true value of a culinary work of art such as I create! Because that’s what I am, an artist! An artist of the kitchen, and you, Monsieur, are hindering the creation of yet another masterpiece!"

[Mayor, annoyed]

"I think we’ve heard quite enough of this madman. Let’s call for the servants to get him out of here."

[Perrou]

"You want to kick me out like some random beggar? Me, Perrou? Oh, you wait, I’ll show you!" [stabs an index finger at Kinzinger, poking him in the chest] "You give me the food for tomorrow’s feast right now, Monsieur Quinzie, or all hell will break loose! Do you reckon I will feed general Lefebvre nothing but potatoes and cabbage?"

[Kinzinger]

"Hey, stop poking me!"

[He shoves him back. Perrou pushes him, Kinzinger strikes back, Perrou grabs him be the throat. Within a second, there’s a full brawl, with all the honourable council members joining in. Together, they succeed in pushing the enraged cook out of the room and in closing the door behind him]

[Mayor, panting]

"What a day! I wonder of we will get any work done during this meeting…"

-.-.-

[CUT to next scene: Pierre Soult and four soldiers are standing in front of them, ready to arrest Kinzinger.]

[Pierre]

"I’m sorry, it’s an order from my general."

[Mayor]

"You cannot arrest our colleague. He’s a town official, he is not under your general’s jurisdiction!"

[Pierre, shrugging]

"Possibly. But unfortunately, I am. Come on, Monsieur Quinzie, we have a nice room prepared for you, and I’ll see to it that you’ll have some of what Perrou has cooked for the visit of general Lefebvre tomorrow night. That should reconcile you a bit with your fate. I’m sure you’ll be out of prison again in time for christmas."

[Kinzinger, being led away, turning pale]

"You want to lock me up until christmas? Mayor!"

[Mayor, shouting after him]

"Do not worry, Kinzinger! This savage violation of the law will not be tolerated! It is about time to show these insolent French soldiers the limit of what they can do." [Door closes behind the French who march off Kinzinger. The mayor adresses the rest of the council] "And we shall do so by using their own weird laws of their own weird republic."

-.-.-

[Cut to new scene. A rather simply furnished room. The mayor, accompanied by two council members, is adressing Caselli. Who is sitting behind a desk and eagerly takes notes.]

[Mayor]

"So you assure us that you will be able to do something in favour of our friend?"

[Caselli]

"Absolutely. I have come here from Paris to the army as representative of the French people; taking care of such blatant abuse of power is precisely my job!"

[Mayor]

"I'm glad to hear there is some sort of justice under your new form of government. Just imagine: Kinzinger, one of the most respected citizens of our town, arrested! It's unheard of."

[Caselli]

"It is, and I shall put a stop to it. Put all your faith in me, messieurs! I will reign in those rogue generals in no time."

-.-.-

[CUT to next scene: Another day, another council meeting. Kinzinger’s seat is empty. The door is thrown open with such force it hits the wall. Enter Lefebvre and in his wake, somewhat slowlier, possibly a little embarrassed, Soult]

[Lefebvre]

"So these are the bastards who sicced that obnoxious 'representative of the people' on us, eh, boy?"

[Soult]

"Oui, mon général. But I assure you that I will be able to deal with these gentlemen on my own…"

[Lefebvre]

"I do not doubt that. But you will not have to. Because now I am here. [faces the mayor] How dare you give my dear general Soult so much trouble! I will teach you! Sending that idiot paper pusher after us so he writes some report to the other paper pushers in Paris! I will make you regret that idea, I’ll make you wish you’d rather shot yourself! You think prison is too much for one of your kind to bear? I’d have you all hanged, I’d have you all guillotined if you had gone through with the plan to let us starve! My dear Soult here wanted to cut down the trees in one of your alleys as a punishment, I say we’ll do worse, we’ll garrison another regiment in town just so you suckers know what it means to have to feed hungry soldiers! I’ll have you all put in iron and walked to Paris, I’ll…"

[Soult, putting a hand on Lefebvre’s shoulder, silently]

"General, I think they got the message."

