#listened to 1776 and though of them

[presidentkittycherk]

sit down johnnn (on aaron burrs dick sigh)

i go back to school tommorow... from 2-5 EST i wil not be on the prowl so if you gonna be craszy do it then and hide(imma be in fashions calss letting my herculaes molluan alter out)

[olympeline]

You know, I like the idea that one of the first real bonding moments Alasdair and Arthur ever had was in the wreckage of 1776. That widely held headcanon that Arthur hit the bottle reeeally hard and was a rum soaked mess for a good few years after Alfred left. And of course Alasdair would have been around to witness it since their joining in 1707

And it’s quite the uncomfortable surprise, too. Arthur was always such a ferocious little shit - such a thorn in Scottie’s side - that in the end he had to propose a union before they tore each other to bits and sunk Britain’s bright future with their endless wars. Much as he hated to admit it, Arthur was tough. Arthur was strong. But now Arthur’s first born son first colony has up and left, and Arthur isn’t the fire breathing vengeance machine Alasdair expected. Instead of coming up with plots to use their growing empire’s might to beat Alfred to a pulp and drag him back kicking and screaming, Arthur has spiralled into a depressive funk, is going through three bottles a day, and would have already killed himself with alcohol poisoning if he were human. Or maybe he did a few times and just regenerated, idk. Either way it seems Alasdair didn’t know Arthur half so well as he thought he did. He never predicted a reaction like this

Alasdair watches Arthur’s collapse with confusion, followed by disbelief, then open disgust. He tries to ignore it, not wanting to deal with his sibling’s antics. Even when the king and officials beg Alasdair to step in and do something, he brusquely brushes them off. He’s not Arthur’s fucking nursemaid for God’s sake! Until one day they’re due to sail together on the kingdom’s flagship and his little brother holds them up. Alasdair gets the message that the former terror of the waves is once again too shitfaced to stand up, let alone captain a ship. Now the important voyage will have to be delayed

And Scot has just hAD ENOUGH of Arthur embarrassing and inconveniencing them all like this. He swears his brother was less trouble as a mortal enemy! Alasdair storms into Arthur’s room to drag the addlepated sot out of bed and talk some sense into him. With his fists if necessary. Not that it comes to that with Arthur as drunk as he is. Alasdair has to drag him up then hold him up to yell at him. And when Arthur tries to punch him, he would have gone down like a sack of spuds without big bro’s bruising grip. It’s awkward for all involved when Arthur’s pathetic attempts at a scuffle and Alasdair shaking and yelling at him, end with Arthur suddenly crumbling and sobbing on his shoulder. Shocking Alasdair again. He doesn’t know what to do, so he just holds Arthur and haltingly rubs his back, muttering soothing nonsense. Most mortifying moment of Alasdair’s millenia+ life.

He doesn’t push Arthur away as he clings to him, though. As much as Arthur drives him insane like no one else, he’s still Scot’s little brother. So he let’s him cry and just keeps supporting him. Listening in silence as Arthur rants and sobs about Alfred: alternating between professing deepest loathing for the “traitor,” and weeping about how much he misses him and how there’s still time to fix everything and they have to try and get him back, etc. etc. It’s a fool’s hope, but Alasdair always knew Arthur was a fool

But what can he say? A smug, confrontational, fiery, normal Arthur makes Alasdair long for their old days of striking swords and border wars. A pathetic, drunk, weeping, vulnerable Arthur brings out Alasdair’s long dormant brotherly instinct. A feeling usually reserved for Wales and the Ireland twins. But, for the first time since he was a wee bairn, the instinct comes out for Arthur. It’s been so long since he saw him cry, he’d almost forgotten Arthur was capable of it

Alasdair lets Arthur cry himself to exhaustion, then helps him back into bed. Takes off Arthur’s coat, pulls off his boots, drags the blankets up over him. Arthur catches his arm, hands trembling, when Alasdair goes to straighten up and begs him not to leave him too. Alasdair rolls his eyes, cuffs Arthur - gently - and tells him to sleep it off. Then promises gruffly to be there when he wakes up, so stop being a drunk fool and go to sleep

Arthur obeys and Alasdair he keeps his word. Wales and Ireland fill in sailing duty and Alasdair stays with Arthur: king and parliament’s ranting be damned. Planning to help his little brother get himself back on track once he wakes up, starting with getting him off the booze. Or at least getting it back down to royal navy functional alcoholic levels. They can worry about everything else later

Thankfully for both their sanities, Arthur remembers very little of this when he wakes up lol. Alasdair makes sure to thank God extra hard that week at church for big mercies

[doctor-badadvice]

This man has not updated his wardrobe since 1947

There's already a few posts discussing outfits and symbolism and while I found them very interesting, I'm a person of strong opinions now writing two characters with chess related names. So here's my two cents (or should I say, nickels) about Bishop's appearance throughout the 2003 show and what tells us about the specific moment of his life that's being portrayed. The focus will be mainly on the palette, but also on whatever influences are behind the designs.

So let's get started!

1815 — Battle of New Orleans

Here's the first disclaimer. I know next to nothing about US history past what little school required me to learn and generically speaking, I've never been interested in the nuances of how people come together to kill each other. History classes were far more interesting to me when we talked about society and culture. So take what I'll say with a grain of salt. My military expertise here is a couple Wikipedia pages.

As far as Bishop's uniform goes, I have no idea what's going on. I read that uniforms were supposedly mainly blue with whatever color corresponded to what the unit's duty was, with the exception of musicians who had their colors swapped. If that's true, Bishop here could have been a musician having a not so great day at work. But the field medics later in the flashback are wearing the same color so it's probably just a choice to keep the color palette consistent.

Other than that, the belt would suggest he had some kind of rank. Though I don't think they were trying to be accurate past the bare minimum. I'm not going to guess what Bishop was up to in his mortal days.

Also, a special mention goes to Bishop's facial hair. He must have been popular in his time.

1870 — Creation of EPF

This is where colors start being relevant but first, another disclaimer. I appreciate the work wiki editors do, but it would be nice to have sources to whatever's stated on a given page, especially if you're providing estimated dates. I can't say I disagree, but it'd be nice to know where the information comes from.

So the wiki says that Bishop was supposedly born in 1776. It means that at the time of EPF's foundation he was nearing his hundredth birthday. No wonder he's dressing in all black. The average life expectancy at the time was about 40 years old. It's very possible Bishop had already outlived most, if not everyone he knew and it's probably something one would struggle to come to terms with.

Design wise, turtlenecks were nothing new at the time. Medieval knights wore garments in a similar shape under their armors well before the 15th century. And yes, I guess that's more of a coat than the average tactical turtleneck, but it still gives him a hitman, or even hunter vibe which is more or less what he was up to at the time.

1947 Roswell. New Mexico/present times

I can finally explain the title now. But first, let’s take a step back!

Bishop’s default outfit is the secret agent outfit™ we’re all well accustomed to. Specifically, I think the closest he takes inspiration from is Agent Smith from the Matrix movies (as I previously mentioned here). Guy in a black suit with shades, apparently impeccable self control and a distinctive way of talking that compels you to listen to him.

There’s so much to say about motivations and themes these two share, but let's focus on the aesthetic side.

These two fools are men in black. Yes, like the movies. The whole trope originates from some old conspiracy theories about the US government hiding aliens. These theories date all the way back to 1947 from some guy named Harold Dahl claiming a man in a dark suit told him not to tell anyone about some UFO sightings. Various fellow ufologists made similar claims over the years, making it a staple of their general paranoia.

Because of the second flashback, it’s possible that Bishop himself was one of these men in black, if not the one the rumors started from. It's a funny thought and I feel like Bishop would also find it amusing to watch people lose their minds about his fashion choices for decades.

Color wise, white has been added to the mix. It’s been a while now since the creation of EPF and Bishop has found some kind of balance in his life. He’s still dead set in his hatred for aliens and clearly enjoys inflicting pain on creatures he sees as undeserving of basic human decency, but he now has some purpose other than looking at the sky for something to shoot down. He leads an elite task force with men and funding devoted to developing a proper defense of the planet. He’s a foe not to be underestimated and a formidable fighter who can and will take on multiple opponents. But he’s also a very scared man who doesn’t wish what happened to him on anyone.

I often praise the show because Bishop can survive getting impaled but he still remains human. He will react with sheer violence to aggression and reform his ways when shown kindness. He will happily stick his hands in turtle soup for some DNA, but also be the best man at his friend's wedding and even attempt dressing up for the occasion despite having been deprived of normal human interactions for more than a century.

(I know it's a little cluttered in this point but I can't just leave out Casual Friday Bishop)

Design wise, I like just how an otherwise elegant attire works during the fight scenes and this detail specifically.

This man’s power is stored in the leggy.

Interlude

So this pic above is me right now.

For context, I usually consider the episodes of the staged alien invasion to the outbreak as part of the same arc. The entire situation is absolutely absurd from Bishop dragging the president into his fanfiction in response to budget cuts, to Baxter's bodily misadventures, to Bishop making a deal with a random ghost over the phone while New York is turning into yet another Umbrella Corp mishap.

But anyways we're here to judge this man's fashion taste and we have two outfits to talk about.

First off, a special mention goes to the catsuit and this pose specifically.

The sass is off the charts.

Though I find this one kind of depressing. There isn't a lot to read in it either other than Baxter grabbing the most generic tactical turtleneck for the sake of keeping Bishop from walking around bare chested (and the scene before this pic clearly shows Bishop isn't afraid to show some titty). But seeing him in all black right after moving to a new body kinda points out that Agent Bishop, leader of the EPF, is kinda on par with a piece of military equipment (and the president probably sees him as much to an extent). He's the mold for an army of supersoldiers for crying out loud.

But he switches back to the usual suit afterwards and what matters here is the supersuit.

S3 onward

Imagine being an alien, member of the starfleet of your planet and senior officer of the invading force tasked with taking over Earth. You have trained hard, wargamed the whole operation a bunch of times and concluded that it will be piss easy to conquer this underdeveloped planet.

You reach the surface, get into formation and then this nerd rolls up.

The best way to describe this suit is "hostile". It's hostile to the animators and to whoever has to stare at this eyesore before Bishop shoots at them.

And I love it. There's nothing quite like a black and red suit of armor with various cybernetics and lights to say that you mean business. It goes very well with how the stakes just start steadily rising from this point of the show onwards and seeing as the suit was ready during the staged invasion, we know that Bishop never really planned to retire after unleashing his army of clones.

It adds that extra bit of cyberpunk that I like to see and it shows that Bishop never truly gives up on anything since we have actually seen this design before.

Bishop was so proud of his Slayer he just stuck with him in spirit.

Couple that with a new coat to take off for extra dramatic effect and— maybe the president was right about not trusting him with unlimited budget.

2105 — New York apparently

Another century has passed and Bishop is still alive and kicking. Well, he doesn't kick as much anymore as it would be unbecoming if the beloved president of the Pan-Galactic Alliance were to go around kicking alien butt.

Jokes aside, you can disagree with Bishop's portrayal in Fast Forward, but they were still trying to do something meaningful with him. The idea of the turtles having to work with him when they were trying to kill each other just the other day is surprisingly deep for a season that felt the need to have the most unfunny robobutler ever.

They were clearly attempting a chess joke switching the palette to white with black streaks. Bishop has completely turned his life around and it even shows in the way he presents himself. It's nice to see just how much he managed to accomplish as well, even though it would have been very interesting to see him have a gradual change of mind, rather than selling us the concept through timeskip magic.

Does the design still hold up then?

Well, Bishop is clearly making an effort to look the least intimidating. He is fairly more patient when others don't immediately do as he says, even asking for help rather than blackmailing, and is still commendably dedicated to his job. He still asserts dominance by showing leggy (seriously, Mr President, that slit doesn't have to go this hard) and he's still deep down, at all times, ready to throw hands.

That's Bishop alright and it's no coincidence that he starts running around shooting aliens the second Baxter shows up in his life again. I'm not much of a fan of his new armor though. I think they were going for a futuristic design but it's the blandest they could think of. It reminds me of Obi-Wan Kenobi's armor in The Clone Wars but it just kinda comes out of nowhere. It would have been cooler if his tunic turned into a set of armor kinda like what the turtles got.

In any case, if you really want to see reformed Bishop really shine, you should check out @adenthemage / @violetvulpini 's art. You will not be disappointed.

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Greg Sargent at TNR:

Mark Robinson, the extremist GOP nominee for governor in North Carolina, appeared to endorse political violence in a bizarre and extended rant he delivered on June 30 in a small-town church. “Some folks need killing!” Robinson, the state’s lieutenant governor, shouted during a roughly half-hour-long speech in Lake Church in the tiny town of White Lake, in the southeast corner of the state. “It’s time for somebody to say it. It’s not a matter of vengeance. It’s not a matter of being mean or spiteful. It’s a matter of necessity!” Robinson’s call for the “killing” of “some folks” came during an extended diatribe in which he attacked an extraordinary assortment of enemies. These ranged from “people who have evil intent” to “wicked people” to those doing things like “torturing and murdering and raping” to socialists and Communists. He also invoked those supposedly undermining America’s founding ideals and leftists allegedly persecuting conservatives by canceling them and doxxing them online.

In all this, Robinson appeared to endorse lethal violence against these unnamed enemies, particularly on the left, though he wasn’t exactly clear on which “folks” are the ones who “need killing.” Robinson, a self-described “MAGA Republican,” has a long history of wildly radical and unhinged moments. He has linked homosexuality to pedophilia, called for the arrest of trans women, pushed hallucinogenic antisemitic conspiracy theories, endorsed the vile “birther” conspiracy about Barack Obama, described Michelle Obama as a man, hinted at the need to violently oppose federal law enforcement and the government, and posted memes mocking and denying the brutal, violent assault on Nancy Pelosi’s husband, among many other things. [...]

