#December Coup | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

anyab · 4 months

Text

Via NasAlSudan

December 17 2023. #KeepEyesOnSudan #SudanActionWeek

Swipe through to build a foundational understanding of the war, its origins, and the key players involved. For actionable ways to support those in Sudan, check the link in our bio. Stay tuned for more posts this week.

Transcript:

National:

On April 15, a war broke out in Sudan's capital city of Khartoum between the Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF), and a paramilitary group known as the Rapid Support Forces (RSF).

Since then, eight months of conflict has led to major destruction of Khartoum's infrastructure, the most developed region of Sudan, with fighting also spreading to the regions of Darfur in the west and Kordofan in the south.

Civilians in conflict zones have been forcibly displaced, under threat of physical and sexual violence, particularly by the RSF, which has looted, destroyed, and settled in people's homes.

Regional:

In the western region of Darfur, a campaign of ethnic cleansing is being carried out by the RSF targeting the Masalit tribe. Allegations of genocide have been levied against the RSF.

Reports have just emerged that fighting has now spread to Wad Madani in Al Gezira state, which houses nearly 500,000 IDPs from Khartoum.

Key figures:

Abdel Fattah al Burhan Head of SAF

Omar El-Bashir Deposed Dictator of Sudan

Mohamed Dagalo (Hemidti) Head of RSF

Transcript:

Sudan: the war in numbers

A humanitarian "catastrophe"

24.7 million in need of critical humanitarian assistance

70-80% of hospitals out of service in conflict areas

19 million children are out of school

20.3 million people acutely food insecure. 4.9 million facing emergency hunger levels

6.7 million displaced [5.4 million IDPS, 1.3 million refugees]

7,000+ cholera cases an increase of +136% over the past month

Transcript:

FAQ - THE SAF

QUESTION 01: What is the SAF?

Stands for the Sudanese Armed Forces

Is the de-facto government of Sudan

Is headed by Lt. General Abdel Fattah al-Burhan

QUESTION 02 What is their capacity?

Estimated to have ~200,000 personnel and tactical advantage of airforce

Currently control the relative northern and eastern regions of Sudan with functioning capital in Port Sudan (East)

QUESTION 03 Do they have backing and support?

On the international stage, primarily backed by Egypt

Limited weapons supply from allies

Internally, the SAF is ultimately considered the lesser of two evils

Transcript:

FAQ - THE RSF

QUESTION 01 What is the RSF?

Stands for the Rapid Support Forces

Paramilitary group originating from the Janjaweed, Arab tribal militias armed by al-Bashir in 2003 to fight against ethnically African rebel groups in Darfur + carried out 2003 genocide

Is headed by General Mohamed Hamdan Dagalo (Hemidti)

QUESTION 02 What is their capacity?

Estimated to have 100,000 to 150,000 troops

Winning the ground fight in Khartoum and control 4/5 states in Darfur

QUESTION 03 Do they have backing and support?

On the international stage, primarily backed by the UAE

Have steady weapons supply chain and diversified financial profile with critical assets in UAE and Russia

Transcript:

THE WAR IN SUDAN: CONTEXTUALIZING APRIL 15

(6/1989 - 4/2019) THE BASHIR REGIME

Sudan was under the rule of military dictator Omar Al-Bashir for 30 years, who came to power through an military coup backed by Islamist factions in June of 1989

His time in power was marked by extreme repression, conflict, and economic decline

(12/2018 CURRENT) THE REVOLUTION

In December of 2018, a popular democratic revolution began that eventually unseated al-Bashir on April 11 through the revolt of security sector

Al-Bashir was ultimately replaced by al-Burhan, with Hemidti as his deputy of a Transitional Military Council

Protestors rejected military rule and continued to hold a sit-in outside the military headquarters until its violent dispersal on June 3 of 2019 by the SAF + RSF

Today, the Sudanese people still hope and advocate for freedom from military rule and the transition to democracy

(8/2019-10/2021) TRANSITIONAL GOVERNMENT

Agreement on transitional government signed between civilian forces and Transitional Military Council on August 17, 2019

Led to formation of joint sovereign council with Abdalla Hamdok as Prime Minister

Transcript:

(10/2021 CURRENT)THE OCT 25, 2021 COUP

Burhan and Hemidti carry out military coup overthrowing civilian counterparts

They draw power from international legitimization despite prolonged mass protests in Sudan

(12/2022) THE FRAMEWORK AGREEMENT

In December of 2022, civilians put out a framework agreement signed onto by SAF and RSF + civil society groups and political parties meant to return to a transitional government

Key part of agreement: question of integration of the RSF into the SAF

Parties were to finalize the agreement and sign on April 1; RSF and SAF ultimately disagreed on integration timeline with RSF wanting 10 years and the SAF wanting 2

(12/2022-4/2023) THE LEAD UP TO APRIL 15

As framework agreement negotiations failed, both parties began mobilizing troops in capital of Khartoum in days leading up to April 15

Residents of Khartoum awoke to the sounds of gunfire on April 15 and by noon, the RSF had seized Meroe airport in the Northern state

Conflict today considered a battle for power between the two generals they are too far in to walk back

Transcript:

FRAMING ALLIANCES

Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF):

Egypt

Israel (Foreign Ministry)

Islamists

Iran

Saudi Arabia

Ukraine (SOF)

Armed Groups

Rebel groups that had taken up arms against the central government in the Bashir Era are forced to ally with the SAF due to the RSF's ethnic cleansing campaign. They include:

Justice and Equality Movement (Gibril Ibrahim)

Sudan Liberation Movement/Army (Minni Minawi)

Gathering of Sudan Liberation Forces (Abdallah Yahya)

Rapid Support Forces (RSF):

Israel (Mossad)

Libya (Khalifa Haftar)

United Arab Emirates

Central African Republic

Russia (Wagner Group)

Chad

Arab Tribal Leaders

Arab tribal leaders across the Western region of Darfur have pledged their allegiance and support to the RSF, with members of the tribes across the Sahel crossing into Sudan to join the RSF's assault as well.

Key tribes include: Beni Halba, Tarjam, Habaniya, Fallata, Misseriya, Taaysha, Rizeigat

Transcript:

IS THERE AN END IN SIGHT?

THE STATE OF NEGOTIATIONS

Effort: JEDDAH TALKS [MAY]

Parties involved: Externally: United States, Saudi Arabia Internally: SAF, RSF

Outcome: Discussed humanitarian ceasefire; signed Jeddah Declaration of Commitment to Protect the Civilians of Sudan - Failed

Effort: INTERGOVERNMENTAL AUTHORITY ON DEVELOPMENT (IGAD) [JULY]

Parties Involved: Externally: Kenya, Ethiopia, Djibouti, South Sudan Internally: RSF

Outcome: Proposed peacekeeping troops to ensure humanitarian corridor - Rejected

Effort: CAIRO TALKS (NEIGHBORING COUNTRIES) [JULY]

Parties Involved: Externally: Egypt, Ethiopia, South Sudan, Chad, Eritrea, CAR, Libya Internally: SAF, RSF

Outcome: Discussed lasting ceasefire, safe humanitarian passage, political dialogue framework - Failed

Effort: JEDDAH TALKS [OCTOBER]

Parties Involved: Externally: United States, Saudi Arabia Internally: SAF, RSF

Outcome: Discussed lasting ceasefire, safe humanitarian passage, political dialogue framework - Failed

Effort: IGAD + AFRICAN UNION (AU) [DECEMBER]

Parties Involved: Externally: IGAD, EU, UAE, Saudi Arabia, South Africa, United States Internally: SAF (Burhan in person), RSF

Outcome: Agreed to a face-to-face meeting in late December and ceasefire; SAF later issued a retraction - Ongoing

Transcript:

The conflict in Sudan calls for the collective support of all to raise awareness about the war and aid the Sudanese people on the ground, especially when we live in nations that have been complicit in the oppression of the Sudanese people. Explore the options below and share with others. For more information, check the link in our bio.

WHAT CAN YOU DO?

EDUCATE YOURSELF

Deepen your knowledge about Sudan, empowering yourself with insights into the complexities of the situation.

DONATE

Extend a helping hand to Sudan by generously donating to individuals or grassroots organizations on the ground.

CONTACT YOUR REPS.

Amplify your impact by contacting your representatives, advocating for positive change.

#sudan #keep eyes on sudan #KeepEyesOnSudan #Sudan Action Week #SudanActionWeek #i hope the way i formatted it is good #i saw a few hours ago that rsf retreated from wad madani outskirts

367 notes · View notes

realismovisceral · 3 months

Text

Isabeli Fontana in “Les Douze Coups De Minuit” for Lui Magazine, December 2015

#isabeli fontana #black and white #model #perfect girl #photography #beauty #lui magazine

313 notes · View notes

mayrine · 2 months

Text

Let's talk about Sudan-

TRANSCRIPT UNDER CUT

Transcript: What is happening in Sudan? The war, its origins, and the key players involved.

The war in Sudan

On April 15, a war broke out in Sudan's capital city of Khartoum between the Sudanese Armed Forces (SAF), and a paramilitary group known as the Rapid Support Forces (RSF). Since then, eight months of conflict has led to major destruction of Khartoum's infrastructure, the most developed region of Sudan, with fighting also spreading to the regions of Darfur in the west and Kordofan in the south.

