#American revolution au

[aristocratic-otter]

Ok, I'm determined to post today, even though I'm way behind on responding to y'all's posts. I'll get to them, I promise! I'm about to return to work, and I'm far more productive on work days than I am on vacation (weird as that sounds). So I'll catch up soon.

This week may not have been the most productive, but it was amazing nonetheless. I got to meet Rainbow! and seven lovely fandom friends! It's been a wild weekend, just in time to have to go back to work :(

Here are six-ish sentences from some of my WIPs!

First, thank you to : @hushed-chorus, @wellbelesbian, @martsonmars, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @ic3-que3n, \

@thewholelemon, @artsyunderstudy, @bookish-bogwitch, @monbons, @rimeswithpurple,

@skeedelvee, @larkral, @noblecorgi, @roomwithanopenfire, @prettygoododds,

@whatevertheweather, @youarenevertooold, @ivelovedhimthroughworse, @messofthejess, @blackberrysummerblog,

@nausikaaa, and @emeryhall for tagging me over the last few weeks!

Here’s one snippet from 5 of my WIPs. Cupid’s Shield and Stars, Flowers, and Children are both currently on extremely smutty parts, so there was nothing safe to share. (That probably sounds a little weird, given the most recent posted chapter in Stars has the boys at 12 years old, but don’t worry, the boys are 18+ in the chapter I’m working on, chapter 13) (chapter 10 of Stars should go up this week).

From Saving Simon Snow (also has a chapter that just needs editing and will probably go up this week) (why do I seem to finish chapters in all my WIPs at around the same time???): 

“This is not what I—I don’t—Fuck!” He stops, and closes his eyes tightly, lifting his chin towards the ceiling. 

“Simon, I—” I reach out to him. It’s a mistake. His eyes snap open, and their blue is electric. He puts up both hands as a block to mine and I snatch my hand back. 

“No,” he says, then repeats it. “Nononononono—I can’t—” He’s tearing at his hair worse than before and I want to untangle his fingers from his curls and kiss his each digit to soothe him. But he doesn’t want me. 

From Snow Fox: 

I’d say the man across from me is a snake, but that wouldn’t be fair to serpents. 

I dig my fingertips into the brocade of the armchair. Tarleton can’t see my hands beneath the folds of my dress, so I’ll allow myself that much of a reaction. My face, which he can see, is perfectly smooth and placid, like my mother’s. She’s sitting to the right of me in the other armchair from my parent’s sitting room. Tarleton has turned around one of the plain wood kitchen chairs and is sitting on it backwards with his arms folded over the wooden back of the chair. He’s smiling at us with all his teeth. And none of his eyes. 

From TikTok Dancer: 

This is not good.

I watch as Snow dips and spins, and I worry. 

He told us that he wanted to dance alone today. I didn’t question it at the time…Snow has days like that, where the dance is everything and he needs the solitude to focus on nothing but dance. I think those are the days that he mourns what he’s lost. At least, his dance always seems a little sad, on those days. We still film him, of course. The work he does on those solo days is some of his most brilliant and gets the most hits and likes on YouTube and TikTok. 

But this dance…it scares me. 

From The Rat and the River (Chapter 2 just posted! Here’s a teaser from chapter 4)

I hope that the need for haste doesn’t make them careless. I suppose it hasn’t yet. 

I try to stay as unobtrusive as I can while I watch the team prepare. I can feel the bite of worry in my gut. Snow’s done this dozens of times without the slightest problem, and I try to comfort myself with that, but my peripheral nervous system is not listening to me. My fingers feel cold and faint shivers pass over my skin in waves. 

It’s minor enough that I can hide it, fortunately. I don’t need to put the burden of my fear on him. 

And from my new project, untitled as yet, the following (forgive me…): 

Penny

Simon looks like he’s seen a ghost. Well, I guess he has, actually, seen a ghost.

I know I speculated that Basilton might be dead, but I don’t think I actually believed it. There’s no denying it now, though. Basilton is quite clearly a visitor. I wonder who he’s here to visit? His cousin maybe? Or his best friend?

But no. The whole room watches in shocked silence as he paces unerringly towards my best friend. 

