#not only for a man of burr's size

[frommybookbook]

Happy Sunday, friends. Start it in bed with Perry.

[legend-the-dumb-jock]

I have always had a hard time gaining muscle since I have a genetic problem in that area and I look younger than I am because I am a pasty white ginger. My dream has always been to be one of those huge hairy lumberjacks. I wish you could get me a job as one and within a few days I grow into my new roll.

Gingers are amazing. It sounds like we just need to set you on the right track. Sleeping through the night you have dreams of muscle. Hair. And being a lumberjack. Little did you know that while you sleep your body begins to change. Getting on the right bath. You grow taller from 5’6” to a giant 6’2”. You feet hang off the bed ! And muscle begins to grow. Real hulking your frame up. Massive arms hang from your sides while massive pecs form over a strong core ! And hair grows. And lots of it. Soon you’re a wirey mess of hair and muscle. Sweat is pouring off your body and staining the end sheets. Even dripping off your thickened large feet.

Waking up you are shocked to see such a grand change over night. You’re flexing and can’t help it ! You can’t wait to show off your new lumberjack body. This is really a dream come true ! Your friends come over and are shocked at your transformation. They don’t even believe it’s you but they can still see it is. Your face even though covered with hair is still recognizable under the thick pelt that’s now on it. They demand to know how this happened. What did you do! And you just smirk and say “well wishes come try to people who ask the right person” and indeed you are right 😈

You enjoy the rest of the evening with your friend. Loving it up as they call you name like ginger bear and the walking barrel! You’re huge ! One downfall so far though is that you notice how much more you sweat. How much hungrier you are. You don’t think you stopped eating all day ! But a growing bean like yourself needs all the calories you can get don’t you? That night you pass out. Those 15 beers really did you in!

While you sleep just like the night before you begin to change again. Hair thickening. Becoming more prominent on your arms and hands even your feet. But one other thing happens. Age. You begin to quickly lose that youthful appearance as you take on a more rugged look. One that is fitting of a lumberjack. One that been doing it for a couple years or so. Lines forming on your face and your muscle growing less defined but non the less till there. You wake up the next morning sore. You sit up in bed and don’t notice anything right off hand other than you back slightly hurting. Calases on your hands and feet have formed. It that’s from being a true lumberjack right? You walk to the bathroom and you’re shocked to see a man I of at least 40 staring back at you !

You step back from the mirror. What is going on!? Your mind is in a panic but your face registered none of these emotions. A lumberjack doesn’t freak out. If anything your body as if on auto pilot gives rush same smirk again and you get dressed. You go out for the day. Getting a beer here and there. Eating! You try to reach out to your friends and they respond back asking who you are. You’re too old to have friends their age now anyway right ? So it’s all part of the magic. You’ll need to find new friends that str more inline with the same path you’re on.

You make it back to your home which you see is slowly changing. Becoming more of a log cabin it looks like. Busting through the door with some tightening shoes and some sweaty pits you stumble to the kitchen with your case of beer. Another 15 in and your already passed out on the couch. And now it’s time for the final change. You age another 10 years. 50! Now you’ve really got some serious life experience as a lumberjack. A thick great beard grows across your face as your timberland boots burrs open at the toes from your feet growing another 4 sizes. 17!! Your nipples point downward on hard slabs of muscle the sag only slightly. You’re snoring louder than ever as your stomach pushes outward. Holding the same rock hard appearance and feel that it has before. But now forcing a massive rock hard muscle gut onto your frame. When you wake up and see the changes this time youre shocked. Internally screaming again. But your body won’t respond to this emotion. Instead. Instinctively open another beer and chug it. And another. And another. You stand up from the couch and kick off your trashed shoes. Your socks have holes in them as you make your way to the bathroom. Stripping off the remnants of clothes that won’t fit anymore you stare at your massive finger bear body in the mirror. “Damn I look good!” You growl. Distended abdomen. Bulging bulking muscle. Massive feet. And so much hair you look like you’re wearing a damn sweater. You smile at your sweaty body. Now the only problem. You’re a lumberjack….but without clothes.

[luckycharms1701]

Headcanons on flirting styles for the rise boys? Fave pick-up lines? Do they even use those? How often to they ignore their dad’s advice lol

okay anon-chan. you deserve better than this tbh. but i have been staring at this shit for over 12 hours now. this is as good as it's gonna get right now. sorry.

Raph:

This poor boy. He tries so hard. But for some reason he can’t understand, he only ever gets numbers when he’s not trying to flirt. (It’s because when he’s genuinely himself, he’s super attractive, but when he flirts… well.) He’d be a natural if he didn’t try so, so hard. But then he wouldn’t be himself, so it’s an eternal catch-22 for him.

He becomes super aware of his size when he approaches someone, and tends to hunch in on himself. This can sometimes come across as condescending, especially if whomever he approaches is sensitive about their height. Never ends well.

If you flirt with him, he’s probably going to look over his shoulder to make sure you’re talking to him and not someone else. He’s going to get shy, probably rub the back of his neck, and blush a lot. It’s going to be absolutely adorable.

He wants to listen to what Splinter tells them about flirting. Unfortunately he doesn’t have the same confidence, and it shows. He uses the right words, but they come across wrong because of tone, body language, or vibe.

Raph would never touch a pick-up line. He’s too straightforward. He will pick his moments to set the mood instead. Waits for a particular song to come on in the club. Makes sure to bump into you in the park while you’re admiring the scenery. It definitely helps sometimes, especially when he remembers to be genuine.

Leo:

So. Leo. He thinks he’s so smooth. I hate to say it, but he can be. He’s managed to score his fair share of numbers. But for every four numbers he gets, he leans on the counter, slips, and falls flat on his face. He gets better as he ages though. He uhhhh gets a lot better as he ages. Smooth like butter even.

He has this way of smoldering at you that either makes you swoon or laugh your ass off. There is no in between. A lot of his flirting relies on his body, because he knows he looks good. He is the face man, after all. So he is incredibly careful with his body language. He also gets this burr in his voice that his brothers make fun of him incessantly for, but really, really does it for whomever he approaches.

If you flirt with him, it’s going to surprise him, but only for a moment. Then that smirk will grace his face and he’ll turn on the charm. It’s going to be hard to tell who approached who after a while.

Lives and dies by Splinter’s flirting advice. Leo of all his brothers is in the best position to follow said advice, and he knows it. It works pretty well for him. He is especially good at the ‘lowering glasses and winking’ trick.

Pick-up line king! It takes a lot of trial and error and workshopping. He is a quick study when it comes to people though so he manages to figure out when and what kind of pick-up line to use. Once that happens he is devastatingly effective with them.

Donnie:

Donnie almost never flirts. He has more important things on his mind. He is covered in bitches (gender neutral) anyway. Does not understand. Usually he gets rid of them with his bluntness, but that makes it worse with some of them? Needless to say he doesn’t go out much.

When he does flirt though? He takes a page from Leo’s book. Or tries to. Clearly he must have the body too, or people wouldn’t flock to him. Unfortunately, his sense of drama is different from Leo’s, so the same tactics don’t work. He doesn’t realize that it’s not necessarily his looks that attract people (they definitely help though).

If you flirt with him, prepare to be at it for a long time. You need to be diligent to get anywhere with him. It’s much easier if you’re cute but mean though, that gets his attention really fast.

Donnie doesn’t even know that Splinter gives them flirting advice.

He tried a pick-up line once. Once. He might outlive the restraining order if he stays healthy.

Mikey:

Mikey is a cutie pie youngest child and he knows it. He can and will use it to his advantage. Unfortunately the type of people that tends to attract- well, they’re not the ones he’s hoping for. Can and will do little tricks with his mystic powers to try and impress the flirtee, much to Draxum’s chagrin.

He studies how Leo flirts a lot, and it helps him attract people who are more his type. He uses cutesy nicknames for people, and he finds that helps too. When he can make them look at him differently with a spicy look or comment, that’s when he knows he’s got their number in his pocket.

If you flirt with him, prepare for the cuteness to be turned up to 10. He’s gonna try and emphasize whatever he thinks brought you to him. You will absolutely fluster the fuck out of him if you call him ‘handsome’.

He listens to Splinter sometimes, and he’s tried a few of the tricks with mixed results. He needs to adapt them in order to match his own personality before they do much for him.

He LOVES cheesy pick-up lines, and uses them liberally. There’s no way he’s interested in someone who doesn’t like cheesy pick-up lines. Although, if they protest but hide a smile, he’s going to try and see what he can do to get them to break. He’s a handful.

[sassenach77yle]

||COUNTDOWN || SEASON 4 EPISODE 09 || THE BIRDS & THE BEES ||

#83daysofoutlander☆

The light outside was dazzling after the taproom’s gloom. Brianna blinked, eyes tearing at the shafts of sun that stabbed through the shifting greens of a screen of maples. Then a movement caught her eye, below the flickering leaves. He stood in the shade of the maples, half turned away from her, head bent in absorption. A tall man, long-legged, lean and graceful, with his shoulders broad under a white shirt. He wore a faded kilt in pale greens and browns, casually rucked up in front as he urinated against a tree. He finished and, letting the kilt fall, turned toward the post house. He saw her then, standing there staring at him, and tensed slightly, hands half curling. Then he saw past her men’s clothes, and the look of wary suspicion changed at once to surprise as he realized that she was a woman. There was no doubt in her mind, from the first glimpse. She was at once surprised and not surprised at all; he was not quite what she had imagined—he seemed smaller, only man-sized—but his face had the lines of her own; the long, straight nose and stubborn jaw, and the slanted cat-eyes, set in a frame of solid bone. He moved toward her out of the maples’ shadow, and the sun struck his hair with a spray of copper sparks. Half consciously she raised a hand and pushed a strand of hair back from her face, seeing from the corner of her eye the matching gleam of thick red-gold. “What d’ye want here, lassie?” he asked. Sharp, but not unkind. His voice was deeper than she had imagined; the Highland burr slight but distinct. “You,” she blurted. Her heart seemed to have wedged itself in her throat; she had trouble forcing any words past it. He was close enough that she caught the faint whiff of his sweat and the fresh smell of sawn wood; there was a golden scatter of sawdust caught in the rolled sleeves of his linen shirt. His eyes narrowed with amusement as he looked her up and down, taking in her costume. One reddish eyebrow rose, and he shook his head. “Sorry, lass,” he said, with a half-smile. “I’m a marrit man.” He made to pass by, and she made a small incoherent sound, putting out a hand to stop him, but not quite daring to touch his sleeve. He stopped and looked at her more closely. “No, I meant it; I’ve a wife at home, and home’s not far,” he said, evidently wishing to be courteous. “But—” He stopped, close enough now to take in the grubbiness of her clothes, the hole in the sleeve of her coat and the tattered ends of her stock.

“Och,” he said in a different tone, and reached for the small leather purse he wore tied at his waist. “Will ye be starved, then, lass? I’ve money, if you must eat.” She could scarcely breathe. His eyes were dark blue, soft with kindness. Her eyes fixed on the open collar of his shirt, where the curly hairs showed, bleached gold against his sunburnt skin. “Are you—you’re Jamie Fraser, aren’t you?” He glanced sharply at her face. “I am,” he said. The wariness had returned to his face; his eyes narrowed against the sun. He glanced quickly behind him, toward the tavern, but nothing stirred in the open doorway. He took a step closer to her. “Who asks?” he said softly. “Have you a message for me, lass?” She felt an absurd desire to laugh welling up in her throat. Did she have a message?

“My name is Brianna,” she said.

He frowned, uncertain, and something flickered in his eyes. He knew it! He’d heard the name and it meant something to him. She swallowed hard, feeling her cheeks blaze as though they’d been seared by a candle flame.

“I’m your daughter,” she said, her voice sounding choked to her own ears.