Civilians in conflict zones have been forcibly displaced, under threat of physical and sexual violence, particulary by the RSF, which has looted, destroyed, and settled in people's homes.

In the western region of Darfur, a campaign of ethnic cleansing is being carried out by the RSF targeting the Masalit tribe. Allegations of genocide have been levied against the RSF.

Reports have just emerged that fighting has now spread to Wad Madani in AI Gazira state, which houses nearly 500,00 IDPs from Khartoum.

Key Figures: Abdel Fattah al Burhan (head of SAF), Omar El-Bashir (deposed dictator of Sudan), Mohamed Dagalo (Hemidti) (head of RSF)

Sudan: the war in numbers

24.7 million in need of critical humanitarian assistance 6.7 million displaced [5.4 million IDPS, 1.3 million refugees] 7,000+ cholera cases an increase of +136% over the past month 20.3 million people acutely food insecure- 4.9 million facing emergency hunger levels 19 million children are out of school 70-80% of hospitals out of service in conflict areas

FAQ - THE SAF

What is the SAF?

stands fro the Sudanese Armed Forces

is the de-facto government of Sudan

is headed by Lt. General Abdel Fattah al-Burhan

What is their capacity?

estimated to have aprox. 200,000 personnel and tactical advantage of airforce

currently control of relative northern and eastern regions of Sudan with functioning capital in Port Sudan (East)

Do they have backing and support?

on the international stage, primarily backed by Egypt

limited weapons supply from allies

internally, the SAF is ultimately considered the lesser of two evils

FAQ - THE RSF

What is the RSF?

stands fro Rapid Support Forces

paramilitary group originating from the Janjaweed, Arab tribal militias armed by al-Bashir in 2003 to fight against ethnically African rebel groups in Darfur + carried out 2003 genocide

is headed by General Mohamed Hamdan Dagalo (Hemidti)

What is their capacity?

estimated to have 100,000 to 150,000 troops

winning the ground fight in Khartoum and control 4/5 states in Darfur

Do they have backing and support?

on the international stage, primarily backed by the UAE

have steady weapons supply chain and diversified financial profile with critical assets in UAE and Russia

The war in Sudan: contextualizing April 15

6/1989 - 4/2019 - The Bashir Regime Sudan was under the rule of military dictator Omar Al-Bashir for 30 years, who came to power through an military coup backed by Islamist factions in June of 1989 His time in power was marked by extreme repression, conflict, and economic decline

12/2018 - current - The revolution In December of 2018, a popular democratic revolution began taht eventually unseated al-Bashir on April 11 through the revolt of security sector Al-Bashir was ultimately replaced by al-Burhan, with Hemidti as his deputy of a Transitional Military Council Protestors rejected military rule and continued to hold a sit-in outside the military headquarters until its violent dispersal on June 3 of 2019 by the SAF + RSF Today, the Sudanese people still hope and advocate for freedom from the military rule and the transition to democracy

8/2019 - 10/2021 - Transitional Government Agreement on transitional government signed between civilian forces and Transitional Military Council on August 17, 2019 Led to formation to joint sovereign council with Abdalla Hamdok as Prime Minister

10/2021 - Current - The Oct 25, 2021 Coup Burhan and Hemidti carry out military coup overthrowing civilian counterparts They draw power from international legitimization despite prolonged mass protests in Sudan

12/2022- The Framework Agreement In December of 2022, civilians put out a framework agreement signed onto by SAF and RSF + civil society groups and political parties meant to return to a transitional government - key part of agreement: question of integration of the RSF into the SAF Parties were to finalize the agreement and sign on April 1; RSF and SAF ultimately disagreed on the integration timeline with RSF wanting 10 years and the SAF wanting 2

12/2022-4/2023 - The Lead up to April 15 As framework agreement negotiations failed, both parties began mobilizing troops in capital of Khartoum in days leading up to April 15 Residents of Khartoum awoke to the sounds of gunfire on April 15 and by noon, the RSF had seized Meroe airport in the Northern state Conflict today considered a battle of power between the two generals they are too far in to walk back

Framing alliances

Sudnese Armed Forces (SAF):

Saudi Arabia

armed groups- rebel groups that had taken up arms against the central government in the Bashir Era are forced to ally with the SAF due to the RSF's ethnic cleansing campaign. They include: Justice and Equality Movement (Gibril Ibrahim), Sudan Liberation Movement/Army (Minni Minawi), Gathering of Sudan Liberation Forces (Abdallah Yahya)

Ukraine (SOF)

Iran

Islamists

Israel (Foreign Ministry)

Egypt

Rapid Support Forces (RSF):

United Arab Emirates

Central African Republic

Russia (Wagner Group)

Chad

Arab Tribal Leaders- Arab tribal leaders across the Western region of Darfur have pledged their allegiance and support to the RSF, with members of the tribes across the Sahel crossing into Sudan to join the RSF's assault as well. Key tribes include: Beni Halba, Tarjam, Habaniya, Fallata, Misseriya, Taaysha, Rizeigat

Libya (Khalifa Haftar)

Israel (Mossad)

Is there an end in sight? The state of negotiations

Effort- Jeddah Talks [May] Parties Involved- Externally: United States, Saudi Arabia. Internally: SAF, RSF Outcome: discussed humanitarian ceasefire; signed Jeddah Declaration of Commitment to Protect the Civilians of Sudan- FAILED

Effort- Intergovernmental authority on development (IGAD) [July] Parties Involved- Externally: Kenya, Ethiopia, Djibouti, South Sudan . Internally: RSF Outcome: proposed peacekeeping troops to ensure humanitarian corridor-REJECTED

Effort- Cairo talks (neighboring countries) [July] Parties Involved- Externally: Egypt, Ethiopia, South Sudan, Chad, Eritrea, CAR, Libya. Internally: SAF, RSF Outcome: discussed lasting ceasefire, safe humanitarian passage, political dialogue framework-FAILED

Effort- Jeddah talks [October] Parties Involved- Externally: United States, Saudi Arabia . Internally: SAF, RSF Outcome: discussed lasting ceasefire, safe humanitarian passage, political dialogue framework-FAILED

Effort- IGAD + African Union (AU) [December] Parties Involved- Externally: IGAD, EU, UAE, Saudi Arabia, South Africa, United States. Internally: SAF (Burhan in person), RSF Outcome: agreed to face-to-face meeting in late December and ceasefire; SAF later issued a retraction-ONGOING

What can you do?

The conflict in Sudan calls for the collective support of all to raise awareness about war and aid the Sudanese people on the ground, especially when we live in nations that have been complicit in the oppression of the Sudanese people. Explore the potions below and share with others. Educate yourself- deepen your knowledge about Sudan, empowering yourself with insights into the complexities of the situation. Donate- extend a helping hand to Sudan by generously donation to individuals or grassroots organizations on the ground.

Contact your reps- amplify your impact by contacting your representatives, avocating for positive change

#sudan #free sudan #keep eyes on sudan #sudan genocide #sudan crisis #eyes on sudan #eyes on darfur

220 notes · View notes

itsprashimusic · 2 months

Text

Wildest Dreams Warm Realities

"Say you'll remember me"

Summary - A Formula 1 driver is on vacation in Goa with his family. A woman and her friend group are also on a vacation in Goa. Is this destiny?

Pairings - Charles Leclerc x indian!fem!Reader

Warnings - hindi words with english translations at the end, your best friend has a name (Sarah), mention of animals getting harmed, reader has hair. Happy reading🩵

W/C - 2.6k

A/N - the train is from Mumbai to Goa. Let me know if I missed anything.

Navigation | "Say you'll remember me" | "Standin' in a nice dress" | "Starin' at the sunset" | ..babe"

The horn sounded nice and loud, it could be heard by the people who stood on the road outside the station. It indicated that the train was now leaving CSMT and heading to its final destination. You had this trip planned out with your friends since the beginning of the year. All hotel reservations were made and all tickets were booked since this was the busiest time of the year to travel.

It was the middle of December. You had 3 different invites to 3 different weddings, an invitation to meet one of your good school friends, and a desire for a true Goa trip with your friend group. But all of that was about to go down the drain because you were standing on the platform hearing the train engines start and watching it slowly pull away. You went out to grab some hot samosas for everyone but were now panicking, “Bhaiya jaldi karo, train jaa rahi hai!” you yelled at the poor dude who was trying to hurriedly wrap the piping hot samosas. You got the black thaili, gave him a 200 rupee note, and ran off, “Chhutta rakh lena!” you said over your shoulder.

This could not be happening. It looked cute in YJHD when Naina was running behind the train, unfortunately you were not Naina. You were running after the train with your hair tied in a weird bun from the morning and were holding onto a black plastic bag with samosas in it, very much the opposite of how she looked. But then you saw it, more accurately, him. He was tall and had fluffy hair, like Bunny. But his hair was brown and he had green eyes, eyes which were filled with concern, eyes that were looking at you.

This distracted you, but when you realised the train was moving away faster, you started to sprint. Never in your life had you run faster. His one had held onto the railing, while the other was stretched out and gesturing to you. You grabbed onto his outstretched hand and jumped. This is where you mentally prayed that he would catch you, if not, you were surely gonna get jammed in between the train and the platform, get injured, or die on impact. Thankfully he did catch you. When you jumped, he reacted quite fast and pulled you with one hand and caught you by your waist with the other.