Tags and zen hugs to: @chen-chen-chen-again-chen, @bazzybelle, @dragoneggos, @erzbethluna, @palimpsessed,

 @frjsti, @fatalfangirl, @melodysmash, @moments-au-crayon22, @moodandmist,

 @mostlymaudlin, @onepintobean, @raenestee, @tea-brigade, @upuntil6am, 

@whogaveyoupermission, @carryonsimoncarryonbaz, @krisrix, @shemakesmeforget, @confused-bi-queer, 

@nightimedreamersghost,  @thewholelemon, @angelsfalling16, @mooncello, @shrekgogurt, @cosmicalart,  

@cutestkilla, @theearlgreymage, @alexalexinii, @Iamamythologicalcreature, @ileadacharmedlife, 

@thehoneyedhufflepuff, @best--dress, @j-nipper-95, @letraspal, and @facewithoutheart

[papers-pamphlet]

Week 11

:3

[silkwhim]

Washington and Rochambeau before Yorktown or something

[vinnysorbet]

More Ferfayette (ROV) x Wicked AU just that this art is really trashh 😭😭🌷🌷

Fersen = Glinda

Lafayette = Elphaba

˖ . ݁𝜗𝜚. ݁₊

[soxsisindeviltown]

Oh yeah I've been keeping this to My Hamilton group chat for way too long

I present to you: Alexander Hamsterton

Please let me know if you post him anywhere else and please give me credit or not? I just kind of scribbled on the original image that I found on Google :3

[rain-on-wax-feathers]

is this a second chance? or is this punishment?

[sc3n3kor3-patri0t]

FERAL AU 🩸🥩🐺

Infected!Washington!! >:3 TW: Horror!

I wuuuuuv hiiiiibbbbmmnnbmmmbmn

Spooky forest pic:

[queerquaintrelle]

TURN Week 2024: Switching Sides

"Some King's men who might let some things slide..." - Hamilton: an American Musical

Or: The alternate universe when John André sees how little he is valued by the English (either for his lack of ability on the Battlefield despite his deeply intellectual and clever mind - overlooked for his efforts to the cause of King and Country, God save the King! <- until Major André is actively overlooked for being French and Swiss) André's father was from Geneva and his mother from Paris. So, hearing out Benjamin Tallmadge's side of things - facing either being branded a traitor to a side which loathes him (not you Peggy Shippen) -- in a most overdramatic and xenophobic English way or facing being hung by the neck as he squirms and eventually dies of lack of air. John André, no longer Major André, says, "Gentleman, to hell with the lot of you," and joins The Culper Ring - on their side, and lives to tell the tale.

[iceman-maverick]

fic: top gun but it's the american revolution and they're on horses, not planes

fire and fleet and candlelight

“A favor,” Stinger smiles, “from the General,”

“Which General?” Mitchell says, head snapping to Nick.

Figures. Mitchell can lead a company of men through the jaws of hell and back without a single casualty but it's Nick, who couldn’t tell his musket’s barrel from its stock, whose name carries any weight.

[a-maniac-making-art]

I kinda feel in love with @unicornsaures redcoat AU. I made this quick sketch in honor of ✨chapter 13✨.

[leiawritesstories]

1778 (My Soldier Boy)

Rowaelin Month, Day 28: Wartime Sweethearts AU

A/N: this might just be the most American thing i've ever written lmaooooo 😂😂 so here's the context: the fic is set during the American Revolutionary War, which took place from 1776-1781. Rowan is a soldier in the Continental Army (the American side) and Aelin is the only daughter of a Loyalist (sympathetic to the British) family. and they're star-crossed lovers, yay!! posting this partially as a lil birthday treat to myself but mostly for you, hope you enjoy :))

Word count: 2.8k

Warnings: archaic language (i'm a nerd lol), mentions of war, old outdated traditions, mentions of battle, brief mild angst, flirting

enjoy!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

16th July 1778

Heart of my heart,

I write this in secret, barely able to make out my letters by the faint light of this single candle. I apologize for the sloppiness of my script; my governess would have a fit if she were to see this chicken scratch. Of course, I would then retort that she ought to have taught me to read and write in near darkness, as that is the more useful skill these days. 