“Brianna.” He stood stock-still, not changing expression in the slightest. He had heard her, though; he went pale, and then a deep, painful red washed up his throat and into his face, sudden as a brushfire, matching her own vivid color. She felt a deep flash of joy at the sight, a rush through her midsection that echoed that blaze of blood, recognition of their fair-skinned kinship. Did it trouble him to blush so strongly? she wondered suddenly. Had he schooled his face to immobility, as she had learned to do, to mask that telltale surge? Her own face felt stiff, but she gave him a tentative smile. He blinked, and his eyes moved at last from her face, slowly taking in her appearance, and—with what seemed to her a new and horrified awareness—her height. “My God,” he croaked. “You’re huge.” Her own blush had subsided, but now came back with a vengeance. “And whose fault is that, do you think?” she snapped. She drew herself up straight and squared her shoulders, glaring. So close, at her full height, she could look him right in the eye, and did. He jerked back, and his face did change then, mask shattering in surprise. Without it, he looked younger; underneath were shock, surprise, and a dawning expression of half-painful eagerness. “Och, no, lassie!” he exclaimed. “I didna mean it that way, at all! It’s only—” He broke off, staring at her in fascination. His hand lifted, as though despite himself, and traced the air, outlining her cheek, her jaw and neck and shoulder, afraid to touch her directly. “It’s true?” he whispered. “It is you, Brianna?” He spoke her name with a queer accent—Breeanah—and she shivered at the sound. “It’s me,” she said, a little huskily. She made another attempt at a smile. “Can’t you tell?” His mouth was wide and full-lipped, but not like hers; wider, a bolder shape, that seemed to hide a smile in the corners of it, even in repose. It was twitching now, not certain what to do. “Aye,” he said. “Aye, I can.”

He did touch her then, his fingers drawing lightly down her face, brushing back the waves of ruddy hair from temple and ear, tracing the delicate line of her jaw. She shivered again, though his touch was noticeably warm; she could feel the heat of his palm against her cheek.

“I hadna thought of you as grown,” he said, letting his hand fall reluctantly away. “I saw the pictures, but still—I had ye in my mind somehow as a wee bairn always—as my babe. I never expected …”

His voice trailed off as he stared at her, the eyes like her own, deep blue and thick-lashed, wide in fascination. “Pictures,” she said, feeling breathless with happiness. “You’ve seen pictures of me? Mama found you, didn’t she? When you said you had a wife at home—”

“Claire,” he interrupted. The wide mouth had made its decision; it split into a smile that lit his eyes like the sun in the dancing tree leaves. He grabbed her arms, tight enough to startle her. “You’ll not have seen her, then? Christ, she’ll be mad wi’ joy!” The thought of her mother was overwhelming. Her face cracked, and the tears she had been holding back for days spilled down her cheeks in a flood of relief, half choking her as she laughed and cried together.

“Here, lassie, dinna weep!” he exclaimed in alarm. He let go of her arm and snatched a large, crumpled handkerchief from his sleeve. He patted tentatively at her cheeks, looking worried. “Dinna weep, a leannan, dinna be troubled,” he murmured. “It’s all right, m’ annsachd; it’s all right.”

“I’m all right; everything’s all right. I’m just—happy,” she said. She took the handkerchief, wiped her eyes and blew her nose. “What does that mean—a leannan? And the other thing you said?”

“You’ll not have the Gaelic, then?” he asked, and shook his head. “No, of course she wouldna have been taught,” he murmured, as though to himself. “I’ll learn,” she said firmly, giving her nose a last wipe.

“A leannan?” A slight smile reappeared on his face as he looked at her. “It means ‘darling,’ ” he said softly. “M’ annsachd—my blessing.”

41 JOURNEY’S END

[john-laurens-hamilton]

What did Alexander Hamilton actually look like?

I've spent a lot of time looking at portraits of Hamilton, from the awful (that's an opinion) portrait by Charles William Peale to modern-day facial reconstructions, looking for constant features and repeated descriptions that can help us get as close as possible to knowing how Alexander's face really looked. So, I found myself writing these discoveries down in a Google doc with links to all of the cited portraits and busts and some descriptions. So I wanted to share.

Descriptions

This part features the collection of descriptions from publius-esquire on tumblr, whose account has been deactivated, plus a few I’ve gotten from my own research.

He was under middle size; thin in person, but remarkably erect and dignified in his deportment. His hair was turned back from his forehead, powdered, and collected in a club behind. His complexion was exceedingly fair, and varying from this only by the almost feminine rosiness of his cheeks. His might be considered, as to figure and color, an uncommonly handsome face. When at rest, it had rather a severe and thoughtful expression; but when engaged in conversation, it easily assumed an attractive smile. (William Sullivan)

Although I read with tranquility and suffered to pass without animadversion in silent contempt the base insinuations of vanity and a hundred lies besides published in a pamphlet against me by an insolent coxcomb who rarely dined in good company, where there was good wine, without getting silly and vaporing about his administration like a young girl about her brilliants and trinkets, yet I lose all patience when I think of a bastard brat of a Scotch pedlar daring to threaten to undeceive the world in their judgment of Washington by writing an history of his battles and campaigns. (John Adams)

Hamilton had no more gratitude than a Cat. If you give a hungry famished Cat a slice of meat, she will not accept it as a Gift; she will snatch at it by Force, and express in her countenance and air, that she is under no obligation to you; that she got it by her own cunning and activity, and that you are a fool for giving it to her. (John Adams)

…Yet, in the lapse of days, how insignificant appears the effigy of Burr beside this symmetrical, almost girlish engine of thought, intercourse and public science. (G.W.P. Custis, Katherine Baxter’s Godchild of Washington)

In the intercourse of these martial youths [Hamilton and Laurens], who have been styled “the Knights of the Revolution,” there was a deep fondness of friendship, which approached the tenderness of feminine attachment. (John Church Hamilton, Life of Alexander Hamilton)

…On his return, his friend said, “Well, you have seen Hamilton—you have seen the great man.” “I cannot tell you about his greatness,” the Divine answered, “but he was as playful as a kitten.” (John Church Hamilton, Life of Alexander Hamilton)

Even though he never liked to think of himself as handsome, other people couldn’t help but notice his dashing looks. [...] [his eyes were] deep azure, eminently beautiful, without the slightest trace of hardness or severity.” (Fisher Ames, Martha Brockenbrough’s Alexander Hamilton: Revolutionary) \

Portraits

John Trumbull, 1792, Alexander Hamilton

Another John Trumbull 1792 painting called Alexander Hamilton

John Trumbull, 1805 (post-mortem): The Midnight Appointments: Alexander Hamilton

Charles William Peale, early 1790s: Alexander Hamilton

Constantino Brumidi, published in 1904: Alexander Hamilton, head-and-shoulder portrait

Hamilton’s portrait in the 10-dollar bill, John Trumbull’s 1805 painting

1773 portrait of Alexander Hamilton, when he was either 16 or 18

The features we can see are persistent that Hamiton is always in a ¾ angle except for the last one, which is still made when he was young: the features I keep in my interpretation are his nose, his jawline (softer in John Trumbull’s portraits from 1792 as Hamilton grew older), and his smug grin, including mostly the arched eyebrows and the subtle smile in the corners of his lips.

Busts

Bust of Alexander Hamilton, 1794, by Giuseppe Ceracchi

His head looks like an egg and that’s so funny.

Now seriously, busts are some of the most accurate representations we have in the modern day. This one was made while Hamilton was alive, so more so; if we ignore his egghead, this is one of the most influential pieces on my own interpretation of Alexander Hamilton’s face.

...

So, I sketched my own head-shoulders portrait + side profile portrait + 3/4 portrait. I am going to redraw them and paint them properly, but these are quick drawings I'll use as references for the final one:

I am super aware these are in no way a revolutionary masterpiece, but it's my attempt: to be fair, this is a history account, not an art one. But yeah! This was a dive through every source I could find, and of course, the credit for most of the descriptions goes to publius-esquire as I mentioned earlier.

[sunflowerfatty]

that’s such a nice way of thinking about it and i’m kind of the same way

if you dont mind me asking, what are the kinky aspects of it you like? (if you’re comfortable answering tho!)

Oh man, where do I start 😅

So I guess there’s three categories: Things I like doing, things I fantasize about and want to try, and things that are fantasy/role play only.

I haven’t gotten to do much in person stuff, but these things I have and like: I love being teased for my size, and how little self control I have at times. I like being touched, especially in public. Having someone’s hands on me just feels good. It feels like they’re happy to be seen with me. I also really like modeling and showing off. Watching someone lose their mind just at the sight of me is super exciting.

As for things I want to do/only want to do in fantasy, I’d want to try them first so I know how I feel lol. Actually gaining is here, as I’ve never really intentionally gained. And as part of that I like fantasizing about funnel feeding, having quotas for food/weight gained, and slight degradation. I really like the idea of some pretty girl totally taking charge of me and treating me like a pet/toy. Thinking about stuff like that makes my brain go burr. Theres a lot more, but those kinds of things come to mind first. I’m a kinky little weirdo underneath all my awkwardness.

[wolfhednn]

　—　in lieu of flowers ,　send me your metaphor for sacrifice.

a package is waiting for you at the mail room. please retrieve it at your earliest convenience.

he frowns at the routine print of the academy delivery notice, attached with a fresh owl feather to the crisp parchment, marking its legitimacy. something for him that needed to be picked up? why? he can't imagine anything he might receive that couldn't just be delivered to his room.

he'd have to stop by later, after training.

notice is set aside, and muscle memory resumes the quotidian routine of preparing for the day. textbooks for his classes, coins for the errands he'd be running later, stock of laundry to see whether, and when, he'd need to fit it into his schedule. but in spite of his earlier, easy dismissal, he can't help the curiosity that remains in the back of his mind, trailing it time and time back to the conspicuous summons on his desk — stuck, like a burr, unsated until it's been met.

the old man almost never sent anything. save for the predictable quarterly letter, droning on about affairs back home and reminding him of his responsibilities ; but besides that, he'd never been the type to forward gifts or packages like some parents. self-sufficiency ran in the family blood, he supposed.

beyond that, there was no one else. anyone he could imagine might consider writing was already here.

right. after training.

. . .

the day passes slowly. not because of the potential package — in fact, it's not long before he manages to forget about it entirely. training is brutal, demanding ; exactly the way he likes it, but it has the additional welcome effect of banishing everything else from his mind. any worries, any frustrations, any anticipation. all that remains is him and his sword, and his next move, his next strike. lecture is boring, not one of his favorites ; but it's one he can't afford not to take seriously, so he doesn't let himself become distracted. and errands? more of a hassle than he anticipates. there's a hold up with the materials he'd requested ; there's additional costs the merchant adds on that they hadn't told him about ; there's a suffocating crowd at the market for discounts at the start of the week that makes it nearly impossible to navigate through.

by the time he makes it back to the dorms, the delivery has been put completely out of mind, and even his stamina and discipline are reluctant to drag him to the mail room to retrieve it.

but something tells him he should. one last thing for the day. or maybe: outstanding tasks shouldn't be left hanging.

there'd always been a saying in his household that diligence would go rewarded. perhaps not immediately, perhaps not even in a way you could see or understand, but it was a fact — the way ' you'd be sore after the first time you ride a horse ' was a fact, and ' aim here, and you'll cut your opponent's hamstring ' was a fact.

so, coolly, when he gets back to his room and finally opens the package, he wonders with a bit of irony: is this his reward today for that diligence?

he's not sure how he's supposed to feel.

but after almost a minute of just staring, he takes the large, pristine heater shield in both hands by the flanks and lifts it carefully up. . . and every time, he's surprised by how light it is for its size. but the sturdiness of its weight, the curl of his fingers into the grooves along its underside. . . even through his gloves, he can feel that familiar, intangible sensation start to rumble under his skin. that indescribable, primordial feeling, like knowing you need to eat, or the sense of some instinct telling you where to go.

it makes sense now why they wouldn't deliver it to his door.

but as to why this, why here, he's left with only more questions. obviously, it'd been sent by his father. did the old man think he needed protection? or was something going on back home.

without answers, he can only guess. for now, though, unreadable eyes pan over the relic's bulging lines one more time, its sloping ridges, the angular protrusion at its honor point — and he slides his weak arm through the hand strap, curling dull fingers against polished, reinforced leather.

foreboding sinks into his gut like deep lead — and stays.

　

felix has obtained the aegis shield.