The both of you stood at the door standing incredibly close, breathing and processing what just happened.

You managed to recover and pulled away from him, his hands dropping from your wrist and waist. However, you did not notice his slightly disappointed face, which he quickly covered up.

“Thanks for..the help.” you weren’t really sure what to say. He didn’t say anything, he just kept looking at you. You started to worry that he didn’t speak English, right when he replied, “Sure, it was no problem.”

God that accent. He was definitely from Europe, maybe France. But just that one sentence got you craving for more. You wanted to hear him talk, it didn’t matter what the subject was.

The silence turned awkward, so you mumbled a final ‘thank you’ and ‘see you around’ before entering the first class A/C compartment.

You and your group of six(excluding you), had booked the train tickets separately. Two of your friends who were dating booked a coupe for themselves, and then gradually everyone else also got their tickets. You were the last to book and ended up in a cabin with 4 berths. You just hoped that whoever you would be sharing a cabin with would not bother you or make you uncomfortable.

You made your way to your friends’ compartment and gave everyone their samosas. By now it was no longer hot, just warm, but it was enjoyed nonetheless. You fell into the lively conversation and temporarily forgot about the brunette with capturing eyes and an alluring accent who saved you from missing a train. Once the clock hit 11 pm, everyone started getting ready for the night. You and your best friend went to brush and wash up for the night while the others got their beds ready. That is when you remember the mystery man.

Sarah was in the middle of brushing her teeth when you came out of the smelling washroom saying, “I nearly missed the train while getting you guys your food.”

“Wha id u o?”

“I ran like a mad woman and got saved by a stranger.” the second you finished speaking, she spit the foam out of her mouth, looked up at you, and asked you to elaborate. “Was it a guy?” you gave her a look, “Was he cute??” you gave her a more pronounced look and she started squealing. You had to cover her mouth with your hand. The train staff member who was in the other train car gave you a weird look.

You just smiled at him and dragged your toothpaste-covered friend into the a/c compartment. You gave her a towel to wipe her mouth with while she whisper-yelled more questions at you.

“The bhaiya was still wrapping the samosas, the horn went off, the train started leaving and I ran. I saw this guy, this gorgeous guy standing at the door. He held out his hand and I-” you weren’t even able to complete your sentence. ‘You had your DDLJ moment!’ Sarah squealed, jumping up and down with excitement. One thing you were glad to have in your life was Sarah. She was always happy for you, got excited for you, and uplifted you. And that is what she did. It took her five minutes of convincing before she left for her cabin with your 3 other mutual friends.

You headed back to your cabin, but this time it was not empty. A man and a woman were sitting on the berth below yours. They looked like a couple, foreigners. They looked at you, smiled, gave a nod of their head, and continued their conversation in what you guessed was French. As you shuffled around getting your bed ready another man walks, dressed in sweatpants and a tight-fitting t-shirt. It was the brunette who ‘saved’ you a few hours earlier.

Not knowing what to do, or if you should say something, you just continued making your bed in the upper berth. You realised that he also was sleeping in the upper berth when he tossed a few items up there. Once you were done, the couple’s talks died down and the woman asked, “Hi, we don’t mean to be a bother but we were wondering if you could just guide us on how to get the beds sorted. We are not exactly sure what to do.”

The brunette man had left the room, seemingly to make a call. You smiled at the woman, “Oh, no worries.” you gave her your name and she replied, “I’m Charlotte, this is my boyfriend Lorenzo.” You smiled at him and then turned your attention towards Charlotte and began explaining what to do. Both lower berths were done and soon enough the green-eyed man returned.

Charlotte said something to him in French. They knew each other. She turned to you, “and this is Charles, Enzo’s younger brother.” Even his name sounds regal. Before you could get a word in he said, “We’ve already met.” with a smile that seemed genuine. His brother gave him a questioning look and asked him in French. Charles gave a reply. It was now nearing midnight and you wanted to sleep soon. You were getting off at a station in the north of Goa, meaning you had to wake up early. Before you could head up to your berth, Charlotte asked if you could help Charles with his bed. She thanked you and then pulled her boyfriend out of the cabin and walked away, not really giving you an option.

You looked at him and he looked at you, confused. “Do you know how to set the bed?” you asked with a smile on your face. “Not really, no,” he said with a laugh, “I could use some help.” So you helped him set the bed. In the meantime, you both spoke about different things. You told him about the weddings and plans to spend as much time on the beach as possible. He told you about how one of his co-workers told him about Goa’s splendour and fun and how he and his family are spending their holiday together.

By the time the bed was set, you were sitting on your berth while he opted to stand, his height making it difficult to sit on the upper berth. It was now way past midnight. You were getting tired, though it seemed that he was wide awake. Charlotte and Lorenzo finally returned. Your conversation died down. You said that you had to get up early and were now going to sleep. They promised to keep quiet. You put your eye mask on and turned to the side letting the swaying motions of the train put you to sleep.

With the amount of excitement inside of you, you were not able to sleep for very long. You were well rested but woke up at 6 am. The three Monegasques were fast asleep (i have no idea of Charlotte’s nationality so let’s just say she is from monaco). You sat up in bed and for a good five minutes just admired the sleeping body opposite of you. You checked your phone and found out that the train was delayed by 3 hours. This was ridiculous. Apparently, a large group of animals were crossing the tracks when a train was approaching and it caused an accident.

You got out of bed and went to see if any of your friends were awake. Everyone was sleeping, except Sarah whose bed was empty. She was probably in the washroom. You decided that it was too early to do anything and so went back to your cabin, fetched your toiletry bag, freshened up, went back to bed, wrapped yourself in the itchy blanket, and opened Subway Surfers on your phone while your other hand held a cold sandwich. Your headphones played some music you had downloaded. An hour passed and you set a new high score for which you were proud. Charles woke up.

You didn’t notice at first, but he saw you as soon as his eyes opened. You looked adorable wrapped up in the cocoon of the blanket. It was when he sat up that you saw him and gave him a smile and a small wave. His cheeks turned red and he waved back. His thoughts of you at that moment ranged from pure and soft to vulgar and wild, and it all lasted for less than a second. He got up and went out. You decided that you should go and check if Sarah is awake. When you reached her cabin, her bed was still empty. Feeling lazy, you made the decision to stand by the train door and hopefully catch some cold morning wind.

Your hair went in a plait and you opened the train door which was left unlocked. The toilet door opened and out came the dreamy Monegasque. He came up to you, "Are you sure that is the safest thing to do?”

“Not really, but that’s the fun in it.” there was a sparkle in your eye when you turned your head to look at him.

“Are you even allowed to open the door?” his laugh made it clear he was fooling around with you.

“Technically no. But it wasn’t locked, so it's on them.” Your laugh sounded angelic to him. The hair which escaped your braid framed your face so beautifully, Charles could do nothing but stare at you. It took him a second to realise you were asking him something.

“Slept well?” he shook his head. “Not quite. The constant shaking made me restless.” “That happens. But eventually, you get used to it.” He asked how you slept and you answered ‘pretty good.’ He stood opposite of you resting on the wall behind him watching the wind blow your hair around as the sun began to rise. The pair marinated in comfortable silence until a staff member came and told you to move away and shut the door. The tranquil moment was broken, but neither of you wanted it to end. Without speaking a word, the two of you went inside the compartment but stayed outside your cabin.

“Well, we did speak last night but I do not know much about you.”

“In that case, what would you like to know?”

He leans against the train wall, his arms crossed, your pose mimicking his. He thinks for a second and proceeds to ask, “How often do you travel?” “Not very often,” you respond, “I sometimes go for a weekend trip to nearby hill stations, but that's usually the max I travel.”

“So no foreign trips?”

“I don’t exactly have the funds for it,” you chuckle, “between getting a visa organised, praying that my leave from work gets approved, to finding flights, I just find it not worth the effort. I would be spending three months of my salary for just 10 days of vacation which I would rather spend finishing work which equals more money.”

He seemed perplexed by your answer, confusion evident on his face. “And would I be right in assuming that you travel abroad very often?” you ask, a bit of a smirk showing. He smiles and looks down, his hair moving due to this movement. Your eyes were fixed on this as he answered, “You would.” “And why do you travel the world, Charles?”

He smiles, that lovely smile, “I-uh, I drive expensive cars for very wealthy people around the world.” You smiled, but something about that answer felt false. Like he wasn’t telling you everything, but it didn’t seem like he was lying. “Does that mean you know much about cars then?” “I’d like to think I do.”

The smiles never left either of your faces as the conversation continued. You mentioned how your brother works with different types of cars and how they are his life. “I should meet him then, test my knowledge about cars,” Charles said.

“Trust me you don’t, he gets very excited when someone mentions anything about cars. Once he starts, he does not stop.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t mind, I am a good listener.”

"Tell me something you like." the driver asked after a while of the train being halted. You looked out of the hazy window and replied, "The sun." He cocked an eyebrow. "I could go on and on about it." "Well, I did say I am a good listener," said Charles.

The conversation went on for what felt like hours. But soon enough you felt the train start to finally move. You both decided to head back to the cabin, but you were stopped when one of your friends called out to you to join them. You were disappointed, gave Charles a short apology, and followed behind your friend.