A few words, my love–we are leaving in three days.Yes, leaving! Mother has only said that it was what she and Father thought best, given the current…unrest. I am perfectly capable of reading the unspoken words. We are leaving because they fear what our neighbors might do while we sleep. We are leaving because the English are so hated here. We are leaving because nobody has seen or heard from my brother in months. Nobody save me, that is. I know where Aedion went, and I know what he is doing. 

If you love me, Rowan, please send word that my brother is safe, that he is well clothed and has some form of roof over his head. Please. It will calm my nightly worries at least a small bit. 

I do not know where we will go, only that we cannot make a scene of our leaving. We must pretend that we are only going into town like we typically do, except that our cart will be full of our belongings, rather than grain and butter to trade. I suspect we shall attempt to head east, towards the port at Baltimore, and from there we shall attempt to book passage on a ship. Father seems convinced that returning to England is the best course of action. 

I do not want to leave. 

They do not know that, nor do they care. It breaks my heart to admit it, but they do not. They expect me to keep quiet and obey. I have heard them discussing the possibilities of our lives once we return to Mother’s family estate in England–marriage. My marriage. To some titled landowner’s spoilt son, who gives not a whit what I want or who I am as long as I can give birth. I refuse to subject myself to such a fate. 

Rowan, my love, I write this both as news and as a warning. I will not silently accompany my parents in their hasty retreat. I cannot abandon my brother in the middle of a war, nor can I leave you, the other half of my soul. 

I will be waiting for you, my love. I swear it. 

To whatever end,

AAG

~

Heart in his throat, Captain Rowan Whitethorn marched in step with his regiment up the muddy road leading into Baltimore. The bustling port city was largely unmarred by the war that continued to rage on, continuing to serve as major sea access for traders and soldiers alike. As he and the men that called him their leader entered the city proper, Rowan breathed a short, soft sigh of relief. They had two weeks of leave, unless they were called back into battle, and he fully intended to use those two weeks to the fullest. 

“Enjoy your leave, men.” He saluted. “We shall regroup here in two weeks.” The blue-jacketed men broke ranks and ambled into town, most of them probably dispersing to the nearest pleasure house for a good strong drink and as many hours with a woman as their few remaining coins could buy. Rowan didn’t begrudge them their pleasure. 

After years of war, they all needed whatever solace they could find. As did he. 

Fingers instinctively wrapping around the small, precious bundle of letters in his jacket pocket, Rowan strolled towards the calmer part of town, the residential section not so crowded with soldiers on leave, traders, merchants, shouting vendors, and all the rest of the noise, chaos, and diverse cast of characters that populated a thriving shipping town like Baltimore. He glanced at the street markers as he walked, searching for the one with a blue stripe painted around it. 

There. 

Pulse hammering louder than gunfire, he turned down that street and walked past tidy clapboard houses interspersed with the occasional grocer, butcher, baker, and seamstress. He was certain every single one of the handful of people he passed could hear his thundering heartbeat, but none of them had said anything to the young man whose ragged blue jacket marked him an officer in the Continental Army who was walking up their quiet street like it was perfectly normal for him to do. One motherly lady had simply offered him a smile and a “thank you, son,” which had struck him right to the heart. 

He emerged into a busier street, full of shops and taverns and public houses, the businesses bustling but not crowded with soldiers and sailors like the cheaper taverns down by the wharf were. Eyes scanning the signs, Rowan walked up the side of the street. The building he was looking for appeared suddenly in front of him. A brightly painted kingsflame flower adorned the pub’s wooden sign, its carefully wrought petals the work of a singular artist. An artist Rowan knew as well as his own heartbeat. 

With his heart in his throat, Rowan walked into the pub. Immediately, a peal of soft, faintly raspy laughter caught his ear, and his attention snapped to the bar at the back of the softly-lit, cozy space. Behind the well-worn oak bartop, her golden hair tied back with a blue rag that he recognized as his own old shirt, stood the woman who owned every last shred of his heart. 

Aelin Galathynius glanced over towards the door, and the whole sky lived in her vivid eyes. 

Tin clattered against the bar. 

Surprised grunts arose from a table full of stocky, gray-haired farmers. 