Here’s what Robinson said (bold mine):

[We now find ourselves struggling with people who have evil intent. You know, there’s a time when we used to meet evil on the battlefield, and guess what we did to it? We killed it! … When the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, what did we do? We flew to Japan! And we killed the Japanese Army and Navy! … We didn’t argue and capitulate and talk about, well, maybe we shouldn’t fight the Nazis that hard. No, they’re bad. Kill them. Some liberal somewhere is going to say that sounds awful. Too bad. Get mad at me if you want to. Some folks need killing! It’s time for somebody to say it. It’s not a matter of vengeance. It’s not a matter of being mean or spiteful. It’s a matter of necessity! When you have wicked people doing wicked things, torturing and murdering and raping. It’s time to call out, uh, those guys in green and go have them handled. Or those boys in blue and have them go handle it.… We need to start handling our business again.… Don’t you feel it slipping away? … The further we start sliding into making 1776 a distant memory and the tenets of socialism and communism start coming into clearer focus. They’re watching us. They’re listening to us. They’re tracking us. They get mad at you. They cancel you. They dox you. They kick you off social media. They come in and close down your business. Folks, it’s happening … because we have forgotten who we are.]

Robinson might try to argue that he only meant that our enemies during World War II—and torturers and murderers and rapists today—deserve “killing.” But the sum total of his remarks plainly suggests otherwise. He seemed to analogize the need to kill World War II enemies to the need to kill enemies in the present, enemies who harbor “evil intent,” enemies conservatives are struggling against “now.”

[...] This tendency on the right to invoke an infinitely hallucinogenic and malleable leftist enemy to justify in advance the political violence that the right itself wants to unleash on its enemies is a near-daily occurrence. Another ripe example came just this week from Kevin Roberts, president of the Heritage Foundation, the brain trust behind Project 2025’s radical blueprint for MAGA authoritarian rule under a second Trump presidency.

North Carolina Lt. Gov. and Gubernatorial nominee Mark Robinson (R) cannot go a day without embarrassing the Tarheel state.

[weirdestbooks]

The Shot Heard Around the World Chapter 22

Introducing Independence (Wattpad | Ao3)

Table of Contents | Prev | Next

For more context on the Dominion of New England reference in this chapter, check out my story here.

April 12, 1776 

North Carolina knew she shouldn’t be here. They were supposed to still be in Philadelphia for the Continental Congress, but Father had not been in charge of the body for the past few hours. She had heard rumors about North Carolina’s Congress possibly passing something regarding independence, so could you blame her for curiosity?

“I’m sure Edward won’t mind. You know he’s been trying to stay up to date on what people have been saying about independence,” Uncle James said. North Carolina hummed in agreement, as she couldn’t answer out loud.

She didn’t think her father knew where he stood on independence, but no one could deny that it was becoming an attractive idea, albeit a terrifying one. Only a few short months ago, the idea of rebelling against their grandfather, truly rebelling against their grandfather, had been so unthinkable.

North Carolina, in all her jittery nerves, began messing with the glasses that now rested on her face. Dr. Franklin had noticed how her father sometimes squinted when reading, how they struggled to read small print, and had gotten them a part of glasses.

It helped a lot, even if Father felt ashamed by them. Grandfather had often belittled him for trying to wear reading glasses before, and that shame stuck with him.

North Carolina was starting to realize her grandfather was wrong about many things.

“He…he still loves us, though,” Little Georgia said, anxiety clear in her voice.

“He does, yes…he just has a different way of showing it,” South Carolina said, and North Carolina knew her twin was wrapping an arm around their baby sister. She also knew her Uncle James probably wanted to say something, so skeptical of their Grandfather’s love for them.

“I have my reasons. And I have memories that you don’t,” Uncle James said, “And…for that, I can never hold any sort of affection for him.”

North Carolina often wondered what her grandfather had done to her uncle. She knew she would probably never get an answer.

North Carolina decided to return her attention to her Congress, listening to them argue. They were indeed discussing independence here, inspired in part by North Carolina’s victory at Moores Creek.

“What do you mean ‘your victory’? You weren’t even there!” Massachusetts said, a joking tone in his voice. North Carolina suppressed the urge to roll her eyes at her brother’s antics. Maybe she wasn’t there herself, but it was a victory won by her people and, therefore, a victory for her.

The Congress also discussed forming foreign alliances and thought that if they were ever going to succeed in getting their independence, they needed allies.

“Allies would also ensure that we have recognition, which is even more important. Grandfather won’t do it until we prove that we can handle it, meaning that we’ll need another country to recognize us first,” Connecticut said.

“And a professional military would help,” New Hampshire muttered. Massachusetts gasped.

“What’s wrong with mine? We got them out of Boston!” he protested.

“That doesn’t mean you’re a professional army. It means you got lucky.” 

North Carolina cleared her through, hoping her siblings would get the message and shut up. Thankfully, it seemed to have worked, and they fell silent, moving their argument to their inner world. 

“Do you have something to add, United Colonies?” one of the Congressmen asked.

“Oh, no, sorry. I was just trying to avoid a cough. Please continue,” North Carolina said. The congressman nodded, and the debate resumed.

North Carolina was a bit disappointed that her people were not signing anything, just entering the conversation into Congressional Minutes, but it was a start. It was something.

Most importantly, it was more than any of her siblings had done.

“I’m telling on Father when he gets back!”

• ───────────────── •

June 7, 1776

United Colonies had told the members of the Continental Congress not to involve him in any political talks outside of Congress. He was trying to be an unbiased individual representing the beliefs of his people. He wanted to be convinced by the arguments of Congress, not bribed or tricked into supporting something that his people did not.

So, although he could see people talking outside of Congress and planning their arguments, he never got involved. Instead, he would go to his room in the inn, sit on the bed, and talk for hours with his children.

He missed so much of their lives. He refused to miss anymore.

Today, Mister Richard Henry Lee of Virginia was going to introduce a new proposal to Congress, and United Colonies had a sinking feeling he knew what it was going to be about.

Independence.

His Congress was going to have independence officially proposed to it. This would remove independence from being a vague idea debated in social circles and argued over in pamphlets and newspapers, making it a very real and tangible possibility.

It was simultaneously both terrifying and exciting.

United Colonies was pretty sure he wanted independence, but…his father. The idea also paralyzed him with the innate fear that came from disobeying his father. He wanted to, his people wanted to, but a part of him was so afraid of doing it. A small part of him trembled in childlike fear at the thought.

The voice in his head that still had yet to introduce himself often questioned United Colonies about why he loved his father if he was so scared of him. But he didn’t get it! United Colonies deserved it! They were punishments for his awful behavior. If he was punished for this, it was because he was treasonous and disloyal, and he deserved it.

“So when you were ‘punished’ for wanting to save your daughter’s life, you deserved it?” the male voice had asked.

“Yes,” United Colonies had answered, for even that had been his fault. He had been expressing disloyal thoughts and inadvertently advocated for the death of his little brother. He hated it so much, but it had been his daughter’s time to die. United Colonies had done nothing but extend her suffering and help contribute to the death of Dominion of New England.

It…he was to blame for that.

United Colonies did his best to pull himself out of the memories—of the fear, pain, and mistakes—and refocus on Richard Henry Lee, listening to his proposal and trying not to cry.

“If you want, I can take over,” Virginia offered. United Colonies did a tiny shake of his head. No matter how afraid and nervous he was, he had to be here for this. Not anyone else. Him. The speech by Richard Henry Lee was great, and United Colonies could not help the excitement that grew inside him of the possibility of independence, even with all his fear.

“That these united colonies are and of right ought to be free and independent states,” Richard Henry Lee declared, and United Colonies felt a swell of pride grow within him.

“Hell yeah, we do deserve that right, especially after everything!” Rhode Island and Providence Plantations exclaimed. United Colonies couldn’t help the small grin that spread at that, nor the fact that the grin refused to fade as the proposal continued.

Independence had just been proposed to Congress. Now, it was time to see if they would vote in favor of it

[sasquapossum]

OK, this Dawn of Everything book has really got me going. I'm only up to page 63, out of 526 plus notes. Already, this exchange between Lahontan (a Frenchman) and Kandiaronk (of the Wendat people in the Great Lakes area) is gold.

Lahontan: Try for once in your life to actually listen. Can't you see, my dear friend, that the nations of Europe could not survive, without gold and silver - or some similar precious symbol. Without it, nobles, priests, merchants and any number of others who lack the strength to work the soil would simply die of hunger. Our kings would not be kings; what soldiers would we have? Who would work for kings, or anybody else? ... It would plunge Europe into chaos and create the most dismal confusion imaginable. Kandiaronk: You honestly think you're going to sway me by appealing to the needs of nobles, merchants, and priests? If you abandoned concepts of mine and thine, yes, such distinctions between men would dissolve; a levelling [sic] equality would then take its place among you as it now does among the Wendat. And yes, for the first thirty years after the banishing of self-interest, no doubt you would indeed see a certain desolation as those who are only qualified to eat, drink, sleep, and take pleasure would languish and die. But their progeny would be fit for our way of living. Over and over I have set forth the qualities that we Wendat believe ought to define humanity - wisdom, reason, equity, etc. - and demonstrated that the existence of separate material interests knocks all of those on the head. A man motivated by interest cannot be a man of reason.

The book authors' intent here is to show how many ideas we consider foundational now, especially from the so-called Enlightenment, actually had their roots somewhere other than Europe - specifically, in this case, among North American native people. The above is from 1703. Already we see a clear precursor of themes addressed by Adam Smith and Karl Marx. Smith wasn't even born until 1723, Marx until 1818. Their best known works were published until 1776 (Wealth of Nations) and 1867 (Das Kapital) respectively. Kandiaronk beat them by 73-164 years!

Elsewhere, on issues of freedom and equality, Kandiaronk and his peers seem to have been ahead of European thinkers like David Hume (born 1711) or Jean-Jacques Rousseau (born 1712). And those were the vanguard of European thought on such issues. Thomas Hobbes's Leviathan had been published in 1651, John Locke's Treatises of Government in 1689, but it still seems like they were barely ahead (if at all) of those "savages" across the sea.

So yes, that's a very interesting perspective. That said, I still have some reservations. These now-familiar ideas about individual freedom might be an improvement over the monarchist/feudalist sentiment that had prevailed before, but they're also part of the "every man for himself" attitude that so afflicts the modern US. Did we just take some parts (rejection of arbitrary authority) and jettison others (mutual aid) that should have been kept together? Perhaps. Further reading might tell.

In particular, the ableist tone in the middle part of Kandiaronk's reply is troubling. "Only qualified to eat, drink, sleep, and take pleasure" might have been intended to mean the aristocracy, but it also cuts a bit close to the lot of the disabled. That seems insensitive, at best. What sources I've been able to find suggest that Wendat (and other Native American) treatment of mental disability was much more progressive than is common in Eurocentric society even today, but those same sources are disturbingly silent on what happened to people with physical disabilities. Kandiaronk's "fit" remark suggests a grim answer (though no grimmer than in other societies at that time).

That's all for now. More later, I'm sure.

[baptaincarnacles]

Music Headcanons

-Octonauts-

Barnacles: It’s canon he listens to Nicki Minaj (imagining someone like Barnacles listening to songs like “Anaconda” is so strange XD), but I feel he also listens to Fin Argus, and at times, Poor Man’s Poison. Oh, and he probably listens to Megan Thee Stallion songs, just saying. He also enjoys the musical Little Shop of Horrors (the song “Feed Me (Git it!)”) Kwazzi: Sea Shanties, and maybe some of the songs made by Miracleofsound (on YouTube). I also feel like he’d listen to vocal covers of most viking songs, more specifically, covers and songs by Peyton Parrish. But, when they’re not listening to that, it’s likely songs by Disturbed and Starkid musicals.

Peso: Mainly Spanish songs that he had grown up with (listened to Despacito once and died inside). I would also say he listens to generic pop songs, maybe older Justin Bieber songs- not for the lyrics, just to listen to the background music. And he probably likes songs that have xylophone solos.

Shellington: The Crane Wives all the way (loves the instrumentals and their voices), he also enjoys bands like Gang of Youths, and creators like J. Maya, and Gareth Fernandez. But, he also enjoys songs from some musicals (including 1776; The New Musical [his favorite being “He Plays the Violin”]).

Dashi: Also listens to Nicki Minaj (mainly with Barnacles). She also listens to Lizzo (Truth Hurts and About Damn Time is some of her favorites), Adelle (solely because of the memes), and Cody Fry (she enjoys the orchestra compositions of most their songs). But they also enjoy songs from Adventure Time and Steven Universe.

Inkling: Classical all the way. He is a very novelty person, so I can see him being fond of Mozart, Beethoven, Pyotr Ilyich Tchaikovsky (composer of Swan Lake), Bach, and Chopin.

Tweak: She loves heavy metal bands. She prefers Five Finger Death Punch, Korn, and Pantera. And maybe some other rock bands like AC/DC (Hell’s Bells, Back in Black, and Thunderstruck), Disturbed, and Skillet. She also likes older country songs (probably Josh Turner and Luke Bryan). Oh! And Taylor Swift.

Vegimals: They don’t have preferred bands, they like A cappella.

---

-Octo-Agents-

Calico Jack: Sea Shanties that he made up and sang to himself (literally forgets now that he can’t look them up because he made them).

Ranger Marsh: Country. Like along the lines of old country classics, but he also listens to Pantera, Guns N’ Roses, Metallica, and AC/DC (and he had introduced Tweak to the bands when she was little). He enjoys Poor Man’s Poison (after Barnacles introduced the band to him).

Paani: He loves Minecraft Music (in the game and fan-made parodies/original songs). His favorite disc in-game is Otherside, his favorite Minecraft song artist is Captain Sparkles (though a close second would be SlamACow), his favorite song by Captain Sparkles is Take Back the Night. Oh- and he likes Animaniacs songs.

Ryla: Not a huge music fan, prefers to listen to natural ambience (rain, birds, and wind). 

Min: Cavetown songs are some of her favorites, as well as mxmtoon. Softer songs with nice background music. She may also like The Crane Wives (she’ll listen to them when hanging out with Shellington). 