By the time you were able to go back to your cabin, the train had reached the final platform where you were getting off. You were hoping to catch a glimpse of Charles before leaving, but sadly when you returned to your cabin, it was empty save for your luggage and belongings. You gathered all of your items and met your group on the platform. The two cars which were rented for the next two weeks were there waiting for you. Everyone got in and drove off to the rest houses. You were the designated driver for Car 1, which gave you very little opportunity to think about not getting to say goodbye to Charles.

Little did you know that you would meet him once again, very soon.

Translations

Bhaiya jaldi karo, train jaa rahi hai! - Brother hurry up, the train is leaving!

Chhutta rakh lena! - Keep the change(money)

thaili - bag (in this case it is a black plastic bag)

A/N - i had so much fun writing this. i already have part 2 in the works. if this fic is well received, i'll post the next part. Hope you enjoyed reading🩵

If you want to find out more about me or my works, you can head to my navigation.

@sam-is-lost @juleswrites223

#itsprashimusic #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc x desi!reader #charles leclerc x indian!reader #desiblr #f1 x desi!reader #f1 x reader #charles leclerc #formula 1 #formula 1 x reader #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc x you #f1 imagine

126 notes · View notes

cranberrymoons · 5 months

Text

speak a little louder

prompt: mutual pining (@steddieholidaydrabbles) rated: t word count: 673 words tags: fluff, flirting, nerds in a basement

welcome to Day 3 of the fic advent calendar – bite-sized fics posting every day during the month of december. enjoy!

The campaign lasts all day.

That’s what they call it – a campaign – as if it’s an actual military coup and not what it really is, which is a bunch of teenage nerds sitting around a table in Mike Wheeler’s basement with sodas and a bag full of dice.

Steve is used to it by now, but he doesn’t expect to have to wait for a whole extra hour when he shows up to collect them, but here he is, sitting on the couch in the corner and staring at the ceiling while he listens to Eddie drone on and on about elves or some shit.

Well – drone is maybe sort of an inaccurate word, considering how into it Eddie’s getting, crouched on his seat like a gargoyle, talking with his hands, doing the voices. It’s actually kind of fun to watch, and Steve is maybe sort of pretending not to find it as interesting as he does, because he has a reputation to maintain, dammit, and he refuses to be drawn in by the spark in Eddie’s eye or the flush on his cheeks or the way his fingers weave strands of the story across the table.

Whatever. Steve doesn’t even care.

“Sorry about that,” Eddie says when it finally wraps up, when he’s climbed off his chair and is standing in front of Steve while the kids bicker over something and take their sweet time packing their things. “Couldn’t stop in the middle, they would’ve killed me.”

He reaches behind his ear for a cigarette stuck there, and Steve stares at the way his rings catch the light as his hand moves.

“No problem,” he says. He clears his throat. “Hey, can I –”

He nods his head toward the cigarette, and Eddie raises his eyebrows, holding it out.

“Bum a smoke?” he asks. “Sure, Harrington. Anything for the valiant babysitter.”

Steve smiles as he accepts it from him, and he tries to ignore the way his stomach flips when their fingers brush.

“Thanks.”

---

They take them upstairs, outside to wait for the kids, and it’s starting to get cold enough now that Steve has to flip up the collar of his jacket against the chill as soon as they step onto the porch.

“That was cool back there,” he says around the filter clenched in his teeth as he ducks his head to light the cigarette. “The thing, or whatever.”

Eddie eyes him for a moment, then flicks ash onto the ground. “It was like… the metric opposite of cool, but thanks anyway.”

Steve laughs. “Still. It looked fun.”

“You should join us sometime,” Eddie says. He clears his throat. “I mean… if you want.”

And Steve can’t help it; even on top of everything big and scary going on in his chest right now, the idea of actually playing the fantasy math nerd game sounds like –

“I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head. “I think I’ll leave that one to the pros.”

Eddie laughs a little. “Oh, we’re pros now?”

“You managed to save the elf. I think. Sounds pretty professional to me. I couldn’t save an elf.”

Eddie gives him a look. “There wasn’t even an elf in that part of the campaign. I think you’re just making shit up.”

Steve laughs too at that. “Yeah, I had… no idea what you were doing. But the kids seemed into it.”

“So what are you into, then?” Eddie asks. “If not nerd shit, then what?”

You , Steve wants to say. Mostly these days, I’m just into you .

He takes a breath. “I don’t know,” he says instead. “I don’t mind the fantasy stuff. It’s the math part I have issues with.”

Eddie smiles a little. “Then take the numbers out of it. Come watch a movie with me sometime. I bet we can find some kind of nerd thing for you to be into.”

Steve feels his stomach give another little jolt as he stubs out his cigarette. “Yeah, I bet we can.”

[also on ao3]

#steddie #steddie fic #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steddieholidaydrabbles #my fic

263 notes · View notes

dontfightyourwaralone · 1 year

Text

#december 2022 #2022 #articles #vox #ben jacobs #attempted coup

2 notes · View notes

whencyclopedia · 6 days

Photo

Sitting Bull

Sitting Bull (Tatanka Iyotanka, l. c. 1837-1890) was a Hunkpapa Sioux holy man, warrior, leader, and symbol of traditional Sioux values and resistance to the United States' expansionist policies. He is among the best-known Native American chiefs of the 19th century and remains as famous today as he was when he led his people.

He is widely known for his part in the Battle of the Little Bighorn in June 1876 and his later celebrity as a performer in Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show, but, for the Sioux, Sitting Bull is celebrated as the embodiment of the four cardinal virtues of his people: courage, fortitude, generosity, and wisdom. He is also recognized for his refusal to abandon the traditions of his people and his efforts to preserve their culture. Although famous as a holy man, prophet, war chief, and hunter, Sitting Bull was also a poet and composer, as well-known among his people for his rapport with wild animals and herbal knowledge as for his leadership.

He was killed while resisting arrest at the Standing Rock Agency Reservation in South Dakota on 15 December 1890 and was buried at Fort Yates in North Dakota. His remains were exhumed by family members in the 1950s and interred at Mobridge, South Dakota, near where he was thought to have been born. Debate continues over whether these remains are those of Sitting Bull, and historians also offer differing views on his legacy. His reputation as a great leader of his people, however, is unchallenged as he continues to be recognized as a symbol of Native American pride, honor, and traditional values, as well as for his stand against injustice.

Youth & Name

Little is known of Sitting Bull's life before the age of 14. His date of birth, given as 1831, 1832, 1834, or 1837, is debated, as was his birthplace until fairly recently. He is now understood to have been born on the Yellowstone River (known to the Sioux as Elk River) in modern-day Montana and was named Jumping Badger (Hoka Psice). He quickly earned the nickname Slow (Hunkesni), owing, according to scholar Robert. M. Utley, to "his willful and deliberate ways" (6). His father was Chief Sitting Bull of the Hunkpapa Sioux, and his mother was Her-Holy-Door from a respectable Hunkpapa family. He had two sisters and a half-brother but would later adopt others as his brothers, and these are sometimes mistakenly referenced as biological siblings.

Chief Sitting Bull taught his son to ride, hunt, and shoot expertly before the boy was ten years old. Young Slow was an excellent shot with bow and arrow and became so closely associated with horses that his peers joked how he even walked as though he were on horseback. When he was 14, he joined a war party against the Crow and "counted coup" against a Crow warrior, knocking him from his horse where he was then killed by another of the party. For this act of courage – defeating an enemy without killing him – Chief Sitting Bull gave his name to his son and assumed the name Jumping Bull. "Sitting Bull" – Tatanka Iyotanka (literally "Buffalo Who Sits Down") – fit the youth's personality as, "according to fellow tribesmen, suggested an animal possessed of great endurance, his build much admired by the people, and when brought to bay, planted immovably on his haunches to fight on to the death" (Utley, 15).

Later acquaintances and writers would claim the name was given him due to his stubbornness or, according to Sioux writer and physician Charles A. Eastman, that he was given the name after forcing a buffalo calf to sit down. The name was actually given in accordance with the tradition whereby a father passed his own name to his son when the boy was recognized as attaining manhood.

Between the ages of 14 and 20, Sitting Bull led his own war parties, and his name became famous among his enemies as a formidable warrior. Utley describes him at around the age of 20:

A heavy, muscular frame, a big chest, and a large head, he impressed people as short and stocky, although he stood only two inches under six feet. His dark hair, often braided on one side with otter fur and allowed to hang loose on the other, reached his shoulders. A severe part over the center of the scalp glistened with a heavy streak of crimson paint. A low forehead surmounted piercing eyes, a flat nose, and thin lips. Although dexterous afoot and superbly agile mounted, he appeared to some as awkward and even clumsy. (19-20)

Around 1857, in a clash with an Assiniboine band, Sitting Bull spared a 13-year-old boy whom he later adopted as a younger brother. When Sitting Bull's father was killed in battle with the Crow in 1859, the boy took the name Jumping Bull and would remain by Sitting Bull's side for the rest of his life.

#History #SittingBull #Sioux

95 notes · View notes

arealphrooblem · 1 year

Text

Mutually Assured Destruction Part 11 -- The End!

This is the last part everyone! I may right little snippets after this one if the inspiration strikes, but this is the definitive end to the series.

