#Hamilton Polish version

[yuwuta]

HOW DID YOU GET USED TO THE HAUNTING, THE WILLING, THE MISSING, THE WANTING — YUUTA OKKOTSU

content, warnings. more of the knight yuuta universe yippee. i got an ask about telling him he’d make a good prince and flustering him, and that struck something in me, though this interpretation of that ask is probably a bit darker/more serious than envisioned... i will publish the ask w the other version of this scenario too. unfortunately for everybody involved i was a theater kid and i did listen to cell block tango and the first half of hamilton before i had this idea </3 i’m sorry if you can tell

more notes. set in the same universe as this drabble, which are all set in the same universe as a full fic draft i have and would love to finish some day lol. anyway, say hello to the gojo of this au 

You are not ready to be queen. As much as you resent your mother, your father, the elders in the cabinet, the system you were raised in—as much as you wish to be a ruler that creates change and peace in your court and kingdom, you know that you are not ready to hold that position. 

It shows now more than ever, with your parents being escorted to a neighboring kingdom for a meeting, and you in charge of the harvest ball. There is china to be chosen, silverware to be polished, candlesticks to be blessed, gowns to be sewn, a menu to be curated, a ballroom to be prepared—and you are sorely behind on all of your duties. 

A lackluster princess does not make for a promising queen. And distractions do not help you become anything of yourself. 

“I do not have time to discuss the lilies Sir Gojo. I am aware they are drooping and that they are your favorite, but I do not control the weather,” you sigh, handing back a scroll to a maid before turning to your head knight.

“That sounded very queenly, my little lady! You’ve been practicing,” he towers above you, with a growing smile and little care for your position. He bends forward to press the tip of his gloved pointer finger to your nose, “I too mourn the lilies, but I am afraid I agree: we have much more pressing matters to discuss. Come along, shall we?” 

You’ve learned to be wary of Sir Gojo’s words over the years. He often leads with a false timbre, or makes otherwise simple conversation into a riddle for his own amusement. Even as you’ve learned when to ignore his games, you’ve also grown appreciative of his light demeanor, and his insistence on speaking to you directly, rather than shielding you away. 

You take his arm, looping yours through his, and allow him to lead you down the courtyard steps and into the grand garden. You put your trust in him, allowing your feet to follow the path he sets, and letting your mind wander. You wonder whether you should set the gold or bronze-trimmed plates for the ball, if the curtains should remain closed or open, if the embossed or embellished silverware would leave a better impression on your guests. 

“Princess?” your knight calls for you. You focus your attention back to him, apologizing for your lapse in attention. 

You expect a smile, perhaps another press to your nose and a light scolding, but Gojo’s expression is much more neutral. “Sir?”

“I said that Lord Hajime is dead. His court will send a representative to the harvest ball, but how would you like to proceed?” 

“Dead?” your breath hitches momentarily, “Was he unwell?” 

“I do not know. The letter gave no detail. I believe the court sent an apology for not being able to deliver a suitor as promised. The family wishes to keep this private until after the harvest.” 

When you look up to him, you see no mischief in his expression. He’s serious, and you feel lightheaded, warm, and icy all at once. “I see,” you say, and pull away from Gojo’s arm, “Excuse me. I—I need a moment to myself.”

“You are sick? So suddenly?” Gojo asks, turning with your body so that his back is never to you.

“No—I… I… I need to be alone,” you confess, wrapping your arms around themselves, curling into your own body. Gojo stands firm, a short nod in understanding. He raises his hand to make a signal; an order for the knights on the periphery who can see but not hear. 

You smile, small, grateful for him. “Please, arrange our finest favors, and ask Ieiri for her favorite elixir.” 

Gojo’s smile reflects yours, albeit stained with more sympathy. “Of course.” 

“And tell the maids that I shall postpone the table placements until tomorrow morning. Should you find yourself with time to spare, let me know if you prefer the bronze to gold trim.” 

Gojo nods, taking a half-step to stand in front of you. In times like these, you feel like the little princess under his watch and care from when you were younger. His presence is frightening, overwhelming, and yet, more comforting and welcoming than your own parents. 

Carefully, he leans down to whisper, “Yuuta and his fleet have not yet returned, he will not be in the knight’s chambers. I will send him to you when he arrives.” You blink in sudden awe, and Gojo smiles, reaches for your hand and raises it to his lips to press a chaste kiss, “Do not regret too long, princess.” 

You hear him before you see him. It’s a bad habit for a knight, you think; you can always hear or feel where Yuuta is, even if you can’t see him. You think he ought to be more stealthy, more secretive, quieter; but then again, you don’t. He reserves plenty of stealth for his motives, stores plenty of secrets in his mind, keeps his words quiet or has a way of keeping other people’s quiet. 

The throne room is cold. It’s your least favorite room in the castle, but tonight, you hope it inspires you.

You don’t sit on your throne, you don’t sit on your mother’s or your father’s; you don’t sit at all. You stand, at the top of the stairs, staring at the seats and the tapestry and the paintings of your forefathers that decorate the backdrop. Behind you, at the base of the stairs, Yuuta kneels. You don’t need to see him to know; you can feel it on your palms with your hands behind your back; you can see it in the eyes of your grandfather’s portrait, you can hear it in the way his knee hits the carpet. 

“You may stand.” 

“I shouldn’t, my lady,” Yuuta replies, “Not here.” 

“You do many things you shouldn’t,” you sigh, steady, “Stand, Yuuta.” 

You hear the metal of his armor rustle against itself. You can feel when he stands; it feels like he’s right behind you, even though you know he’s ten steps below you. 

You inhale, slowly; exhale, slowly. Clench your hands behind your back, and then relax your shoulders the way you’ve seen your grandfather do. Then, you speak. “Lord Hajime is dead.” 

You turn, slowly, and wait until your cape has finished its turn, has settled behind you again before you speak again; a tactic your grandmother was fond of. “Lord Hajime is dead,” you repeat, “He is dead, and I asked you not to kill him.” 

Yuuta looks up to you. Neck craned, hands neatly behind his back, his helmet on the carpeted floor to his left. He does not look small. 

You take a step downwards. “I said this is not how I wanted matters to be resolved.” Another step down, a pause, then repeat, “I said that I do not wish to resort to violence.” Another step down, a pause, “To resort to murder.” Another step down, hurried, “I stood under my balcony,” another step, “and I told you not to murder Lord Hajime. I told you not to kill him,” another step; a pause, hysterical, “And yet Lord Hajime is dead. He is dead because—”

���I did not kill him.”

You pause your descent, four steps above Yuuta. You are only half a head taller than him like this. At this distance you can see the gray of his irises, wide and speckled with brown, without a shred of remorse pooling within them. It makes you sneer. 

“You expect me to believe that it is a coincidence that a fortnight after I catch you on your way to murder Lord Hajime, that he dies?” you question, rhetorical, “I am naive, but I am not a fool, Yuuta.” 

“You are no fool, my princess, and Lord Hajime was no saint,” Yuuta shakes his head, “He was a tyrant. He took three wives prior and treated them all as whores. He alone was responsible for the destruction of the crops in the north. He had only himself to blame.” Yuuta pauses, and you see something melt behind steely eyes. “It was a murder, yes, but not a crime.”

Yuuta’s lips wobble slightly, but the rest of him remains upright. It always goes like this: first his head, then his heart, then his body following—in everything he does. You blink, slowly, and take another step down; eye-level with Yuuta at this height. 

“You did not kill him,” you repeat, leveled with revelation, “You just gave the order.” 

Yuuta’s eyelids fall slowly, then his head follows in a shallow nod. He keeps his neck bent, keeps his head hung in front of you. You sigh. 

“Who was it this time,” you ask. He does not raise his head; you do not wait for him to speak, you dip your head so that your lips are level with his ears. “Megumi? Surely he would have hated the way Lord Hajime treated his livestock. Maybe Yuuji—he has been impatient to prove himself since recovering from his last injury. Or perhaps Toge, he would’ve done it swiftly in his sleep, without a sound.”

Yuuta keeps his gaze on the floor, keeps his words quiet. “Nobara.” 

“Dame Nobara, who strives to replace you as my first blade?” you question, “What, as some kind of test of loyalty to you?” 

Yuuta raises his head, eyes stern, brows drawn. “No, princess. To you.” 

You freeze. Your anger flares, and then subsides to only weak embers as you understand Yuuta’s motives, and Sir Gojo’s final words to you. You’re careful when you reach forward to brush your knuckle against Yuuta’s cold cheek, only the kiss of a touch between your finger and his face; even, still, he shudders, and you watch him melt from head to toe; from his eyebrows to his eyes to his lips to his shoulders to his knees. 

“You are disobedient, and indignant, and ruthless,” you list, voice soft, touch softer as you allow your fingers to graze the top of his ears, adoring the flush that follows, “And kind, and careful, and charming.”