Natquik: Classical. Songs that have vocal points distract him a lot, and he can’t really get much done. He enjoys songs from Beethoven, Debussy, and Vivaldi.

Tracker: Whatever is playing on the radio. They have no music taste whatsoever, but they have memorized various generic pop songs that are played on the radio.

Pearl: She likes songs from Disney Movies, and songs like: “Tamino” by Persephone. “Touch The Sky” from Disney’s Merida is her favorite (she relates to it a lot).

---

-Junior Agents-

Pinto: Cocomelon songs, Justin Bieber, and One Direction.

Koshi: She likes songs from PIxar and Disney (she prefers songs from Frozen). She also enjoys detective medleys (Detective Sisters and Shellington).

---

I know a lot of random bands/composers and I’m only now realizing it.

[hippolotamus]

Could you love the ocean with me? | T | 1776 words

Thank you @shortsighted-owl for flinging words back and forth with me for this soft, lovely moment with our Boys 🦛🚒🦉

The beach makes a soft bed for them to rest together, listening to the waves lapping at the shore as they watch the sunset on the horizon. Eddie smiles to himself when Buck’s hand drifts to catch his, linking their pinky fingers together. He breathes a contented sigh and lets himself settle into the moment, wiggling his bare toes in the sand. 

Buck is the one who taught him to do this - to unwind and relax and just be for a while. When Christopher was younger going to the beach was for sandcastles and chasing seabirds and squealing in the waves. Eddie always had to be on alert, a fully active participant in every moment of the day. For the longest time he couldn’t hear the roar of the ocean without thinking about sitting there alone after Shannon died, falling apart in heaving sobs with her letter clutched between his fingers. 

This beach has become their spot, their refuge- to catch up, to be quiet and reflective together, to or work through the heavier moments in life. They wordlessly walk barefoot - in step, side-by-side - foamy white surf washing up to their ankles. 

Eddie turns his head from where he’s pillowed it on his arm, his focus drawn toward Buck as it always has been. He takes advantage of these opportunities just to look at his best friend - his curls soft with sea salt and smile easy, chest rising with his rhythmic breaths. 

Here by the glittering water, under the clearest Californian skies, Eddie would still choose the brilliant blue of Buck’s eyes as his favorite shade. The depths he’d most like to fall into any day of the week, month, year, ad infinitum. 

These days Eddie's dark strands are laced with silver, just enough that no one else notices. Well, almost no one. Of course Buck and Chris do, but they’re the only people Eddie allows that close into his personal bubble. Like everything else that’s become part of their dynamic – part of them – Buck loves to tease Eddie about it, making a pointed comment about the current price of silver. Often Buck will choose a moment when they’re on Eddie’s couch, relaxed and already leaning into each other. 

Eddie can always sense Buck watching him before he feels Buck’s thumb brushing lightly over his hairline. It’s a careful, gentle touch that leaves Eddie fighting the urge to let his eyelids flutter closed, and willing his heartbeat to slow. In that way at least, Eddie doesn’t feel all that different from when they were cocky young firefighters and Buck asked ‘you wanna go for the title?’

Time passed quicker than he would have imagined possible and, here, somehow, Buck and Eddie are still Buck-and-Eddie. Two halves of a whole, but pieces that never quite came together like they should. They’ve laughed, cried, grieved, fought, broken and rebuilt, and silently loved for almost a decade now. 

“Hey, Eds?” Buck’s voice is low, and soft, just above the whispers of the surf at their feet.

“Yeah, Buck?” Eddie flicks his gaze away, looking back at the sky, as if Buck can tell Eddie’s staring even though his eyes are still closed.

“Do you- do you ever think about what would have happened if you had gone to Chicago instead?”

Eddie turns to look at him again, intrigued. “Not really. What do you mean?”

Buck’s eyes open - God, he is beautiful - as he furrows his brow and bites at his lower lip while he gathers the right words. “Like, do you think you would have had another partner… like me and you?”

“You mean a different stubborn pain in the ass?” Eddie teases. 

“Fuck you,” Buck replies, huffing out a laugh. “You know what I mean.” One of those long legs is a little restless, foot barely twitching, like he’s trying to hide the movement. But Eddie knows him too well. Eddie could list every tic, every shift in every part of Buck and what that means. This one means he’s nervous. Buck is nervous. 

“Yeah, I do. I do know what you mean.” Eddie unhooks their pinkies to take Buck’s hand and fully thread their fingers together. “And, no. I know I wouldn’t have found another partner like you.”

“How can you be so sure?” Buck asks, raising one eyebrow, tilting his head to the side so Eddie can’t help but be mesmerized by those blue eyes, bright even in the fading light.

“Because,” Eddie states simply, “there’s no one else like you. Not in Chicago, not anywhere.”

There’s the shuffle of fabric as Buck turns from his back to his side, fingers still clasped in Eddie's grip. Eddie does what he and Buck always do. He follows until they’re curled like commas, shifting deeper into the fine grains beneath them. 

“I’m glad you came here, to LA,” Buck says. “You and Christopher. Glad that you stayed.”

“Me, too,” Eddie murmurs. “Where’s all this coming from?” 

“I just- Eddie, I’ve tried to do this – to just live my life – with you nearby and not right next to me. Together, but not y’know together. Convinced myself for so long that I could make it work, make it be enough. But–” Buck's voice cracks on the last word, his lower lip trembling.

Eddie hears the words Buck doesn’t say. He knows because they’ve lived in his heart and he’s never been brave enough to say them himself, or it was never the right time. But he wants to say them now. Needs to. 

“I know,” Eddie tells him. “It’s never been enough for me either.”

Buck looks at him for one heartbeat, then another, before slowly, slowly bowing his head until it crosses that line between them. Their foreheads press together,  so close they’re breathing the same air.

They lay still together as Buck’s words silently hover above them. The minutes tick by, but that’s okay.  They’re almost at the precipice now, ready to leap together savoring this moment that’s taken so long to arrive.

“I don’t think I know how to be me without you anymore, Eddie.” 

Eddie cups Buck's cheek, using his thumb to sweep away the tear trying to escape. “You don't have to. Not anymore. Not ever. I'm here, just like I've always been. Waiting for us to be ready. I'm ready now.”

The sun may be just setting, casting its glow over the surf, but Buck's face turns into Eddie’s palm like it’s his only guiding light, placing a single feather-light kiss to the base of his thumb joint.

“Yeah, I think- no. I know I’m ready, too. Now. For all of it, for us.”

A light breeze passes over them, like a confirmation of sorts, when Eddie dips down to touch his forehead to Buck’s again. “All of it,” he repeats with a shaky exhale. 

Eddie closes his eyes to everything else around them to focus solely on Buck - the feel of Buck’s skin under his fingers, free to touch the way he’s been dreaming of for the very first time. Eddie breathes him in, losing himself in the familiar blend of sunshine and moonlight and love and citrus and all smells inherently Buck. 

Buck’s finger hooks gently under his chin, sending a shiver rolling down his spine as Eddie lets himself be moved, His head tips ever so slightly up, up, up, and the barest breath breezes over his skin as Buck’s lips meet his. 

Buck’s hand slides around to slip into Eddie’s back pocket and he pulls Eddie in, in, in, as close as their bodies can press together. Eddie’s own heart skips around -  a wild thing in his chest. His fingers curl around Buck’s neck, combing up into his hair. He can’t believe it’s taken them so long to get here.

Eddie cards his fingers through Buck’s curls as they kiss,  deep and lush and longing for all the time they could have but didn’t. When he breaks away, breathless, he asks “Do you know how long I’ve known you?” 

“Nine years, four months, two weeks.” The words roll off Buck’s tongue like one of the many facts he’s absorbed over the same time, easy and sure and with his whole heart. Eddie's mouth falls open at the specificity, even before Buck adds, “And three days.” 

“Do you have the hours and minutes as well? Jesus, Buck.”

Buck’s expression turns so very, very earnest as he stares at Eddie, backlit by the last rays of sun. “I mean it was the start of a morning shift so approximatel-“

Eddie pulls Buck back to him, and lets his face hide in the crook of Buck's neck, smelling nothing but sunkissed skin, and tasting salt. Buck’s hand comes to cradle his neck; fingers stroking through his hair, making Eddie shiver. 

“So,” Eddie murmurs, “all of it… the good and the bad, me and you together?”

“And everything in between and beyond.”

Eddie snorts, a sharp exhale that tickles Buck’s neck. “ Beyond. Really, Buck?”

“What? With our luck we need to cover every possibility.”

Eddie wants to argue but really, Buck wasn’t wrong about their history - a grenade, an earthquake, a bomb, a tsunami, a blackout, a kidnapping, a blimp, a sinkhole, and a rain storm the just didn’t seem to want to end. 

“Okay, you’ve made a valid point, babe.” Eddie acquiesces, turning Buck around and tugging him against his chest. 

“Oh,” Buck breathes. 

Eddie swears his own body follows the tremor that rolls down Buck’s spine. An idea, new and molten and so very on the table now, forms in Eddie’s mind. He slips his arms round Buck’s waist, touching his lips to the shell of Buck’s ear. “Babe. Baby, darling, cariño, amore, sweetheart, cielo, mi Vida.”

Buck's response is immediate - a low moan rumbles through his chest, through to Eddie's own - and Eddie thinks he might die or ascend or even thank the damn universe Itself. 

“Eds, you really are a romantic, aren’t you?” 

“Well, if you watch enough telenovelas…” Eddie chuckles, lips brushing Buck’s birthmark - each syllable a tiny reverent kiss.

Eddie feels the pull of skin and muscle beneath his lips as Buck’s eyebrows quirk upwards. 

“So, not just for the Spanish practice then?” 

“Well, not just that. They’re good for other things, too…” 

Curiosity shines in Buck's eyes as his smile lifts to a smirk. “Oh yeah? Like wh-“

Eddie captures Buck’s lips with his own again, stealing away whatever words were on the tip of his tongue. He kisses Buck to the soundtrack of seagulls and crashing waves and the steady beats of their hearts in sync. They’re ready, together, to follow each other into tomorrows forever.

[apinchofm]

Phone Swap

A meet-cute that starts with them accidentally getting each other's phones.

Why don't you have a passcode on your phone?"

Mine is 1776, please respond.

Phoebe furrowed her eyes at the messages that popped up on what she thought was her phone. Then she remembered what happened when she left the tube station on her way to walk.

Phoebe found herself colliding with a man who was running whilst she was walking. As in she ran right into his chest and dropped her phone in the process.

"I am so sorry!" The man apologised, "Are you alright?"

"Yes," Phoebe said hurriedly, dusting her dress drown and pulling her handbag up on her shoulder. She mindlessly picked up a phone, throwing it in her bag before going.

Phoebe raised an eyebrow. Probably a Hamilton nerd or something.

Who is this?

Don't know if you remember me - bumped into you outside of the tube. It seems I have your phone, Miss Phoebe Taylor.

How on earth did he know her- 'he has my phone,' Phoebe thought to herself.

I am so sorry!

It's alright. I'm Marcus, if you haven't snooped. Dr Marcus Whitmore.

Can we meet later to swap phones?

Unfortunately, I can't. I'm on shift until the early morning. How about tomorrow, lunch on me? Mayfair tea rooms work?

He was clearly trying to make up for the fact by taking her out for tea, especially tea in Mayfair. He must also be at a hospital nearby.

Sounds good. I will see you then! Again, so sorry!

Haha, it's fine. Just don't look in documents or email - confidential patient files and emails.

Phoebe's overriding curious nature wanted to snoop through. A few game apps, chess. No social media, which was slightly strange. Though, being a doctor, he was busy.

She looked at the background with interest. It was him and a woman wearing sunglasses, pulling funny faces. His girlfriend, perhaps?

Music. You can always tell someone's personality based on music. She went into his Spotify.

"Jesus, he listens to the same music as my dad," Phoebe sighed. But is showed perhaps optimism? He enjoyed a lot of 80s music, some bands she had heard of, others she did not.

But what annoyed Phoebe were the constant calls. When she went to sleep, his father felt the incessant need to call and text. As did his uncle and an aunt who was pushing him to respond to his father and uncle. She also wanted to know if he was playing polo for the charity event.

So, blue blood and old money, Phoebe deduced, with family issues.

"His dad doesn't give up." Phoebe sighed and she put the phone on silent before she went to sleep.

...

They met at the tea house. Marcus was already there when Phoebe was escorted to his table.

"Peaceful exchange of devices?" Marcus teased, holding up her phone. She held up his and they placed them on the table, sliding them towards each other. Phoebe took hers with a sigh of relief, whereas Marcus seemed less bothered.

"Thank you," Phoebe said.

"Thank you and apologies again for bumping into you. I was late for work at the university hospital." Marcus explained, "Couldn't let my students start running around and mix up patients,"

"That's okay," Phoebe said, "Though, I'm not sure how your girlfriend felt about another woman having your phone for the night." Okay, not subtle but he did have her phone.

"My girlfriend?"

"The woman on your background," She said.

"No, that's Miriam. Best mate, that's all." Marcus smirked, "But your phone background is beautiful. Sistine Chapel Ceiling."

"I went last year. It was beautiful." Phoebe said. A waiter brought their tray of tea and some sandwiches and cakes.

"1776? How many times did you see Hamilton?" Phoebe asked as he poured her a cup.

"My mother's side is American. I love history, even if they get it wrong. And six times. But what can I say? 'Satisfied' just spoke to me." Marcus explained, making her giggle.

"Wait, how were you able to contact your co-workers?" Phoebe asked. He took a small black thing out of his pocket.

"Pager. Yes, we still use them. What about you?"

"I tend not to be on my phone most of the time anyway. I work at Sotheby's so I have my computer and a large archive," Phoebe shrugged.

"Your sister kept texting and asking you to shop with her. I told her you were super busy for the rest of the week," Phoebe actually looked impressed. She was never able to lie to Stella, even over text. She looked at the messages and her sister simply replied, 'Whatever. Read your books.'.