Synopsis: Villain x Civilian. Civilian can sense other people's powers through auras but hides this ability. They are terrified of the most boring person at their office job, who hides the most powerful aura Civilian has ever felt.

CW: Mentions of death, low self-esteem thoughts, brief vague mention of sex at the end, two kisses

Part One Here

Part Ten Here

At first, they thought he was sick. Jonathan didn’t ever give them a cell phone number, so they couldn’t call and check on him. By Wednesday they drove round for three hours after work, trying to find the neighborhood that housed his apartment, with no luck. By Friday, worry stayed a constant pit in their stomach.

Monday morning brought the news that Jonathan had “transferred” to another in another part of the country. Civilian had to suffer all day through the cloying sympathy of their coworkers. Gloria had even hugged them. Everyone assumed a breakup occurred so horribly awkward that it drove Jonathan to move several hundred miles away a week before the holidays.

For the rest of December, Civilian kept up religiously with the news, looking for something big enough to fit the plans Jonathan had hinted at — massive art theft, large scale arson, hell even a government coup.

There was nothing save for constant Christmas ads that Civilian tuned out.

Eventually they had to accept the truth that Jonathan had just got the fuck out of dodge and didn’t look back. Fine. Civilian knew their ‘relationship’ had an expiration date, that it had never existed in the first place. But they had expected some kind of goodbye, even if it had been a threat to stay quiet — not this slipping away in the dead of night like a ghost.

Maybe his plans fell through and he had to leave before someone else discovered him. Maybe the Agency had found him despite his best efforts and he had to abandon everything. Both scenarios were more likely than the one echoing cruelly in Civilian’s head at night:

That they had driven him away; that he couldn’t take their needy loneliness anymore and bounced.

It’s a thought that hounded them for the next six months, followed them as closely and loyally as their own shadow. As the weeks drifted by, Civilian burrowed further and further inside themselves, rejecting offers from Gloria to eat lunch, rejecting their mother’s requests to call or visit, rejecting drinks after work with the other members of their department.

It wasn’t that Jonathan broke their ability to trust anyone — it was the stubborn, naive belief that if Civilian chose to be alone then they weren’t lonely, that it didn’t count because it was self-imposed, a choice, a preference. And being around other people reminded them so sharply of feeling not alone that they couldn’t handle its absence once the night was over.

The whole thing was ridiculous, and Civilian berated themselves at each night for it. They were acting childish and silly. Jonathan was right: the only thing stopping them from having friends was their own fear. They could find a new job, move to a new city, find a place where Jonathan had never set foot in and build anew.

But they didn’t.

And six months later, the bank went under.

Ironically, the one thing Civilian needed to watch the news for, they had ignored in favor of a Buzzfeed shopping list. Their mom had sent a text with a link to a video and a series of question marks.

Isn’t this your bank????

The video explained how the entire board of directors had been arrested for fraud and embezzlement to the tune of billions.

Billions with a B.

After that number, Civilian’s attention went a little fuzzy. The explanation of the complex series of fund transfers and shell corporations and blah blah blah faded to the background as Civilian tried desperate to work out just how the hell Jonathan made it happen.

Over the weeks, each man screamed his innocence of course, but camera footage and witness testimonies — even ones from the other board directors, all eager to stab each other in the back — denied those claims. Each director passed a psych test with flying colors, despite their protests of their body moving with out their consent. It all looked very much like a bunch of disgustingly wealthy men got caught trying to illegally make themselves even more disgustingly richer.

After a certain point, Civilian could have spoken up about Jonathan, and no one would have believed them anyway.

It was the perfect crime and now Jonathan was walking out there will several billion dollars in his pocket and Civilian . . .

Well Civilian was now out of a job, living off a pathetic severance package, and trying to find a solution to their problem that did not involve moving back in with their mother.

It happened in the middle of the night. The ear-popping pressure of a powerful aura dragged them from sleep. In the soft darkness of their bedroom, they could just make out a shadowy figure looming over them.

In seconds confusion crystalized sharply into fear. Civilian’s hands dove under the pillow for the knife they kept there and yanked it out. Their hand froze in the air, gripped by invisible fingers Civilian knew all too well.

“Did you just pull a fucking knife on me?” The figure asked incredulously.

The familiarity of his voice hit them like a physical ache, like a thumb on a bruise.

“Jonathan?”

The lamp switched on, bathing the room in a dim glow. Civilian squinted and blinked against the sudden light. Standing there, eyebrows raised and dressed in all black, was Jonathan Anderson.

The knife gleamed between them. He glanced between it and Civilian and shook his head.

“You should give me that before you hurt yourself.”

He took the knife gently out of their forcibly relaxed fingers and set it on the nightstand, far out of their reach.

Their chest was a swirling maelstrom of too many emotions to count — joy and fear and anxiety and relief.

But most of all anger.

How dare he just show up after ten months of nothing.

“You should go fuck yourself,” they retorted, sitting up and swinging their legs over the side.

“Awww, Civilian, did I upset you by leaving?” He gave them a mocking frown. “Did you miss me?”

The truth of his words pierced them, sending a hot flush of humiliation up their neck.

“No, I did not miss you, you sick on of a bitch — ”

Jonathan bent down, cupping their face in his hands and cutting them off with a fierce, almost desperate kiss.

“I missed you,” he breathed. “So fucking much.”

Civilian’s heart pounded like thunder in their ears. How often did they daydream this kind of moment happening, and yet now that it was here, they couldn’t help but doubt it. It felt dangerous to believe it.

“How am I supposed to believe that?” they demanded. “For all I know, you could be here to kill me and — and tie up loose ends.”

Jonathan had the gall to laugh. “Where do you think we are — a mobster movie? Do you think I’m going to tie cinder blocks to your legs and throw you off the pier?”

“You wouldn’t need the cinder blocks to make sure I drowned,” they said mulishly. “You wouldn’t even need a pier. You could make me smother myself right now with my own pillow.”

Why they were arguing this, they had no idea. Perhaps stubbornly clinging to the belief that he didn’t care about them protected them from hope. Jonathan’s grin faded into something more somber as he studied them. Then he slowly sank down on one knee before them, putting him at just under eye level.

“Why would I come here to kill you after everything I’ve done to protect you?”

“Protect me? Is that what you calling taking off with no goodbye like I didn’t mean anything?”

“Tell me, Civilian, how suspicious it would have looked if I had stolen all that money and then skipped town? How many people would be scrutinizing the newest hire that suddenly disappeared and anyone who associated with him? How long before the Agency would come sniffing around, looking for someone with my skill-set, and find you and your glorious little secret? Hmm? Tell me.”

Civilian glared at him and his tight, unbeatable logic. How dare he make sense.

“Some warning would have been nice,” they said instead, crossing their arms. “I thought I had — that you ran because — ”

They couldn’t finish the thought, it was too embarrassing. How stupid they had been, obsessing over a silly kiss, when Jonathan was executing such grand larceny on an unheard of scale. Like he had even spared it a second thought.

He gave them a knowing, crooked smile. “You thought I took off because you kissed me and I flipped out.”

“No,” they lied. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It is ridiculous,” he agreed. “It’s the one thing that made it hard to leave in the first place. And I couldn’t let you know, in case someone did question you. You were my insurance, not my accomplice.”

The one thing that made it hard to leave. Staying angry at Jonathan was getting more and more difficult. Civilian tried to hold onto it, but it slipped through their fingers like an eel.

“So the bank . . .that really was you?” they asked.

This time his smile widened into a full smirk. “Beautiful, wasn’t it?”

“Beautiful? It fucked over a lot of people — including me! I’m out of a job now, you prick.”

He shrugged. “People will move on just like they always have. As for you . . .that’s why I’m here.” He reached out and traced the pad of his thumb down their jawline. “To spirit you away.”

Civilian fought and failed to hold back a shiver at the light touch. “You mean kidnap me.”

“It’s only kidnapping if you don’t volunteer for it,” he said. “You’re being very stubbornly angry with me. You must have missed me quite a bit.”

They swallowed thickly. “I hate you,” they lied.

He smile, soft and gentle, his thumb swiping over their bottom lip. “You wish you did.”

Civilian’s pulse fluttered. They wanted very badly to kiss his thumb, his hand, anywhere they could reach. “And where would you take me?” they whispered instead.

Jonathan turned his hand so the back of his knuckles brushed over their cheekbone. “Where do you want to go? I have more money than God, Civilian. We can go anywhere in the world and disappear and never have to look over our shoulders again. What say you to that?”

“What happens if I say no?”

As tempting as his offer was, they had to ask the question, regardless. His answer determined everything.

“You will never have to see me again,” he said, taking his hand away. “And I will find a way to anonymously give you enough money to do whatever you wish in a way that can’t be traced. With me or without me, you will have the same freedom from the Agency that I do. I had planned for that for a long time.”

Whatever resentment for their months alone evaporated in an instant. This time Civilian took his face in their hands and kissed him, long and fierce.

“Take me to Greece first,” they said. “I want to see the ruins.”