You watch the color stain Yuuta’s cheeks and his ears, you revel in the pout on his lips, and the effort of his breathing. You only wish he were this easy to tame all the time. 

Still, he precious to you, so you are careful when you raise your opposite hand to his face, taking advantage of the difference in your status and stature to tilt his head upwards, lean down and press your words against his cheek, “You would make for a lovely prince,” you tell him, “The people would love you. Our enemies would fear you. The soldiers would respect you.” The kisses between your sentences are featherweight, trailed from the high point of his cheekbone to the corner of his lips.

You can feel him quiver when you pull back, moving a palm back to his cheek to pinch his skin between your thumb and forefinger, “If only you knew how to listen.” 

Yuuta winces, but he does not pull away. He parts his lips to steady his breath, and then to speak, strained, “Please, princess. Have mercy.” 

And for the first time in a fortnight you smile, watching splotched skin stain your knight’s cheeks when you soften your hold on him. You pull Yuuta’s head up further, lean yours down for a careful kiss; short, chaste, the kind you know he hates the most. 

“Oh, Yuuta,” you coo, grazing your thumb against his face, endeared by his wide eyes and quiet whimpers, “This is mercy.”

[publius-library]

What Hamilton biography do you recommend? I've read one in Polish (which was quite good, but there were many things missing, and I would like to improve my knowledge about him :) ) and I saw you don't like Ron Chernow's version so I came to ask if you know the other, maybe better one :)

…i dont know a better one

there are definitely others, like flexner’s biography is one of the more commonly cited ones, but if you want information to fill in the gaps, its chernow all the way. you have to tolerate his fucking ATROCIOUS personality, but all the information is there. there are only a few things he gets wrong, but they’re minor details about other historical figures besides the ones he focuses on.

ive also heard good things about forrest mcdonald’s bio of him, but i haven’t read it. chernow’s is the only one ive read, the rest of my knowledge has just been accumulated through other sources.

ofc im going to recommend George Washington’s Indispensable Men by Arthur S. Lefkowitz, which has a lot of information on hamilton and is overall a better read.

im sorry this answer is ass, but chernow is both my enemy and the only thing i have so. good luck, brave soldier

[korogie]

okay okay ngl i'm very basic with my musicals knowledge but i've seen hamilton (obv - both the us recording + i've actually been to see the london cast), hadestown (some shitty recording a while ago), legally blonde, dear evan hansen, cats (not the movie, the play), the book of mormon (just listen to it, i really want to watch it one day!!!), newsies obv, wicked, jesus christ superstar and these in the polish version (we have a theater that adapts musicals into polish it's pretty fun): we will rock you (this one i've seen on wednesday), mamma mia, aida, singing in the rain, les miserables, phantom of the opera and polish productions: metro and pilots :D

i basically love all musicals ngl i just like the medium <3 so any recommendation i will be happy to check out :D

OOO those are all pretty good shows (and yes I did see ur other ask abt tick tick boom, double checking my list that show is actually 12 and newsies is 11!!) Honestly, some recommendations I would give are Fiddler On The Roof (a classic, surprisingly really funny), Come From Away (based on a true story when a plane had to emergency land in a tiny town in Canada during the 9/11 attacks and the community of the tiny town coming together to help them), West Side Story (also a classic, really like it, especially the new movie), Spring Awakening (my sister's #1 show!!! It's about early 1900s germany and discussing the harms of censorship and hiding away from topics like sex, really heavy show tho)!!! Just to name a couple more that I really like! Also if u need or want a bootleg of tbom I have a handful but it has been a while since I downloaded them so I'll see if I still have them <- has seen like 8 different bootlegs of this show and live 3 times

[theheartonmyt-shirt]

Whenever I'm feeling discouraged or I'm doubting myself, I find myself comparing my art to people I idolise- Taylor Swift, Lin-Manuel Miranda etc. And one thing that really helps with that is listening to their demo tracks- the ones they reccorded in their tiny little home studios with very basic equipment.

It makes me realise that the versions of them that we see are the polished, filtered versions- never that first draft.

I'm very much in the "demo" stages of my music. Everything that I put out right now will sound like I recorded it in my bedroom at 3am using a sock pulled over a coat-hanger as a pop shield, because that's what I did. I will get better with time, practice, and money for better equipment. Right now, though, there’s no harm in putting what I’m doing out there anyway.

There's no point in comparing myself to the Original Broadway Cast Recording of Hamilton, because that's way beyond what I'm even close to accomplishing, but listening to the Hamilton Demos, I can get a good idea of where I'm supposed to be at the moment, in my first, second, third drafts.

Every piece of art, whether it's crochet or writing or painting or music, will start with the first draft. Trust the process, and one day that shitty little demo will become your masterpiece :)

[neck-thats-made-for-bruising]

🎧🎶Shuffle your favourite playlist and post the first five songs that come up. Then copy/paste this ask to your favourite mutuals. 🎶🎧

problems - mother mother

mine (taylor's version) - taylor swift

footnote - conan gray

sophie - black polish

cabinet battle #1 - hamilton

[russilton]

Red Bull and mclaren aren’t my favorite teams but their behind the scenes race weekend content is so much better than Mercedes. I literally would die for a Mercedes version of mclaren unboxed, I would love to see more of Lewis and George’s friendship and behind the scenes stuff that goes on.

I mean, both those teams need the good PR, considering it’s a fuckin dumpster fire every week for them.

I would love to see more behind the scenes with George and Lewis but I think George and Lewis themselves probably aren’t super keen. Both of them seem to skive out of any grill the grid content they can, and Merc has always had a thing about being anal for it’s polished reputation, even if their social game is gradually stepping up.

Besides, you wanna be the guy who looks THE Lewis Hamilton in the face and says “yeah we need you to goof off on video for us when you want to be doing race prep”- I would simply catch fire immediately.

Do I WANT the content? Yeah. Do I think it’ll happen? Probably not at that scale ever lmao. But if you do want that go mouth off on their socials about it, they listen to that kinda stuff.

[millingroundireland]

Nutley, Cincinnati, and beyond [Part 2]

After he returned from his military service, Bob went to Antioch College, taking up girls here and there, even having a train companion from California. [4] While at college he met F.L. and graduated in 1948 in the same class as her. One of the papers he wrote after finishing his military service was titled “The Negro Press: A Vital Democratic Heritage,” which focused on how the “Negro press has...played a leading role in the struggle of the Negro people for liberation...[with] many anti-imperialist attitudes which are missing from the general daily press.” He recounted the history of the Black press and remained optimistic. Before moving to Cincinnati, Bob and F.L. would live in New York City. While there, F.L. and Bob would have two Siamese cats named Darwina and Quetzalcoatl. Sadly, they escaped down the fire escape one day and went into a fur factory, never to be seen again. In 1958, Bob would graduate from Columbia University with a Ph.D. in clinical psychology. [5]

In order to tell more of the story, it is worth summarizing F.L.’s background. She was born on August 17, 1926 at 19 Lexington Avenue in Montclair, New Jersey, a town close to Nutley. Her parents were an insurance broker named Walter Augustus Schaefer (called Walter Sr. to distinguish from his son of the same name), and Katherine Ruth Weber (often just called Ruth), who lived on Calico Lane in the town of Nutley from 1926 until 1970 (when Ruth died), when Walter, Sr. moved nearby in 1971. [6]

The Schaefers have a story worth summarizing here. In 1920, they were living on 19 Lexington Avenue, with Walter Sr., Ruth, and two children: Walter Jr. (age 4) and Martha (age 1), living in a house they owned but mortgaged, with Walter Sr. working in casualty insurance. [7] By 1930, this had changed. They were living on 385 Passaic Avenue, with a Polish maid named Mary Watraz, while Walter Sr. was an insurance broker. This home was worth $25,000 and they had a radio. By 1940, they were living on 1 Memorial Park Drive, with the maid gone, but Walter Sr. as an insurance agent, Walter Jr. in advertising and Martha in advertising publicity. [8] While the street numbers change it is the same house. I base this on Walter Schaefer’s This is Your Life which reprints old newspaper articles he wrote as “Nutley History Bits”. He notes that they bought the James Mason house in 1926 from Alexander Hamilton Schultz, noting that the street was originally called River Road, then Passaic Avenue, changed to Memorial Park Drive, and was finally called Calico Lane.

Circa 1900. This seems to be a very old photo of the house in Nutley that was later purchased by Walter A. Schaefer and Ruth Weber.

Continued in part 3

This is reprinted from my family history of the Mills/Packard family. This tells a shortened version of the Bob Mills story in World War II sent out to relatives on June 17, 2018. Some other changes have been made to make a smoother text. This was originally published on the WordPress version of this blog in November 2018, but has been broken apart info various parts for this blog.