She breathed a sigh of relief. Her sister, for all she loved her, was the most exhausting human being.

"Thanks. Um, your dad kept on calling and your uncle. I didn't answer." Phoebe replied, Well, your aunt wants to know if you are playing polo."

"Ah, that's pretty standard for me," Marcus replied, "If you had answered, that would have resulted in more phone calls and an assumption I got you pregnant." She raised an eyebrow.

"Black sheep of the family?"

"I try." He smirked. Smarmy.

Phoebe leaned forward, "I spend my weekends cataloguing artwork and researching art in my pyjamas. I have a cat named Persephone. My friends think I'm weird."

But Marcus leaned back and smiled, "I like weird."

"I have to go," He said, frowning at the message on the pager, "So, dinner? Eight pm work for you?"

Phoebe scoffed, "I don't recall agreeing to dinner."

"Yes, you did. The minute you asked me if the woman on my screen was my girlfriend and I saw ABBA on your Spotify playlist ." He kissed her on the cheek before grabbing his coat and leaving with a cheeky smile.

Phoebe shook her head and couldn't help the smile on her face.

[unpopularwiththepopulace]

A retrospective on some of Broadway’s most important female costume designers across the last century

How much is our memory or perception of a production influenced by the manner in which we visually comprehend the characters for their physical appearance and attire? A lot.

How much attention in memory is often dedicated to celebrating the costume designers who create the visual forms we remember? Comparatively, not much.

Delving through the New York Public Library archives of late, I found I was able to zoom into pictures of productions like Sunday in the Park with George at a magnitude greater than before.

In doing so, I noticed myself marvelling at finer details on the costumes that simply aren’t visible from grainy 1985 proshots, or other lower resolution images.

And marvel I did.

At first, I began to set out to address the contributions made to the show by designer Patricia Zipprodt in collaboration with Ann Hould-Ward. Quickly I fell into a (rather substantial) tangent rabbit hole – concerning over a century’s worth of interconnected designers who are responsible for hundreds of some of the most memorable Broadway shows between them.

It is impossible to look at the work of just one or two of these women without also discussing the others that came before them or were inspired by them.

Journey with me then if you will on this retrospective endeavour to explore the work and legacy that some of these designers have created, and some of the contexts in which they did so.

A set of podcasts featuring Ann Hould-Ward, including Behind the Curtain (Ep. 229) and Broadway Nation (Eps. 17 and 18), invaluably introduce some of the information discussed here and, most crucially, provide a first-hand, verbal link back to this history. The latter show sets out the case for a “succession of dynamic women that goes back to the earliest days of the Broadway musical and continues right up to today”, all of whom “were mentored by one or more of the great [designers] before them, [all] became Tony award-winning [stars] in their own right, and [all] have passed on the [craft] to the next generation.”

A chronological, linear descendancy links these designers across multiple centuries, starting in 1880 with Aline Bernstein, then moving to Irene Sharaff, then to Patricia Zipprodt, then to the present day with Ann Hould-Ward. Other designers branch from or interact with this linear chronology in different ways, such as Florence Klotz and Ann Roth – who, like Patricia Zipprodt, were also mentored by Aline Bernstein – or Theoni V. Aldredge, who stands apart from this connected tree, but whose career closely parallels the chronology of its central portion. There were, of course, many other designers and women also working within this era that provided even further momentous contributions to the world of costume design, but in this piece, the focus will remain primarily on these seven figures.

As the main creditor of the designs for Sunday in the Park with George, let’s start with Patricia (Pat) Zipprodt.

Born in 1925, Pat studied at the Fashion Institute of Technology (FIT) in New York after winning a scholarship there in 1951. Through teaching herself “all of costume history by studying materials at the New York Public Library”, she passed her entrance exam to the United Scenic Artists Union in 1954. This itself was a feat only possible through Aline Bernstein’s pioneering steps in demanding and starting female acceptance into this same union for the first time just under 30 years previously.

Pat made her individual costume design debut a year after assisting Irene Sharaff on Happy Hunting in 1956 – Ethel Merman’s last new Broadway credit. Of the more than 50 shows she subsequently designed, some of Pat’s most significant musicals include: She Loves Me (1963) Fiddler on the Roof (1964) Cabaret (1966) Zorba (1968) 1776 (1969) Pippin (1972) Mack & Mabel (1974) Chicago (1975) Alice in Wonderland (1983) Sunday in the Park with George (1984) Sweet Charity (1986) Into the Woods (1987) - preliminary work

Other notable play credits included: The Little Foxes (1967) The Glass Menagerie (1983) Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (1990)

Yes. One person designed all of those shows. Many of the most beloved pieces in modern musical theatre history. Somewhat baffling.

Her work notably earned her 11 Tony nominations, 3 wins, an induction into the Theatre Hall of Fame in 1992, and the Irene Sharaff award for lifetime achievement in costume design in 1997.

By 1983, Pat was one of the most well-respected designers of her era. When the offer for Sunday in the Park with George came in, she was less than enamoured by being confined to the ill-suited basements at Playwright’s Horizons all day, designing full costumes for a story not even yet in existence. From-the-ground-up workshops are common now, but at the time, Sunday was one of the first of its kind.

Rather than flatly declining, she asked Ann Hould-Ward, previously her assistant and intern who had now been designing for 2-3 years on her own, if she was interested in collaborating. She was. The two divided the designing between them, like Pat creating Bernadette’s opening pink and white dress, and Ann her final red and purple dress.

Which indeed leads to the question of the infamous creation worn in the opening number. No attemptedly comprehensive look at the costumes in Sunday would be complete without addressing it or its masterful mechanics.

To enable Bernadette to spring miraculously and seemingly effortlessly from her outer confines, Ann and Pat enlisted the help of a man with a “Theatre Magics” company in Ohio. Dubbed ‘The Iron Dress’, the gasp-inducing motion required a wire frame embedded into the material, entities called ‘moonwalker legs and feet’, and two garage door openers coming up through the stage to lever the two halves apart. The mechanism – highly impressive in its periods of functionality – wasn’t without its flaws. Ann recalls “there were nights during previews where [Bernadette] couldn’t get out of the dress”. Or worse, a night where “the dress closed up completely. And it wouldn’t open up again!”. As Bernadette finished her number, there was nothing else within her power she could do, so she simply “grabbed it under her arm and carried it off stage.”

What visuals. Evidently, the course of costume design is not always plain sailing.

This sentiment is exhibited in the fact design work is a physical materialisation of other creators’ visions, thus foregrounding the tricky need for collaboration and compromise. This is at once a skill, very much part of the job description, and not always pleasant – in navigating any divides between one’s own ideas and those of other people.

Sunday in the Park with George was no exception in requiring such a moment of compromise and revision. With the show already on Broadway in previews, Stephen Sondheim decreed the little girl Louise’s dress “needs to be white” – not the “turquoisey blue” undertone Pat and Ann had already created it with. White, to better spotlight the painting’s centre.

Requests for alterations are easier to comprehend when they are done with equanimity and have justification. Sondheim said he would pay for the new dress himself, and in Seurat’s original painting, the little girl is very brightly the focal centre point of the piece. On this occasion, all agreed that Sondheim was “absolutely right”. A new dress was made.

Other artistic differences aren’t always as amicable.

In Pat Zipprodt’s first show, Happy Hunting with Ethel Merman in 1956, some creatives and directors were getting in vociferous, progress-stopping arguments over a dress and a scene in which Ethel was to jump over a fence. Then magically, the dress went missing. Pat was working at the time as an assistant to the senior Irene Sharaff, and Pat herself was the one to find the dress the next morning. It was in the basement. Covered in black and wholly unwearable. Sharaff had spray painted the dress black in protest against the “bickering”. Indeed, Sharaff disappeared, not to be seen again until the show arrived on Broadway.

Those that worked with her soon found that Sharaff was one to be listened to and respected – as Hal Prince did during West Side Story. After the show opened in 1957, Hal replaced her 40 pairs of meticulously created and individually dyed, battered, and re-dyed jeans with off-the-rack copies. His reasoning was this: “How foolish to be wasting money when we can make a promotional arrangement with Levi Strauss to supply blue jeans free for program credit?” A year later, he looked at their show, and wondered “What’s happened?”

What had happened was that the production had lost its spark and noticeable portions of its beauty, vibrancy, and subtle individuality. Sharaff’s unique creations quickly returned, and Hal had learned his lesson. By the time Sharaff’s mentee, Pat, had “designed the most expensive rags for the company to wear” with this same idiosyncratic dyeing process for Fiddler on the Roof in 1964, Hal recognised the value of this particularity and the disproportionately large payoff even ostensibly simple garments can bring.

Irene Sharaff is remembered as one of the greatest designers ever. Born in 1910, she was mentored by Aline Bernstein, first assisting her on 1928’s original staging of Hedda Gabler.

Throughout her 56 year career, she designed more than 52 Broadway musicals. Some particularly memorable entities include: The Boys from Syracuse (1938) Lady in the Dark (1943) Candide (1956) Happy Hunting (1956) Sweet Charity (1966) The King and I (1951, 1956) West Side Story (1957, 1961) Funny Girl (1964, 1968)

For the last three productions, she would reprise her work on Broadway in the subsequent and indelibly enduring film adaptations of the same shows. 

Her work in the theatre earned her 6 Tony nominations and 1 win, though her work in Hollywood was perhaps even more well rewarded – earning 5 Academy Awards from a total of 15 nominations.

Some of Sharaff’s additional film credits included: Meet Me in St. Louis (1944) Ziegfeld Follies (1946) An American in Paris (1951) Call Me Madam (1953) A Star is Born (1954) – partial Guys and Dolls (1955) Cleopatra (1963) Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966) Hello Dolly! (1969) Mommie Dearest (1981)

It’s a remarkable list. But it is too more than just a list.

Famously, Judy’s red scarlet ballgown in Meet Me in St. Louis was termed the “most sophisticated costume [she’d] yet worn on the screen.”

It has been written that Sharaff’s “last film was probably the only bad one on which she worked,” – the infamous pillar of camp culture, Mommie Dearest, in 1981 – “but its perpetrators knew that to recreate the Hollywood of Joan Crawford, it required an artist who understood the particular glamour of the Crawford era.” And at the time, there were very few – if any – who could fill that requirement better than Irene Sharaff. 

The 1963 production of Cleopatra is perhaps an even more infamous endeavour. Notoriously fraught with problems, the film was at that point the most expensive ever made. It nearly bankrupted 20th Century Fox, in light of varying issues like long production delays, a revolving carousel of directors, the beginning of the infamous Burton/Taylor affair and resulting media storm, and bouts of Elizabeth’s ill-health that “nearly killed her”. In that turbulent environment, Sharaff is highlighted as one of the figures instrumental in the film’s eventual completion – “adjusting Elizabeth Taylor’s costumes when her weight fluctuated overnight” so the world finally received the visual spectacle they were all ardently anticipating.

But even beyond that, Sharaff’s work had impacts more significantly and extensively than the immediate products of the shows or films themselves. Within a few years of her “vibrant Thai silk costumes for ‘The King and I’ in 1951, …silk became Thailand’s best-known export.” Her designs changed the entire economic landscape of the country. 

It’s little wonder that in that era, Sharaff was known as “one of the most sought-after and highest-paid people in her profession.” With discussions and favourable comparisions alongside none other than Old Hollywood’s most beloved designer, Edith Head, Irene deserves her place in history to be recognised as one of the foremost significant pillars of the design world.

In this respected position, Irene Sharaff was able to pass on her knowledge by mentoring others too as well as Patricia Zipprodt, like Ann Roth and Florence Klotz, who have in turn gone on to further have their own highly commendable successes in the industry.

Florence “Flossie” Klotz, born in 1920, is the only Broadway costume designer to have won six Tony awards. She did so, all of them for musicals, and all of them directed by Hal Prince, in a marker of their long and meaningful collaboration.

Indeed, Flossie’s life partner was Ruth Mitchell – Hal’s long-time assistant, and herself legendary stage manager, associate director and producer of over 43 shows. Together, Flossie and Ruth were dubbed a “power couple of Broadway”.

Flossie’s shows with Hal included: Follies (1971) A Little Night Music (1973) Pacific Overtures (1976) Grind (1985) Kiss of the Spiderwoman (1993) Show Boat (1995)

And additional shows amongst her credits extend to: Side by Side by Sondheim (1977) On the Twentieth Century (1978) The Little Foxes (1981) A Doll’s Life (1982) Jerry’s Girls (1985)

Earlier in her career, she would first find her footing as an assistant designer on some of the Golden Age’s most pivotal shows like: The King and I (1951) Pal Joey (1952) Silk Stockings (1955) Carousel (1957) The Sound of Music (1959)

The original production of Follies marked the first time Florence was seriously recognised for her work. Before this point, she was not yet anywhere close to being considered as having broken into the ranks of Broadway’s “reigning designers” of that era. Follies changed matters, providing both an indication of the talent of her work to come, and creating history in being commended for producing some of the “best costumes to be seen on Broadway” in recent memory – as Clive Barnes wrote in The New York Times. Fuller discussion is merited given that the costumes of Follies are always one of the show’s central points of debate and have been crucial to the reception of the original production as well as every single revival that has followed in the 50 years since.

In this instance, Ted Chapin would record from his book ‘Everything Was Possible: The Birth of the Musical ‘Follies’ how “the costumes were so opulent, they put the show over-budget.” Moreover, that “talking about the show years later, [Florence] said the costumes could not be made today. ‘Not only would they cost upwards of $2 million, but we used fabrics from England that aren’t even made anymore.’” Broadway then does indeed no longer look like Broadway now.

This “surreal tableau” Flossie created, including “three-foot-high ostrich feather headdresses, Marie Antoinette wigs adorned with musical instruments and birdcages, and gowns embellished with translucent butterfly wings”, remains arguably one of the most impressive and jaw-dropping spectacles to have ever graced a Broadway stage even to this day.