Taglist: @those-damn-snippets@heroes-villains-side-blog@anonymousewrites@follow-me-into-the-fog@sunnyside-world, @rivalriotrenegade@trappedgoose-in-a-writblr-room@midnightsillusions@villain-obsessed-word-nerd@deflated-bouncingball @pickleking8 @cesspitoflove@to-sneak-away-and-hide@im-a-wonderling@hasel-anne@ghostly-writer@moonknight-s-cumdump@valiantlytransparentwhispers@galactic-squiddo@boomimhere@organizedchaos03@dungeon-roomba@vidiaka@powerflower119 @cbiom @meltedgallium@skevethefool@sarcasticlittlebook@lisapicklemagick@dragonfirephoenixflame, @royalmuffinsworld@sillypeachduck

#my writing #hero x villain #villain x civilian #enemies to lovers #writeblr #mutually assured destruction

480 notes · View notes

rosewaterandivy · 2 days

Text

Summary: it’s always the best laid plans of mice and men, isn’t it?

Pairing: s.h. x f!oc

W.C.: 5.4K

Warnings: gilded age!au, miscommunication, a comedy of errors/manners, society snobs, a masquerade ball mishap, arranged marriage, steve ‘down bad’ harrington, and a reader/mc who doesn’t have time for this shit - she was educated abroad, she went to Vassar with Miss Nancy Wheeler, okay?!, back on my iliad bullshit (i know, i know)

playlist | m.list

I. Coup de foudre

It’s a dreary December evening in Manhattan. The streets are damp and slick accompanied by the cacophony of hooves, equipages and carriages trundling down the way. Somber topcoats and fur-trimmed capes hide the tailored waistcoats of the men and ornate skirts of the ladies, as is to be expected with the current onslaught of weather.

Small white flurries of snow that are sure to bring a swift end to laborious dinners and engagements at the club. And the man in the sleek black equipage himself is all too relieved about it— at least he would be released from the obligation of hearing his father’s friends complain about these upstart robber barons descending like a horde of locusts on Fifth Avenue.

A quiet night in his study would be a welcome distraction.

That is, if they can ever get home in this weather.

He can hear the whinny of the horses from up front and the soothing tones of the driver. The streets are probably close to icing over at this hour, making it difficult to find traction.

Suddenly, the equipage swings quickly to the side and careens into something with a loud thud, sending its sole occupant straight into the door with a smack. He hisses lowly at the twinge in his forehead as the driver descends with a flurry of apologies.

He opens the door himself and steps outside before the driver can assist him. The white puffs of his breath speak to how quickly the weather had turned. He draws his coat closer and approaches the two drivers as they attempt to settle the horses.

“Gentlemen,” He greets, “What seems to be the problem?”

“Noting to worry about Mr. Harrington,” His man, Andrew, assures him, “The ice just snuck up on us is all.”

He nods taking in the damage, dents and scuffs on both vehicles but the horses appear to be fine. Reaching into his coat pocket, he brings out a small notebook and a pencil to scribble his information down for the other driver. Is about to tell the man to bill him directly when someone steps out from the carriage opposite.

The footsteps themselves are delicate and tentative. He tears his gaze from the driver’s, glancing back only to find a young woman emerging from the carriage. She’s holding her skirts in one gloved hand, shivering in the cold.

“Is everything all right Jesse?”

Her voice is like music to his ears, melodic almost. And she looks like something stolen from a painting— bright and alluring.

The winter light is quickly fading, and the lamplighters were sure taking their time this evening. Her cape is dark, like his coat, but the split at the front reveals a purple skirt trimmed in demure black lace, signifying an exit from her period of mourning.

Her man, Jesse, shepherds her back toward the coach, “Let’s get you back inside Miss, don’t want you to catch a chill.”

“Of course,” She says with a shake of her head, “How silly of me.”

And before Steve can embarrass himself in an attempt to introduce himself, she’s safely ensconced back in the carriage. Her driver returns and takes the paper from Steve, tucking it into his coat.

“Apologies gentlemen, but I must be on my way.” He pulls himself back onto the driver’s box, “Have to get the young Miss home to her brother’s, you understand.”

He tips his hat, and with a tug of the reins he’s gone.

Steve finds himself standing right where she left him, feet riveted to the very spot where she once stood. He must have taken a step toward her at some point, like an utter madman, probably startled the poor girl half to death.

Despite their disastrous non-meeting, he can’t seem to shake her from his mind. As if everything had been in black and white until she stepped down from the carriage and breathed color into his world, spring bursting forth at the sound of her voice. It sounds positively insane, even to himself, but if Robin were here, she’d understand.

Hell, she’d probably have a word for it too.

Something French, inevitably.

“Mr. Harrington,” Andrew says, a hand tentatively resting on his shoulder, “Is something wrong?”

Steve blinks; a feeble attempt to clear his mind from thoughts of the mystery woman.

Andrew refrains from rolling his eyes, “Right sir, let’s get you home then.”

The journey back to the Harrington family manse was uneventful. The familiar brownstone facade came into view as Andrew swung the equipage onto the street outside the house. Luckily, the home was large enough that his late arrival wouldn’t be noticed.

He thanks Andrew and watches as he takes off with the horses for the carriage house a few blocks away. Stepping into the house, he makes quickly for his study slipping through the door just as one of the maids turns down the corridor.

Steve shucks his coat onto a nearby chair and tugs off his cravat with one hand, the other pouring a healthy portion of bourbon into a highball glass. He downs the amber liquid too quickly, the burn welcome against his throat.

After pouring another glass to sip from, he settles into a heap on a club chair by the window. Resting his jaw on a hand, he faces the glass panes, eyes trailing the flurries of snow outside, unsettled by the quiet of the street. His mind won’t stop racing, vacillating between kicking himself for not getting her name and hoping he’d run into her again, albeit this time under better circumstances.

Little did he know, that several blocks away a man was questioning poor Jesse about his whereabouts when a slip of paper was placed into his hand. He scans it quickly, face paling at the name scrawled there: Steven Harrington.

“How could you let this happen Jesse, really? The accident, I understand, but allowing my sister out of the carriage unaccompanied?”

“Sir, I had no—”

“I’ll not hear your excuses.” Christopher Fairchild balls his hand into a fist, the paper crumpling in his grasp. “You said he saw her, Harrington, that is?”

“Unfortunately,” Jesse admits, “I intervened as best I could and got her back into the coach. He seemed rather transfixed by her.”

His employer grunts, “Yes well, that is unfortunate. What if someone had seen her with that man, no chaperone in sight?” He turns to the sideboard and pours himself a drink, says with a scoff, “Not even out to society and potentially scandal-ridden.”

At this point, his wife, Marian, chooses to enter, having seen the young lady to her rooms and getting her settled for the evening. She places a tentative hand on his shoulder while Jesse trains his gaze to the floor.

“Darling,” She soothes, “Your sister is asleep as is the baby, don’t get yourself into a fit at this hour.”

He sighs as her palm moves in slow circles against his back and takes deep breaths. “Of course dear,” He sips from his drink and turns to her. “I just worry about her. All the work you’ve put into her debut and planning the ball.” Christopher places a kiss on the back of her hand, causing her to blush. “I don’t want it to be all for naught.”

She sighs prettily.

“It won’t be,” Marian advises, “You’ll write to the Harringtons tomorrow and we’ll get this matter settled. And there won’t be a speck on your dear sister’s reputation, I’ll see to that.”

But, oh dear reader, where would be the fun in that?

As we all know, the New York winter season is winding down rapidly, and do we not deserve something to keep us warm over the holiday? I would say so!

So, in honor of her long-awaited arrival, let us give a hearty New York welcome to Miss Eleanor Fairchild! Fresh from the society of Paris and a graduate of Vassar along with Miss Nancy Wheeler, her debut this week is the talk of the town.

Despite her indecorous brush with Mr. Steven Harrington, I am sure she will not have a shortage of suitors after the ball this weekend.

But the question remains, my loyal readers, of who will take a shine to Miss Fairchild and step out from the long shadow cast by the Harrington name?

Only time, and this weekly missive, will tell.

Morning in New York was startling and nothing like waking in Paris.

House maids, lady’s maids, and valets moving up and down the stairs, knocking on doors to air out the linens and draw the curtains aside to let the murky winter sun stream through. There was, of course, the soft babbling from the nursery as Gus woke from his repose, the nursemaid and his mother close at hand.

A sharp knock sounded from the door just as you drew the bedclothes closer to you, content to roll over and sleep through the gray morning.

“Bonjour mademoiselle, vous permettez?”

“Oui!” You say, curious at the chipper voice now opening the door, “Sorry, yes, you may enter.”

“Merci, mademoiselle.”

The girl, your new lady’s maid, softly shuts the door and turns to regard the room.

It’s certainly larger than what you’d grown accustomed to in France. But then again, most everything was in New York, especially so since you hadn’t returned to the city in well nigh on a year or more.

The room itself is well-appointed and elegant, Marian saw to that; soft colors and fabrics, diaphanous and frothy, a subtle nod to Versailles no doubt. You hadn’t had much time or energy to give it a glance last night, more inclined to have a late dinner, divest yourself of traveling clothes, and pass out as soon as possible.

The lady’s maid continues her silent assessment as another knock sounds from the door. She steps to open it and let in the housemaid.

“Good morning Miss,” She greets with a smile, her voice rounded with a warm Irish lilt. “I ‘spect you’ll be needin’ a fire this morning.”

You nod just now noticing the chill in the air. She busies herself with the kindling and sweeping ashes from the fireplace. The maids exchange a few soft words before she steps out to get the firewood from the Useful Man down the hall.