And with a rush of air and a strangled gasp of his name, Aelin was in his arms, tears glittering in her eyes, warm and solid and real and clinging to him as if her life depended on it. 

~

He was here. 

Rowan was here, whole and healthy and standing on his own two legs in a much-patched blue jacket and dirt-stained trousers and battered boots, and his eyes were on her alone. 

Aelin flew across the pub floor and all but leapt into her soldier boy’s arms, clinging desperately to him as if he would vanish unless she held him tight. She buried her face in his shoulder and drew in a deep lungful of his scent, the faint trace of mountain pines clinging to him even beneath the layers of sweat and grime. Hot, salty tears of joy leaked into his shirt through a tear in his jacket’s shoulder. 

She felt his deep, familiar chuckle rumble beneath her ear. “Why are you crying, my love?” 

“I’m crying,” she sniffled, raising her head to meet his adoring gaze, “because you smell so bloody awful that my eyes are watering.” 

He tipped his head back and laughed, loud and unrestrained. “God above, I missed you.” 

“I missed you more,” she returned, tracing her thumbs along the sharp juts of his cheekbones. “Every day felt like the longest one yet.” 

“I’m here now,” he murmured in the soft voice he only used for her. 

With tears pooled in her eyes, Aelin leant an inch forward and kissed him, her soldier boy, with all the pent-up fervor of the last several months. She’d been so terrified when her parents announced that they were leaving the Colonies, afraid that she would be uprooted from the life she’d come to love and forced to marry some stuffy lord and shut away in a manor house forever. The very idea that she would be forced to leave Rowan, her love, and Aedion, her brother, without knowing whether either of them would make it back to Baltimore unharmed was enough to disrupt her sleep. She had hardly dared to hope that her desperate escape plan would work until she stood on the pier and watched her parents’ ship depart without her on it. 

Every long day of pouring pints of beer for rowdy sailors, handsy soldiers, and disruptive drunken no-goods was worth it to have her soldier boy back in her arms. 

“Where–ah, Rowan!” Breathless, Aelin poked him in the ribs, pretending to disapprove of the promising way he kissed her throat. “We’re in public.” 

“Let’s fix that, shall we?” He set her down onto her feet, caught her hand, and grinned. “I believe I need a bath, my love. Could you help me with that?” 

“You are incorrigible,” she laughed. She pecked a quick kiss on his lips and led him out of the pub and down the streets, turning into a quiet neighborhood and leading him up the front steps of a tidy little brick cottage with a blue front door. “Please be kind about the mess.” 

“I’ll show you a mess,” he whispered into her ear, far too tempting for his own good. 

She flushed, her cheeks staining bright pink. “Rowan!”

“Aelin,” he mimicked. They were safely inside the house, so he looped his arms around her waist and pulled her flush against him. “I’ve been dreaming of you for months, love.” 

“And you’re going to bathe before you act out any of those dreams, my love.” Giggling, she ducked out of his embrace and led him down the short hall to a washroom. “The tub is full, but it might be cold.” 

“I don’t care if the water is cold.” He shrugged off his jacket and stepped out of his boots. “It’s a hell of a better bath than we get in the army.” 

She sighed fondly. “I’m still going to boil some water.” He made to protest, and she placed her fingers over his mouth. “Ah-ah, soldier boy. Let me spoil you. Besides, the hot water is half for your filthy clothes.” 

“Fine,” he acquiesced. He shed the rest of his dirty, worn clothing and climbed into the tepid bathwater, groaning quietly as he sank into a proper bath for the first time in too long. “Join me, love.” 

“Soon.” She kissed his forehead and dropped a washrag and a bar of soap into the tub. “When you stink a little less.” 

His playful growl followed her all the way out to the front room. 

~

Following the bath–where she had indeed joined her soldier boy and taken his mind off the weight of war for a few moments–and a hearty dinner, Aelin exchanged her regular blouse and skirt for a soft cotton nightdress, braided her hair, and settled into bed with a lantern lit on the side table and a novel in her hands. Rowan was in the washroom; the faint splashing of water indicated that he was scrubbing out his uniform like he insisted he wanted to. So she opened her novel to the page where she had last left off and lost herself in the tender romance unfolding amidst the pages. She was so absorbed in the novel that she didn’t notice the mattress shifting as Rowan climbed into the bed and settled down beside her. 