As for Ann Roth, born in 1931, she is still to this day making her own history – recently becoming the joint eldest nominee at 89 for an Oscar (her 5th), for her work on 2020′s Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom. Now as of April 26th, Ann has just made history even further by becoming the oldest woman to win a competitive Academy Award ever. She has an impressive array of Hollywood credits to her name in addition to a roster of Broadway design projects, which have earned her 12 Tony nominations.

Some of her work in the theatre includes: The Women (1973) The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas (1978) They're Playing Our Song (1979) Singin' in the Rain (1985) Present Laughter (1996) Hedda Gabler (2009) A Raisin in the Sun (2014) Shuffle Along (2016) The Prom (2018)

Making her way over to Hollywood in the ‘70s, she has left an indelible and lasting visual impact on the arts through films like: Klute (1971) The Goodbye Girl (1977) Hair (1979) 9 to 5 (1980) Silkwood (1983) Postcards from the Edge (1990) The Birdcage (1996) The Hours (2002) Mamma Mia! (2008) Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom (2020)

It’s clear from this branching 'tree' to see how far the impact of just one woman passing on her time and knowledge to others who are starting out can spread.

This art of acting as a conduit for valuable insights was something Irene Sharaff had learned from her own mentor and predecessor, Aline Bernstein. Aline was viewed as “the first woman in the [US] to gain prominence in the male-dominated field of set and costume design,” and was too a strong proponent of passing on the unique knowledge she had acquired as a pioneer and forerunner in the field. 

Born in 1880, Bernstein is recognised as “one of the first theatrical designers in New York to make sets and costumes entirely from scratch and craft moving sets” while Broadway was still very much in its infancy of taking shape as the world we know today. This she did for more than one hundred shows over decades of her work in the theatre. These shows included the spectacular Grand Street Follies (1924-27), and original premier productions of plays like some of the following: Ibsen’s Hedda Gabler (1928) J.M Barrie’s Peter Pan (1928) Grand Hotel (1930) Phillip Barry’s Animal Kingdom (1932) Chekov’s The Seagull (1937) Both Lillian Hellman’s The Children’s Hour (1934) and The Little Foxes (1939)

Beyond direct design work, Bernstein founded what was to become the Neighbourhood Playhouse (the notable New York acting school) and was influential in the “Little Theatre movement that sprung up across America in 1910”. These were the “forerunners of the non-profit theatres we see today” and she continued to work in this realm even after moving into commercial theatre.

Bernstein also established the Museum of Costume Art, which later became the Costume Institute of the Met Museum of Art, where she served as president from 1944 to her death in 1955. This is what the Met Gala raises money for every year. So for long as you have the world’s biggest celebrities parading up and down red carpets in high fashion pieces, you have Aline Bernstein to remember – as none of that would be happening without her.

During the last fifteen years of her life, Bernstein taught and served as a consultant in theatre programs at academic institutions including Yale, Harvard, and Vassar – keen to connect the community and facilitate an exchange of wisdom and information to new descendants and the next generation.

Many designers came somewhere out of this linear descendancy. One notable exception, with no American mentor, was Theoni V. Aldredge. Born in 1922 and trained in Greece, Theoni emigrated to the US, met her husband, Tom Aldredge – himself of Into the Woods and theatre notoriety – and went on to design more than 100 Broadway shows. For her work, she earned 3 Tony wins from 11 nominations from projects such as: Anyone Can Whistle (1964) A Chorus Line (1975) Annie (1977) Barnum (1980) 42nd Street (1980) Woman of the Year (1981) Dreamgirls (1981) La Cage aux Folles (1983) The Rink (1984)

One of the main features that typify Theoni’s design style and could be attributed to a certain unique and distinctive “European flair” is her strong use of vibrant colour. This is a sentiment instantly apparent in looking longitudinally at some of her work.

In Ann Hould-Ward’s words, Theoni speaks to the “great generosity” of this profession. Theoni went out of her way to call Ann apropos of nothing early in the morning at some unknown hotel just after Ann won her first Tony for Beauty and the Beast in 1994, purring “Dahhling, I told you so!” These were women that had their disagreements, yes, but ultimately shared their knowledge and congratulated each other for their successes.

Similar anecdotal goodwill can be found in Pat Zipprodt’s call to Ann on the night of the 1987 Tony’s – where Ann was nominated for Into the Woods – with Pat singing “Have wonderful night! You’re not gonna win! …[laugh] but I love you anyway!”

This well-wishing phone call is all the more poignant considering Pat was originally involved with doing the costumes for Into the Woods, in reprise of their previous collaboration on Sunday in the Park with George.

If, for example, Theoni instinctively is remembered for bright colour, one of the features that Pat is first remembered for is her dedicated approach to research for her designs. Indeed, the New York Public Library archives document how the remaining physical evidence of this research she conducted is “particularly thorough” in the section on Into the Woods. Before the show finally hit Broadway in 1987 with Ann Hould-Ward’s designs, records show Pat had done extensive investigation herself into materials, ideas and prospective creations all through 1986.

Both Ann and Pat worked on the show out of town in try-outs at the Old Globe theatre in San Diego. But when it came to negotiating Broadway contracts, the situation became “tricky” and later “untenable” with Pat and the producers. Ann was “allowed to step in and design” the show alone instead.

The lack of harboured resentment on Patricia’s behalf speaks to her character and the pair’s relationship, such that Ann still considered her “my dear and beloved friend” for over 25 years, and was “at [Pat’s] bed when she died”.

Though they parted ways ultimately for Into the Woods, you can very much feel a continuation between their work on Sunday in the Park with George a few years previously, especially considering how tactile the designs appear in both shows. This tactility is something the shows’ book writer and director, James Lapine, was specific about. Lapine would remark in his initial ideas and inspirations that he wanted a graphic quality to the costumes on this occasion, like “so many sketches of the fairy-tales do”.

Ann fed that sentiment through her final creations, with a wide variety of materials and textures being used across the whole show – like “ribbons with ribbons seamed through them”, “all sorts of applique”, “frothy organzas and rembriodered organzas”. A specific example documents how Joanna Gleason’s shawl as the Baker’s Wife was pieced together, cut apart, and put back together again before resembling its final form.

This highly involved principle demonstrates another manner of inventive design that uses a different method but maintains the aim of particularity as discussed previously with Patricia and Irene’s complex dyeing and re-dyeing process. Pushing the confines of what is possible with the materials at hand to create a variety of colours, shades, and textures ultimately produces visual entities that are complex to look at. Confusing the eye like this “holds attention longer”, Ann maintains, which makes viewers look more intricately at individual segments of the production, and enables the costume design to guide specific focus by not immediately ceding attention elsewhere.

Understanding the methods behind the resultant impacts of a show can be as, if not more, important and interesting than the final product of the show itself sometimes. A phone call Ann had last August with James Lapine reminds us this is a notion we may be treated more to in the imminent future, when he called to enquire as to the location of some design sketches for the book he is working on (Putting It Together: How Stephen Sondheim and I Created 'Sunday in the Park with George') to document more thoroughly the genesis of the pair’s landmark and beloved musical.

In continuation of the notion that origin stories contain their own intrinsic value beyond any final product, Ann first became Pat’s intern through a heart-warming and tenacious tale. Ann sent letters to three notable designers when finishing graduate school. Only Patricia Zipprodt replied, with a message to say she “didn’t have anything now but let me think about it and maybe in the future.” It got to the future, and Ann took the encouragement of her previous response to try and contact Pat again. Upon being told she was out of town with a show, Ann proceeded to chase Pat through various phone books and telephone wires across different states and theatres until she finally found her. She was bolstered by the specifics of their call and ran off the phone to write an imploring note – hinging on the premise of a shared connection to Montana. She took an arrow, stabbed it through a cowboy hat, put it in a box with the note that was written on raw hide, and mailed it to New York with bated breath and all of her hopes and wishes.

Pat was knife-edgingly close to missing the box, through a matter of circumstance and timing. Importantly, she didn’t. Ann got a response, and it boded well: “Alright alright alright! You can come to New York!”

Subsequently, Ann’s long career in the design world of the theatre has included notable credits such as: Sunday in the Park with George (1984) Into the Woods (1987, 1997) Falsettos (1992) Beauty and the Beast (1994, 1997) Little Me (1998) Company (2006) Road Show (2008) The People in the Picture (2011) Merrily We Roll Along (1985, 1990, 2012, segment in Six by Sondheim 2013) Passion (2013) The Visit (2015) The Color Purple (2015) The Prince of Egypt (2021)

From early days in the city sleeping on a piece of foam on a friend’s floor, to working collaboratively alongside Pat, to using what she’d learnt from her mentor in designing whole shows herself, and going on to win prestigious awards for her work – the cycle of the theatre and the importance of handing down wisdom from those who possess it is never more evident.

As Ann summarises it meaningfully, “the theatre is a continuing, changing, evolving, emotional ball”. It’s raw, it’s alive, it needs people, it needs stories, it needs documentation of history to remember all that came before.

In periods where there can physically be no new theatre, it’s made ever the more clear for the need not to forget what value there is in the tales to be told from the past.

Through this retrospective, we’ve seen the tour de force influence of a relatively small handful of women shaping a relatively large portion of the visual scape of some of Broadway’s brightest moments.

But it’s significant to consider how disproportionate this female impact was, in contrast with how massively male dominated the rest of the creative theatre industry has been across the last century.

Assessing variations in attitudes and approaches to relationships and families in these women in the context of their professional careers over this time period presents interesting observations. And indeed, manners in which things have changed over the past hundred years.

As Ann Hould-Ward speaks of her experiences, one of her reflections is how much this was a “very male dominated world”. And one that didn’t accommodate for women with families who also wanted careers. As an intern, she didn’t even feel she could tell Patricia Zipprodt about the existence of her own young child until after 6 months of working with her. With all of these male figures around them, it would be often questioned “How are you going to do the work? How are you going to manage [with a family]?”, and that it was “harder to convince people that you were going to be able to do out-of-towns, to be able to go places.” Simply put, the industry “didn't have many designers who were married with children.”

Patricia herself in the previous generation demonstrates this restricting ethos. “In 1993, Zipprodt married a man whose proposal she had refused some 43 years earlier.” She had just newly graduated college and “she declined [his proposal] and instead moved to New York.” Faced with the family or career conundrum, she chose the latter. By the 1950s, it then wasn’t seen as uncommon to have both, it was seen as impossible.

Her husband died just five years after the pair were married in 1998, as did Patricia herself the following year. One has to wonder if alternative decisions would’ve been made and lives lived differently if she’d experienced a different context for working women in her younger life.

But occupying any space in the theatre at all was only possible because of the efforts of and strides made by women in previous generations.

When Aline Bernstein first started designing for Broadway theatre in 1916, women couldn’t even vote. She became the first female member of the United Scenic Artists of America union in 1926, but only because she was sworn in under the false and male moniker of brother Bernstein. In fact, biographies often centralise on her involvement in a “passionate” extramarital love affair with novelist Thomas Wolfe – disproportionately so for all of her remarkable contributions to the theatrical, charitable and academic worlds, and instead having her life defined through her interactions with men.

As such, it is apparent how any significant interactions with men often had direct implications over a woman’s career, especially in this earlier half of the century. Only in their absence was there comparative capacity to flourish professionally.

Irene Sharaff had no notable relationships with men. She did however have a significant partnership with Chinese-American painter and writer Mai-mai Sze from “the mid-1930s until her death”. Though this was not (nor could not be) publicly recognised or documented at the time, later by close acquaintances the pair would be described as a “devoted couple”, “inseparable”, and as holding “love and admiration for one another [that] was apparent to everyone who knew them.” This manner of relationship for Irene in the context of her career can be theorised as having allowed her the capacity to “reach a level of professional success that would have been unthinkable for most straight women of [her] generation”.

Moving forwards in time, Irene and Mai-mai presently rest where their ashes are buried under “two halves of the same rock” at the entrance to the Music and Meditation Pavilion at Lucy Cavendish College in Cambridge, which was “built following a donation by Sharaff and Sze”. I postulate that this site would make for an interesting slice of history and a perhaps more thought-provoking deviation for tourists away from being shepherded up and down past King’s College on King’s Parade as more usually upon a visit to Cambridge.

In this more modern society at the other end of this linear tree of remarkable designers, options for women to be more open and in control of their personal and professional lives have increased somewhat.

Ann Hould-Ward later in her career would no longer “hide that [she] was a mother”, in fear of not being taken seriously. Rather, she “made a concerted effort to talk about [her] child”, saying “because at that point I had a modicum of success. And I thought it was supportive for other women that I could do this.”

If one aspect passed down between these women in history are details of the craft and knowledge accrued along the way, this statement by Ann represents an alternative facet and direction that teaching of the future can take. Namely, that by showing through example, newer generations will be able to comprehend the feasibility of occupying different options and spaces as professional women. Existing not just as designers, or wives, or mothers, or all, or one – but as people, who possess an immense talent and skill. And that it is now not just possible, but common, to be multifaceted and live the way you want to live while working.

This is not to say all of the restrictions and barriers faced by women in previous generations have been removed, but rather that as we build a larger wealth of history of women acting with autonomy and control to refer back to, things can only get easier to build upon for the future.

Who knows what Broadway and theatre in general will look like when it returns – both on the surface with respect to this facet of costume design, and also more deeply as to the inner machinations of how shows are put together and presented. The largely male environment and the need to tick corporate and commercial boxes will not have vanished. One can only hope that this long period of stasis will have foregrounded the need and, most importantly, provided the time to revaluate the ethos in which shows are often staged, and the ways in which minority groups – like women – are able to work and be successful within the theatre in all of the many shows to come. 