[purplesigebert]

WIP Wednesday Week #16 - DW Crossover

Hello, hello everyone, I'm back!

This week we are stepping inside Miss Rose Tyler's mind. She's new to the TARDIS, and is still finding her way around.

Caroline helps her.

The past few days had been mind boggling. Her job had been blown up, she had been threatened by window shop dummies, and a bitchy trampoline had declared herself “the last human” at the end of the world.

Oh, and "Toxic” by Britney Spears had been described as a “classic Earth ballad.”

The future was weird.

But if the future was weird then the man who brought her to it was weirder.

Honestly, he thought he was so impressive, she rolled her eyes, a tiny smile coaxing its way onto her lips.  She looked around the room that the machine, the TARDIS, had provided her, amazed that it very nearly matched the one in her mum’s flat.  The only difference was the view - instead of the roofs of London, there was a lush waterfall.

As Rose left her room, she bumped into Caroline.  She wasn’t sure what to think of the twelve year old that travelled with the Doctor.  Clive hadn’t known much about her, but she had appeared in a few of the pictures and drawings that the conspiracy theorist had.  What was disturbing was that in some of the pictures, the Titanic one in particular, Caroline looked even younger then she was now.  How long had she been travelling with the Doctor?

“Hi Rose!” The younger girl grinned. “How are you settling in? Do you need anything? If you do then you just have to ask the TARDIS and she can get or make it for you! Or you can ask Dad!” 

Rose was overwhelmed by the amount of information and questions that the other girl flung at her.

The box was alive, and female? The Doctor was Caroline’s father? And what was going on with Caroline’s accent. It shifted from the Northern burr that the Doctor had to an American one. What was that about?

“Er no, thanks Caroline, I’m fine at the moment, still getting my bearings,” she aimed for a reassuring smile. Inside her thoughts were still whirling.

“Cool, just let me know if you need anything.” She paused, seemingly deciding whether or not to ask another question. Rose sent her what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

“So, what you did to save all of us from the Nestene Consciousness was fantastic!” 

Caroline started to walk down the unending hallway that already Rose had gotten lost, twice in her brief time aboard, the other blonde looked perfectly at home here, like she could walk around blindfolded and still find her way.

“You mentioned that you were a gymnastics champion?”

“Yeah, I got the bronze.”

“That’s so cool! I was wondering if you could teach me some stuff? I’ve always wanted to learn how to do a roundoff!” Caroline was flushed with excitement as she rambled.

“Sure, I can do that.” Rose sighed in relief. “We just need a big enough space.”

They stopped in front of a door that didn’t look any different than the ones that had come before it.  Caroline smiled and opened the door.

Rose gasped and nodded when Caroline asked if the room was big enough.

The door led to a large gymnasium that was easily three times the size of Jericho School’s.

Rose didn’t think she would ever get used to her new life. 

****

She wouldn’t.

[yr-obedt-cicero]

What is your opinion of the Ron Chernow book on Hamilton? I'm reading it now and it's informative but I don't know how I feel about it yet and we're already almost at Hamilton's wedding. Thoughts?

Oh boy, that book...

Honestly, I hate it but I also quite appreciate it. It's one of the only Hamilton biographies that goes so in-depth about Hamilton's life, and almost covers everything. Like, it's the size of a Bible for a reason and I really did enjoy the background checks on all the figures that were brought up (Like especially Faucette, or Maria). But also it's entirely bias, and filled with inaccuracies. I haven't read the book in a year, and no longer have it in my possession but here are a few things I remember that I hated about it;

Rambling — oh God, does Chernow have a tendency to go on and on and on. He often repeats the same thing several times throughout the book, especially in regards to praising figures in the book, but I'll talk about that and his glorification a bit later. I completely understand the habit to ramble on, but there is the opportunity to edit over your work. I swear after Hamilton did anything, Chernow would copy and paste the same sentence about how “hAMilTOn WAs JUst sUch aN InsPiRaTiOn wIth hIS iRrepresSiBLe pAsSiON aS An ImMiGrANt” I get it. I know. I would go on about how rising from your poor status wasn't anything new or unheard of, but I'll spare that for today.

Glorification — Chernow has a terrible case of glorifying the historical figures mentioned in the book, mainly Hamilton - as he is the protagonist, I suppose - but also Washington. He paints everyone else that is featured as these evil, big, bad villains that are just out to ruin poor, innocent Hamilton's life. And that if Hamilton did anything wrong; it was obviously all their faults and they somehow influenced him into this terrible decision. Chernow glosses over so many times Hamilton ruined other's lives, and throughout it portrays him as this inspiring hero.

Misogyny — you'll notice pretty quickly on; Chernow portrays all the women in the book as pathetic, (Or evil if they ever wronged Hamilton). He does a great injustice to Maria Reynolds, and makes out the affair to be all her and her husband's malicious influence. Because poor Hammy Ham, and not the oppressed woman getting abused by her husband, right? He even has the audacity to frame Elizabeth as a villain throughput a lot of it as well, claiming she wasn't doing her “wifely duties” and drove him to commit the affair (Jesus Christ). It's worse than the portrayal of these women in the musical.

Homophobia — Chernow quite often dismisses the homoerotic undertones throughout Hamilton's life. I'm not saying he has to do an essay on the plausablity of Troup and Hamilton having something more than friendship, but man, you could at least say anything but “lol but they were very no homo”. But the case that pisses me off the most is the complete dismissive attitude towards Laurens's and Hamilton's relationship. Chernow only scaps the surface of their relationship by quoting the April 1779 letter, and then shrugs it off and says that men just had those flowery - platonic apparently - sext letters during those days. Oh, but don't worry, he can dedicate half a chapter in regards to how true the debunked Angelica+Hamilton love affair was.

Inaccuracies — I don't know what I was expecting from a guy who has a very questionable education, but Chernow makes many inaccuracies throughout the book. I can't name them all off the top of my head but; he claims Jefferson said nothing on Hamilton's death when he did, he got Hamilton's children baptism dates wrong, made the same stupid mistake of calling William's portrait as actually Philip's, and misinterpretades many letters. If you want more on the subject, @runawayforthesummer literally has a tag called “Chernow was wrong”. And speaking of villianizing, I urge you to read about Burr outside of Chernow because that is the worst portrayal you'll read him as. Chernow made up this whole betrayal backstory for Burr and Hamilton, when they were actually never friends, or anything beyond acquaintances or political rivals.

Chernow isn't a historian — he's a journalist and a biographer. But biographer doesn't necessarily mean he has taken any studying in regards to being a historian. I'm not staying if you didn't go to college for a four year institution, that you're immediately unqualified to write a biography. But. You should take some initiative to get some education in that matter. Because we have things like this where Chernow makes glaring mistakes.

Phew, okay, that's a rundown of everything I found wrong with it. I'm sure I'm missing other things, but these were the major issues in my opinion. I mean, if you've gotten that far in the book, might as well finish it. Just remember to do your own research, and fact check before you take someone else's claim on something. Once again, Chernow's biography has some good aspects, like how detailed it is. Just remember his major flaws with it too.

[lunanheartache]

j'gar watches some stars with his older brother and thinks about things. takes place before jgar IDs as a man. hes baby

the horizon blushes with dusk, summer heat flustered above the treeline like a high collar. a last ditch effort of daylight. not quite one thing or the other, an embarrassed in-between. it abandons the field to half-lit, grasses burnished bronze with long trembling shadows. overhead, the sky is starting to darken but it isn't there yet. indecisive. that yawning blackness is still blue. the color deepens by the minute but blue lingers anyway like it wants to hold on, stubborn. like the sun clings to the edge of the world, bruises the day-night with its grip. like the moon doesn't hang like a hook in the blackest dark trying to pull it back.

not day, not night. not quite one thing or the other.

sitting in the shorter grass under the lone big tree, j'gar fidgets blandly with a frayed blanket edge by his heel. he picks a few strands loose, separates them out until they're neat in rows like soldiers. tangles them up in a not-plait, ignoring the braid down his own back. his wrist rests on his boot. there's mud on it from the crick by the house and from rocama. he's smudged a little on the blanket again like he does plenty of nights, tagging along with ruva like a burr to hear about star stories again. they'll sit in the fields until night settles in with them, fireflies flashing hidden codes back to their distant cousins up above.

it's good like always.

good enough. he's freshly fourteen and gangly with it, a sprout grown lanky from overcrowding, and that sits heavy with him. a weirdness he hasn't managed to shake off or parse out. nobody's said nothing to him yet. whatever it is, it isn't obvious, isn't something stuck in his teeth.

j'gar's eyes drift to ruva. next to the lone tree, ruva is tall, taller than he is. taller than he might ever get. his daddy was taller and toothier. same reason that in the twilight like this the bone of his tusks stands out. they curl up well over his lip, projected out to not poke into his cheeks. his gray-green washes out to leaf-dark, the finer features of his face blurred. only his scratched glasses catch in the last bit of sun. at twenty, he occupies every inch of his body, unbothered, squinting in the low light to read the same book he's read for a dozen years.

it feels like something. j'gar feels his eyes stick even when he means to pull them away. his heart is a dull warmth in his chest, odd and heavy like a magnet.

he can't name it. no words fit. just another in-between, another uncertainty. ruva flips the page and j'gar thinks about the size of his hand next to his own. the thought almost hurts. he folds his hands self-consciously into his lap.

"not fallin' asleep on me, are ya, gar?" says ruva, teasing. he doesn't look up from the book. his voice is soft like always but with a deepness to it that j'gar can't muster.

"no, sir," he says. he rearranges his legs, kicking them out in front of him. "'m jus' waitin'. i don't never remember what stars're out when, so."

"come on, you recognize 'em plenty. you know these old stories by heart by now."

"that's true, i guess, but i like hearin' alla it from you again."

ruva laughs, a little thing. he holds the book out and down to j'gar on the blanket. "still waitin' for a truer dark so we can see all of 'em, but you got better eyes than me right now."

oh.

wide-eyed, j'gar takes the book. it's worn with use, spine ratty over the years despite all the care in the world, but it's his brother's.

his brother's.

he hugs it to his chest and the feeling twists in his gut. face tilted back up to the stars, ruva doesn't seem to notice when he folds in on himself a fraction.

what he wouldn't give. ruva fills out every last bit of himself, occupies the whole of his body. he's always been quiet and softspoken, but ain't nothing unsure about his posture. he stands plain and easy. doesn't fidget with his clothes. doesn't think about how anybody else looks at him.

ruva just is.

anxiety shimmers in his limbs, speckling like fireflies. j'gar almost feels guilty for it. it's a nameless, baseless sort of thing, difficult to place. it's a fly cast out and fish set, but not reeled in.

by now, though, it isn't unfamiliar. none of it is. it creeps up on him sometimes, bubbles up like groundwater until he can't do nothing but tread and keep his head up. things just feel wrong. they don't fit together how they're supposed to. he doesn't fit together how he was supposed to. too big and too small and too far north of anything to be where he needs to be. the day slides down into night and it's like he's a songbird singing dawn. out of place, crooked, uncertain. he breathes through it and it almost shakes. he glances at ruva and it does.

j'gar opens his mouth. shuts it. swallows thick, and tries again, "hey, ru?"

"hmm?" ruva makes a noise low in his throat. his ear, shorter than j'gar's, angles to listen.

the words want to catch in his throat. it doesn't feel like something he can say. should say. can put into words. he feels wrong, awkward like the time between seasons when it's not quite clear which it's supposed to be.

oh, well.

that means he needs to try. maybe ruva can help tell him what he's supposed to be.

winter or spring.

what comes out is: "you never feel different?"

"'course i do," ruva says. "i think everybody does at least sometimes an' we just don't like to talk about it. somebody call you different?"

j'gar stares down at his lap. "no, i just. iunno."

"i don' think you're much different than anyone else."

"i been feelin' like i'm not right," he admits quietly, rubbing a thumb over the book's spine. "like somebody went an' put me together wrong."

"our folks made you just right, gar," says ruva. "don't let nobody tell you otherwise."