© 2018-2023 Burkely Hermann. All rights reserved.

Notes

[4] In the meantime, his father, Bert, was part of the civil defense system in Cheviot. According to his picture book, these girls included Nina Fey, June Brenner (on Painesville, Ohio), Jenny Khol (of Bridgetown), Nan Fey, Robbie Philadelphia, Clara Wood, Sarah Pete (New Bedford, PA), Jean Cowan (Monterey), Jane, Jean Fugate, and Pat.

[5] “Robert Mills dies, service set Friday,” The Cincinnati Enquirer, May 8, 1981, page not known.

[6] Oranges Directory (Newark, NJ: Price & Lee Co., 1912), 542; Oranges Directory (Newark, NJ: Price & Lee Co., 1914), 593; Oranges Directory (Newark, NJ: Price & Lee Co., 1916), 617; Montclair-Bloomfield Directory (Newark, NJ: Price & Lee Co., 1920), 587; Montclair-Bloomfield Directory (Newark, NJ: Price & Lee Co., 1923), 816; Montclair-Bloomfield Directory (Newark, NJ: Price & Lee Co., 1926), 839; Nutley Directory (Newark, NJ: Price & Lee Co., 1936), 635; Nutley Directory (Newark, NJ: Price & Lee Co., 1940), 746. All directories are courtesy of Ancestry.com; Nutley Directory (Newark, NJ: Price & Lee Co., 1940), 96; Nutley Directory (Newark, NJ: Price & Lee Co., 1942), 756; Nutley Directory (Newark, NJ: Price & Lee Co., 1944), 839; Nutley Directory (Newark, NJ: Price & Lee Co., 1946), 806; Nutley Directory (Newark, NJ: Price & Lee Co., 1948), 955; Township of Nutley, “History of Nutley,” 2017; Certified copy of Florence Louise Schaefer’s birth certificate, Aug. 17, 1926, Board of Health, Bloomington, NJ. Walter A. was living in Orange, New Jersey 1912-1916, Montclair 1920 to 1926, then Nutley.

[7] 1920 U.S. Federal Census, Bloomfield Ward 1, Essex, New Jersey, National Archives, NARA T626, Enumeration District 13, Roll 1344, Page 4B. Ancestry says the middle name is K, but is A when you look closely at the census document; 1930 U.S. Federal Census, Nutley, Essex, New Jersey, National Archives, NARA T626, Enumeration District 558, Roll 1344, Page 4B.

[8] 1940 U.S. Federal Census, Nutley, Essex, New Jersey, National Archives, NARA T627, Enumeration District 7-294, Roll 2338, Page 14A. In This is Your Life, See the articles titled “The Naming of Calico Lane,” “Schaefer Family ‘Finds The James Mason Home,” “End of Trumpet Vine Signalled End of Birds,” “Curls, Saddle Rugs and Mother’s Ideas,” “Finding the Doorway to the J. MasonHome,” “Friendly Visitors, Memories, Memories” in Oct. 13, 1987 and Nutley Journal/Belleville Post, “Nutley’s Schaefer still going strong at 100.” At the time they purchased the Calico Lane house it was in poor condition so they rehabilitated the house. That was a major part of both Walter and Ruth’s lives, but especially Ruth’s.

[koszmarnybudyn]

For the ask game; Hermie & Scary :]

Hermie: I might be a bit basic on that one but "be more chill", i have never really seen a stage version but i have listened to the album fully two times and the songs slap! (I had a huge hamilton phase in middle school so that will always be close to my heart, and "my hero academia the musical" but the cosplayer ran polish version, allmightutas is still stuck in my head haha, and a local production of "cats" are also up there)

Scary: at the time of me writing this, it is I/me/myself by will wood (as a non-binary person i relate heavily), never love an anchor, groan, ...well better then the alternative are also some of my faves :) my favorite musical song is probablly pitiful children but idk.

[krakenbait]

new jersey devils, “give it all”

the song by rise against

[incorrect-koh-posts]

If you search Krol Tredowaty in Polish you mighy find images of Baldwin IV. An early take. Very cool.

Oh, thank you for pointing that out to me! 💛

Have some lovely Baldwin IV cover illustrations for Zofia Kossak's 1937 novel The Leper King (Król Trędowaty):

I'm particularly fond of these two - I think the minimalist art style suits both the subject and our leprous boy quite well, and I like the design the artists chose for his cloak and veil.

I also came across a rather pretty Polish cover for the Bernard Hamilton book:

My version of the Kossak novel (published in Germany in 1964), sadly, looks quite boring in comparison:

And while we're on the subject: I have to admit I rather enjoyed Kossak's take on the events in the Holy Land between roughly 1176 and 1187. Of course, it is very old-fashioned in terms of its writing style, and far from historically accurate - but considering that it was published in 1937, long before most of the decisive academic works we know had been written, I think Kossak nonetheless did an admirable job with presenting the historical events in a way that is both comprehensible and somewhat entertaining. Being nitpicky about the details while having access to almost a hundred years' worth of further research would be a little unfair, in my opinion.

That said, I'm not sure this is the right novel for you to read if you are simply looking for some good sauce about Baldwin, since Kossak's portrayal of him is a bit of a mixed bag. In some instances, her Baldwin resembled the wise, gentle king we know from KoH very closely, but in others, he came across as whiny and wallowing in self-pity, acting much more childish than he should. (Remember: In that time and place, men were considered legal adults at the age of fifteen.) So, what I missed in Kossak's Baldwin sometimes was the inner strength that - according to the chroniclers - he must have possessed in spades. His mother Agnes of Courtenay, by the way, receives a similar treatment and is presented as an overweight clucking old hag, which is, unfortunately, the default characterisation she is given in older historical fiction.

Apart from that, though, The Leper King was a hoot. This may be just my particular brand of weirdness talking - I'm currently writing my thesis about medieval German literature, so go figure - but I unapologetically love those early literary takes on Baldwin & Co. Their differing characterisations of the various historical figures are always fun to compare, sometimes I merely get a good laugh out of them while other times I end up being surprised or even genuinely impressed. This novel, somehow, managed to pair the WTF-factor with moments that I found genuinely heart-warming and dialogue that was by turns either well-written or absolutely laughable.

To be fair, some of this can probably be chalked up to the translation because - let's face it - many things that sound fine in any other language become very odd, all of a sudden, when translated into German. Towards the end of the book, for example, Kossak covers the Hattin episode and thus briefly tells how Eschiva and her sons retreated into the citadel at Lake Tiberias when Salah ad-Din laid siege to the city. Upon hearing this news, Kossak's Raymond exclaims affectionately "Meine tapfere Alte!", which is best translated as "My valiant old lady!", and if that isn't the funniest shit ever, then I don't know.

What I also found particularly wholesome - though of course not historically viable - was the way Kossak depicted the relationship between Baldwin and Raymond. For some reason, she seems to think Raymond was Baldwin's uncle (when in reality he was his first cousin once removed), but the "favourite uncle & favourite nephew" dynamic she builds between them really works for this novel. As a Raymond fangirl, it was also quite refreshing to read something that showed him as both sympathetic AND ambitious and, for once, didn't make him do the whole "cackling evil relative who is after the crown" act.

In the German translation, Raymond repeatedly calls Baldwin fondly "Mein Junge" und "Mein Kleiner", which literally means "my boy" and "my little one". I'm not crying, you're crying. Baldwin, in turn, refers to Raymond as "Oheim", which is an old German term for "uncle" (specifically: the brother of the mother - imagine that: Raymond as Agnes of Courtenay's brother! 😂). Hence, while it is simply a genealogical mistake and historically speaking, of course, a cartload of bollocks, it nonetheless warms my heart that this novel chose to present us with the one and only depiction of a literal "Uncle Tibs".

So, yeah - this was a fun read.

[aftonfamilyvalues]

idk i think the RCDart thiccccc captain america was more disturbing than the hamilton one... maybe because it happened to the artist over a long period. going to draw every male character with a concave ass just in case this slow and terrifying decay is catching

i would agree, the fact their art style decayed so heavily in a span of less than a year.

january: pretty accurate to what captain america looks like, very recognizable as the character. more realistic proportion type. some good detail work in development. the stance and expression give a good idea of who cap is (confident, heroic, strong, patriotic)

september: extremely warped proportions, unrecognizable as captain america. very uncomfortable when you take into account this particular cap is a transman. very simple noncanon details (nail polish, extremely amounts of stretch marks, those clothes, overall appearance) while abandoning meaningful details (shading/lighting, canon clothing/appearance) completely erasing characterization in favor of making a weirdly sexualized and fetishistic trans version of captain america.