“Apologies,” You say by way of greeting, “But I don’t believe I got your name?”

“Oh, pardonne-moi,” the lady’s maid curtsies briefly, “Je m’appelle Marie.”

“Marie,” You repeat, “Pleased to meet you.”

“Moi aussi, mademoiselle.”

And from there, the ritual of dressing began. The house maid, Louisa, lit the fire and spirited you out of bed to air out the linens. At Marie’s suggestion, she also tackled unpacking the various trunks placed near the dresser and closet.

“These are fine frills Miss,” She smiled, her fingers delicately folding chemises and hanging skirts or dresses. “The Missus said your debut gown came all the way from Mr. Worth’s shop in Paris, is that true?”

A soft sigh escaped you at the memory, ivory chiffon and silk revealing the décolleté and arms, gauze and tulle providing a tempting illusion of bared skin. A full skirt with bustle that would skim the floor accompanied by a small train. With gloves and a fan to match, of course.

“Indeed, it is,” You allowed with a cheeky wink, “But I think Marie would have my head if I touched it before Friday.”

Marie, for her part, merely smirked and continued her preparations for your bath.

Across a few city blocks, a footman knocks on the imposing doors of the Harrington manse. The family butler, Campbell, just happens to be descending the stairs and takes it upon himself to open the door.

“Good morning sir,” The footman says with a bow, “Mr. Fairchild bid me to deliver this.” He hands over an envelope addressed to Mr. Samuel Harrington.

“Yes, well,” Campbell sighs, opening the door to let the footman in. “I’ll get this to him. If you hurry, Cook can scrounge up some coffee and a pastry for you. Just take the servant’s hall to the right.”

“Much obliged,” The footman says with a bow as Campbell starts up the stairs.

The handwriting on the envelope is neat, if a bit cramped. Must be the young Mr. Fairchild then, rather than his wife sending the correspondence.

Mr. Harrington’s study door is cracked open, the sound of papers shuffling to and fro on his desk as the butler enters. He briefly glances up to find Campbell, “Happen to know where I put those contracts, Campbell?”

“Perhaps the drawer on the left, sir.”

Mr. Harrington pulls the drawer open, “Right you are, good man.” And thereby loses himself to perusing the documents and thus ignoring Campbell.

“A letter has arrived for you sir,” He says stepping closer to the desk, “From Mr. Fairchild, it seems rather urgent. I have his footman waiting for your reply.”

“Hmm, well let’s have it then.”

He takes the letter from the butler’s hand and slips the blade of the letter opener under the paper. Retrieving the missive, he scans through it quickly, lips pulling down in distaste.

“See to it that Mrs. Harrington gets this,” He instructs, pulling out a new sheaf of paper and beginning his correspondence. “If she wishes to see my reply, she best be quick about it.”

The letter itself detailed the unfortunate meeting between Mr. Fairchild’s sister and Mr. Harrington’s only son. The man was understandably concerned about how it would seem should someone have happened upon them sans chaperone, as the young lady had yet to make her debut into society.

Mr. Harrington’s reply was cordial in an attempt to smooth things over— the Fairchilds, like the Harrington’s were of good stock, two families of the New York Four Hundred deemed to be unblemished and acceptable company by none other than the Grande Dame herself, Mrs. Astor. It wouldn’t be fitting for reputations to be sullied as the result of a simple misunderstanding.

As expected, Samuel’s wife, Amelia, swanned into the study seemingly in the midst of her morning toilette. Her hair was up, but she still wore her housecoat as her day dress had yet to be put on by her lady’s maid. Mr. Fairchild’s letter waved about in one hand, while the other pressed upon her chest as if to stop her racing heart.

“That boy of yours is going to give me heart failure.”

Samuel signs the letter with a flourish and lays his pen to the side.

“Oh, so he’s only my boy when he acts indiscreetly with the fairer sex, but he’s your son when he’s winning accolades at Harvard and breaking hearts abroad, is that it?”

She tuts and sits demurely on the divan, “Well, yes. Precisely that Sam.” She fans herself with the letter as her husband leans against his desk. “The social set have already written him off as a lost cause and we can ill afford a whisper of a scandal, especially now.”

Sam passes the reply to his wife and pauses, as if to choose his words carefully.

“Still moving forward with your plans to find Steven a wife then?”

“Of course, dear,” She answers brusquely, “There are many suitable ladies this season of decent breeding and passable looks.” She glances up and passes the letter back to him. “Your response is sufficient, send it off with the footman.”

Amelia rises from the divan and turns to leave. “Wake Steven and have a talk with him will you? I’ll send Maude out to the florist, he should write a note of apology for her to send along.”

“As you wish, dear.”

Amelia leaves just as abruptly as she appeared. Samuel sighs and furrows his brow, the inklings of a headache coming on. He taps his fingers against the desk and checks the time.

“Campbell,” He calls into the hall, “Have Calvin wake Steven and tell him to see my in the study.”

“Of course, sir.”

He takes a seat and settles himself behind the desk once more.

“And have Cook send something up? Coffee and breakfast for two.”

Awaiting the arrival of his son, Samuel Harrington turns and faces the bay of windows that look out onto the street below. He watches as Fairchild’s footman hops on the back of the coach and slides from his view. He contemplates his son’s options, admittedly there are few.

Such are the advantages and disadvantages in marrying a woman who’s as sly as a fox. It’s just a matter of out-maneuvering her; an entertaining and seemingly endless chess match that’s lasted even longer than their marriage.

But the silver lining in all this, he supposes, is that Steven Harrington, their sole child and heir, just so happens to take after his father in this respect, in that he’s crazy like a fox.

Funny how things work out, isn’t it?

As for the young Mr. Harrington, well, suffice it to say he had quite the morning. The newly arrived Miss Fairchild, however, had a luxurious start to her day (that is, if one discounts the pulling and pinning of hair, the tugging on of stockings and tightening of corset laces).

You joined your brother and sister-in-law in the dining room while another maid fixed a plate of breakfast for you; Pierce, the butler, stepped in to pour the coffee. You thanked them both and broke your fast, listening as Christopher and Marian discussed the events of the day.

“I’ll need to see to the accounts today,” Your brother said, turning his newspaper with a shake. “Everything should be in order before the ball this weekend.”

Marian nodded and sipped from her coffee cup. “I have some calls to make today, and thought Nell could accompany me.”

Christopher slowly lowers his newspaper and glances your way— don't feel obligated to do this, you haven’t been properly introduced into society yet.

Buying time, you take a bite from the flaky croissant on your plate and ruminate. In a way, both Chris and Marian are correct; you aren’t obligated to escort Mrs. Fairchild, nor would it be wise to turn down an informal introduction to those in Marian’s circle. She would, after all, be serving as your chaperone, and, along with your brother, introducing you to Manhattan high society on Friday at the ball.

Your debutante ball, to be precise.

At the time, Vassar was a welcome distraction and reprieve for being paraded around like a prize calf at auction. But then came the unfortunate illness and demise of your parents, followed by a year of mourning.

It would seem that your time of delay had finally come to its end.

After all, no one wanted a spinster for a bride.

Dabbing at the corners of your mouth with a napkin, you clear your throat and brace yourself.

“That sounds lovely, Marian. I’d be happy to escort you today.”

She smiles and makes to reply, but before she can open her mouth to do so, a knock sounds from the front door. Puzzled, the three of you glance at one another, clearly not expecting a caller at such an early hour.

Pierce nods to someone by the door, bidding him to open it. He quickly returns with a beautiful arrangement of flowers, only to set them to your right and hand you a card. Baffled, you take in the spray of purple orchids, white tulips, lemon geraniums, the sprigs of rosemary, and tucked away behind the hearty green stalks, the shy blooms of forget-me-nots.

Respect, sincerity, an unexpected meeting, remembrance, and affection.

“Well,” Marian prompts from across the table, “Who are they from?”

It’s only then that you recall the card in your outstretched hand. Slipping from your reverie, you thumb open the small envelope.

Miss Fairchild—

Please accept my sincere apologies for our run-in yesterday evening. I hope it did not startle you. I’ve liaised with your brother about the repairs, and in the meantime will give you use of my equipage and pray it will suffice. I also hope that you’ll enjoy the flowers and please know that they relay my deepest and most sincere sentiments.

Cordially yours,

Steven Harrington

P.S. Je vous prie d’accepter mes sincères regrets et ma sympathie à l’occasion du décès de votre proches.

For the remainder of the week, Steve was a bundle of nerves. He’d written the note as his mother asked and even went so far as to accompany her to the florist, managing to slip in a few blooms that complemented the arrangement nicely. And if his mother didn’t happen to notice the errant sprigs of blue or the lingering scent of rosemary, then so much the better.

What he didn’t anticipate was the lack of a response.

“It isn’t done,” Miss Robin Buckley reminded him on their promenade in Central Park. “Until she is out to society, her brother is no doubt keeping her under lock and key.”

“You could provide the introduction,” He points out petulantly. “You’re choosing not to in order to entertain yourself with my suffering.”

“You cad,” She swats at him with her fan. “And no, I cannot. There’s a reason I fled to France after my disastrous debut, as you well know.”

And thus, Steve resigned himself to pining for a woman who barely knew of his existence, while the eligible bachelors of New York bided their time until her debut at the ball.