Notable sources:

Photographs – predominantly from the New York Public Library digital archives. IBDB – the Internet Broadway Database. Broadway Nation Podcast (Eps. #17 and #18), David Armstrong, featuring Ann Hould-Ward, 2020. Behind the Curtain: Broadway’s Living Legends Podcast (Ep. #229), Robert W Schneider and Kevin David Thomas, featuring Ann Hould-Ward, 2020. Sense of Occasion, Harold Prince, 2017. Everything Was Possible: The Birth of the Musical ‘Follies’, Ted Chapin, 2003. Finishing the Hat: Collected Lyrics (1954–1981) with Attendant Comments, Principles, Heresies, Grudges, Whines and Anecdotes, Stephen Sondheim, 2010. The Complete Book of 1970s Broadway Musicals, Dan Deitz, 2015. The Complete Book of 1980s Broadway Musicals, Dan Dietz, 2016. Inventory of the Patricia Zipprodt Papers and Designs at the New York Public Library, 2004 – https://www.nypl.org/sites/default/files/archivalcollections/pdf/thezippr.pdf Extravagant Crowd’s Carl Van Vecten’s Portraits of Women, Aline Bernstein – http://brbl-archive.library.yale.edu/exhibitions/cvvpw/gallery/bernstein.html Jewish Heroes & Heroines of America: 150 True Stories of American Jewish Heroism – Aline Bernstein, Seymour Brody, 1996 – https://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/aline-bernstein Ann Hould-Ward Talks Original “Into the Woods” Costume Designs, 2016 – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4EPe77c6xzo&ab_channel=Playbill American Theatre Wing’s Working in the Theatre series, The Design Panel, 1993 – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9sp-aMQHf-U&t=2167s&ab_channel=AmericanTheatreWing Journal of the History of Ideas Blog, Mai-mai Sze and Irene Sharaff in Public and in Private, Erin McGuirl, 2016 – https://jhiblog.org/2016/05/16/mai-mai-sze-and-irene-sharaff-in-public-and-in-private/ Irene Sharaff’s obituary, The New York Times, Marvine Howe, 1993 – https://www.nytimes.com/1993/08/17/obituaries/irene-sharaff-designer-83-dies-costumes-won-tony-and-oscars.html Obituary: Irene Sharaff, The Independent, David Shipman, 2011 – https://www.independent.co.uk/news/people/obituary-irene-sharaff-1463219.html Broadway Design Exchange – Florence Klotz – https://www.broadwaydesignexchange.com/collections/florence-klotz Obituary: Florence Klotz, The New York Times, 2006 – https://www.nytimes.com/2006/11/03/obituaries/03klotz.html

[theresnosafeharbor4myships]

Ichabbie ways of saying ‘I love you’

“Our fates are intertwined now. Running away isn't going to change that.”

“I do take comfort knowing that this strange road we find ourselves on can only be traveled together.”

“So if she dies in the dream...”  "She dies. Period."  "I see." *Ichabod marches over and drinks a concoction.  "Crane!"  ....  "What are you thinking?"  "Well, i'm coming with you now, so no point in discussing it."

“Believe me when I say that you belong in Sleepy Hollow. In the here and now.”

“You are home, Crane.”

“I look forward to you expanding my horizons further.”

“You know how important Crane is.”   “To you?”  “Yeah, to me.”

“Through these centuries, against the impossibility that we would find each other, we did. And I am most grateful for it.”

“Perhaps it would be easier if you left.”  “There's no way. Too many people I never got a chance to say goodbye to. You are not gonna be one of them.”

“You were right. There's always another way.”

“Next time listen to me, okay? I can't go through that again.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I feel pretty alone sometimes too.”  “Perhaps this is the sacrifice that witnesses must carry. all we really get is one another.”

“Your company holds the greatest value to me.”

*lifts glass in a toast* “To family.”  “To finding family.”

“If using this map meant betraying your trust, that's something I cannot do.”  *burns the map  “For the world. For our friendship. You and I will choose our own destiny. We have free will. I choose to forge my fate with you.”

“When I remembered you, I saw this world for what it truly is.”

“I swear to you, for as long as I can draw breath--”  “Our work is not done. You will come back for me. That I know.”  *precious Ichabbie hug  “Remember our bond. I'll come back for you.”

“I just...I don't think I would've made it without you, Crane.”  “Nor I you, Lieutenant.”

“I promise you: I will return for you!”

*precious Ichabbie hug  “Crane! You're alive.”  “We are survivors, you and I.”

“Maybe you don't come back.”  “And leave you here? No. Lieutenant, I do not accept good-bye.”  “...we're fighting a war, crane. Coming back for me is a risk I cannot let you take.”  “The Bible foretells two witnesses. You and I must remain together if there is any hope of victory. The only risk, Lieutenant, is in leaving you behind.”  “No matter what I say, you're coming back, aren't you?”  “I made a promise.”

“Hold fast, Abigail Mills. I'm on my way.”

“You never did tell me the full extent of your ordeal in that place.”  “Truth is, it got to me. Everywhere I went, I felt it slowly clawing at my mind, my soul. You know what the worst part was? Seeing you.”  “Must be why you beheaded me.”  “That demon version of you appeared just when that place was about to break me. I'd never been so happy to see anyone in my life.”

“That's what scares me. My faith in you is my greatest weakness.”  “That's what they want you to believe.”

“The only ones we can count on now are each other.”

“What matters now more than ever is that you and I stay true. Trust is the only currency with any value. All other forms are too easily counterfeited.”

“...but hear me, Grace Abigail Mills: it is not our fate for one of us to bury the other. We shall be victorious or defeated together.”

“I will be with you at every moment.”

“Our duty must be to one another before anything or anyone.”

“Of course I'm coming with you!”

“Be careful.”  “You too.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant. It is thru your eyes that I see myself most clearly.”

“I swear to you, his sacrifice will not be in vain.”

“No matter what obstacles we face, no matter how many disagreements we have, our bond cannot be broken.”

“Even in times of great peril, we could always rely on one another.”

“I'm glad I'm not in this alone.”  “I echo that sentiment, Lieutenant.”

“We're partners. More than that, we're friends.”

“You knew I'd not survive without you.”

“No matter what the course of fate, and no matter how I get there, I look forward to experiencing your America. It will be a pleasure to make your acquaintance all over again, Miss Mills.”

“You know, Crane, you don't need some stone tablet to justify your place in the world. You belong here just as much as anyone else.”

“You were wrong when you said that Henry and Katrina's death meant that you were alone. You may not have family, but you are not alone.”

“Of course having you by my side is the greatest boon.”

“After you passed out, she showed up.”  “Pandora? Did she harm you?”

“I'm most grateful, Lieutenant, that you and I have found one another once again.”

“We are a partnership of opposites, yet our affinity for one another bears the ripest of fruit.”

“You noted that I've been off my game of late. When I pledged my allegiance to this country in 1776, I had a very clear vision of what my future would hold. Nowhere in that vision did I imagine waking in the 21st century, and yet,,,more and more, I feel this desire to acculturate. But the idea of losing the archives, of losing my fight for citizenship for a country that I, in part, founded, the idea of losing you...to some wretched federal promotion to...I don't know, Dallas or Los Angeles or... Sometimes it seems as though the unbeatable enemy is the 21st century.”  “Yeah, but the thing is, Crane, Joe, me, Jenny, we are the 21st century. And every day, we take you a step further in that direction. That is the unbeatable enemy beating itself. And we ain't goin' nowhere.”

“I'd like to think you and I have developed, over the years, Lieutenant.”

“With all respect to my fellow compatriot, Major Revere, your spirit and mine is made of far heartier stock. Hence our most impressive roster of victories. Tis because we care. Come what may.”

“You ready to fight some bad guys, Crane?”  “Indeed.”  “My man.”

“If the Lieutenant were here, she would say something tough yet encouraging. Of which I would wholeheartedly concur. She is very good at that.”

“This particular (monster) feeds off for desperation. The locator spell I cast must have brought it to the area. And it focused on me because of my... emotional state [from missing Abbie].”

“I have worked and fought alongside many people in my time. It was only recently that I truly understood what a partner is. What it means to have someone who makes you more than you are simply by being by your side. Truly your better half.”

“I will never cease my efforts to find the Lieutenant.”

“Our shared connection as witnesses means I am the Lieutenant's best chance.”

“Tis a relief to find you hale and hearty, Lieutenant. I knew you were alive.”

“Thank you, Crane, for never giving up on me.”

“I meant what I said before: you're always here. With me. Ever since we first met. There's no explaining it. Two people could not be any more different. But we work things out. Together.”

“Stay with me, Crane.”

“[He's] not alone. Not ever!”

“In the darkness. Lost. I heard your voice. I followed it.”  “We made it.”

“You were my Wilson.”

“In all candor, Lieutenant, whilst you were away, I spent every waking hour endeavoring to bring you home. All other responsibilities fell by the wayside.”

“I'm trying really hard.”  “And you will succeed. Just as you were by my side when I returned to Sleepy Hollow, so I shall be by yours.”

[Jenny to Crane] “You seem happier.”  “Yes, I admit I do feel rather suffonsified. And your sister's mood appears to have taken a significant upturn of late.”

“I knew Crane was out there looking for me. I held on to that.”

“The supernatural has given you a lot of good too. It led you to Crane.”

“Lieutenant--”  “Oh. Yes. I'm scared out of my mind of seeing that place again, and no, I'm not letting you go without me. Whatever you do, I do. That's the deal.”  “Truth bomb if I ever heard one.”

“I prefer to focus on what we have, and I have a partner of the highest caliber.”  “Better than Betsy Ross?”  “Well, she was occasionally rather pushy. Prone to talking with a mouth full of food.”  “George Washington?”  “Well, now there was a great man. But a great man with legendary halitosis.”  “I really beat those guys?”  “Oh...handily.”  “You...never waiver in your faith. In what we do. In me. And you know how rare that is, don’t you?”  “When it concerns you and me, Lieutenant, there is no greater certainty.”

“I'm really going back there.”  “Only this time you're not alone.”

[bruh-haikyuu]

REQUEST: Can I request Bokuto with a soft & short manager s/o and she always helps the team cheer bokuto up when hi is in emo mode and like a lot of fluff🥺👉👈

A/N: Tumblr is being a whore with their Keep Reading button, putting it on the ask and shit smh. So I apologize for the repost.

alate. | bokuto kōtarō

word count: 1776

warnings: none

(adj.) having wings; lifted up in flight

Official match protocols only allowed one manager on the court for each team. Fukurodani Academy’s Boys’ Volleyball team always had their lenient but reliable third year managers to get the job done. Third-years Yukie and Kaori had been your final salvation against the inevitable fate of having to care for the raucous boys alone. But today with some lucky fortune of theirs, they’d somehow coerced you into taking their place.

“...Will I experience any internal combustions by the end of the match?”

The three of you stood in a personal circle at the entrance to the gym. The three managers of Fukurodani, with your two seniors looming over you like two scheming birds of prey. They didn’t even have to ask why you were so worried; despite being a second-year, this was your first time to stand on the court with the team instead of panicking on your own on the sidelines. This time, you were in the game, up-close-and-personal.

“You’ll do fine~” Yukie grinned, raising her right hand in a lazy ‘OK’ gesture. “Besides, you’re a total expert when it comes to giving Bokuto a good knock in the head.”

If Bokuto’s vanity was a chronic disease, he’d need more than just a “good knock in the head” to be cured. But Yukie wasn’t wrong. Your praises, in comparison to the others’, had a quicker, more powerful effect on the ace. Though you weren’t sure if that skill of yours was more of a blessing than a curse...

“W-well, I’ll do my best,” you muttered, fiddling with the hem of your track jacket. Your seniors exchanged a look before smiling softly at you.

“Oh, and one more thing!” Kaori piped up as you lugged the bag full of empty bottles over your shoulder. “Can you act a bit bashful when you’re complimenting the captain?

“Why’s that, Kaori-san?”

“Bokuto thinks you look cute when you’re embarrassed.”

══════ ⋆★⋆ ══════

‘Cute’? What did that even mean? Did Bokuto always think people were ‘cute’ whenever they flash a single praise at him? Not that you remembered... What’s with that, you grumbled, angrily trying to get the concept into your skull.

Your eyes darted back to the court where—much to your distress—the other team just had to be painfully good at blocks. Now, you just hoped that the boys wouldn’t get too disgruntled.

The score was 12-15, with Torasaka Metropolitan High in the lead. Though Fukurodani had obtained their twelfth point with a lucky read on Torasaka’s setter dump, things were obstinately bleak for your team.

“I want to try it!” you heard Bokuto exclaim excitedly. From afar, you could already spot a few sullen scowls begin to form on his teammates’ faces. “Hey, ‘Kaashi, do you want to try that block with me?”

The setter sent you a pained expression enough for guilt to comically swallow you whole. Returning his attention to the ace who’s practically bouncing on his heels, Akaashi sighed. “Bokuto-san, let’s focus on our normal blocks first.”

A child! you thought incredulously as you watched the captain stick out his tongue at him. Though Bokuto was particularly a sight to behold when he’s in top form, just how confident could he be, trying something so risky in a middle of a tight match? Or was he just a complete and utter numbskull? You thought he was rather amazing for the juxtaposition... in a Bokuto fashion, of course.

As Washio prepared to serve, you watched the ace literally vibrate with eagerness of having such an “interesting enemy”. Whenever Bokuto got extremely fired up, it was your inevitable fate that you just couldn’t look away. The way his jersey hugged his hulking frame as he flexed his muscles in preparation to follow the path of the ball, it was nearly bewitching. If he had been like this his entire life, you were sure your heart wouldn’t take being with Bokuto for a mere second.

“It’s up!” Torasaka’s libero signaled, cleanly receiving Washio’s serve (much to the player’s frustration).

In your memory, Torasaka High wasn’t a much known threat until just recently. “Their new first years block like a fort,” you remembered what Coach Yamiji had said in the bus that morning. Despite far from being as crafty as Nohebi or as versatile as Nekoma, Tokyo teams were a force to be reckoned with.

What a terrifying sport, you thought to yourself for what seemed to be the fifth time this month.

“Left! Left!”

On the other side of the court, Sarukui, Bokuto and Akaashi scrambled to follow the ball’s trajectory. Though you were only a rookie in this entire volleyball thing, you were quick to notice that Bokuto’s footsteps were a bit smaller and slower than the first two...