[bones-sprouts]

SELF INDULGENT APOLLO JUSTICE ACE ATTORNEY AU BECAUSE IT BRINGS ME JOY ( SPOILER WARNING ⚠️‼️)

@burnoutandbookworms-ohmy you wanted to be tagged :>

okay so the cast would be as follows

apollo - tommy

phoenix - wilbur

trucy - tubbo

klavier - ranboo (this one's ambitious but hear me out-)

kristoph - dream

ema - techno

lamiroir - kristin

zak - phil (F in chat for mr minecraft 😔)

and then all of the filler characters would be various other smp members (suggestions?)

so then the plot would go as follows (we're bullet pointing this bitch you better run)

°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

• so tommy arrives in the courtroom with dream, and he's nervous as hell, because not only is it his first trial

• his client is wilbur fucking soot

• world renouned defense attorney, now disbarred for forging evidence

• but tommy is 110% sure wilbur is innocent

• because wilbur is his HERO

• and then dream introduces them and damn he looks like shit

• i'm talking full pogtopia era get-up, plus a ratty beanie that has wilby painted on it and a crown pin

• so wil spouts the standard cryptic bullshit you'd expect from phoenix

• and tommy does an early smpe earth 'i am so cool and not at all starstruck' type act

• and they head in

• you meet the judge, who i didn't replace bc it's the judge

• tommy does his chords of steel, but with significantly more swearing then apollo would use

• and dream seems to be just a bit off

• and he goes on this big tirade about blue cards

• the case goes smoothly, until

• tommy feels something akin to a burning from the compass he's kept as a necklace for as long as he can remember

• and he just knows that the witness is lying

• it's like he can see the tiniest of tells that tip him off

• dream doesn't quite understand it, but wilbur looks like he knows exactly what's going on

• before he calls this out, though, a recess is called

• wilbur and dream have a chat, so tommy's left to his own devices

• and this boy about his age in a green magician's outfit runs up to him

• and he looks like an older version of the picture of wilbur's kid that he showed off in court beforehand

• and he hands tommy a (bloody??) playing card and poofs away

• then the trial resumes as normal, with tommy grilling the witness and eventually accusing her

• but it just doesn't seem right

• he knows she's not lying about being innocent, her tells would have tipped him off if she was

• but dream pushes and pushes him to formally accuse her

• until wilbur fucking soot interjects with an OBJECTION!

• while tommy geeks the hell out, wilbur asserts that there must have been someone else in the room

• and accuses dream.

• tommy's confused, and the both of them argue back and forth for a bit, until wilbur starts explaining his theory with evidence from tommy along the way

• but it's seeming like they don't have any non circumstancial evidence

• until wilbur has tommy pull out the playing card

• (i haven't been explaining the case but it makes sense i promise)

• they win the case, with dream never faltering or showing emotion, even after being taken away

• tommy's shaken up, but happy, all things considered

• but before he can ponder on what's just happened, wilbur takes him aside to talk

• and admits the card was forged

• tommy's shocked, and he's sad, and he's angry, because how could wilbur fucking soot forge evidence??

• and he punches him in the face

• wil smiles and gives him an offer to work at his office, since tommy's boss is kind of in jail

• tommy leaves

• but he comes back a few months later, only out of desperation

• he's greeted by the boy from the trial (wil's kid?)

• who demands to know his name and his 'talent'

• tommy says he's a lawyer and introduces himself

• the kid says his name is tubbo and that the building hasn't been a law office in a long time

• tommy asks to see wilbur

• so they go to see him

• in the fucking hospital

• he managed to get hit by a car, which sent him flying 40ft back into a telephone pole

• and he sprained his ankle

• he's very lucky apparently

• so from there, cases 2 and 3 play out (i'm gonna skim though these bc if i write them out ill end up rewriting plot points and i don't have the energy)

• along the way, they meet a few interesting people

• ranboo, a prosecutor who's dream's younger brother and the guitarist for a popular band, that tubbo immediately gets along with and tommy despises

• dispite seeming cocky, he's impressively awkward outside of court

• technoblade, a detective who's fairly standoffish towards tommy and tubbo alike, but has a soft spot for wilbur (do they have a history)

• kristin, a singer with a past she can't remember (unbeknownst to tommy, his compass tends to point towards her and tubbo. odd)

also before we move on to the final case, a quick summary of the dynamics and other small shit bc seritonin

• though wil adopted tubbo, they have much more of a sibling dynamic, and cause general mayhem

• wilbur does actually warm up to tommy fairly quickly (beanix and apollo dynamic, my abbhorrent) and while tommy still doesn't 100% trust wil, they do end up getting pretty close as time goes on

• tubbo and ranboo IMMEDIATELY hit it off, much to the dismay of tommy, and the two of them act like the dummy named micheal that tubbo uses for magic tricks is their son

• tommy acts like he hates ranboo's guts, but that won't stop him from trying to sweet talk his way into getting evidence from him (it always works, ranboo has no spine.) he also, like in canon, vents to ranboo whenever he needs to, and ranboo ends up knowing more ab him then even wil and tubbo

• jack is eldoon. they all go to his noodle shop constantly and tommy always complains about them being too salty. jack hates him with a passion but adores tubbo and wil

• instead of snakooos, techno deadass just has entire bags full of raw potatoes that he eats like chips, this is terrifying to everyone except wilbur, who acts like it's completely normal

• instead of pretending to be taken hostage in case 2, tubbo deadass pretends to have a nuke and threatens to set it off unless a recess is called. after things calm down they go back in and he just,, doesn't get arrested. the law is fucked

• after case 1, dream wears a smiley mask in order to not show his face, paranoid that tommy or someone else like him will know his secrets though his tells

okay now final case here we go

• wilbur tells tommy and tubbo that he's been working on a special trial with the jury system, and that he needs them to defend

• they agree, and go to meet the client

• things generally go like any other investigation, but there's just something about it that feels game changing

• and as they power though the first part of the trial, they start to uncover that there might be someone pulling the strings from behind the scenes

• tommy clocks her tell (chewing her nails) and they start to make progress

• but before they can uncover answers from her, she passes out

• a recess is called, and so are paramedics

• it turns out she's ingested the same kind of poison as the victim, coming from her nail polish

• tommy and tubbo are shaken up, and they go to wil for help

• he decides they need to know the full truth, but he knows that some of the evidence is lost at this point

(and holy shit stay with me here i promise that as out of left field this is the original game made significantly less sense)

• he phones a friend that he knows is the only one that can help them

• karl

• he explains the situation, and karl agrees to help them

• and they fucking time travel

(again, the game makes even less sense i promise)

• they chat with the victim and defendant from seven years beforehand, right after wil was disbarred

• they watch the trial wil got disbarred over, where he defended tubbo's bio father, phil

• and they see a much smaller tubbo hand wil the forged evidence, saying that a kind man told him to give it to the man with the bright blue hamilton suit

• and they watch wil present it, only to be shot down by a much younger ranboo, who proves it's fake

• and they find out tubbo and tommy are bio siblings, which they're shocked about but decide to talk about later (fuck canon tommy and tubbo get to know)

• and they go visit dream in prison

• at this point wil is CONVINCED dream is behind everything, they just need the right evidence

• so they head to the cell, only for it to be empty

• naturally, they start snooping

• wil finds a letter, and opens it to reveal exactly what they need to win the case

• but before they can leave, dream, equipped with a smiley mask, stops them

• they exchange a few words before they leave, letterless

• luckily, wil has a trick up his sleeve, and reveals that his crown pin has a built in camera

• they examine the contents of the letter, and wil hastily makes a replica, and they head off to the trial

• since they're experimenting with the jurist system for the first time, they can't afford to wait for the defendant to heal, so they proceed

• they call dream to the stand

• they grill him for quite a while, with the help of ranboo who refuses to protect his brother, getting him to show his true colors, and then pull out the letter

• and he says that it's a fake, which the judge unfortunately agrees with

• so they don't have their evidence

• and even though they've shown pretty much everything and dream had practically admitted to bring a murderous bastard and the one who gave tubbo the fake to give to wil

• they don't have enough to convince a judge

• tommy and tubbo are crushed

• but wil is happy

• because they don't have to convince a judge

• they have to convince a jury

• and they win

• dream shatters along with his mask, going completely off the deep end

• their client is safe, and so is wil

• kristin also reveals to wil that she's tommy and tubbo's bio mom, saying that she'll tell them when she's really

• so things come to a close

• for now, anyway

so yeah, thats AJ but dsmp, to anyone who didn't play the game, i'm so sorry this makes no sense, and to anyone who did, you're cool as hell can we be moots 👉👈

[pub-lius]

De-Georgianizing George Bickham’s Penmanship Made Easy (Young Clerk’s Assistant)

I got this idea a while ago after I made my post about Weird History’s video on Alexander Hamilton, and after @quillsink complemented my post on 18th century penmanship and boosted my ego (you really shouldn’t complement me or I might have self esteem). So, here’s another informal post where I basically just profit off of an old, dead man’s work :D

In the 18th century, people weren’t just given crayons and told to write their name and figure it out from there. They learned from workbooks, like the Young Clerk’s Assistant, that showed them how to from the letters, how to sit properly, and gave example sentences to copy. For purposes of improving my god-awful handwriting and to see what it was like to learn how to write in the 18th century, I purchased this book and went through it, doing only the Round-hand because it looked the easiest. 