[Lefebvre, still furious]

"They better have, or they’ll see how throroughly I can fuck up their pleasant bourgeois existence here!"

[The two French generals leave]

[Mayor]

"What brutes! We need to have another word with this representative Caselli."

-.-.-

[CUT to Caselli’s room. Caselli is busy packing his clothes into a trunk]

[Mayor]

"Monsieur Caselli! Are you leaving?"

[Caselli, smiling]

"Why, yes. My position here was always only temporarily."

[Mayor]

"Really? To me it seems you are running from Soult and Lefebvre?

[Caselli]

"What? How could anybody think that? Though I have to admit that I found these two generals rather unwilling to accept my authority. And also rather ... impolite. Rude. Almost threatening. You could have warned me about their character. But still, my departure has absolutely nothing to do with them. There have been some political changes in our government – well, to be fair, there are always certain changes in our government, and people like me need to make sure they are on the right side of events."

[Mayor]

"But what about our problems? You promised to help us?"

[Caselli]

"Oh, don’t you worry, Monsieur. My report must reach authorities in Paris within a week. I’m sure it will have dire consequences for the future careers of these two generals."

[Mayor, exasperated]

"I don’t care shit about Soult’s or Lefebvre’s military career. I want Kinzinger out of prison, and I don’t want to pay for these generals’ daily feasts anymore!"

[Caselli]

"You know how things are, Monsieur. You’ve lost the war, you pay the price. Be happy you only have to feed these men and don’t have to suffer them plundering your beautiful town, too. They do keep their men in check, right?"

[Mayor]

"Yes, but…"

[Caselli]

"There you have it. Isn’t that the most important point? And as to Monsieur Kinzinger, I understand that general Soult at least is quite aware he has overstepped his boundaries there. In his initial anger, he got carried away, and then felt he could not go back on his words. But once he feels he has saved face, he surely will release your friend. I’m convinced it’s only a matter of days. - Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to find some servants to get my luggage into the carriage."

-.-.-

[CUT to – epilogue. A rather dark corridor. Pierre Soult is leading Kinzinger out of prison.]

[Pierre]

"See? I told you you would be free before christmas."

[Kinzinger]

"Am I supposed to be grateful for that now?"

[Pierre]

"Oh, come on, we did treat you well enough, didn’t we. I even arranged for some … private visit from one of my Towngate Tavern ladyfriends, didn't I? And you have to admit that Perrou’s cooking alone would have been worth it."

[Kinzinger gives him a sullen look but starts nodding]

"He really seems to be a master of his craft, I’ll give him that. Truth be told, it may be hard for me to get back to my wife’s cooking after having been spoilt all these days…"

[Pierre, beaming]

"See? And that’s why Perrou told me to give you this. [He grabs a large package wrapped in paper from a table near the exit and hands it to Kinzinger.] Some leftover meat pies and pastries, to share with your family. With my brother’s blessings. It’s not as if he apologizes, mind you, it’s just… well, we do not want to end our stay in Bonn on such a bad note. [He sighs.] Unfortunately, we will not be able to enjoy this town’s hospitality much longer. We’ve received orders to move."

[Kinzinger]

"I hope you don’t expect me to fake tears about this change of events. May I ask where you will be going?"

[Pierre]

"Seems we’ll cross the Rhine. A town named Solingen, where we shall have our winter quarters. I hope we will not have any similar disagreements there. But most likely, in such a small country town, nothing of importance will happen..."

#napoleon's marshals #jean de dieu soult #pierre soult #napoleonic shitpost #napoleonic daily soap #bonn 1795

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starlightsuffered · 1 month

Text

My Boyfriend’s Sister’s Boyfriend

Warnings - drinking, thinking of cheating, bad relationship, toxic friend, mentions of transphobia

I walked into the pub. My boyfriend, Dillon, was at my side. We'd been dating a little over a year and it was.....okay. Fine, nice, whatever you want to say. By this time I'd convinced myself "the spark" didn't really exist. You ended up with someone who met most of your desires, and you went with it. That night, my opinion changed.