[elsanna-shenanigans]

March/April 2023 Contest Submission #2: I Left My Heart in Sanity's Rest

Words: ca. 6,000 Setting: Modern, small town Lemon: no Content: Car accident (but no one gets hurt except for the car), story briefly takes place in an abandoned mental asylum

Anna buries her hands into the thick of her hair as she inspects the external damage on the car. There’s a sizable crack in the windshield and the front right tire is angled outward; even if they could get this thing out of the ditch, there’s no chance it’ll be drivable.

“Great, just great,” she says to herself as she lets her hands drop to her sides. Two days ago, she finalized her breakup with her high school sweetheart, and now this. She leers at the cause of her one-car accident: a cow, idling fifty feet away. “What are you even doing out in the forest?!” she shouts.

The cow ignores her outburst with a flap of its raggedy tail.

“Stupid…” she grumbles as she fishes her phone out of her pocket. “This is why I drink oat milk.”

Thankfully, there’s enough signal amidst this sea of trees that she’s able to get a hold of a nearby tow truck. She sits begrudgingly on the grass while her poor car silently lays behind her; no other cars pass by.

Obviously it’s not the cow’s fault that this happened. She was the one that decided to drive back home for Spring Break instead of going on that trip to Spain with the rest of her friends. And she was the one that decided to take the scenic route back to ‘clear her head’ when reconciling with Maren didn’t work. And she was the one that got too caught up looking at Maren’s latest Instagram post to notice the chonky milk-maker ambling across the street like a joke with a bad punchline.

Bad decision after bad decision after bad decision. Just once, Anna wishes she could make a good one.

Twenty minutes later, she hears a rumbling sound getting closer. She stands up and pats the dirt and grass off her jeans just as a large, rusty tow truck comes to a hissing stop on the other side of the road. Despite the size of this crimson beast, the driver still has to squeeze his way out of the truck door. As he walks closer to her, Anna becomes increasingly intimidated at just how much he towers over her. But she eventually realizes that she has nothing to worry about.

She exchanges pleasantries with the burly man who introduces himself simply as The Woodsman (“Or Woody, if you’re feeling up for it.”). He ends up being very sweet underneath the grease stains and unkept beard, and soon he’s hitched up Anna’s car and is giving her a ride to the nearby town.

Anna entertains him unintentionally by recalling the events that led up to her accident, and after he lets out a barrel-chested laugh, she asks him, “So, how bad is it?”

“How bad is what?” Woody asks.

“My car. I mean you got a good look at it when you were putting the hook in the thingie, right?” She raps her knuckles against her knee. “I just need to know how long it’ll take to fix it. I need to be back on campus by Monday.”

He nods and lets out a soft grunt, “Well, I wish I could give you some kinda diagnosis, but the truth is I won’t really know what’s going on until we get back to my shop.”

“Oh…” Anna tightens her lips and looks down at the floor, burrs and leaves are scattered around her feet.

“But don’t you worry, we’re just about fifteen minutes away from Sanity’s Rest. I promise I’ll give your car a look-see as soon as we’re in town.”

“Sanity’s Rest?” Anna asks.

“Eeyup, the only piece of civilization for the next fifty miles or so. Town got its name on account of the mental asylum up on the hilltop.” When Woody turns to see Anna’s stressed expression, he holds up his hand. “Ah, don’t worry. The place has been closed for thirty years, the only loonies you’ll see out here anymore are tourists.”

Anna tries to remember if she’s ever heard of a place called Sanity’s Rest, maybe on an old brochure or some random TikTok, but nothing comes to mind. Then again, these small, out-of-the-way towns exist everywhere, it was only a matter of time that she’d visit one.

Woody’s meaty hand pats her on the head and it bonks her out of her thoughts. “Trust me, there ain’t a town better than good ol’ Sanity’s Rest. You’re gonna love it!”

Well, Anna sure hopes so. Because knowing her luck, she’s not going anywhere else anytime soon.

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

Anna doesn’t know what she’s expecting when they get to Sanity’s Rest, but she’s definitely not prepared for how…vertical it is.

The town is primarily built around a long, winding road that snakes up to the aforementioned hilltop where an ominous, white building sits. Stacked along this road as if in some unconventional tier system are rows and rows of buildings, more length than they are width. The first couple of tiers are made up of shops, eateries, and galleries, the kind of places you’d see in a city’s downtown district. But higher up on the road is where more of the private residences are, along with a church and a very small library to remind you that people actually live here.

Woody’s garage is on one of the middle tiers, right below one of the two inns that Sanity’s Rest is ‘known for’. As promised, he inspects Anna’s car right away and discerns that the repairs will take about two days- something about parts he needs delivered.

Two days isn't too bad. In fact, if she books it out of here as soon as her car is fixed, she’ll probably make it in time for her second class. But it’s still not ideal, and now she has to stay at an inn that’s half the size of her childhood home.

“Warm Hearth is the coziest place to get a good night’s sleep, I tell ya,” Woody encourages her before she leaves his garage. “Elsa takes mighty pride in the place and it shows. Tell her Woody sent you along and she may even give you a discount.”

The vote of confidence still isn’t enough to get Anna to just stride right into the place, especially when a cat bolts out from a bush in front of the porch stairs. “Why are all these animals trying to give me a heart attack today?!” she hisses. After her heartbeat returns to a normal rhythm, she presses her foot against the first blue, wooden stair, watching to see if it will crack under her weight. When it doesn’t, she tentatively steps onto the porch and pushes the also blue front door open.

It’s heavier than it looks, and the prolonged groan it lets out as Anna opens it further is so loud that she’s convinced everyone in the town is now looking at and silently judging her. As soon as she gets inside, she closes the door with an amusing sense of urgency. Maybe not amusing to her, but certainly to anyone that’s in here with her.

Which, once she looks at the lobby, turns out to be no one.

The lobby, or so she assumes, is deceptively spacious. Two adjacent chairs and a coffee table between them sit right in front of the window, and in the other corners are a small bookshelf, a circular standing table with an open book on it, and a set of stairs that lead to the second floor. Unlike the front door, the interior doors are white with gold-tinted accents that look like some kind of flower. As Anna goes to get a closer look at one of the doors, it opens…

And she’s greeted by a goddess.

The woman she has the privilege of seeing in front of her has the fairest of fair skin, only interrupted by a star chart of freckles across her face. Her silk blonde hair is fashioned into a tight ponytail, though a couple of strands have escaped to mark across her icy blue eyes. And rather than wearing a toga, or armor, or whatever deities wear, she’s adorned in a flowery (and floury) red apron, an off-white undershirt, and shorts that are shorter than the apron. Which means Anna also gets to look at her fabulous knees as if that’s a thing people are attracted to.

“Oh my-”, the goddess exclaims as she straightens up in surprise. “I’m sorry, I thought I heard…I mean I didn’t expect…hi.”

“Hi,” Anna says reactively, her head still trying to catch up to her heart. “I’m sorry for scaring you.”

“Ah, what? You didn’t scare me, this is how I always greet people. I shout at them and jump right out of my shoes.” She lets out a breathy chuckle and pats her hands against her apron. “Like a cat.”

“If it makes you feel better, you didn’t shout at me. And you definitely don’t look like a cat.”

“You sure?” The woman tilts her head and lightly pats her hair. “Oh, I guess I must have left my ears in the office.”

Anna lets out a noise that’s supposed to sound like a laugh, it comes out more like a childish giggle. After twenty-five years of gayness, she’s still a mess around pretty girls; especially when they’re some kind of baker, or an innkeeper’s daughter, or some random that broke into an inn to steal their flour. Before Anna can make a bigger fool of herself, she says, “I-I’m new in town, and- well, I’m not like moving in or something. Not that this place isn’t nice or anything like that, but I need a place to stay and Woody, he…”

Well, so much for that.

The woman nods and puts her out of her misery. “Woody? I’m guessing you’re having some car troubles and he pointed you towards my place until he can fix it?”

Anna’s eyes widen, “This place is yours?”

The woman smiles proudly and stretches out her hand, “Elsa Henley, proud owner of the Warm Hearth Inn.”

Elsa Henley. Elsa. Of course her name would be just as beautiful as the rest of her. Anna wipes her far-too-sweaty palm against her jeans before shaking Elsa’s hand. It’s soft and a little cold. “Holy baloney, this is yours?” Cool people say holy baloney, right?

Elsa chuckles, “Well, yes and no. I bought it off the original owners a few years ago. I kept a lot of the outside intact, but I changed a lot of the interior.”

“Well, it’s beautiful,” Anna says truthfully. “This whole place is beautiful, and you are-” She stammers to a halt and coughs for good measure, letting go of Elsa’s hand. “You have a good eye for stuff. Like chairs.”

Elsa’s proud grin turns into a warm smile. “Thank you. So, how many days are you planning to stay?”

She walks over to another closed door and Anna follows her like a hopeless puppy. Through the door is a small, almost closet-sized office where they get to talking about the logistics of Anna’s stay.

For the next two days and two nights, Anna will be staying in what Elsa calls the ‘White Room’, which she promises is the coziest one in the inn. They must really like that word here in Sanity’s Rest. When they get to the White Room, Anna immediately adds the word to her own vocabulary.

The space reminds her a lot of the attic of her childhood home, except the wooden floor is shinier and the drapes against the window are a pristine white rather than a drab gray. And instead of boxes of old photos, there’s a large, fluffy bed, an antique-looking nightstand, and another bookshelf. So, it actually doesn’t look anything like her attic, but the vibes are still there.

“There’s a key to the bathroom in the nightstand, you’re free to put your stuff wherever you want in the room, and you can open the drapes or keep them closed. Completely up to you, I just want you to be comfortable,” Elsa explains as she gestures around the room.

Anna walks in and gently sets her backpack and luggage on the floor next to the bookshelf. She sits on the side of the bed, the fluffiness almost causing her to fall right onto it. “Big bed,” she comments after righting her posture. “Definitely bigger than the one I have.”

Elsa gives her a small, knowing smile, “Usually couples are the ones who rent the White Room.”

“Makes sense,” Anna replies as she tries to ignore the annoying loneliness gnawing at her side. Maybe if she’s lucky, Elsa will sit right next to her and she’ll feel less-

Oh, that’s exactly what she’s doing.

“I understand there might be a bit of an implication there, but don’t worry, I take a lot of pride in cleaning my rooms.” Elsa is still a professional distance away, enough for another human to sit in between them, but that doesn’t stop the warmth that spreads from Anna’s shoulder to the rest of her body. “Any questions?”

With the apron off, Anna can see a sliver of her waist. Pale as the rest of her, and maybe just as soft.

“Anna?”

Yep, that’s her name- wait, why is Elsa saying her name?

Anna lifts her eyes back up and blinks away something non-existent, “Y- uh, what? Hi. Hi?”

Elsa tilts her head with a look that’s between confusion and amusement. Or maybe she caught Anna staring and is now silently judging her. Gosh, that would be the worst. “I asked if you have any questions.”

“Oh! I…uh…” Anna scrambles to ask something random, something that will keep Elsa from leaving. “What can I do? To pass the time, I mean.”

Elsa nods, not giving any indication for whether or not she’s judging. “Well, if you haven’t gotten a chance to look around at the shops, you’ll have the next couple of days to do so. The owners are all locals, so they’ll talk your ears off if you let them- especially Woody, or Mrs. Harrel who runs the apothecary. Tomorrow afternoon, the mayor’s doing a reading at the park from his poetry book which should be…interesting. Oh, and I’m pretty sure tomorrow night is the Asylum Tour.”

“Asylum? Like the one on the hilltop?” Anna’s eyes narrow with uneasiness.

“Don’t worry, it’s totally safe. The tour guide is adamant that everyone stay in the lit areas, and officers regularly patrol the building to make sure no one’s hanging around in there that shouldn’t be.”

Not yet convinced, Anna frowns at her while also trying to subtly nudge her hand closer to Elsa’s on the bed. Because that’s the kind of woman she is, and she’s totally fine with it. “I don’t know. If you need the police to patrol a tourist destination, that doesn’t sound a hundred percent safe to me.”

“No one’s ever gotten hurt or gone missing on these tours. And there’s always a handful of local volunteers to help out as well. If it will help, I can come with you tomorrow night.”