Georgie starts by dictating every aspect of your entire life. Here’s a dumbed down version of his silly little list:

-The size of letters is determined by O and N, so make sure you know how to write those ig

-Georgie wants you to suffer so your down-strokes should be THICC and your up-strokes should be very tiny, done with the corner of your pen. Idk if it’s just my quills or if I’m stupid (probably both) but this is impossible and I gave up on this a long time ago

-NEVER TURN YOUR PEN OR THE POSITION OF YOUR HAND

-He says something weird about your up and down-strokes being proportioned and “answer one another” so I would just say uh... make it pretty

-Letters without stems (e, m, u, s, etc.) MUST be even at the top and bottom, so like the same width and height

-Your stems (d, h, etc.) should be equal in height to lowercase L, except t. This drives me crazy because I’m so used to making t the same as the other letters with stems, but its supposed to be shorter, like closer to i.

-Stems going below (y, q, etc.) should be equal in length to j. As you can tell, symmetry is key

-Capitals should be equal to lowercase L, but “a little stronger”, so I’ll leave that up to your interpretation

-The space between words should be twice the difference between letters, and the spaces between lines should be twice the distance of L, so that low hanging stems don’t intersect with the line below. I, apparently, forgot this rule lol

-Hold your pen between two fingers, almost straight (???) and the thumb bending. The nib, or point, of your pen should be flat 

-Put your paper directly in front of you and your hand should be supported by your pinkie finger (gotta do some finger gymnastics jesus).

-Rest your arm ~lightly~ between the wrist and elbow (okay then)

-Sit up straight you baby and keep your elbow close to your side

-Rest your body on your left arm, keeping the paper down with your left hand. And eat food by chewing and breathe by taking in air through your nose and mouth

-NEVER LEAN HARD ON YOUR PEN (make me)

-write slow at first :)

-this one is stupid. make the nib of your pen (”for the round and round hand text hands”) the ~breadth~ of the full stroke, and the part close to the hand? shorter and narrower. I don’t understand this so I don’t listen (omg do I follow any of these rules jesus-)

-for the Italian Hand, make the nib ~finer~ and the slit? longer (if you chose to use the italian hand you’re asking for these confusing rules i can’t help you)

-when numbers appear with letters, the numbers must slope

-numbers should also be bigger than letters

-when you’re writing numbers in columns (because you do that all the time) make them upright

For fun, I’m going to include some moral maxims because I thought some of them were pretty good and they’re good for practice and for examples of how the youth were educated. They had to copy these a bunch when they were learning so they at least subconsciously learned them

-Art polishes and improves nature

-Beauty’s a fair but fading flower

-Fortune’s a fair but fickle mistrefs [mistress]

-Knowledge is a godlike attribute

-Necefsiy [necessity] is the mother of invention

-Variety is the beauty of the world

-Zeal misapply’d is pious phrenzy

I also copied a couple exercises in this book such as copying the days of the week, the months and their amount of days, and a list of Christian names. There’s also this funny little passage that I copied, so I’ll include that as the conclusion to this post. BTW it’s sounds a bit misogynistic but I can’t exactly discern a moral? Like it’s just like “you know how water moves with wind? Yeah women are like that but instead of junk being in the water, the dirt and stuff is men.” and im like “...okay? is that... is that it?” Idk i hate poetry.

“In a dull Stream, which moving flow, You hardly See the Current flow. If a Small Breeze obstructs the Courfe [course], It whirles about for want of Force; And in its narrow Circle gathers Nothing but Chaff, & Straw, & Feathers. The Current of a Female’s Mind Stops thus, and turns with every wind. Thus whirling round, together draws Fools, Fops, & Rakes, for Chaff & Straws.” 

[steliosagapitos]

       ~ The Pearl "La Pilgrim" (not to be confused with the "La Pelegrina or Pellegrina", belonging to, among others, Zinaida Nikolaevna Jusupov of Russia), is a large pear-shaped white pearl whose original weight was 223.8 grams (55.95 carats). In 1913, after the pearl was drilled, cleaned and polished, it weighed 203.84 grams. The drilling was necessary to secure it firmly to its nesting, as the pearl risked being lost on three different occasions after it had unplugged from the base. According to the most reliable version, the pearl was discovered in the middle of the 16th century by a slave off the small island of Santa Margarita, one of the islands in the Gulf of Panama, about 100 miles from San Domingo. At that time, the Spaniards used island slaves to collect pearl oysters from the bottom of the ocean, which they harvested while sleeping. Don Pedro de Temez handed over the pearl to Philip (II), Crown Prince of Spain. , who gifted it to Queen Mary I of England and Ireland, in anticipation of their wedding, which took place on July 25, 1554. Queen Mary loved to wear the pearl as a brooch pendant, as can be seen in her famous portrait by Hans Eworth, which is now on display at the National Portrait Gallery in London.After the death of Mary I, in 1558, her sister, Queen Elizabeth I of England, diplomatically returned the pearl to the Kingdom of Spain, where it remained as the crown jewel for the next two and a half centuries; it was worn by Spanish queens on the occasion of the most significant political events, as feces in 1600 the wife of Philip III, Queen Margaret, for the celebration of the peace treaty between England and Spain.In 1808, Napoleon established brother Joseph Bonaparte as head of the Spanish throne; when, after about five years, the ruler was expelled from Spain following the French defeat at the Battle of Victoria, Joseph brought some jewels from The Spanish crown in France, including the stunning piriform pearl.It seems that it was from that time that the stone took the name "the Pilgrim", meaning "the tramp".Joseph Bonaparte left the pearl to his grandson Carlo Luigi Napoleon (Napoleon III), who, in exile in London, took revenge on James Hamilton, 2nd Marchese of Abercorn (first Duke of Abercorn in 1868), due to serious financial difficulties. His beloved wife, Louisa Jane Russell Hamilton, then left the Pilgrimage to her son James, 2nd Duke of Abercorn, who had it drilled out so she could fix it firmly to his mount. The Pilgrimage remained in the possession of the Hamilton family for over a hundred years and was finally auctioned off at Sotheby's House in London in 1969, where it was purchased by actor Richard Burton for 37,000 dollars as a Valentine's Day gift her beloved Elizabeth Taylor .In 1972, Taylor commissioned Cartier to design a ruby and diamond pearl necklace to frame the pearl as a pendant and it resulted in a stunning one-of-a-kind piece of jewellery. The beaded necklace featuring The Pilgrim was auctioned off by Christie's New York after Liz's death on Dec. 13, 2011, to raise funds for the Elizabeth Taylor AIDS Foundation. Valued at between two and three million dollars, the sale went far beyond expectations when it was purchased by an anonymous buyer for a staggering $11 million, setting a new historic record. Picture: The necklace belonging to Elisabeth Taylor with the Peregrine pearl as a pendant.*Before that auction, the former Queen of Spain Victoria Eugenia claimed, however, that she possesses the authentic Pilgrim pearl, specifying that she received it as a wedding gift from King Alphons XIII. Certainly numerous are the queens of Spain pictured with a pearl that looks identical to the Pilgrim. The most likely explanation is that the Spanish royal family originally owned two analog pearls, the Pilgrim and the Pearl of Charles II, mounted in a pair of earrings for Queen Maria Luisa, wife of Charles IV. Pearls that would have followed different paths over the years, leaving legitimate doubt on which of the two came under Taylor's possession. ~

[taiteilija]

fandom & general popculture list

I’ve just realised that I’m in so many different fandoms it may be confusing so I decided to list them here for my followers to know what sort of fandom content they may expect:

Good Omens

19th century stuff (literature, aestethic, music, all of it)

Fyodor Dostoyevsky (deserves to be listed separately)

Doctor Who (mostly RTD era and my fav 9th Doctor, but also 5th Doctor, 10th, 11th,12th)

Sherlock Holmes (mostly books & Granada Holmes)

The Moomins (mostly books and anime from 90s)

Star Trek (TOS, TNG, DS9 mostly, with lots of Spock, Data, Garak, Kira and Odo included)

The Phantom of the Opera (mostly the book, ALW musical and 1990 POTO) & Love Never Dies

Les Miserables (mostly musical and the Brick, but I’m open for anything here)

Jesus Christ Superstar (I love bits of every version I’ve watched so far, but I think it’s honest to say that 2012 ver. is my fav)

Lalka (eng. The Doll) by Bolesław Prus (love the book and love the 1977 TV series)

Neil Gaiman (anything)

Gentleman Jack 

Ghibli movies

Beauty and the Beast (Disney)

Harry Potter (I’m aware of the issues and unable to remove most of my childhood happiness just like that)

Life on Mars & Ashes to Ashes

The Witcher (books only, everything else is an abomination of sorts)

Tolkien (mostly books)

Shakespeare (mostly Hamlet fan)

The Umbrella Academy

Broadchurch

Tim Burton movies (especially those from before 00s)

Music: (mostly) Nightwish, Tuomas Holopainen, AURI, David Bowie, Queen, The Rolling Stones, The Doors, Muse, Brent Spiner’s albums, classical music, opera, movie soundtracks, jazz (swing), some 50s pop songs (Sinatra, Presley and such like), some symphonic metal, power metal, hard rock, musicals and good old Polish music (Marek Grechuta, Czerwone Gitary, Michał Bajor, Artur Andrus and such like), Russian music...