Wait, is he planning to delay the timing of his block now?!

It was definitely a quick from the other side. It was evident, even to you. And when the two jumped to block the ball with their ace lagging behind, the ball had already streaked over him at a dangerous angle. Point Torasaka.

Landing on the pads of his feet, Akaashi’s expression shifted between “candidly annoyed” and “visibly concerned” as he watched the captain raise his head for his team to see.

“You’re kidding me...” Sarukui groaned under his breath. Behind him, the others followed promptly with their own reactions of disbelief.

His infamous salt-and-pepper hair deflating alongside his shoulders, Bokuto whined, loud enough for you to hear from the benches. “The hell... I thought I had that block mastered. Why’d they have to make it look so easy?”

Time-out! Akaashi turned to you and the coach a with pleading stare, hard enough for your supervising teacher to shoot upwards and signal the referee for their second break of the match.

Groaning, you stuffed your face in your hands, hoping that your senior managers in the audience were praying for your good health.

“What were you thinking?!” Coach Yamiji hissed, giving the sulking ace a well-deserved smack to the side of his head. Bokuto didn’t even flinch. “You could’ve—”

“Coach. Let me.”

Snapping his head in your direction, the old man grew pale when he heeded the dark aura that spewed from your body. Even the others, though they were only watching the entire event go down, was hyper-aware of the invisible, nightmarish fog that came with your frustration.

You’d always seemed so sweet and indulgent, never angry. Never. And yet Bokuto had finally gotten you to drop the tether that held your patience together.

Walking to Bokuto, you sent him a scowl so cold, he forgot how to blink. The rest of the team, the coach, your teacher and even Yukie and Kaori in the stands shivered from the sudden gust of frosty air that oozed from you. Some of the audience surprisingly turned their heads to watch the spectacle of the tiny Fukurodani manager who seemed like she was about to trample on their ace.

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

“Bokuto, you—!”

You froze. No. If you scolded him now, that only make matters worse. Bokuto didn’t fare well when he was scolded by Kaori or Yukie either. Besides, you were his manager, not his mother. But what else were you going to do?

Bokuto thinks you look cute when you’re embarrassed.

Swallowing a nagging lump in your throat, you recalled the words of your seniors. Embarrassed? How do you do embarrassed? Was that even a thing you could pull off manually? Taking in a deep breath, you tightened your fist before loosening them in front of your body. Something was better than nothing.

“B-Bokuto-senpai...?”

“Senpai?!” the others snapped towards you, jaws on the floor. Even Bokuto was stunned.

Eyeing his interested gaze, you continued, fidgeting bashfully, “Bokuto-senpai’s such a slob... If you just listened to the others... you’d be a lot cooler...”

Komi tugged at the back of Konoha’s jersey, whispering in the blonde one’s ear, “She’s pulling out the ‘Cute Tsundere’ card!”

Stupefied, the wing spiker muttered, “Bokuto’s actually taking the bait... Scary. L/N-san’s scary.”

And take the bait he did. You didn’t even realize how red you were with the way he was looking at you—and the shade was fully unintentional, much to your chagrin. But Bokuto’s sullen mood was far gone, replaced with the brighter interest of infatuation.

“A lot cooler...?” Bokuto savored your words in his tongue, before whipping out both his hands to grab at your shoulders. “Y-You think I’m cool?!”

You didn’t even have to pretend to be shy anymore. The close contact of his skin, the scent of his sweat mingled with the musky aroma of his cologne and the pinkish tint on his cheeks. It was too much, and you soon wondered if Bokuto had always seemed this charming to you.

“Y-you airhead! Of course I do,” you mumbled, lowering your sight to the floor. “You’re already really good at volleyball, but you do things like forcing yourself to do a block you can’t do just because you want attention and... and now everyone has to bear that burden.”

“Please go on a date with me.”

You flinched in his grasps. This was escalating much faster than you’d hoped it would. Unable to register what he had said, you asked him to repeat himself.

“The cute Y/N-chan thinks I’m cool. That’s like a dream come true, right? So if I become cool again, won’t you go on a date with me?”

How unbelievable. One second he almost reminded you of the small boy that lived below your apartment, and the next he was like some sort of phantom thief, ready to whisk you away from the confines of your castle and steal your heart. You smiled earnestly; Bokuto Koutarou really was a man of many wonders.

Slipping yourself away from his grip, you raised an index finger between his eyes. “If you win... I’ll consider it.”

Like a phoenix rising from its ashes, the ace lit up once more. Revived, renewed, and heart set on taking you out. While dragging Akaashi back onto the court, Bokuto made it a point that he was looking at you all the way. You giggled. What an interesting person.

From the stands, your gaze traced the motto of Fukurodani’s Volleyball Club. Pour all your soul into each ball. Bokuto played with passion, with his emotions and whenever the time was right, with his logic too. For a while, volleyball seemed like the last thing you’d want to spend your life doing. But seeing the ace’s blushing grin to you when they’d scored the final match point... it might not be as bad as you thought it’d be.

[bibislut]

Drink-Addled

Why can't your best friend be your soulmate?

Harry's had too much to drink, that much is clear. So has every other man apparently, because they won't respect Draco's boundaries.

Word count: 1776

--- This work was inspired by @bisexualronaldweasley ---

Read on AO3

Find the rest of my work here

-----------

Harry emerged from the toilets, wiping his damp hands on his jeans. The music thumped loudly around him, shaking the floor as the strobe lights added to the disorientating, heady vibe of the club. He searched the mass of bodies for the last of his friends standing. Hermione, Ron, and Pansy had all retired for the night. Or should he say morning?

Finally, after a minute or two, his gaze landed on a flash of white-silver hair pressed against the wall in the far corner. A broad figure loomed over Draco, speaking into his ear as the Slytherin locked eyes with Harry, flashing them wide in a helpless manner. Harry gritted his teeth, peeved at the amount of self-entitled twats that had ground their desperate bodies against his unwilling friend. Couldn't they take a hint?

He marched through the crowd, narrowly avoiding drinks in his determination. He approached the two steadily, coming up beside them and slinking his arm around Draco’s waist. The broad looked over at him, confused, as Harry pecked the blond's cheek. "Everything alright?"

Draco smiled, placing his hand on Harry’s chest. "Perfect." He mouthed over the music.

The broad shot them both an annoyed look and ambled back into the crowd. Harry dropped his arm as Draco leaned into his ear. "Thanks!" He shouted. Potter shot him a lopsided smile, taking his hand and leading them back out to the dance floor.

The two had been friends for well over a year now, and it was comfortable as they lifted their joined hands above their heads, throwing their heads back and singing along to the music. The two danced the hours away, until the club closed and they found themselves stood on the street, drunken smiles on their faces as they stumbled down the road.

"I can't believe I used to hate you." Harry giggled, his arm linked through Draco’s.

"We were both horrid gits." The blond nodded.

"Oi!"

Draco snorted. "You're gonna act innocent? You-" he jabbed his finger into Harry’s chest, "-were just as guilty as me."

"Stop being right." The darker man grumbled, his hazy gaze landing on a group of people at the end of the street. "Is that..?"

Draco followed his gaze, and cursed. There was his ex and his friends. Panicking, he shoved Harry against the doorway of the nearest shop. "Fuck, shit, bollocks!"

Harry chuckled, his hazy mind cocky with drink. He put his hand on Draco’s face. "Don’t worry, I've got this." He said, pulling him in close. Their lips touched and Draco let out a small gasp. He tasted of mint gum, beer, and the salty sweat of the night. Harry kissed him hard, his arm around his waist. After the initial shock had faded, Draco leant into the kiss, their lips moving together hungrily. They stayed like that for a long moment, bodies pressed together, lips colliding, until the group had walked past. Finally, Draco shoved himself away.

"Oh, Merlin...I…" He trailed off, running his hand through his hair as he stared at Harry, his pink cheeks illuminated by the street light.

"I wish I could have seen his face." Harry chuckled, his drink-addled brain applauding his quick thinking.

“You kissed me!” Draco whisper-shouted.

Harry laughed again. “Was I really that bad?”

“No, it’s just…”

“Come on.” Harry looped his arm through the blond’s and tugged him down the street. They walked in silence for a minute, the darker man completely oblivious to Draco’s frantic thoughts. “Do you wanna stay at mine?”

“At yours?”

“You might as well. It’s closer.”

Draco thought about it for a moment. “Alright.”

They continued on, lips swollen, warm with drink. When they finally reached the flat, Harry dug out a spare set of pajamas and a towel, and left Draco in the spare room. He went through the motions of getting ready for bed, the whole process taking far too long and making him feel nauseous. He downed half a glass of water before climbing into bed and falling into a restless sleep.

Dreams of Draco’s lips chased him relentlessly, only for him to wake up breathless, his legs tangled in the sheets. Each time he woke, he was quickly dragged back under, finding himself once again pressed in the doorway of the shop, pouty pink lips pressed against his. The taste of Draco lingered in his mouth, sweet and bitter all at once.

“Harry.” Dream-Draco mumbled against his lips. The Gryffindor took it as an invitation, diving right back in, pulling him as close as he could.

----

Draco sighed, turning over for what felt like the hundredth time. He couldn’t sleep, his slowly-sobering brain racing around the memory of their kiss. He’d left his school-boy crush behind him long ago, content with their friendship. But all his resolve had come crashing down the moment Harry’s lips touched his. How long had he yearned for this? To finally know what the darker man tasted like, how he felt pressed against him? He groaned into the pillow, his eyes flicking up to the clock on the wall. It was just past 4 in the morning. The kiss had probably meant absolutely nothing to Harry, just another drunken adventure. What was he talking about - probably? He was sure of it.

Draco sighed again, pushing away the covers. He stood up, glancing down at the pajamas that were doing nothing for his sanity. They smelt like Harry, like wood and spice and mint chocolate. He resolved himself to making a cup of tea, padding quietly down the hallway, and stopping just outside his friend’s door. Opening it slowly, he poked his head in.

The Gryffindor was sound asleep, or so Draco thought. Just as he was about to retreat, the other man let out a loud breath, followed by a word: “Draco.”

The blond’s heart stuttered. “Harry?” He whispered. He opened the door further, taking a couple of steps inside. “Harry?” He asked again, louder.

The other man groaned, opening his eyes blearily. “Draco?” He held his hand out and the blond walked forwards to take it. He pulled him in, lifting up the duvet with his other hand. Draco crawled in beside him. “Turn.” Harry grumbled, and he did as he was told, putting his back to him. Apparently, Harry wanted to be big spoon. “Better.” He mumbled, before his breaths quickly fell into a more rhythmic pace.

Draco’s heart was racing, Harry’s body heat behind him only making things worse. They’d never done this before. Never spooned, never even slept in the same bed. He knew it was only because Harry was half asleep, and still probably half drunk, but still his heart was in his throat. Draco listened to his breathing, trying to focus on anything but the growing warmth in his loins. Soon, Harry’s breaths lulled him into a shallow sleep.

-----

Harry woke with a start, letting out a small gasp. His arm was draped over Draco’s waist, his face nestled in his hair. Strangely, he felt almost content, warm and safe, surrounded by Draco’s scent.

What the fuck? Draco was one of his best friends. He hadn’t thought they’d crossed a boundary last night, but his racing heart begged to differ. Harry had never thought of the Slytherin as anything but his friend, though he wasn’t blind to his attributes. Draco was gorgeous, and kind, and made Harry laugh. He even enjoyed their bickering. But why had he pulled him in to bed? Why had he had dreams about them making out? Draco was his friend. Seeing him as something more? He’d never really thought about it.

He hadn’t moved, but he was flustered, and half-hard, and more than a little bit confused. He needed to calm down, cool down. He needed a cold shower. But how could he move? He didn’t want to wake Draco, deal with his questions. He could barely remember pulling him into bed, yet alone why he did it. Oh that’s right, he was too busy dreaming about kissing him. Fuck! What was he gonna do?

He tried to move away as gently and slowly as he could, worried his semi would be too obvious. Maybe Draco was still asleep.

“Harry?”

Maybe not. Harry scrambled away, and Draco turned to face him. He almost looked… hurt. The Gryffindor rubbed at his head, and nodded to the glass on his nightstand. “Can I have that?”

Draco passed it over, looking far too perfect in Harry’s bed. He appeared almost ethereal, the sunlight streaming in through the window illuminating his ruffled white locks, his silver eyes locked on Harry’s throat as he drank. Suddenly, all thoughts of a cold shower went out the window, and all Potter wanted to do was pull him in for a kiss, taste those sweet lips of his.

“I wish I knew what you were thinking.” The blond whispered, and Harry dragged his eyes from his lips up to his eyes to find them watching him sadly.

He looked away with a gulp. “Nothing good.”

Draco leaned towards him, and Harry watched as he put his hand over his. “Last night…”

“Was a mistake.” Harry said quietly, trying to convince himself more than anything else.

“Yes,” Draco agreed, shuffling closer on the bed and using his other hand to grip Harry’s chin, tilting it up towards him. “But I’d make it again,” he whispered, “If only to spend the night in your arms once more.”

Harry could’ve sworn his heart stopped for a moment. He didn’t know what would happen if he kissed Draco, what would happen to their friendship. Hell, he didn’t even know where all these new feelings had come from. All he knew was that it felt right. And if he wanted this, Draco was giving him the opportunity to take it.

He let out a half-hearted chuckle. “Don’t be a sop.”

“Don’t make me a sop, then.” Draco replied lowly, leaning in closer.

This was it. This was the time to back out. But Harry had never been one to back down, and certainly not now, with his stomach full of butterflies for the first time in a long time.

He met Draco’s lips slowly, almost cautiously. He felt so right, and so warm, that Harry let out a little moan, and that’s all it took for Draco to crawl onto his lap, deepening the kiss. Harry wrapped his arms around his waist, their lips crashing together hotly. It felt so good.