It takes Anna a second to realize the proposition Elsa’s laid out for her. She blinks and leans forward a little more than she thinks to. “You’d come with me?” she asks, hoping she doesn’t sound too intrigued at the thought.

Elsa shrugs, it’s casual and cordial like she’s offered this to all of her customers. “Only if you want to.”

Admittedly, Anna’s hesitance to get anywhere near the asylum is softened by Elsa’s offer. Even if it’s just an off-handed remark from a polite and very pretty innkeeper, it still makes Anna feel more at ease. But, at the same time, what does she actually think is going to happen here?

She’s leaving in two days and chances are this will be the last time she ever steps foot in Sanity’s Rest. She cannot fall so hard for a woman she’ll never see again. With a sigh, she lets Elsa, and herself, down easy.

“Iyou’re there, then I’ll think about it.”

’ll go if you’re there.“

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

The asylum is huge, and it only grew in stature the closer Anna got to it. The dirty, white building is bathed in harsh brightness from an array of flood lights, several of the glass windows are broken and the long-dead plants stick out of the rocks like boney fingers. Had she come here alone, Anna would never find the nerve to get anywhere near the entrance. But thankfully, there’s a small crowd here that’s just as crazy as she is.

And a certain someone is waving at her from that crowd.

Anna hurries her pace despite her already frazzled nerves. Elsa had arrived here earlier to help set everything up for the tour, she still looks fantastic in a pair of khaki shorts and a white t-shirt that reads I Lost My Sanity on the Sanity’s Rest Asylum Tour.

“Hey!” Elsa says when they finally catch up to each other. “I’m glad you were able to figure out where to go.”

Anna raises an eyebrow, “It’s a straight walk up a hill. I’m not that hopeless.” Though the fact that she agreed to do this begs to differ.

Elsa chuckles, “You’d be surprised at how many tourists ask us every day where the asylum is. Though I guess it’s a little harder to find since the sign fell off.”

A sense of worry streaks across Anna’s face from that throwaway comment. She gives the building another look and frowns, “Are you sure this place is, uh…sturdy?”

“Absolutely, you have nothing to worry about.” Once again, just like magic, Anna finds it easy to believe Elsa. She reaches a hand out toward the newcomer and says, “Come on, the tour’s about to start.”

A hand. Elsa’s reaching out a hand…to take her hand; that can’t be right. They’ve only known each other for two days, a fact that Anna’s been trying desperately to keep telling herself despite the fact that they’ve already had a couple of conversations and even ate lunch together earlier today. Okay, well technically it was more like Anna went to a cafe for lunch and Elsa walked in when she was halfway done with her sandwich. But Elsa did take a bite from the scone she bought.

She’s trying not to get too attached, her breakup is still so new and she’s going back on the road tomorrow morning. Elsa might not even have feelings for her, maybe she’s just this nice to all of her customers.

She has to think logically about this, she can’t take Elsa’s hand. She can’t. And she won’t. But she will. Because she’s weak and dumb and Elsa’s smile is freaking breathtaking.

Reality, however, comes at her as fast as that cow on the road did, and Elsa drops her hand back at her side with a frown. “Sorry, I held my hand out without thinking. That wasn’t professional.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Anna says, disappointment seeping through every vein in her body.

They make it back into the crowd just as the tour guide begins her speech, keeping a respectable yet agonizing distance away from each other.

The tour guide is wearing the same outfit as Elsa’s, except her shorts are a little lower on the knees and she has a headset with an external speaker that accentuates her cheerful tone. “Welcome, everyone, to Sanity Rest’s 56th Asylum Tour! My name is Evelyn- yes, like the actress- and I’ll be your guide for tonight, it’s going to be so much fun and you’re going to love every minute of it.”

She goes into a formal rundown of the rules for tonight, and Elsa seems to have recovered from the awkwardness first, because she quips, “Bet you twenty dollars she ends her speech with a pun.”

Anna scoffs, “That’s not a fair bet, you live here.”

“Hey, you never know, I could be bluffing.”

“Are you?” Anna turns to look at her and all she sees is the same heart-melting smile that’s pulled her out here tonight.

Elsa’s smile turns into a grin, “No. I wouldn’t lie to you like that. You’re my guest after all.”

Of course, she wishes she was more than that.

“What was that?”

Crap. Anna turns to the side, pretending like she heard someone else say their own hopeless romantic thoughts out loud. “Hmm? Wh- uh, did you hear something?”

“I thought you said…never mind.”

The tour guide leads them all inside the asylum. When Anna crosses the threshold, a puff of cold air hits the top of her head and shoulders. She yelps and looks back at the doorway, but there’s nothing there. Pressing a hand against the back of her neck, she turns to Elsa.

“There’s a sensor on the door,” Elsa explains, seeming to have read her mind, “On random occasions, cold air gets blown in from these hidden tubes that’s strong enough for people to get a little spooked.”

Anna pouts, “Isn’t that a little dishonest?”

“A little. But the tricks are harmless and they’ve helped to boost ticket sales, so I can’t complain.”

“Well, I can. You’ve probably noticed by now that I get freaked out pretty easily.”

“I have noticed that. It’s cute.”

“I- well…that's…shut up.” If these mixed messages get any worse, Anna’s going to have to check herself into this asylum.

“Tell you what. I’ve been on this tour at least ten times by now, I’ll let you know every time a trick is coming up so you can prepare for it. Does that sound good?”

Anna takes her hand off her neck and grumbles, “Fine.”

“Good.” Elsa nudges her with her shoulder, and the momentum makes the backs of their hands touch. The chill that Anna felt earlier is nothing compared to the jolt that goes through her when from that fleeting contact of skin.

“We will now be making our way to the cafeteria, where it was once rumored that a patient tried to boil one of the cooks in a large stew pot like Bugs Bunny!” Evelyn the tour guide gets their attention, looking far too excited talking about that whole stew thing. “That, of course, turned out to be a hoax. But what isn't a hoax is the homemade brownies waiting for you on the cafeteria benches!”

The cafeteria doors open with a long, low creak. As they walk through them, Elsa whispers to Anna, “Don’t eat the brownies that are on plastic plates. They have candy eyeballs in them.”

Anna shudders, “Thanks. I’m not a fan of eyeballs in my food.”

“Neither am I. Look at that, we have something in common.”

“Heh, yeah we do.” Mixing her metaphors, Anna decides to bite the bullet and test the waters. “I wonder if we have other things in common too.”

“Only one way to find out,” Elsa responds…with a wink.

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

The brownie is delicious, though not as good as the information that Anna learns about her newish companion. She learns that Elsa’s thirty years old, a Sagittarius (which makes sense), and moved to Sanity’s Rest seven years ago just to ‘get away from everything’. The community welcomed her with open arms and, in no time at all, she felt like she belonged here. Also, she likes lilies, the color blue, and geckos.

As they head further into the asylum, Elsa’s words and gestures become a little more…forward. Even Anna’s cautionary standards aren’t enough to innocently explain away the way Elsa brushes her hair back when it gets in her face; or when she gently grabs her by the shoulders when she’s about to walk past another cold air sensor; or the way she offhandedly mentions they go to the park ‘next time she visits’.

Anna will laugh or play along when Elsa does something that could be considered flirty, but she tries not to get her hopes up. Elsa’s just…nice. Kind. Sweet. And unbearably cute.

The words and gestures finally come to a head when they’re exploring one of the second-floor hallways and Elsa takes her- by the hand- towards a smaller corridor that leads to a library. Or, at least, what’s left of it. It has concrete walls and a dirty floor like the rest of the asylum, but Elsa’s so good at describing it as a place that you’d actually want to go to.

She walks around the small room, the size of her inn’s lobby, talking about how the angle of the windows could bathe the whole room in sunlight at the right time of day, pondering over what books she’d put on the shelves, and debating on whether she should put one rocking chair or two.

“A rocking chair seems a little cliche, don’t you think?” Anna asks as she peers out the corridor. No one’s coming to get them, maybe no one even noticed they split off from the group.

“Some cliches are nice,” Elsa reasons. “Like rocking chairs in a reading nook, or laughter being the best medicine, or meet cutes.”

“Meat cubes?”

Elsa laughs, hopefully because she’s amused and not because she thinks Anna’s an idiot. “Yeah, those charming, quirky moments in a book or a movie when the two romantic partners meet for the first time. It’s one of my favorites.”

Anna takes a step towards her. “Has it ever happened to you before?”

Elsa looks around with her hands clasped behind her back and her lips pursed. Either she’s thinking about her question or she’s wondering where she’d put the circular coffee tables. “Yeah, I think it has.”

Her response is both assuring and perturbing. Elsa could be talking about literally anyone else, but if she’s talking about her…screw it, she’s leaving tomorrow. “Has it happened…recently?” Anna asks as she takes another step forward.

Elsa grins and closes the gap with a step of her own. She reaches out her hand and runs it across Anna’s hair and down her arm. “Very,” she replies softly.

Well, that answer couldn’t have been any more obvious. The feelings are mutual, the two of them have a thing for the other, and they’re all alone in a not-so-scary-anymore asylum. Elsa’s fingers linger, grazing against her knuckles, and Anna takes it as a sign to take those fingers in hers.

“So…” Elsa says. There’s a heaviness to that word; Anna can’t leave here without giving an answer. She knows what she wants to say, but there’s that nagging sense of need. The responsible response that’s influenced by the fact that, again, she’s leaving tomorrow. When she first got here, her stupid mind was too blinded by Elsa’s beauty to keep her from trekking through an asylum at night. This time, she needs to think clearly.

Anna takes the deepest sigh of her life, the weight of her next words already crushing her. “Elsa, I feel the same way, but I-”

“Don’t.”

Anna winces, not expecting Elsa to respond so quickly. When Anna looks at her, however, she still has a soft, disarming smile on her face.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to say anything else,” Elsa continues. “I’m just glad we had tonight.”

“Elsa…”

“We should probably catch up with everyone else.” Elsa lets go of her hand and walks out of the library, Anna fights the urge to stay in here for the rest of her miserable life.

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

Anna lets out another long yawn and wipes tired tears out of her eyes with her wrist. Last night was the worst sleep she’s had in years, she’ll need the tallest, strongest cup of coffee she can find for the rest of her trip.

She and Elsa didn’t talk at all for the rest of the night until they made it back to the inn, and all Elsa did was remind her of the night time rules. No soft smiles, no errant hand touches, no more of her heart on display.

When Anna tried to sleep, her dreams were either about Elsa or her recurring, lore-heavy war against the Pumpkin Brigade, So, instead of sleeping, all Anna did was think about what she should and shouldn’t have said. After all that thinking, she’s come to the conclusion that she’s made a mistake. With Elsa. By rejecting her.

She was thinking too much about how it would hurt both of them to fall for each other if she wasn’t staying long, but if Elsa was worth coming back to, then surely she’d come back here, right?

This isn’t the 1900s where it takes six years just to travel fifty miles; she has a car, a phone that can connect to the Internet. Long-distance relationships have never been this easy to maintain in all of recorded history, except for maybe the days when everyone lived in caves right next door to each other. She wants something with Elsa, and with luck Elsa still wants something between them too.

All it’ll take is one more conversation…hopefully. And maybe the other thing she got up to last night instead of sleeping will help smooth things over.

Anna pats down the remaining wrinkles on the blanket and gives her room one final look to make sure it’s cleaner than when she first got here. After a confirming nod, she leaves with her backpack and luggage in tow. Two days passed by a lot faster than she expected; she’s a little upset no one checked up on her.

As she’s going down the stairs, she hears a conversation in the lobby. A young, bright-eyed couple is busy filling out the same paperwork she had to, and sitting on her rolling chair is the woman she was hoping to see this morning. Their eyes meet as Anna descends the last step, she gives the innkeeper a polite wave and gets the same in return. That’s probably a good sign.

“Give me one second,” Elsa says to the couple before walking out of her office and towards Anna. She keeps on her professional smile, it’s nice but it’s missing the same warmth from the last two days. “Hey, how was your sleep?” she asks.