David Tennant & Micheal Sheen content

Alfie Boe & Michael Ball content

LGBTQIA+, poc, blm, anything inclusive, wholsome and such like, but I do not exclude problematic issues since world’s hardly binary

Space, androids, scifi!

I love some gothic romantic vibes so if you...

Love musicals (like The Phantom of the Opera, Les Miserables, Jesus Christ Superstar, Lalka, Cats, Hamilton...) and theatre in general

Camp aestetic (probably obvious)

Books: scifi, fantasy, detective, poetry, classic literature...

Some of my fav ships: Spock/Kirk, Holmes/Watson, Data/Geordi, Bashir/Garak, Aziraphale/Crowley, Doctor/Master, Doctor/Rose, Erik/Christine, Valjean/Javert, Jesus/Judas (JCS musical ver.), Wokulski/Ochocki, Hamlet/Horatio, Prince Myshkin/Nastasya Filippovna, Verkhovensky/Stavrogin, Master/Margarita, Lupin/Tonks, Dean/Castiel, Kira/Odo, Dumbledore/Grindelwald, Rumpelstiltskin/Belle...

* I guess, there’s more, but not everything’s worth listing and also some I simply do not remember this instant. Probably, I’ll update it some day in the future. Anyway, for now - you may expect these to happen on my blog.

[balloonstand]

Whetstone chapter 2*: Silver shaves Flint (5.2k, pwp)

It only took 4 years folks but we did it 

*this isn’t a sequel, just another version of the original

On a calm day, his thoughts would tread a neat path through his mind, proceeding like a lineage. First, in the present: capitulation, which is to surrender or yield on stipulated terms. Then, one generation older, one branch up the tree: capitulatus, the Medieval Latin, which is to draw up into chapters. Quite the leap, but his tidy mind could manage it on a different day. The next branch above that, the classical Latin: capitulum. Chapter or heading. Dangerously high in the tree, capitus, the diminutive. Little head. After that, the apex of the tree, but also the deepest root, the seed that became the whole lineage: caput. Head.

On a calm day, his mind would manage this regression through time and language to this seed of clarity quickly, tidily, to instruct him on his own thoughts.

Today, he has his head in his hands, mind awhirl with meaningless noise. Today he is pulling at his hair. Surrender. Chapter. Head. He doesn’t know what to make of them, these words buffeting him, storming around his mind. Refusing to show him their meaning or to teach him which direction his next step should be. He pulls at the roots of his hair. Surrender. Chapter. Head. 

He might tear his hair out of his head. He had been rather vain about his hair, in another life. He had taken the greatest pride in its length, lustre, and polish. As much as his uniform, he felt that his hair had been able to distinguish him, mark his rank and respectability. And Thomas Hamilton had only increased his vanity about his hair through the attentions he paid it. He would pull the ribbon from Flint’s- from McGraw’s- James’ hair and he would run his fingers through it over and again, and he would-

Flint pulls, pulls, and pulls at his roots.  Surrender, chapter, head . He can’t force it to make the sense that he needs it to make. 

There is a knock at his door. Flint almost doesn’t even hear it over the tumult in his mind. But he hears it, and if he thought that there was even the barest whisper of a chance that it was anyone other than Silver knocking, he would not have said, “Enter.”

It is Silver, of course it is Silver who steps into Flint’s room with all the comfort and familiarity of a person entering his own room. He closes the door behind him, then Flint can hear him pause as he takes in the sight of Flint, who has not bothered to unclench his fingers from his hair. Flint can sense Silver adapting to this. His footsteps, even, become softer, less boisterous than his knocking had been. He approaches more slowly and cautiously than he had entered. Flint wonders how Silver would react if Flint said, “Surrender, chapter, head” aloud. He wonders if Silver can hear it being said inside Flint’s mind.

“Quite the storm,” Silver says mildly. Neutrally. He might be making small talk about the weather. Every dialogue with Silver is like Silver holding a door open for Flint and seeing if he will walk through it. Asking where Flint would like to lead him. 

Flint wonders for the hundredth – for the thousandth – time who Silver was before Flint met him. All he knows of Silver is the way he takes his cues from Flint. There are only glimpses and guesses of what lies beyond. 

“Nothing we have not seen before,” Flint answers brusquely. He is embarrassed now that he let Silver see so much of him. He smooths his hair and looks Silver in the eye. “Wouldn’t you agree?” 

“Difficult to say,” Silver says, sitting opposite Flint. He does not look away; he never breaks a gaze. He should have been a courtier, Flint thinks. He may be easy to provoke, but he is nearly impossible to ruffle. Flint wishes to ruffle him. If Silver truly wants to join Flint in this mood, he will have to enter it ruffled. 

Flint arranges himself in his seat as though he is comfortable and tries to bring his thoughts in hand. He pulls the drawstrings of strategy to close the bag around the mess of his thoughts. He tries to count the number of times that he has wormed his way under Silver’s skin- very few. He does not need to count the number of times Silver has welcomed him in- none at all. Silver will be in his mind soon enough, so Flint tries to tidy it for him. 

Silver, rarely companionably silent, has begun talking. Flint listens to his tone more than his words. It keeps rolling like the tide, changing, modulating. Probing. Like waves breaking against the stone of Flint’s mood, wearing it down in precise and purposeful patterns. Flint knows that Silver has his own mind and motives, his own plans for Flint. Maybe it should worry Flint. Maybe he should send Silver away. But Flint finds it perversely intriguing. He wonders what Silver would do with him, given his way. What a surrender to Silver would mean for Flint. 

Surrender. Chapter. Head.  

Flint clenches around his thoughts once more. He notices Silver notice it and either of them could say something, but neither one of them does. Silver’s tone changes slightly, then rolls back into a different one. He is going to let Flint retreat; he will follow him and neither of them will mention why. 

“It’s not lice, is it?” Silver asks.

Flint glares at him and Silver grins back at Flint. Then he adopts a more innocently concerned expression and mimes pulling at his hair. “Is it because you have lice, do you think? I hear it makes your head-”

“My hair is clean.”

“Yes?”

“Cleaner than yours has ever been.”

“That would make your head a nice home for the lice, wouldn’t it?”

“Would you call my head a nice home for anything?”

Silver’s expression freezes, his fluidity stilled. Pinned down. One foot in the door, but Flint does not want to enter as an intruder. It would be so much sweeter for Silver to come to him, inviting him in. The thought of Silver welcoming Flint pangs and Flint–

Flint runs his hands through his hair, tugging at it. Ask me, he thinks. Just ask me and I’ll tell you anything. Don’t try to trick it out of me, just ask.

“Is- have you always been so vain about your hair?” Silver is smiling. His shoulders are tensed, ready.

Flint feels the familiar, almost nauseating mix of fear, disgust, and hope at this vulnerability of Silver seeing something that grows from Flint’s very core. And the small twinge of pride in Silver for being to leap the etymological branches that cluster around Flint’s true meaning. 

“Yes,” Flint says. 

“And do you keep it long and well-kept,” Silver asks, “so that one day you’ll be able to go back?” 

“Back?”

“To England. To whatever was before all this.”

Flint cannot stop himself; he lurches out of his seat and stands, breathing quickly. 

Capitulation. Head, chapter, surrender. 

No, Flint wants to say- doesn’t want to say. No, I keep it because I need to love it, I need to cherish one thing about myself. I keep it because I want to be seen for what I am. So that, someday, someone might run his fingers through it lovingly and tell me that it is nice. 

And it’s not even as long as it used to be.

Not because he wants to go back to England. Not because he could imagine himself returning to his position in her Navy. Not because he could wash his hair and his face, put on clean clothes, and blend in with the society that had turned away from him. 

This is all primed at the tip of his tongue, but something in his mind says  are they not the same thing? James Flint cannot have those fingers in his hair, soft touches, caring caresses. They belong to James McGraw. This hair belongs to James McGraw. 

“Yes,” Flint says. The word is choked and pathetic. “Not England. But yes. Before.”