His soft, low chuckle drew her out of the novel-world. “Good story, Ae?” 

“Wonderful,” she murmured. Reaching the end of the chapter, she placed the bookmark, closed the book, laid it aside, blew out the lantern, and tucked herself into his side, her head against his chest. 

“I missed you,” he whispered after a peacefully quiet interval, stroking one hand idly up and down her back. 

“And I you.” In the faint moonlight, her eyes met his, months of pent-up yearning and uncertainty glossing their turquoise depths. “I am sorry I didn’t write more.” 

He soothed her worry with a gentle kiss. “I would likely have found you before your letters found me. ’Tis the life of a soldier.” 

She hummed in agreement. “On that note…when did you last see Aedion?” Her older brother, whom she loved dearly but whose rashness she did not ignore, had vanished from the Galathynius home early last spring, leaving no indication of where he was going or why. Aelin alone had an idea of what he had gone to do, because he had confided his wishes to her. He had gone off to be a soldier in the Continental Army, but his unit were scouts, which meant that he could be anywhere between Philadelphia and Yorktown. 

Rowan exhaled a long, controlled breath. “The last time our paths crossed was in September, at the camp outside Newport. He mentioned going south, but no details.” 

“South.” Aelin rolled the idea over in her mind, forcing herself not to consider the harsher implications. “Was he…how was he?” 

“Healthy, as far as I could tell, and tired, but so are all of us soldiers.” Rowan ran his hands along Aelin’s tense shoulders, encouraging her to relax. “He said to give you his love and that he’ll do unspeakably horrible things to me if I hurt you.” 

Aelin laughed. “Now that sounds like Aedy. Too protective for his own good, he is.” Idly, her touch trailed along the slope of Rowan’s shoulders, tracing the new scar that slashed from his right shoulder down towards his pectoral muscle. “Tell him that I will return the unspeakably horrible favor if either one of you does anything stupid.” 

“Indeed I shall.” Laughing softly, Rowan pulled Aelin flush against his chest, her heartbeat atop his, and kissed her. She sighed into the kiss, threading her fingers into his overgrown hair. 

“I don’t want you to go back,” she murmured after they had separated. 

He swallowed thickly. “We both know I must.” 

“I know.” Her voice was a fragile thread. “I’m keeping you all to myself for the next two weeks, though. It’s only fair.” 

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “I love you, my wildfire.” 

She smiled tenderly at him. “I love you too, my soldier boy.” 

~

Mid-November, 1778

Aelin, 

I apologize both for the shortness of this note and the fact that it took me so bloody long to write it. There is something I must tell you, and I can only hope that you hear it from Rowan rather than me and my paltry excuse for a letter. 

We are marching to Savannah. Intelligence has it that the Redcoats intend to advance upon the city, and we cannot let the stronghold go without a fight. 

I cannot promise that I will be able to write for any amount of time, and as much as I hate to do this, I leave you all my affection. I will stay as safe as possible, that I can promise. The moment I am able, I swear on my blood that I will come to you, and if possible, that I will bring Rowan. 

Stay strong for us, dear sister. 

Yours, 

Aedion

The short note had reached her in late January of 1779, after three and a half months of ever-increasing tension and worry spurred by the grim reports coming up from the South. Before he left in mid-November, the same time Aedion’s letter was dated, Rowan had revealed that his unit was headed to Savannah to reinforce the troops already there. He had been confident that, with the extra reinforcements, the Army would be able to stave off the British–if not all on their own, then at least long enough for the shipment of French troops to arrive. 

Just before the New Year, the newspapers reported Savannah’s defeat. 

Since then, all Aelin had received was silence. No letters, no notes, nothing listed in the papers, no weary soldiers showing up on her doorstep. The fact that Rowan’s and Aedion’s names remained out of the papers was but a small measure of comfort; all too often, fallen soldiers’ names never made it onto the listings. 