“Good,” Anna lies. “How did-”

“I just need your key and you’re free to go.”

Anna’s breath catches when Elsa holds out her hand. This definitely isn’t a good sign. Has the door already closed on them? Did Elsa already move on? Or is she keeping up appearances because there are customers right behind her? Needing to keep her sanity, Anna tells herself it’s the third option as she takes the room key out of her pocket and places it in her palm.

“Thanks,” Elsa says neutrally, but she’s not able to go back to the couple. Not when Anna’s closed her hand against hers.

It can’t end like this. “Can I talk to you when you’re done?” Anna whispers. “Please?”

Elsa’s facade fades, she quickly looks back at her customers before turning her attention to Anna. After taking a breath, she whispers, “Meet me out on the porch.”

Fifteen minutes later, Elsa opens the front door of her inn and leans against the deck next to Anna. It’s a calm Monday morning, most of the shops aren’t open yet and the locals are still inside doing their morning routines. For now, it’s just the two of them.

Anna is the one to break the silence: “Hey.”

“Hey,” Elsa replies.

“What room did they choose?” Anna points a thumb back towards the inn.

“The Blue Room,” she answers. “The guy said his fiance gets cold at night, and the bed in there has the thickest sheets.”

“Would you have given them the White Room if I wasn’t in it?”

“Maybe. I’d still have to clean it up a bit. Though, considering the work you put in cleaning the bathroom, I’m assuming I wouldn’t have to do much.”

“Oh, you already noticed that.” Anna bites her lip, she hoped that she’d be long gone before Elsa noticed how much she’d cleaned up the place. “I couldn’t sleep last night, and I figured some manual labor would tire me out.”

Elsa looks at her confused, “I thought you said you slept pretty well.”

“Yeah, I…may have lied about that.”

“Oh.”

Knowing she can’t waste any more time, Anna starts to say the words she’d been thinking about all night, “Elsa, I need to apologize for what I did to you last night.”

Elsa winces so hard that she closes her eyes. “You really don’t have to do that.”

“No, I do. I owe you an apology, and an explanation, and I need to tell you why I made the wrong choice.”

“If you’re just trying to let me down easy-”

“I'm not.” Anna braves a step in Elsa’s direction and places a hand on her shoulder. When she doesn’t pull away, Anna softens her tone and says, “I’m not. Elsa, could you look at me?”

A few agonizing seconds pass. Each one brings about a different kind of scenario, most of them ending with Elsa leaving her on the front porch to think about the consequences of her actions. But finally, Elsa does look at her, and there’s a sadness in her eyes that Anna hopes she can get rid of.

“Elsa, I like you…I really like you. And I should have told you that last night, I shouldn’t have let you down, but I got too into my own head. I didn’t want to lead you on knowing that I was going to leave a few hours later, you deserve better than that. But then I realized that I don’t get to choose what you deserve. You do. And you chose me.”

“I did,” Elsa responds, though it’s so soft and subtle that it feels more like she’s saying it to herself. Anna still heard it, though, and she noticed that Elsa didn’t say those words with any sense of regret. This is the best sign she could have asked for.

Anna scoots her free hand closer to Elsa’s. “I want to try. With us. If there’s still some part of you that has feelings for me, could we start over?”

She had more to say, most of it being her laying out her plan to make the long-distance relationship thing work (it would involve frozen yogurt, bracelets, and soundproof doors). But ending there felt right, even if it meant she now had to wait for however long it would take Elsa to respond.

“No.”

Oh, well that didn’t take long at all.

This is an outcome that Anna expected, but not one she ever prepared herself for. As she feels the ground beneath her feet give way, she begins to scoot away from Elsa in order to keep the woman from falling with her. However, Elsa doesn’t let her. She quickly and strongly takes Anna’s hand into hers, keeping her from falling, and she finishes her thought with another soft smile.

“…but we can continue where we left off.”

Confusion turns into intrigue which finally gives way to happiness. They both lean in at the same time, pressing their lips against each other’s as their grip on each other’s hands tightens. Anna came to Sanity’s Rest seeking refuge after her own idiocy, and though she’s getting back on the road today she knows she’s not really leaving.

Because as long as Elsa’s here, a part of her will be too.

[writer59january13]

Unrequited car rearing paramours of yesteryear

Ford score and...Chevy five years ago,

my Model A strapping handsome big bro,

(who sped like one speeding Triumph font lee, crow), wing, & swooping Thunderbird, with bold face observers whistling Geronimo (Holy Jeep), this meant war whooping Comanche

decked out as armadillo kicking up red feathery

colored dust devils rivaling the fastest Alfa Romeo (while choking, gagging, loo sing russett sputum flecked with true grit mouthful size of Colorado) easily mistaken for masked Zorro speeding across rugged

terrain of Durango,

ah recall and reminisce, and if cup ear just so can still hear (albeit faintly), a toy Yoda Echo

wing nsync with Lake Woebegone prairie home companion, the little known no nonsense visiting drag queen racer Noah N. Gin poe

cur face (born that way) originally from Malibu, a beautiful Corvair with Corsair, now resembling groveling growling Gremlin, in slow-mo

what with his Smashface ugly enough to scare Apollo

the ghost of David Buick, a poor entrepreneur, who never did make good profit re: Coupe, and could not Dodge nor shoo

away, the Stealth fearsome curse of Aries nibble Viper moo

ving fast as greased lightning, (whereby an Eagle Talon flashed like Spitfire akin too Austin-Healey Sprite) full Caprice out of the (sir really yon) blue

celestial vault outer limits, hue mans avoided only

brave Caravan Voyager Goo Goo

Doll dared (only fools rushed in, ignoring, and dodging Fiat, where angels feared to tread), a Motley Crue

shielded with Fisker Karma (credit), no matter last payments way overdue

sought out (with Escort in tow) - actually two

yup, that ever elusive Holy Grail, thus needed to Focus with much ado about nothing, while

brows scrunched – mad as Jew pitter by Zeus snorting like angry red Taurus bulls - do

tee fully kicking up Tempo

like nobody's business ready to serve their Mazda at heart,

a Legacy Sub (burr rue) tricked up as a gnu that's all Volks-wagon bidding adieu before I Escalade from ridiculous to the sublime.

[kneelingshadowsalome]

Okay babe, I need to get a few things out of my system, pls just bare with me while I lose my mind over your writing

First of all, why did you have to make this so realistic and beautiful...? This is top tier writing. You're not throwing unhinged prose around every other sentence for the sake of it, and still, this reads so flowy and poetic... How?? I need to live inside your brain please.

And how about the fact that you made Ghost appear so strong and distant, you made him mysterious... and you made him vulnerable? He's not artificially, mythically superhuman in every situation or outwitting and capable at every single turn (such as when they're playing chess gah 💖) He doesn't save the day all the time, how fresh is that? And he almost got killed??

How you managed to pour so much genuine emotion into breathtaking smut, how you portrayed reader's (and Ghost's!) traumas so realistically and eloquently, no one will ever know. This fic absolutely DEVASTATED me.

His tactical pants don’t even rustle when he walks and you’ve seen the size of his thighs (there’s no way they don’t chafe in the summer in shorts).

Seeing him after countless weeks apart, that first sighting always like a Fata Morgana.

It's details like these that make your writing stand out, my god

Soap’s charm is that he lays it on so thick and so readily that it’s impossible to feel cornered.

How did you manage to describe John MacTavish's character with one single sentence? Also, the way you portrayed Soap as a sharp and methodical soldier when things get ugly and dire choices must be made... It just speaks volumes of your skill as a writer. The depth, the research you've put into these characterizations really shows.

This is a man who’s lost so much and trusts no one now—works himself to the bone as if in penance or maybe because it’s the only thing tethering him to the real world. You know he sees other people as somehow different from him, like they’re fundamentally incompatible.

And what about Ghost then? FOR FUCK'S SAKE GIRL

You’ve known for weeks that there’s been something brewing between the two of you. It’s evident in the way his body moves with yours, encircles it, welcomes it in—lets you sleep against his arm on the long drives back to base, lets you pick the burrs from his mask when he’s come back from treks through the woodlands, seeks you out when he comes home after weeks away. Always gravitating to you.

I want to cry from how beautiful this is

He goes a little wild right before he comes. Now you have to live with that knowledge for the rest of your life—you could be seated across from him in the canteen or on a ship in the middle of the Pacific and you’ll know that Simon Riley goes completely quiet in the seconds before he comes, draws the whole weight of his body across the length of your back and bottoms out inside of you.

Mayday please someone I need help here

You think you’re special because you cheated death? You haven’t done anything worth noting. You’ve died innumerable times in innumerable universes; in this one, someone walked in the room and broke the pattern.

This isn't a fanfic this is ART

“Mine, huh?” he grunts, pounding into you and leaving you mindless. “Wan’ to keep me all for yourself? That why you dragged me home?”

“No, that’s—that’s not why—”

“Gotta take responsibility for your actions, pet. M’yours now, yeah? You don’t bring something home and let it loose—gotta keep it close so no one takes it.”

I AM CRYING

I'm sorry but I can't form sensible sentences right now. I just want to say a humble thank you for writing and sharing this with the world 🙏❤️

saltwater

He’s there in the room when the terrible thing happens.

Or: You and Ghost trauma bond over weeks and months.

17k, rated E, one-shot

[READ ON AO3]

[blazewatergem]

Sweet Story - Trick or Treat

“Just a little longer, Bella baby, I gotta get it right.”

Cleona chuckles at the whine Bella gives out, and patiently waits until the toddler is no longer puffing her cheeks to continue putting on her makeup.

It’s Halloween night, and already the camp has done all the greatest hits - pumpkin carving, decorating, and baking Eleanor’s famous pumpkin swirl cinnamon rolls.

They even had breakfast outside by the lakeshore, enjoying the crisp air as Fall’s last stronghold fell to winter’s army.

Now, though, it was time to go out and get some candy. Which is why Cleona was currently doing Bella’s makeup, listening as the others got ready outside the bathroom.

“Kitty, why can’t you come with us?” Bella asks, and while she still has a pout on her face the rest of the makeup goes on smoothly.

“I can’t wear my Glamore for that long, little queen.” Cleona is careful when planting a kiss on her forehead, before setting the tiara on it, “It doesn’t work as well at night, and only in emergencies. Besides, you’ll be out with Charlie, Alex, Phil and the Marksman.”

That sure is a deeply dramatic sigh from a six year old, and Bella is happy to demonstrate such an act.

“Oooookkkkkkk.” She drones out, but is back to smiling soon enough.

“Think I’ll fill up my pail?”

“Totally, bumblebee.”

🎃

Cleona wanted to laugh at seeing everyone’s costumes. As much as she has always wanted to go out trick or treating - her body wouldn’t let her, she couldn’t fake anything, not like the others - there was something nice about staying home.

Bella was dressed up as a Queen Bee - a frilly, Victorian dress and crown on her brow with swiped Tinker Bell wings - while Alex was her Valkyrie guardian, complete with an armored dress, because Alex never does things in halves.

Sabella had instead decided to turn in early - the drop in heat was making her more and more tired, draining her energy like a slow leak in a boat.

Charlie…

There was no easy way to describe what Charlie was dressed up as. He was wearing his human disguise, which looked so fake he could pass off as wearing a costume. Tonight was one of the few nights he could pass it off instead of freaking others out.

Cleona always thought he looked like he was wearing someone’s skin - a mannequin styled creature, puppeteering itself - but hey, that works on Halloween.

The Marksman - an adult who no one has ever seen or properly heard - was wearing his cloak and mask like always. No big surprise.

Finally, Phil was dressed up as a game show host. He was a middle aged, kindly blond man with a sweet smile.

Everyone called him Old Man. No exceptions.

As she waved the group off, watching them head into the truck and off to neighborhoods beyond…

Cleona walks back into the camp boundaries, out into the forest, and runs.

🎃

Later, when she returns picking leaves out of her hair and burrs in her fur, Cleona sees the truck pulling in and smiles. No, grins. She loves a lot of stuff about Halloween —

But this has to be the best part.