Silver has stood too and his expression has that same stillness as before. But it isn’t panic that is frozen on his features now. It is more an expression of pain. “You think you-” Silver stops himself. Flint recognizes the effort that it takes.

“Don’t you?” Flint asks. Doesn’t Silver ever want to turn his back on the sea and walk forward into a quiet life?

Silver looks at him with astonishment in every line of his face. “No,” he says slowly. “And neither do you. Not really.”

Flint opens his mouth, then closes it. He studies Silver’s face, trying to understand.

Silver says, “You say it, but that doesn’t mean that it is true.” 

You should know, Flint thinks bitterly. Then: You should know, Flint thinks achingly. “It’s the truth,” he says.

Silver fixes him with a look. “You’re pulling it out, Flint. Your hair, you’re pulling it out.”

Flint drops his hands. He hadn’t even noticed that they had crept back to his head.

Head-

“It- it used to be longer,” Flint says lamely after a moment. “I cut it before I boarded my first pirate ship.”

“How many inches?”

Get out, Flint almost says.  Out of my room, out of my mind . 

Don’t you like it like this, he doesn’t almost say, do you think it would be better longer? Shorter? What would tempt you?  

He imagines it: laying against Silver’s chest, with Silver’s hand in his hair. Silver alternates running his fingers through it hypnotically and playing with individual strands until Flint’s body floats away on a gentle current and the only thing that exists is Silver playing with his hair. But this fantasy feels flat, like a drawing. The room is too bright. His hand in Flint’s hair is too clean. It is slightly wrong in a dreamlike way. McGraw could have those things, but Flint-

And to Silver, he can only be Flint. The name McGraw would be a lie in Silver’s mouth. 

“Flint, you’re pulling it out.”

Silver does not mean at that moment; Flint’s hands are clasped behind his back. His military at-ease. Feet shoulder-width apart, knees straight, left hand covering the right behind his back like his wrists are shackled. Put him in his Navy uniform and he would be entirely unremarkable aboard the  HMS Scarborough . It makes his stomach turn. 

“It’s too long,” Flint says finally. It is as much as he can say. He can’t offer much, but he offers it all. He puts everything in Silver’s hands and wonders if Silver knows it. 

“If it’s too long,” Silver says, “you should cut it.”

He says it simply. He sits as he says it. It’s settled, his casual body language says, and easily so. 

He does not know, then, that he has uprooted the tree of surrender, chapter, head in Flint’s mind. Flint had not realized how accustomed he had become to its shade until Silver had drawn it back and given Flint the sun. 

Flint sits too. You should cut it. A weight off of his shoulders. “Will you do it?” Flint asks before he thinks about asking it. Maybe he should look away from the surprise on Silver’s face after he says it, but he drinks in every little change in his expression and saves it in his mind for later. “I don’t have a razor here, but you can use the knife.” Flint nods to the knife sitting unsheathed on his table.

There’s a moment’s pause. 

“Why shouldn’t I?” Silver says softly, almost to himself.

“I can’t do all your thinking for you,” Flint snaps. He should not have asked. “Will you do it or not?” So, he asks a second time. He knows that one cannot right a mistake by repeating it, but he always seems to do so.

Silver’s expression hardens. He stands up, grabs the knife off the table, weighs it in his hand. He takes a step toward Flint’s chair and Flint doesn’t move. He doesn’t care why Silver is approaching him with the knife. What matters is that he is stepping closer. Another and another step. And he is right in front of Flint. His leg brushes against Flint’s bent knee. 

This close, Flint can hear when Silver’s breath quickens and becomes audible. Flint could close his eyes and just listen, except that he can’t tear his eyes away from Silver’s face. Silver hefts the knife up like it is heavy. With his free hand, he takes a lock of Flint’s hair between his fingers. 

Flint almost flinches away from the touch. Once, when Flint was serving his first week on a ship in the Caribbean, he had gotten terribly sunburned. One of his crew mates had soaked a cloth in cool water and applied it to the burn. Flint had flinched away from that in the same way, the reflexive protection of the injury even from its cure. 

“I’m not a barber,” Silver says. Both of his hands are still, one on the knife and one in Flint’s hair. “I’m going to cut it very short. I’m going to shave it.”

Flint nods twice, just to feel Silver’s hand moving through his hair, although it is really more that his hair is moving in Silver’s hand. What is it to take something from someone who is not giving it? He does not want to be a thief; being a pirate is enough. 

“Are you sure this is what you want?” 

He wonders what Silver is really asking, because he knows that this is what Flint wants. “Go on,” Flint says. He can feel his heartbeat in his throat.

Silver goes on. One lock at a time falls from Flint’s head and lands at his feet. It happens quickly. Flint is looking at Silver and he practically misses it. 

Then Silver circles around the chair until he is standing behind Flint, and Flint has nothing to distract him from every sensation on his scalp. He had not expected it to feel like this, cutting his hair. He has been pulling his hair out at the root for long enough that he had forgotten to imagine that cutting his hair might feel different from that. He thinks:  this doesn’t feel like losing something . And it surprises him. 

It all surprises him. The softness of Silver’s hands on his head. Even the knife is gentle, an extension of Silver’s touch. He had been ready for the bite of its blade on his scalp, too sharp to be a harmless razor. Silver has tamed it down to a caress. This, all of this, Silver’s touch is almost, almost, almost, almost- 

 “That’s good,” Flint says. He says it without thinking, and he does not think about it after he says it. 

Immediately, Silver’s hand falters and Flint feels the knife’s sharpness for the first time. He feels the opening of his skin under it. Not very deep, but some blood. Head wounds bleed a lot.

“You spoke too soon,” Silver says. His voice has the same shake as his hand. He presses his fingertips against the injured patch of skin. 

Too soon, Silver says. Too soon. Flint thinks he should have said too late, it is more true. It is too late and Flint still has not said what he should. 

A week ago, he could have told Silver, you’re the only person I smile with anymore when the two of them had been laughing at something clever Silver had said. Two weeks ago, he could have said, I am less afraid of being understood when it is you who understands me when Flint had turned to Silver after several quiet minutes of watching the sea to find that Silver’s eyes already rooted on him, unconcerned at having been discovered looking at him. 

And it is not just the beautiful things that he has bitten back. It is also the shameful, burning things that scrape his throat like rough stone as he silences them. It is when he has to look away when Silver is holding the neck of a bottle or the post of a railing loosely in his hand, and Flint could say yes, just like that, that is how I would like it. Or the mornings where he could have looked Silver in the eye and said, I couldn’t sleep until I had brought myself off to the thought of you. I touched myself and pretended that it was your hand. Then I slept soundly for the night. 

It is a mistake to think about that. Heat grows in him, twisting and spreading vine-like through his body and pooling low in his belly. He tries to focus on the pain from the cut, but Silver’s fingers are pressing tenderly on it, too tenderly to hurt. Through the descending haze of heat, Flint thinks that if the cut was deeper or wider, maybe a pedantic academic could argue that Silver’s fingers were in him. Maybe in a future tome of their intertwined stories, a historian could say, and James Flint did feel John Silver inside of him, just once, through a hole in his head. Silver slipped in and out in one moment and that is the whole story. 

Neither one of them has spoken a word in some minutes. Flint has surely stopped bleeding by now. He could say that, and Silver would finish his task and it would just be one more favor between them as the world continues on outside of this room. 

Flint reopens his should’s, this time in the present. This is harder. His mind works in the past tense.

He should be more upset at giving up his hair. He should be thinking less of the feel of Silver’s hands on him and more of this loss. He should be less aware of the heat of Silver’s body close behind him. He should stop wishing that Silver would step closer. Stop imagining that two people might be able to live in one body if they press themselves closely enough together. His mind should be in the past and not this hypothetical future or hypothetically-slanted vision of the present that will only hurt him when it does not come.  

But this will be the past soon enough. He closes his eyes and memorizes the feel of this moment so that he can live in it again later. He writes this all over his mind:  He is standing behind me so I can’t see his face, or anything else. But I can feel his heartbeat in his fingertips on my head, and everywhere else I can feel him not touching me in that way that almost feels like a touch. He has a knife to me but he is using it to free me.  

Another chapter for the book of Silver that Flint keeps in his mind, always open.

And Silver still has not moved. For a wild moment, Flint is certain that he is paused like this to let Flint commit the moment to memory, but then Flint realizes that he is finished. Finished cutting off Flint’s hair. But he is still standing there. He is waiting for Flint to react so he can react to it.

Flint reaches a hand up to his scalp to feel how short his new hair is. He gets up out of the chair – Silver’s hand stays motionless as Flint moves himself politely out from under it – and walks to the mirror, rubbing his hand across the surprising velvet of his short hair. He looks at himself in the mirror, sees how he looks. He looks how he feels when he calls himself Flint. It is not just his hair that Silver has cut away with the knife, it is the chain that connects him to the anchor of his former life, his escape from who he truly is now. Now he is only one person.