The cloth tying back her hair was black now, the only outward sign of suffering she would allow herself. The people who came into the pub noticed her quiet demeanor, the way her usual vivacious cheer was dampened, and passed quiet condolences to her across the worn oak bartop–a squeeze of the hand, a mourning mother’s shared tears, a word of comfort, a “thank-you” from someone who rarely spoke those words. It lifted her spirits a bit, but not much. 

Every night, she trudged home to her quiet little house, cradled a small watercolor portrait of Rowan–done a year ago, it was the only portrait she’d ever convinced him to sit for–stared down into his painted face, and refused to let her captive tears fall. Though her heart and soul ached for her soldier boy, though her sleep was disturbed by nightmarish imaginings of what could have happened or could be happening to him, she refused to let her tears fall until she knew his fate for certain. 

If nothing else, she owed him--and the child just beginning to stir inside her womb--that fragile hope.

~~~

TAGS: please lmk if you want to be added/removed or if tags don't work :)

@live-the-fangirl-life

@superspiritfestival

@thegreyj

@wordsafterhours

@elentiyawhitethorn

@morganofthewildfire

@backtobl4ck

@rowanaelinn

@house-of-galathynius

@tomtenadia

@julemmaes

@swankii-art-teacher

@charlizeed

@booknerdproblems

@chronicchthonic14

@earthtolinds

@goddess-aelin

@sweet-but-stormy

@clea-nightingale

@autumnbabylon

@darling-im-the-queen-of-hell

@llyncooljones

@silentquartz

[aristocratic-otter]

Hey, for once I’m posting early!  Thank you to : @blackberrysummerblog, @rimeswithpurple, @monbons, @thewholelemon, @artsyunderstudy,

@roomwithanopenfire, @larkral, @you-remind-me-of-the-babe, @wellbelesbian, @letraspal,

@prettygoododds, @bookish-bogwitch, and @whatevertheweather (good to see you back!) for the tags over the last two weeks. 

The summer has been good for me. I’m getting organized and having more time to write! I’ve started the new fic I teased a couple of weeks ago (the one that I was waiting to start until Heart in The Well finished). It’s probably going to be my angstiest one to date, fair warning. 

Here’s one snippet from each of my WIPs 

From Saving Simon Snow: 

“So, you think,” Bunce says slowly, “that the act of casting a spell is calling more magic to the area?”

“Kind of,” Simon says.” His lips twist and he tugs at his sleep-matted curls as he tries to work out how to explain himself. Then he shakes his head. “Actually, no. Not calls more magic. More like takes the magic that’s already there and concentrates it. Gives it a shape. Like, Normals are the source of magic, right? And they produce magic in and of themselves, but they can’t use it. It’s just, like, loose and spread out around them as they go about their lives. But then mages, we use words to give that loose magic a form, and that pulls it together, right? Pulls it into the shape the mage wants it to have. And so doesn’t that mean that Mages are pulling magic from the magical atmosphere each time they cast a spell?”

From Snow Fox: 

Every nerve in my body is on alert. 

I sent the boys home. They’re probably not the reason I’ve been betrayed, but right now, I can’t trust anyone. 

Except Simon.

I need to get to Simon. 

But first…I need to make sure I’m actually alone.

From TikTok Dancer: 

He’s dancing alone. His friends are there, running the music and cameras, but they’re also different. Quiet and focused. Also, if I’m reading their expressions correctly, they’re just a little bit worried, as they watch Simon dance. 

The whole thing makes me feel unsettled and oddly light. Like there’s a bubble of helium in my chest that will soon lift me right off the ground. I’m sure it has something to do with the fact that Simon Snow never takes his eyes off of me when he dances. 

From Stars, Flowers, and Children,

When I’m feeling greatly daring, I travel back to our home beach. I stop a distance away, and stay behind trees or rocks, but it gives me some comfort to watch the flicker of shadows in the firelight as Simon moves around performing his evening routine. It’s the only time I allow myself to watch him. If I see him during the day, my priority is to stay out of sight, but there’s little danger that he’ll go traipsing about looking for me after dark, so the darkness is my ally.