Bella barely pauses when the truck door swings open, jumping out and sprinting for the front door, even tugging on it a couple of times before turning back and shouting wordlessly for Phil. He has to shut off the truck before joining her, letting Alex and Charlie out of the back seat.

They join Cleona in watching, Charlie slowly letting his human-suit plop off and Alex with his arms crossed, smirking.

“Old man is about to lose so much.”

“Oh, yeah? Good trick or treat night then, huh?”

“Hell yeah. You got a stick in your hair by the way.”

“Oh, dammit.”

🎃

The Halloween ritual between Phil and Bella goes as follows; After a long night of trick or treating, Bella brings her bag into the kitchen to be checked out. The candy is dumped onto the countertop, and Phil helps her sort through it.

The candy goes into three piles. One pile is for anything labeled King Size, or is considerably large enough to count as - Phil likes to eyeball it, Bella’s the stickler on these rules.

The second pile is any candy that is sugar free. This candy will be set off to the side, and not be counted.

The third pile is…everything else. The Reese’s, the Hershey’s, the Kit-Kats and Snickers. The gumdrops, the lollipops, the knock-offs and strangers.

Anything with sugar, really. Which, for the most part, Bella couldn’t eat without getting sick. It used to be such an awful thing, especially around holidays like Halloween. It wasn’t her fault, just part of her bee-like biology.

So, he came up with an idea. Which leads to the next part of the ritual, where Phil kindly puts all the pile three candy back into Bella’s bag, and sets it on a kitchen scale bought just for this.

He laughs, “Oh, dear, Bella, how’d you get this to…roughly ten pounds, love?”

She crosses her arms and smirks, a look he recognizes from none other than the golden-winged teen outside, “I got it myself!”

He dutifully doesn’t admit to seeing Alex and Charlie trying to shove their candy into Bella’s bag, or hearing her giggle at their exaggerated acting the entire way home.

“Well, then. That’s ten pounds of regular candy, plus…oh, look at that, five king sized candy bars. Look at that, buzzy baby, I think that’s more than last year!”

And thus, as Phil pats the girl on the head, he realizes with a sigh that - Yep.

She definitely likes this system just a bit more than she should.

🎃

The three teens look up, seeing the triumphant look on Bella’s face, and laugh when she holds one tiny child fist up with glee.

“I GOT TWENTY DOLLARS!”

[clarythericebot]

headcanon: “that would be enough” is when alexander actually falls in love with eliza

In a Winter’s Ball, it’s pretty clear that Alexander’s motivation for marrying a Schuyler is utilitarian.

If you can marry a sister, you’re rich, son.

Is it a matter of if, Burr, or which one?

Also, just LOOK at that face. :P

I think it’s understandable, the way he goes about finding his wife. 

I mean, it’s pretty sad, considering Angelica takes her attraction towards Alexander seriously [this is not a game]

and Eliza [I do I do I do I do!] is just so genuinely, earnestly in love with her husband. 

But from the beginning of the play, it’s clear that Alexander believes that he has to fend for himself and everything that he wants. And so he does with blood in his mouth and the skin of his teeth. He’s utilitarian with pretty much everything--his time, his effort, his life, his self. Everything for the cause of America and leaving a name. To an extent, I think he believes everyone acts the same way. 

Angelica does, though we hear her wish sometimes that she doesn’t. Her first question, after composing herself from the whirlwind shock of meeting Alexander, is where’s your family from? Her instinct is to size people up and take the best course of action with regard to her family name. 

I’m a girl in a world in which

My only job is to marry rich

My father has no sons so I’m the one

Who has to social climb for one

(sidenote: my heart aches when I hear that the first and primary reason she takes this upon herself is because I’m the oldest)

He’s after me ‘cuz I’m a Schuyler sister

That elevates his status, I’d

have to be naive to set that aside

But Eliza doesn’t.

He seems to believe she does. After securing permission from her father to marry her, his first words are about everything he can’t/can offer her:

Eliza, I don’t have a dollar to my name

An acre of land, a troop to command,

A dollop of fame

All I have’s my honor,

A tolerance for pain

A couple of college credits and my top-notch

Brain

It’s clear from his wording, though, that he believes that last thing would be sufficient to secure the rest. He’s marrying her with the knowledge of the wealth she’s bringing, his status as Washington’s second-in-command, and the expectation that his actions during the war will bring him prestige.

At the beginning of That Would Be Enough, look how ashamed he is. He can barely meet her eyes.

He’s just been proven wrong. By being sent home in disgrace, he’s pretty much lost his honor and any chance of future promotion.  

Would you relish being a poor man’s wife, unable to provide for your life?

I relish being your wife.

The fact that he’s enough doesn’t sink in, even as she promises it over and over. Not until she takes his hand and says that she knows who she married does he even glance up. There’s an implication there, I think, that he believes she married him because of his potential, and not as he is. 

If he’d married Angelica, that would’ve been true--not because she’s shallower (Angelica outright says that knowing he’s penniless doesn’t affect how much she wants him), but because that’s how she believes she must act and move in the world. An Angelica that married Alexander probably wouldn’t have been less loving, but would have definitely been more conscious of their status, as she’d have probably seen her marriage as taking a chance on someone who had aptitude and potentiality but little to no security. In Eliza’s place, this would’ve been a blow for her.

Eliza just doesn’t care. On the bench in the garden, she cuts right to the heart of the matter: So long as you come home at the end of the day--that would be enough.

We don’t need a legacy.

We don’t need money. 

Watch how low-key flabbergasted he is when she says that. A legacy and money had been his primary goals in life. 

We could chalk it up to naivete, of course, considering that she was born privileged and rich. She’s been married to Alexander for months, though, in a war where her side was losing and in dire need of resources. Even before that, she wasn’t tucked away in a mansion--she was just as enthusiastic as Angelica about going downtown and slumming it with the poor in “The Schuyler Sisters”. She’d have been seeing everything through, again, a very privileged lens, but the emphasis here is that she wasn’t sheltered, or at least only as sheltered to the same extent as Angelica was.

 I’d err on the side that she knew exactly what she was getting into--even the part that Alexander didn’t love her to the same extent that she loved him. Why else would she ask him to let her inside his heart, if she knew that she wasn’t already there? Why else would her voice break, just a little, at the hope that maybe she, and they, could be enough for him?

Oh, let me be a part of the narrative!

In the story they will write someday

Let this moment be the first chapter

Where you decide to stay

That’s all Eliza wants: Not anything that Alexander promised her, but Alexander himself. This is the face of a man beginning to realize that.

(Bonus: The little swirling melody after where you decide to stay is when I believe he genuinely falls in love with her.)

We know how their story goes, of course. It takes years for Alexander to shake off temptation, to truly recognize how she is, in fact, the best of wives and best of women, and to understand that the best version of him is and will always be in the garden, Alexander by Eliza’s side, her taking his hand. I’m glad he eventually does.

[strawberrysoup]

Pocketful of Posies || Chapter 4

You’d been hiding for years and years now; from your family, from society, from alphas and packs. Suppressants were dangerous but effective and necessary for an omega who refused to be owned—but no suppressants were strong enough to fool the nose of a super soldier, who together with his pack would stop at nothing to bind you to them forever. 

pairings: dark!Avengers x reader chapters: 4/? status: WIP warnings: A/B/O dynamics, power imbalances, noncon and dubcon sexual situations, loss of autonomy, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat — this is a dark!fic, read at your own risk. not beta read (AKA there may be additional changes)

hey guys! i made a ko-fi! if you enjoy this and have some cash you could spare to help me out with my bills, id really appreciate it!

You wondered idly at his eyes, glancing between the brown and the blue with the kind of intent that betrayed the anxiety welling in your chest. His hair was short too, the last time you’d seen him in the papers it had been long. He was incredibly, uncomfortably handsome and your heart pounded, that stupid bitch lurking in your hindbrain was practically preening under his stare.

“Are you coming back to me little love?” He asked softly, frowning when you flinched back—you were so traumatized, the alpha couldn’t imagine what had happened to you, “focus on me now.”

“Her eyes clear?” Peter’s voice echoed slightly, coming from above, “they were so cloudy earlier.”

“Much clearer,” the blue eye and the brown eye crinkled at the corners, the blond smiling down at you in his arms as he made his way up a set of stairs, “I’d wager you’re even listening to me by this point.”

“Everyone needs to go through their clothes and pick out some things to offer up for the nest,” Steve didn’t sound like he was talking to anyone, rather to the room at large, but the prime’s voice coming from further than Peter’s, “she’ll need lots of options, we might have to fix them up for the first few weeks.”

“How is your nest building instinct, my love?” Thor rumbled, the sound traveling through his chest and vibrating down to your bones, “hopefully better than your submissive instinct, hm?”

There was a snorted laugh you couldn’t ascribe to anyone in particular and the whole thing made you bristle, every hair on your body was standing on end. Did they think it was funny? You were shattering into pieces, shards swept into a hurricane and scattered. You weren’t wearing your own clothes, your own skin didn’t smell right. Everything was wrong, sitting 10° off the proper axis. The thoughts spiraled —they would find all of your suppressant stashes, all of your weapons, the few things you’d taken when you ran away from home. Every second you spent in this house, your odds of escape plummeted.

You were transferred to a different pair of massive arms, Steve carefully restraining yours to your sides when you started to squirm and hushing you softly, “shh, precious, you’re okay. Let’s get you settled in. Thor, Nat just texted Carol that she and Clint should be here in the next half hour. Any ideas on Loki?”

The surface he laid you on was one of the softest things you’d ever felt. Your body practically melted over the ultra-comfortable mattress, white noise filling your brain with static for several long moments. When you came too, you instinctively inhaled deeply through your nose before yawning so hard your jaw cracked. If only there wasn’t a fucking alpha prime laying on his side directly next to you, one arm settled with a comforting pressure over your waist while the other propped his head up, you’d be quite comfortable.

A sudden flash of light jolted you from your fuzzy state, sitting upright abruptly only for the blond to firmly and smoothly force your back to the mattress again. His fingers traced swirls into the skin of your waist while he shushed you and you winced when his hand travelled higher over your ribs, thumb brushing a goosebump inducing arc over your flesh.

“S-stop,” your voice cracked as you reached down, pressing firmly against his arm—blood draining from your face as you realized his arm kept the hem of the oversized shirt you wore pulled far over your waist, “oh my God, get off—”

“Loki should be here shortly, I contacted him just after she ran out of the lab,” Thor stated from where he stood at the edge of what you realized was a bed the size of most bedrooms.

It was built into the floor in the corner of the room, a sea of pillows scattered across the surface and mixed in with blankets and sheets. It smelled—you realized you felt lightheaded almost, surrounded by the scent of the two alpha primes and their entire pack, it smelled so overwhelming. The back of your mind screamed that it smelled good, it smelled painfully and damningly good.

“I brought up some bags.”

Your head snapped to the stairs, watching a man with short brown hair come into view. He was shorter than Steve or Thor but still taller than Peter, built similarly to the finely toned young alpha. There was no extra bulk to the man, although you could see the bulge of his muscles through his long sleeved shirt. A delta, you would guess at a distance; there was plenty of dominance in his stance, but the he looked built to seduce rather than restrain.

Steve’s arm tightened around your torso, fingers carefully cupping the curve of your ribcage and pressing you more firmly into the bed. The prime was all too obviously meant to restrain, especially as he shifted, manipulating your uncooperative limbs until you were cradled in his lap while he sat against the wall behind the bed. His grasp was so entirely inflexible that you wondered what his bones were made of, his muscles—he didn’t strain for a moment, not even when you attempted to throw your entire body weight to the side.

“Any of those got a collar in ‘em, Buck?”

The prime’s hand came down over your mouth just seconds before you shrieked. The muffled noise sent shivers down the spines of the alphas in the room, the one holding you no exception. It wasn’t sufficient though, the pitch was critical to the sound’s efficacy and you couldn’t reach the proper volume. Lips pressed firmly into the side of your head, Steve still holding you so carefully you could barely move.

“Got a couple, here,” the brunet man, Buck, dug through the plastic shopping bags he’d set on the floor near the wall.