Dillon was an old family friend. His parents and mine had been thick as thieves. When they'd had kids, they encouraged us to be friends. I'd actually had a crush on him when we'd been young, then we'd gone into a phase of hardly talking. Eventually, he joined my school, and he'd asked me out years after we graduated. I'd been so surprised I said yes, even though I wasn't that attracted to him. Ever since then, it'd been easier to just be with him. I didn't want to ruin the relationship between our families.

I was going to be meeting Dillon's sister's new boyfriend. I wasn't the biggest fan of his sister. She was the type to say things she knew would bug you, just to get a reaction. I wasn't one who was able to hide my feelings well.

Dillon hated most social outings. I wasn't the biggest fan either, but we hadn't been out together in ages. I was sick of going to his house to watch marvel movies, and eat fudge.

Dillon was talking to me about some vague computer part he'd ordered. I tried to listen, I really did, but I just didn't get that kind of stuff. I would have been more willing to try if he didn't openly mock nearly all my hobbies. He didn't understand why it bothered me. I never did the same to him.

"Oh there she is," Dillon waved to his sister, but I couldn't pay attention to her. Beside her was the most gorgeous creature I'd ever seen. He was tall, with curly dark hair. His form was slender, just like I preferred, with soft pale skin and hazel eyes. I was transfixed by him. I followed his every movement as he walked along with his girlfriend.

That's when he looked up. When our eyes met, it was like the world stopped turning for a minute. There it was, that spark, the thing I'd stopped believing in. It seemed he felt it too because he had stopped in his tracks. He was no longer following his girlfriend, he was staring at me. Neither of us were moving, I wasn't even sure if I was breathing. How was this happening?

"He looks like a stoner," Dillon said, breaking me from my reverie.

"He does not," I snapped, oddly protective of this man I didn't know. "You be nice!" I ordered.

"Alright, alright," he rolled his eyes.

When I turned back around, they were in front of us. My mouth hung open in shock. He was even more breathtaking up close.

"Hey y/n, hey Dillion," Julie said. Julie was his sister. Their relationship confused me. They acted like they literally couldn't stand one another, yet they always made time for one another.

"Hi," I said, giving her a small hug.

"Well, this is my boyfriend," she said. "Timothée."

I now knew his name.

"Hi, I'm Y/N," I said, sticking out my hand for him to shake. When we touched, it was like an electric spark snapped between us. This was bad, this was really bad.

"What a lovely name," he said.

"Timothée is part French," Julie said, and it took every part of me not to grind my teeth. She had said it to bug me. I'd always been the one interested in England, and France. No, I didn't have a monopoly on those things, but they way she said it, I could tell she meant to make me jealous.

"That's so cool," I told him, and I could practically feel my eyes sparkling every time I looked at him.

"Je n'ai jamais vu quelqu'un avec des yeux aussi beaux que les vôtres," Timothée said to me. I didn't know what he'd said, but it still made me blush.

"I once failed a Spanish test in highschool six times," Dillon announced. It took a lot of strength not to roll my eyes. Dillion had to be the best at everything, even if he was the worst at it, he had to be the best at being the worst. I could tell he'd felt threatened by Timothée's bilingual abilities.

"This is my brother, Dillon," Julie said blandly.

"Nice to meet you," Timothée said politely.

We all found a place to sit and chat. I couldn't get over how beautiful Timothée was. He was equally as charming. He talked with his hands, and seemed so genuinely kind.

"So what do you do for work Timothée?" I asked. I had tried my hardest to focus equally on every member of the group, but it wasn't working well. For some reason I wanted to know absolutely everything about him.

"I'm in a performing arts college at the moment. I hope to one day become an actor. I work for a school as an elementary soccer coach," he explained. I could have melted right there on the spot. An aspiring actor, who worked with children. Could he be anymore precious?

"I bet they all love you," I chuckled.

"Why do you say that?" Dillon snapped. He'd been brooding all night. I didn't exactly blame him.

"Babe, I literally work with kids. I know personality types they like," I told him.

"So you're a teacher then?" Timothée asked.