It hurts, to see him. But it’s a pain that fortifies me. After a few minutes watching him, I’m able to rest more peacefully knowing that he’s safe and well. The pain of missing him subsides enough to let me continue to live without him.

From Cupid’s Shield:

 “Baz, fight it. You have to. The anathema—”

Now I know he’s aware, in some form. I see fear on his face and tears forming in his eyes. But, at the same time, he’s reaching up to the collar of his own shirt, and ripping it away from his skin. 

That’s it. He’s helpless against Cupid’s spell. He’s going to lose everything because a fucking god with a grudge tore his free will away.

That’s probably my fault too. I pissed Cupid off. He must have hunted down Baz because I was immune to his arrows. That means it’s my responsibility to fix this. 

“Please,” he whispers.

From The Rat and the River

I’m aware that I don’t need to be out of bed right now. Simon Snow will be completely fine without me seeing him off. I could probably sleep for the hours the team will be gone, as there won’t be much for me to do until they’re back. 

Like I could sleep when Simon is out there. In the hot zone. 

It’s a sensationalistic term, “hot zone,” but it captures how I feel about the area of highest risk of infection. Hot, as in getting in hot water or hot as in playing with fire. 

Also hot as in Simon Snow is the hottest man I’ve ever known, even in a shapeless white positive-pressure suit, but that’s irrelevant right now. 

And from my new project, untitled as yet, the following: 

I feel myself slipping. 

Other than the daily cup of blood with a bendy straw, I haven’t seen light in weeks. Maybe months. And for the last several days or weeks, I’ve not even had that. I’ve woken up from a doze to find the blood already inside the coffin with me. I spend more time drifting, semi-conscious, than I do actually awake and aware now.

After all, there’s nothing good about being awake and aware. 

Tags and shout-outs to: @chen-chen-chen-again-chen, @bazzybelle, @dragoneggos, @erzbethluna, @palimpsessed,

@frjsti, @fatalfangirl, @martsonmars, @melodysmash, @moments-au-crayon22,

@moodandmist, @mostlymaudlin, @onepintobean, @raenestee, @tea-brigade,

@upuntil6am, @whogaveyoupermission, @carryonsimoncarryonbaz, @krisrix, @shemakesmeforget,

@confused-bi-queer, @nightimedreamersghost,  @thewholelemon, @angelsfalling16, @noblecorgi,

@hushed-chorus, @ivelovedhimthroughworse, @mooncello, @ic3-que3n, @shrekgogurt (happy birthday!),

@cosmicalart,  @cutestkilla (also happy birthday!), @theearlgreymage, @alexalexinii, @Iamamythologicalcreature,

@emeryhall, @ileadacharmedlife, @messofthejess, @thehoneyedhufflepuff, @best--dress,

@nausikaaa, @youarenevertooold, @j-nipper-95, and @facewithoutheart

[papers-pamphlet]

Doodles of ... Him ... +Alexander

[silkwhim]

real historically accurate

[comicfizz]

[[ 𔓕ㅤINTRO POST .ᐟ ]]

Ari ++ Fizz ﹒﹙ ♡ ﹚﹒ she ╱her

taken by my lovely partner (ily star)

multifandom but i post mostly UTAU content here!!

ㅤ➤ proship / dark ship dni!!

ㅤㅤ➤ daily dust sans blog → @dailymurdersans

ㅤㅤ➤ my account is 13+

ㅤㅤ➤ i am a minor!! dont ask me weird shit

ㅤㅤ➤ dont interact with me personally (in dms) if you're 18+

ㅤㅤ➤ my favorite sans' are dust and geno 🤤🤤

ㅤㅤ➤ i do art commissions for nitro!

ㅤㅤ➤ i luv tyler the creator 🔥

ㅤㅤmy tagz ⤻ㅤ#ari is speaking shhh #ari drawing

[linlover69]

Farrenposting again… thought i’d put this one separate than the other doodles I did cuz I like it and it has lore… anyways

Context under the cut hashtag HAWK TUAH!!!!

the coat he’s wearing isn’t his, It’s aspen’s. Aspen’s brother gifted it to farren shortly after aspen’s death. It’s still stained witj blood and mud. According to farren, it still smells like him, sweet but earthy. It’s like forty sizes too big because aspen is 6’1 and farren is 5’4… He likes to wear it sometimes and then sit an do nothing out of fear of ruining it