“For what it’s worth,” Robin says carefully as they round a bend, “There have been many deliveries to the Fairchild House, but yours was the first.”

He warms at the thought.

“That has to count for something, I suppose.”

She grins, “It will.”

They continue to walk, grateful for the brief break in the weather and discuss the evening’s festivities: who will wear what, how many dances until Robin steps on someone’s toes, how ostentatious the new money Vanderbilts will be.

They exit the park, parting ways as their carriages await. Robin catches a curious expression on her friend’s face, both dreamy and apprehensive. She lays a gloved hand on his arm.

“À cœur vaillant rien d'impossible.”

Steve glances down and says with a playful smirk, “Qui vivra verra.”

On Friday afternoon, Marian and Marie carefully assess your gown while Louisa dashes to and fro with the pearls, no the diamonds.

“Sapphires? No, that would ruin the effect.” Marian muses and Marie agrees.

You, by the by, are seated on the bed in a chemise and loosened corset, bored stiff, as the two hem and haw over how to best display you for the ball.

Because that’s all this is really, an overblown dog and pony show in which you’ll be paraded around and shown off to great effect all to attract suitors. It was enough to make one queasy. God forbid a woman do anything on her own or without the approval of a man.

As if men ever did anything worth doing that a woman didn’t have to make right.

Having quite enough of their chatter, you shrug into a robe and pull its sash tight, toe on some slippers and make your way down the hall. At the end of the corridor, you spy the cracked door to Christopher’s study. He’s shuffling papers and muttering to himself as you slip inside.

“I think the accounts can handle themselves for the evening,” you say with a smirk, settling yourself on a chair by the window.

He chuckles, “I suppose you’re right, clever girl.” Sorting the papers into a single file, he looks up at you with a quirked brow. “Had enough of Marian’s prodding, I take it?”

You sigh and dramatically cast your head back, “That’s the worst of it— they haven’t even begun!” Warming at his familiar laughter, you continue: “If I’d known that this is what I’d be subjected to, I would’ve stayed in France.”

Chris studies you at that; your weary sigh, crossed arms, and face a mask. Can’t make heads or tails of if you’re serious or not. Is it too soon? Did you still need time to mourn Maman and Papa? But then your debut had been delayed so much already…

“Is that what you want?”

It’s a question you hadn’t expected from him. But suddenly you’re reminded that he’s your brother, the only family you have left in the world. The man who dropped everything and took the first ship bound for France to be with you at your parents’ deathbed. He had insisted you stay at the house in Paris until you’d recovered your own strength and sent Marian and Gus to keep you company while he saw to business at home.

And knowing him as well as you do, Chris wouldn’t ask something idly.

So you choose your next words carefully.

“I no longer trouble myself with wants.”

The lightest dusting of snow begins to gather on the windowpane. Soon enough, all of the city would look like a snow globe. A perfect winter wonderland for the evening’s festivities, and your favorite kind of weather— snow makes everything look softer somehow, muffles the sound, and blankets the world in swaths of pure white. Your mother adored snow, had somehow convinced you and Chris that she could smell when it was about to begin. And maybe that’s why you’ve taken a shine to it now.

Turning from the window with a small smile, you rise to exit the study and get ready for the night. Leaving your elder brother puzzling over your parting phrase.

Steve could hardly forget your first meeting, but seeing you that evening nearly eclipsed the recollection. Without a cape and no longer in the purples and grays of half-mourning, you were quite a sight to behold.

And he wasn’t the only one who thought so.

Several men from the club, Hargrove, Hagan, and Byers, were scattered around the room sizing up the competition just as he was. Somehow, Edward Munson had been granted an invitation— with his railroad money and lack of pedigree. Regardless of social standing, each eligible bachelor in the room was jockeying for position; who would be the first introduction, the first dance, did her eyes fall on him or the man to his left?

Steve was well-versed in this routine, he’d been to enough debutante balls to last a veritable lifetime. Usually, he’d enter and make the necessary greetings before grabbing a refreshment and picking a wall to lean on because god help him if he was going to actually dance more than the bare minimum required.

But in this instance, things were different.

Namely, that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you since that fateful night. Despite the lack of interest from you (which was to be expected, really), he couldn’t help but think of you fondly. Descending from your coach to check on your driver and the horses, shivering in the evening chill, voice soft and sleep-worn.

There was also the fact that his mother was hovering somewhere behind him. She’d oh so fortunately seen Mrs. Fairchild as she was making her social calls earlier in the week and had received an informal introduction to you. She’d said as much at dinner that day and ever since then, she’d been subtly laying the groundwork for a possible courtship.

And as much as Steve did not want to bow to his mother’s machinations, he also desperately wanted an introduction with you. So he sips his drink and observes the goings on around him his attention turning to the grand staircase as someone announces:

“Presenting Miss Eleanor Joséphine Fairchild, escorted by her brother Mr. Christopher Fairchild.”

The symphony starts up as you descend the stairs to polite applause on the arm of your brother, eyes demure and downcast, your subtly rouged lips pulling into a soft smile. And Steve can hardly breathe— it’s as if the world slowed and went fuzzy at the edges, everything and everyone falling by the wayside save for you.

Because you are positively incandescent; beautifully angelic in your finery and reminiscent of Venus emerging from her shell. He feels as if he’s been struck, a warmth radiating in his chest, and wouldn’t be surprised to find one of Cupid’s golden arrows lodged there. And Steve knows a little of desire, of wanton lust; he is, after all, a man of privilege in a world that caters to his whims. But while this feels reminiscent of that— the heat, the wanting— there is also, oddly, restraint.

All eyes are on you as your brother leads you across the floor, smiling politely at those assembled, eyes never staying on one person for too long. You’re playing nice, presenting an unimpeachable image of the demure lady, it wouldn’t be done to favor one gentleman this evening. In fact, it would send the wrong message entirely.

Everyone present knows this; it is a game often played in polite society, even if its ramifications are— how shall we say it?— best left behind closed doors.

“A lamb and her shepherd,” His mother says, voice pitched low for only him to hear. “Bo-Peep will soon abandon his charge, and that, Steven, is when you will make your introduction.”

It’s all he can do to school his features and recede into himself; eyes glassy and blank, face a mask. Polite and charming, affable even. And while his mother thinks she is being helpful, it’s hard not to believe she isn’t pouring poison in his ear. Half expects her to say something akin to, “Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under't.”

She doesn’t, and for that he is grateful. Instead, she melts away into the background and loops her arm through his father’s. And, sure enough, your brother does eventually leave your side only to be replaced by Mrs. Fairchild, who slips your wrist through a dainty loop of cream ribbon with a dance card and a small pencil attached.

The room stills, a pack of wolves lying in wait. Drinks are set aside, conversations cease; Amelia gives her son an unceremonious push forward, her gloved hand on his shoulder tipping him toward the inevitable. Steve nearly stumbles from the shock of it all.

Because in one moment he’s just another man in the crowd, an eligible bachelor at yet another ball prepared to drink the night away. And in the next, his eyes lock with yours, and he feels himself falling. It’s hopeless to fight it, this gravitational pull you seem to have over him; haven’t exchanged even two words, and he’s already in your thrall.

He can see your chest rise with your sharp intake of breath, eyes widening at his approach. Steve’s trying not to spook you, really he is. He thinks back to his favored horse, Balius, the clomping hooves and fierce breaths, tries to calm you in the same manner— a slow approach, a small smile, and soft words.

And while he would never bow to the stubborn dappled stallion, Steve does bow to you and says, “Steven Harrington, a pleasure to meet you officially Miss Fairchild.”

Your eyes light in recognition, of his name or him he cannot tell. But you curtsy all the same and offer him your hand, as etiquette dictates. He takes it gladly, marvelling at the fine fabric of gloves adorning it. His finger finds the racing pulse on the underside of your wrist, running along it slowly.

Another sharp intake of breath at the sensation, a heat skittering underneath your skin as his fingers loop around your wrist, your pulse thudding in their wake.

He opens the booklet and takes his time writing his name, well aware at the gathering of eligible suitors at his back. He’s loathe to release your hand and leave you to all of this, the wolves at the gate, but as much as he wants to whisk you away from what is sure to be an uncomfortable and tiring evening, Steve is required, as is everyone else, to play the game.

And Steven Harrington is playing to win.

Mr. Harrington—

It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance this past Friday, and thank you for your presence. I do hope the evening passed pleasantly for you and my apologies for not seeing to you more frequently, but other obligations, as you well know, prohibited me from seeking your company. Furthermore, I must apologize for being remiss in not offering my sincerest gratitude for the lovely flowers and the gracious use of your equipage. You are truly a generous man, and I am grateful for your friendship.

Cordially yours,

Miss Fairchild

P.S. Merci pour le sauvetage de Monsieur C—. Je n'avais aucune idée sur sa relation avec Mademoiselle C—. J’espère que vote intercession ne reflétera pas mal sur vous. Je vous suis redevable.

Steve’s postscript: Please accept my sincerest and deepest condolences on the passing of your parents.

Nell’s postscript: Thank you for the rescue from Mr. C—. I had no idea about his relationship with Miss C—. I hope your intercession will not reflect poorly on you. I am in your debt.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #fic: cf & dd

67 notes · View notes