As much as Harry could worry about what this would mean for their friendship, it didn’t mean that it had to end. After all, soulmates are best friends first.

[attrociteas]

here’s my frat boy with a horrible sense of style i mean james i mean my america oc since i can’t find a fc for him. just a buncha picrews and a bio

BASICS

NAME: James Frederick Jones 

Last name formerly Kirkland, changed since 1776. 

BIRTHDAY: Celebrates it on July 4 

AGE: Approx. 400 years old. He comes into existence in the late 1600s to early 1700s.

GENDER: ??? he/they to those he is close to. Usually just he/him. 

SEXUALITY: Bisexual, with equal preference for any gender. Has been more or less open about it, though the AIDS crisis in the US (c. 1980s/1990s) led to him being a lot more reserved and at times uncomfortable with his sexuality. 

LANGUAGES: Fluent in English, Spanish, Russian, French, and German. Speaks fairly good Mandarin, some Japanese. Basic knowledge of a couple other languages, nothing substantial. 

RELIGION: American civil religion. Non-denominational Protestant on paper. He will even tell you he is Christian or that he believes in God but he doesn’t really know what that means nowadays, and he hasn’t actually participated in any form of sacred ritual ever. 

LOCATION: Hops between Philadelphia and New York City quite frequently, prefers the former for its closeness to DC when he’s busy with government work. Has a couple of properties all over the country, but his favorite for when he wants to get away from the city is his house in Virginia. 

EDUCATION: Most of his intensive tutoring was received under Arthur’s tutelage. He was tutored by humans (and occasionally Arthur himself) on various subjects, particularly philosophy, political economy, history, literature, mathematics, and languages (French and German). During the late 18th century, he took various courses on political economy and government at Harvard. He earned a doctorate degree in politics & economics from Harvard in the 1880s. He tried to get into robotics in the 1950s & 1960s and failed comically at it. Microbiology is his latest love. Since the early 2000s he’s been studying fungi. 

OCCUPATION: Personification/representation of the United States of America. He holds stocks in various companies and owns/rents property. Basically, he doesn’t need to work. Government work takes up a significant amount of his time and he’s fine with that. When he’s not busy, he’s busy trying to find other things to keep him busy to keep him from losing his mind. 

PHYSICAL && APPEARANCE

FC: tbd.

HEIGHT/WEIGHT & BUILD: 6'0 / 200lbs 

CLOTHES/STYLE: Fairly casual on the day-to-day, has a particular love for flannels and dumb looking hoodies. Expensive suits and coats for meetings and other professional events. 

HAIR: Short, dirty blond hair.

EYES: Gray with a tinge of blue. Has shit eyesight and refuses to wear contacts unless it’s for flying/piloting, so he’s always wearing glasses. 

MARKS/SCARS/OTHER NOTABLE CHARACTERISTICS: tbd. 

ILLNESS: Nothing chronic. 

PERSONALITY

MBTI TYPE: ENFP 

ALIGNMENT: True Neutral. 

DIAGNOSES: Formally diagnosed Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and dyslexia. //

blah blah I will write a personality thing here at some point. Some notes.

Was extremely insecure as a child, honestly more or less continues to be up through to the present day even though he acts as if he is very confident. Has a chronic need for other people to like him, will get childish when that’s not the case. 

For that reason he is obsessed with seeming cool to other and is always eager to hop into trends/fads. Cursed taste in music but also listens to some bangers

Really very sociable and charming on the outside; also extremely observant and good at remembering small details about people. 

Obsessed with his status as a powerful nation and has been even when the idea of power was just an illusion of grandeur (i.e. 19th century). Makes him paranoid as shit. 

Always trying to measure up to some ideal and he’s not quite sure what the ideal is.

Cries when the dog dies in movies. 

Collects stamps and model cars. Has them all at his home in Virginia and is eager to show them off. 

Conspiracy theories about aliens can I get a hell yeah 

Loves airplanes and is a pretty good pilot. Has considered doing it full time but was prevented for doing so for a couple reasons (tba)

He pretends he knows shit about computers but for someone so young, he is actually not very good with them, and he gets upset when he doesn’t understand Twitter memes. Not being good with tech upsets him but in a way that’s kinda funny to outsiders. 

He spends long nights scrolling social media instead of sleeping, drinks too much caffeine, and doesn’t understand why he feels so empty at the end of most days. Doesn’t click for him that the fact that he hasn’t had a proper conversation with someone in three days is probably a contributing factor to this, but he tends to lose track of the passage of time.

Will debate about anything; he’ll just stick with his own point of view at the end because he’s not actually debating for understanding but because he’s bored. *cough* debate is a gateway drug to centrism

Surprisingly easy to manipulate just because he’s not very introspective. He’s not going to realize you’re doing it tbh. 

FAVORITES, HABITS, MISC.

FAVORITE COLOR: Green

FAVORITE LITERARY WORKS: Bold of you to assume he reads. I’m kidding. He likes Pynchon and science fiction a lot. 

DRINKING / SMOKING / DRUGS: Occasionally, mostly socially / Occasionally / Yeah more tbd

PETS: Recently adopted a Dalmatian that he calls Spock. 

HISTORY

So much, too long, etc. I can’t write it all out here. If you want my interpretation or thoughts on a particular event or period, just message me. Otherwise, you’ll see historical takes on this blog when you see them. If you want sources on US history, also feel free to contact me. 

[whatgaviiformes]

Thunderteers: Oak and Ivory

Summary: It’s a Thursday in the summer of 1776, and the USS Thunderbird is docked in port in New England. For Virgil, it brings him the gift of inspiration, starting with a rare morning off and a warbler…

Word count: 6.7K Characters: Mainly Virgil, but all the brothers are a part of this one Genre: Slice of Life

A/N: You should not need to read Voyage of the USS Thunderbird to understand this story, as this is a separate one-shot simply set in the same universe. For this AU, the Tracy brothers are all officers on the USS Thunderbird, a merchant ship that sails the seas in the late 1700s.

If you would like still to take a gander at Voyage of the USS Thunderbird, links are here. just note it is in WIP status  FF | Ao3

Enjoy! Thanks for giving this universe a read!   Thanks to @gumnut-logic for the birthday challenge and read through, and @godsliltippy​ and @the-original-sineater​ for listening to me gripe and being ever so kind about it, and finally to my husband who is, as always, my onsite historian and biggest fan (even if he doesn’t get this whole fanfiction thing).  ---

Port of Eden, 1776 – a Thursday

For a town named Eden, the jagged shoreline up New England in what was the Massachusetts Bay territory boasted more mountainous rock than it did verdant gardens. Past the crags and the low hills, dense forest swathed the land in pine, spruce, maple, and ash, all grown thick, unruly, and uncultivated.

Inland, she was still as wild as she was on the shore, even with the splattering of local settlements along the rivers.  Fishing was robust, lumber was in easy supply, and the townsfolk had even started agricultural trading with their allies.  

It made Eden and her neighboring villages highly contested among the peoples of this land for her vigorous resources alone. Just half a day’s journey nor’east was the trading post along the Machias river, where last year local patriots had captured the HMS Margaretta, and a few months later their prize landed their homes razed under the incensed, retaliatory fire of four British ships.

Though, to be fair, the HMS Margaretta had been intending to bring supplies to the Loyalist troops under siege in Boston, and Patriot ideals this far North were both passionate and pervasive. The ire may have had more to do with that than the resources of the region. But, if the British ever did manage to overtake some of the land, it would be a huge hit to the Colonies.

The nearby lumber also made the towns ideal as centers of shipbuilding – and ship repair. That was why the Thunderbird was docked in Eden in the first place after a brief run-in with the British along the coast landed one well-placed cannonball to the Thunderbird’s portside.

As a merchant ship, they’d only carried cotton and fruits, but the British didn’t know that.

While Alan, their young gunner, had fired back, likely completely missing the ship at that distance, Scott had them re-route and head to friendly waters where they’d get back up if, for some reason, the ship decided to pursue. It hadn’t – the warning shot had been just that – but it left a hole in their bird’s side that was a glaring safety hazard, even if it wasn’t crippling.

The Thunderbird still had her speed. But they’d learned not to take safety concerns lightly ever again. For weeks before Gordon’s accident, the foremast yard had been tilting. They hadn’t fixed it then because doing so would’ve taken them off course completely, and it had seemed so small. Gordon had paid the price, even as careful as he always was when it came to rope and sails and the oak of her foundations. It was the first time the sea had taken something from him. And in doing so, it took something from them all, a spark that would never quite be the same again.

But Gordon endured, and Virgil was thankful they still had their light-hearted boatswain with their crew, even if the lilt in his song resonated through the sails with just a bit more intensity than it did before.

The subject of his thoughts groaned beside him as frigid water streamed through the bed of rocks under his back. Virgil had settled himself on a large rock nearby for the purposes of keeping his sketchpad dry as he drew the outline of the warbler flittering among the stones a few feet away. The side of Virgil’s palm was smeared with the dark color of the graphite rod in his left hand, and it had managed to spread to his cheeks sometime during the transposition of the small sea bird onto the page.  

Read More at Ao3

[ailelie]

I recently rec'd this to a friend, but I'm going to do a general rec, too.

Read Hermione and Her Little Group of Serious Thinkers. It has nothing to do with Harry Potter and pre-dates that series by a lot.

This book is pure joy. I love it. When I'm in a bad mood I can cheer myself up by reading sections of it out loud. It is fantastic.

This series of short essays (more or less) and poems (I'm less fond of them) is by Don Marquis (Mar-quiss, weirdly enough), who also penned the much more well known Archy and Mehitabel that I've excerpted before.

Hermione is a privileged young woman who wants to be forward thinking and open minded. So she gathers her little group of serious thinkers together and they listen to various speakers and discuss such deep topics as vibrations and being other-worldly.

It is a product of its time, but is also a product of Hermione who just...tries so hard and gets so much wrong.

And then there's her ongoing, basically catchphrase: Have I (been independent/been untrammeled/vibrated in tune with the Infinite/Utile today/been a Stimulating Influence/etc) or have I FAILED?

The book is available for free here on Project Gutenberg.

To close, I will include some quotes and such from the book.

From "Politics"

I'M thinking of taking up politics in a practical way.

I've never been an active suffragist, you know, on account of that horrid yellow color on the banners and things.

But one must sacrifice Ideals of Beauty to Ideals of Usefulness, mustn't one?

And politics is fascinating; simply FASCINATING!

Going about and organizing working girls, you know, and seeing Corrupt Bosses and enlisting them for Moral Causes, and making one's self felt as a Force — could one make one's self more Utile?

More spiritually Utile?

Utility! That is what our Leaders of Thought need to develop!

Nearly every night before I go to bed I say to myself: "Have I been Utile today? Or have I FAILED?"

Politics, practical politics, will be such an outlet for my personality, too.

And when I reopen my Salon I can make it count for the Cause, too.

From "Hermione on Psychical Research"

And Spiritualism is somehow more — well, er — VULGAR if you get what I mean. The sort of people one cares to know well have dropped Spiritualism for Spiritism.

Though, of course, a ghost is a ghost, whether it is materialized by spiritualism or Spiritism.

I have been often told that I am naturally very clairvoyant — if I were developed I would make a splendid medium. Mediums have seen shapes hovering around my head, and once when I was at school I did some automatic writing.

It was the strangest, easiest thing! I had a pencil in my hand and without thinking of anything in particular at all I just scribbled away, and what I wrote was, "When in the course of human events it becomes necessary; When in the course of human events it becomes necessary," over and over again.

I was quite startled, for the last thing I had been thinking of was an algebra examination, and not history at all. We had had our history examination days before.

I felt as if an unseen hand had reached out of the Silences and grasped mine!

Wasn't it weird?

And I know who it was, too. A distant relative of Mamma's on her father's side, by marriage, was one of the men who signed the Constitution of the United States in Faneuil Hall, in Philadelphia, in 1776, and it was HIS spirit that was trying to de- liver his message through me!

From "How Suffering Purifies One"

Oh, to go through fire and come out purified! Suffering is wonderful, isn't it? Simply WONDERFUL!

The loveliest man talked to us the other night — to our Little Group of Serious Thinkers, you know — about social ideals and suffering.

The reason so many attempts to improve things fail, you know, is because the people who try them out haven't suffered personally.

He had the loveliest eyes, this man.

He made me thin[k]. I said to myself, "After all, have I suffered? Have I been purified by fire?"

And I decided that I had — that is spiritually, you know.

The suffering — the spiritual suffering — that I undergo through being misunderstood is something FRIGHTFUL!

Mamma discourages every Cause I take up. So does Papa.

I get no sympathy in my devotion to my ideals. Only opposition!

From "Fothergil Finch, The Poet of Revolt"

This one is a little different. She is quoting Finch who read her his "greatest" poem.

Look at me! Behold, I am founding a New Movement! Observe me. . . . I am in Revolt! I revolt! Now persecute me, persecute me, damn you,     persecute me, curse you, persecute me! Philistine, Bourgeois, Slave, Serf, Capitalist, Respectabilities that you are, Persecute me! Bah! You ask me, do you, what am I in revolt against? Against you, fool, dolt, idiot, against you, against     everything! Against Heavy, Hell and punctuation . . . against     Life, Death, rhyme and rhythm . . . Persecute me, now, persecute me, curse you,     persecute me! Slave that you are . . . what do Marriage,     Tooth-brushes, Nail-files, the Decalogue,     Handkerchiefs, Newton's Law of Gravity, Capital,     Barbers, Property, Publishers, Courts, Rhyming     Dictionaries, Clothes, Dollars, mean to Me?

I am a Giant, I am a Titan, I am a Hercules of Liberty, I am Prometheus, I am the Jess Willard of the New Cerebral Pugilism, I am the Modern Cave Man, I am the Comrade of the Cosmic Urge, I have kicked off the Boots of Superstition, and I run wild along the Milky Way without ingrowing toenails, I am I! Curse you, what are You? You are only You! Nothing more! Ha! Bah! . . . persecute me, now persecute me!