"Yes, but I'm an aspiring author," I smiled, he seemed to like what he heard, but Julie had to butt in.

"All her stuff is so angsty, I can barely stomach it," She said. This wasn't true on her end. She didn't mind angst, for God's sake her favorite show was Supernatural.

"Well, it's just what gets me creative," I said, looking at my feet. I was very sensitive about my writing.

"Hey, pain, and angst have fueled some of the most beautiful art. Look at Starry Night by Van Gogh. He was in an asylum when he painted that," Timothée countered.

"That's my favorite painting," I said eagerly.

"That's my cue," Dillion said. "If we are going to be talking about art and mental illness, I'm headed home."

"Alright, see you later," Julie waved. He looked angry that I wasn't accompanying him, but I was having a good time. Plus, he was the one being grouchy.

We ordered more drinks. I threw mine back, wondering if I could blame my fascination with Timothée on alcohol later.

"If you could play any character, in anything, who would you choose?" I asked. I always loved asking this of aspiring actors.

"I think I'd like to play Laurie from Little Women. He has a lot of depth, and quite the character development," Timothée answered. It was a good answer.

"If you could have originated any character in literature, who would it be?" He asked, and I blushed.

"My answer is stupid," I said.

"I bet it isn't," he urged.

"Regulus Black from the Harry Potter series. I think he's so nuanced. You never even meet him, yet his story is so viscerally moving."

There was something akin to fondness in Timothée's eyes as he looked at me. His smile was bright. I felt as though we were kindred souls at the moment.

"I don't think that answer is stupid at all," he said. "Not one little bit."

"Can't believe your saying that y/n," Julie drawled. "She's a transphobe, and you're all over that LGBT stuff."

She had finally riled up into a reaction. I glared at her. She was also "all over" that LGBT stuff, we were both openly bisexual. She was only being flippant to bother me.

"Unfortunately, bad people can create good things. I don't support her financially anymore, or engage with any of the new stuff. Also if by "LGBT stuff" you mean peoples rights, yes I am all over that."

"I don't know, some of her arguments make sense," Julie said, and that was a huge mistake. She'd forgotten we weren't alone. It wasn't just me to take the bait.

"That's a disgusting opinion," Timothée said in horror. She flipped immediately.

"It was just a joke. I was being sarcastic," She promised. Timothée seemed to relax at that, but I rolled my eyes.

Just then Julie's phone rang. She picked it up and looked panicked after a moment.

"I've got to go!" She said hurriedly grabbing her things.

"What's wrong?" Timothée asked.

"My apartment is flooding," She explained and rushed out. She left Timothée and I there alone.

"I suppose you want to leave now?" I asked.

"No, I'm having a great time," Timothée said, knocking back a drink.

"Me too," I smiled, and he chuckled. We continued to talk, and drink. Eventually, the two of us were a bit tipsy.

"Hey, I want to dance," Timothée said. I looked around with a giggle.

"We're in a pub," I said.

"I know a club really close to here, wanna join me?"

My stomach was doing flips. I nodded eagerly. He stood up shakily and held out his hand for me. I took it, even though the thought of touching him led me into treaturous thoughts.

We giggled as he led me across the street into the bustling club. It was loud, and smelled of cologne and liquor. It was a pretty nice place all things considered.

"Let's dance," he said, pulling me into the crowd. I felt like I would follow him anywhere. We were moving to the beat of the music. As I watched him, I felt the horrible urge to pull him in for a kiss. He was so close to me, mouth hanging open so I could feel his breath on me.

"I need to go," I said quickly. I needed to get away from him. His orbit was too alluring, I was sure to be sucked into it.

"Yeah, yeah, me too," he said, but he hadn't moved.

"It was really nice getting to meet you," I said earnestly.

"I feel the same way," he nodded, and I couldn't help but look for a deeper meaning in the words. Shit, I REALLY needed to get out of here.

I said my goodbye hurriedly, not able to resist much longer. I called an Uber that took me back to my apartment. Once home, I sat down on the couch, putting my head in my hands. What was happening? My world had been upturned.

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