His expression startles him more than the sight of his hair; his eyes are dark and hungry, his lips parted and his cheeks flushed.

The strange and familiar sight of himself is not enough to distract him from noticing as Silver follows him to the mirror. He resumes his place behind Flint, just as he was while cutting Flint’s hair. Flint’s eyes meet Silver’s in the mirror. Their eyes are equally dark and hungry. Silver’s have a wildness to them that Flint wants to study, to record, to savor. He wants to unravel it and understand its every nuance; he could just ask, he supposes. But it is so sharply painful to ask someone for something when you do not know if their answer will be yes.

He turns around so he and Silver are face to face. The table the mirror is sitting on presses against his back. Silver is so close to him that it feels useless to try to estimate the distance between them. Flint feels a heightened awareness of his environment, like the bright clarity of his senses during a battle. And he feels that same calmness that he feels in a fight for his life, the calmness of necessity and single-mindedness.

Silver’s eyes move frantically, darting all over Flint’s face. Begging for something, some hint.

“What is it?” Flint asks.

“You let me cut your hair.”

Flint wonders if Silver is still holding the knife. “No, I asked you to cut my hair.” Silver still looks lost, so Flint tries again: “What is it?”

“Can’t you just tell me where to go?” Silver looks away, but only for a breath, then his eyes turn back to Flint like a weathervane fixed in the wind. “I don’t know where I am, but I think you do. Can’t you tell me where I need to go?”

Flint wants to reach out and take Silver into his arms, lead him to the bed and show him his heart. He wants to say  I was there before, I know the way forward  and then lean in slowly enough that Silver will know what is coming before he feels Flint kiss him. He could do this and Silver would accept it all, as he has accepted the other things that Flint has asked him to.

But he does not want Silver to accept it, he wants Silver to ask for it, with his words and his eyes and his hands.

His voice is rough when he says, “You cut my hair because you knew that I needed to have it cut.”

Silver leans in slightly, like he wants to climb directly into Flint’s mind. His eyes are locked onto Flint’s, so he would see if Flint dropped his gaze to those lips that are tantalizingly close and coming closer. And Silver would take the cue, Flint knows he would. So he does not look. 

He looks instead into Silver’s blue eyes. He watches them slip out from under Flint’s gaze and  jump from point to point on Flint’s face. He sees when Silver looks at Flint’s lips. Can Flint make his lips look softer and more inviting just by wishing it?

“Sometimes I feel that you know everything,” Silver says quietly. “That if I want to understand something I don’t need to look at it, I just need to look to you.”

Flint shakes his head slowly, keeping his eyes steady on Silver’s.

“You’ve been here before, haven’t you? You know what this place is called,” Silver says.

“I’m here now, with you.”

Relief washes over Silver’s face – Flint was ready for a hundred emotions to come over Silver’s features, but relief is not one that he had expected – and he kisses Flint. Their arms are already around each other, Flint realizes belatedly. He tightens his hold and parts his lips so he can taste Silver’s mouth on his tongue. 

Silver is not timid. His hands are strong and firm on Flint’s sides and he eagerly meets Flint’s tongue with his own. He is not following any lead but his own pleasure, Flint realizes. It makes him dizzy with desire. He wants to give Silver everything, even the things he doesn’t know yet how to want. 

Silver inhales sharply and Flint realizes that he has spoken some of this aloud. Or Silver can truly read his mind, just as he always half-suspected. 

And Flint says it again, just to make Silver’s breath come faster, to see his eyes get darker and to feel his erection grow harder against Flint’s leg. Flint spreads his legs apart so that one rests between Silver’s. Silver presses against it, sending waves of lust through Flint, shuttering his mind to any other thoughts other than want, need. He runs his hands across Silver’s back, drunk with the permission to touch as much as he wants to.

Silver’s hands are on the laces of Flint’s breeches and that flinching reflex tugs at him again, but now it is because he is already on the edge and he wants to love Silver slowly all night long. But he would never be able to pull away from Silver and he stands, dazed, as Silver pulls his cock out and begins to stroke him. He is not hesitant at all, not fearful. Even in his fantasies, as he brought himself off quietly in his bed alone, Flint had never been able to imagine that Silver would be this eager for him. 

Flint begins to talk as Silver strokes him. He says, “You don’t know how many times I’ve thought of this, of you. Ever since I met you, every time I’ve given myself pleasure it was to the thought of you.”

Silver’s hand falters. “Fuck,” he says hoarsely, “fuck.”

Flint reaches for Silver’s laces, trying to remember how to use his fingers. He manages it finally, clumsily, and wraps his hand around Silver’s cock. It is hot in his hand, silky to touch. Silver’s hips jerk forward and he loses his rhythm again. 

Flint follows Silver’s lead, letting him choose the pace for them both. Silver’s lust-dark eyes meet Flint’s, and Flint can see the effect it has on Silver. Flint wraps his free hand around the back of Silver’s neck and pulls their foreheads together. 

Flint is so close now. His hand keeps stilling on Silver as the world beyond the sensation of Silver’s hand on his cock recedes. He can’t stop the little thrusts of his hips. He pulls his head back at the last moment so that he can see Silver’s face. He looks at Silver’s eyes, the color in his cheeks, his lips that are red and shiny from kissing Flint. And he comes. 

Silver says, “Oh.” His voice is so raw with lust that Flint would surely come again if he could. 

Flint wants to say something, but no words can replace the act of falling to his knees in front of Silver and taking him in his mouth. So he acts and does not speak. Silver’s body tightens and the sound he makes is as sweet as Flint's release had been. His hands fall onto Flint’s head, and he is caressing the hair he just cut. Flint swallows him down deeply, the smell of Silver’s sweat giving him a heady rush. 

Flint draws back after a moment so that he can catch his breath, and he looks up at Silver. He takes in the beauty of him with his shirt rumpled from Flint clenching at it, his breeches discarded beside him, and his whole body shiny with sweat. His gaze lingers on Silver’s cock, standing up for him. He remembers what he said about giving Silver everything and he says, “Here.”

He turns around and braces himself against the table, half-bent over it. He doesn’t have anything, any oil. But he wants this. Silver split his scalp with a knife and it was a caress. This will be just as sweet. 

He hears SIlver’s sharp intake of breath. He feels Silver’s hands on him. Two dry fingers touch him and Flint smiles. 

“Don’t you need- don’t you have any oil or-” Silver sounds more aroused than anything else. 

“It’s all right, I want it,” Flint says. He'll beg for it if that is what Silver wants. 

“Flint,” Silver says. Flint looks over his shoulder. Silver’s expression is such an intoxicating mix of lust and tenderness that Flint nearly averts his eyes, certain that he is trespassing somehow by seeing this. “Flint, this is not the only night for us. We’re going to do this again.” 

We’re going to do this again  . Flint wants to ask him to repeat it, just so he can be sure he heard him correctly.  We’re going to do this again  . It is the same thunderbolt as hearing  then cut it  had been. Flint grabs Silver’s hand and kisses his palm, unable to speak. 

Still holding SIlver’s hand, he tugs Silver against his back. He feels Silver’s cock between his legs, sliding against him. The head of it presses against Flint’s balls. Silver moans and rocks forward again. Their mingled sweat creates a slickness that allows Silver to slide comfortably. Every time he pumps his hips, Flint hitches back to meet him and so every thrust is something they are doing together. 

“Next time,” Flint says, loving the taste of that phrase in his mouth, “next time you’re going to fuck me properly. You’re going to feel me hot and tight around you and you’re going to hear me asking for it deeper. I’ll come just from your cock in me, you won’t even need to touch me, that’s how much I’ll want to feel you in me.”

Those nights of touching himself and thinking of this, Flint had neglected to imagine so much. He hadn’t thought to imagine how Silver’s chest would be hot and sweaty against his back, or the way that he could feel Silver’s hair draping over him. He hadn’t considered that Silver would stop to kiss the back of his neck. And even in his most self-indulgent fantasies, he had never imagined that when Silver came, he would call out Flint’s name.

Flint would be content to stand there forever, the edge of the table biting uncomfortably into his hips now that there is no distraction from it, and Silver almost suffocatingly heavy across his back. But Silver pulls him up and looks intently into his face for a moment before drawing him in for a deliberate, soft kiss. 

When Silver breaks the kiss, he slides his cheek next to Flint’s and says quietly in his ear, “I’ve thought about it too. I didn’t know why, but you were always there.”

They stand there in an embrace that neither wants to break. They’ll have to break it eventually, but that is fine. This is not the only time this will happen. They are going to do this again. Flint tucks his face into Silver’s neck and breaths in.

He opens the book of Silver in his mind and begins to write.