“Hey, hey, come on baby,” Peter had an obvious and serious aversion to your discomfort, emphasized by the way he quickly slipped onto the bed and plastered himself against Steve’s side so that he could wrap his arms around you, ���they’re not choke or shock or spike collars, I promise they’re just pretty omega collars Bucky and Carol picked out. You’ll feel so much safer with a collar on, omega. Just hold still.”

The shift from Steve holding you down to Peter was almost unnoticeable, a shocking revelation. You swore you could sit on the kid and he’d end up a pancake, there was no way he should be able to hold you in place while you tried to thrash. One of his legs crossed over yours in Steve’s lap, the young alpha contorting you both until your forehead touched his and your body was curled with your neck extended. The hand over your mouth shifted and the scents changed, the newest addition belonging to the delta who must’ve been on the bed behind you.

“Here you go doll,” his voice was gravelly, a strange tone that sounded almost underused with a very slight burr that reminded you of an alpha’s purr—minus the calming pheromones.

“In the meantime,” Thor joined the crowd on the bed, shifting to settle just to Peter’s right and carefully avoiding Steve’s outstretched legs, “No shrieking, little love.”

The alpha command washed over you like tar, your chest seizing. Your vocal cords felt suspended, the more you tried to shriek the more painful the sensation got. The hand that hand been over your mouth slipped down to your chin, tipping your head back carefully as leather circled your neck. A reedy, whistling whine escaped your lips and Peter’s cheek was immediately rubbing against your face, down your neck and over the collar being tightened around your throat. He was scenting you, trying to provide comfort by drenching your skin with a protective perfume.

“Oh baby don’t make that sound,” he murmured, lips brushing over your face as the others shifted around the pair of you, “it’s for your own good, omega—”

“No!” Your voice rasped with the cry, “get it off! I won’t stay here, I won’t—”

“Regulate your breathing, precious, the collar will make you feel more secure,” in the shift Steve had ended up with you sitting on the bed between his legs, his ankles crossed to trap your lower body tightly while his fingers twined with yours to restrain your arms, “maybe it needs to be tighter? Bucky, is it pressing the hormone glands firmly enough?”

There was some shuffling and mumbling and you whined as the collar got a notch tighter, only slightly restricting your breathing. It was just this side of uncomfortable, walking the edge of distressing and you were forced to quickly calm your frantic breaths lest you hyperventilate—there was no telling what they’d do if you passed out, if you couldn’t control your breathing and fainted. You could feel the leather pressing the nodes on either side of your neck, causing a reaction that pumped your body full of chemicals. They were meant to induce intimacy and trust in an omega while alleviating stress, the constant oxytocin and endorphin production that flooded the system resulting in a low-grade addiction. Or so you’d hypothesized.

Omega physiology was a trash compactor of undesirable traits but the hormone set up was abhorrent, the limbic system an evolutionary disaster—two pituitary glands, two scent glands, and the thyroid were all located in the neck, the hypothalamus in the brain with the hippocampus and amygdala. You didn’t know the history of the collars, you didn’t have a head for timelines, but you knew that omega subjugation wouldn’t be so easy or convenient without them. It was like long term sedation with highly addictive chemicals; omegas didn’t stand a chance when their own body’s chemistry was used against them.

“This is inhumane,” you managed to choke out, between the rage and fear and high the collar caused you could barely keep your teeth from chattering, “I’m a human being, of sound mind—I can think for myself and protect myself­—I don’t need or want a pack, I don’t—fuck, please listen to me!”

Your voice was weak and raspy, no wonder the omegas you always saw were so docile; your breathing was somewhat restricted, your vocal cords unable to reach full range. Even if Thor hadn’t given an alpha order you wouldn’t have been able to shriek, speaking was exhausting. The command would wear off in an hour or two and it wouldn’t even make a difference. How were you supposed to argue your suitability for autonomy if you couldn’t talk?

“Of course you’re of sound mind, love—”

“No, shut up!” You croaked, eyes flashing to Thor’s surprised face, “listen. Would you treat a beta this way? If I was any other presentation this behavior would be abhorrent—it would be illegal! Please, you’re superheros aren’t you? Be rational, for a moment, please!”

You didn’t realize Bruce had joined the group in the attic until he spoke, “betas don’t have a physiological requirement for physical contact with other presentations, sweetheart.”

A green light went off in your brain, a shine in your eyes as you looked at the doctor, “w-wait, wait I would argue—” your voice cut out for a second and you cleared your throat the best you could, desperation sitting in your stomach, “I would argue that your wording is inherently biased. Omegas don’t have a physiological requirement for contact with other presentations; their bodies require chemicals that it doesn’t naturally produce, the same way we require amino acids to survive—”

“You know your stuff, don’t you princess? Where’d you go to school?” Tony Stark emerged into the attic, still wearing the immaculately pressed suit he’d been in earlier, “you know, before you dropped out and went into hiding.”

“It’s disrespectful to interrupt someone when they’re speaking, you duplicitous bastard,” you spat, the presence of yet another delta setting your teeth on edge.

“Oh yeah, hey Buck did you meet y/n? She really hates deltas,” he was grinning, the asshole.

“Is y/n your real name, sweetheart?” Bruce asked, tossing Tony a stern look, “We found several IDs in your things, all different names. The contract we got from the cleaning agency listed your name as y/n.”

It took you a moment to think through the question—and another minute after that to remember which name you used while in Ontario. You real first name, fake last name. Fake age, maybe? Or was that the Quebec ID? Did your real name even matter at this point? It had been so long since it had meant anything to you (other than being the easiest name to respond to properly, but you could train yourself to answer to anything).

“My name is inconsequential,” you finally responded, eyebrows furrowing, “we’re debating the ethics of kidnapping people, remember?”

“That sounds like biased wording if I’ve ever heard it,” Stark snorted, “try preventing a vulnerable omega from being killed in the streets.”

“Over dramatic, no basis for fact, denied,” you snapped angrily, quickly turning your attention to Bruce, “come on, listen man! You’re subjugating the entire omega population based on inherently incorrect medical assumptions from two hundred years ago or something! The only scientific causation between modern omega theory and actual omega statistics is that the overall population of omegas has dropped dramatically since the induction of Omega Law!”

“There’s no proof that’s causation, sweetheart,” Bruce’s arms were crossed over his chest, “the odds lie in the favour of correlation.”

“We would know if any studies had been done! There have been less than twenty official studies regarding omega biology in the last ten years!” Begging—you were begging, you could hear it, “there haven’t been any studies done regarding the effects of the other presentation’s interference in omega behavior on their physiology! We know more about Olinguitos than we do omega’s chemistry and those’ve only existed in main stream science circles for the last six years!”

“You need to calm down omega,” Steve’s voice was one octave away from a purr, “you’re getting frantic and your heart rate is through the roof. You’re going to hyperventilate.”

“Y’all think she might be more comfortable if she wasn’t being surrounded on all sides by strangers?” Sam asked sarcastically from the stairway as he came up with a tray, his facial expression riding the fence between irritated and amused, “Peter, Bucky, back up guys. Thor, you really gotta be right there when Steve’s got the poor thing completely restrained?”

Hope was like a gut punch, bile rushing up your throat only for you to swallow it back down—gulping with the collar around your neck caused enough discomfort that you realized eating was going to be difficult. Your eyes locked on Sam as the bodies around you shuffled once again. Bucky and Peter both slipped off the bed, the young alpha sulking while the delta calmly returned to the bags he’d left sitting in the corner. Thor wasn’t so gracious as to outright back off, but he did scoot about a foot back on the bed.

“Alright sweetheart, first things first, are you hungry? Dinner’s gonna be about an hour so I brought up some snacks. If Steve let’s go of you, do you promise not to try to run off?” The man approached the edge of the bed, holding the tray against his hip, “we can have a discussion.”

Suspicion lanced through you, there was no way the offer was as innocent as it seemed. Most of the time engaging with people who wanted to have discussions didn’t go well but you weren’t sure what your alternative option was. There was no reason to test their patience at this point so you nodded slowly, feeling Steve’s chest press into your back as he sighed. He lifted you carefully and set you down onto the mattress, far more gracefully than any alpha prime had the right to be as he climbed off the bed.

“Now can at least some of you get out?” The alpha turned to stare back at his packmates still cluttering the attic, “please?”

They were all still for several seconds before Thor and Steve exchanged a heavy glance and both nodded, turning respectfully and walking down the stairs—another shocking display that made your heart stutter. An alpha prime silently acquiescing to the request of an alpha in front of their pack, signaling that others should follow, was a sign of an incredibly strong pack. It meant strong, competent leadership, respect, and consideration. Too bad they still considered you little more than an animal.

Bucky and Peter followed with mournful back glances, Tony moving to join them looking more exasperated than saddened. Bruce went to follow but you immediately felt a prospect of hope leaving with him.

“W-Wait, Bruce—right? Bruce, you’re rational, a scientist? Please, stay, let me debate this with you—”

“Hey! I’m a scientist too! I have PhDs!” Stark balked immediately, tossing his hands up as if to emphasize the aggravation her attitude was causing.

“Tony, don’t—”

“No, you stay too!” You cut Sam off when the alpha began to admonish his pack mate, “you’re an asshole but you understand fucking logic, I’ll take it.”

“What about me?” Peter squeezed eagerly back onto the landing, “I have three masters and—”

“Peter no, no more alphas in here please,” Sam stared the younger alpha down for just a moment with a stern eye, “please?”

Peter groaned but turned back, trudging down the stairs like a teenager. The air felt clearer when all that was left in the room was a three people other than yourself, the two scientists and the alpha. Part of you felt increasingly panicked, as if somehow the quiet setting was more ominous than the previous. The other part of you realized that this particular group was far less likely to violate you while you sat half naked on a bed than the others.

“Okay now,” Sam toed off his shoes before stepping onto the bed, carefully bringing the tray with him to set on your lap before he sat down, “let’s slow down for a few minutes. I know I don’t understand what you’re going through, but my little sister is an omega so I do have a little more knowledge than most of the pack. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on from your perspective.”

Burning frustration lit a path down your spine—this alpha might’ve seen omegas as more than pets, but he certainly spoke down to you like you were an irrational child. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on from your perspective?

“From my perspective I’ve been assaulted and terrorized and falsely imprisoned for I don’t know how long now!” You spat, practically vibrating in irritation, “you’re trying to justify this treatment because I’m an omega but my designation doesn’t mean I deserve to be treated like something to be caught and stolen! I want to leave, I want this horrible collar off my neck, and I want my stuff back! And if you tell me to calm down, so help me God—”

Sam’s mouth snapped shut from where he’d started to speak, immediately folding his hands into his lap and clearing his throat, “right, no telling you to calm down. Got it. Now, where are you from?”

“Doesn’t matter,” you grit your teeth slightly when the alpha sighed, “I want to leave, now.”

“You can’t leave sweetheart, not unless we get everything figured out. If you have an alpha, we’ll need to get you back to them. If you don’t, we certainly can’t just let you go back off on your own—it’s way too dangerous.”

“No it isn’t, I’ve been on my own for years and I’m fine! Not once have I had any problems, not until now!”

“Yeah, unfortunately for you our beta here has an alpha rage monster inside of him who managed to catch your scent beneath the suppressants,” Tony looked almost proud as he slung his arm over the beta’s shoulders, tugging him slightly, “if Bruce didn’t tip off Steve, who knows if he would’ve caught it.”

“Wow—Jesus Christ, you make me want to punch you in the face,” you snarled, hands clenching into fists in your lap, “I’m not a helpless omega, I’ve been happy, do you understand that? Do you know how rare it is for an omega to get to be happy? It’s like winning the lottery. Please, I like being happy. Please just let me go.”

“Sweetheart it isn’t rare for omegas to be happy,” Sam was frowning like you’d dropped a suicide note on his lip, “there are so few of them, they’re taken care of like royalty, baby.”

“Plus, omegas in packs are statistically less likely to suffer mental illness—”

“God, would you shut up about that?” Bruce’s eyes went wide when you snapped at him, “that study was trash, the bias was overwhelming and it hasn’t been replicated since. Omegas in packs wear collars that force their bodies to over produce oxytocin and when that’s removed they go insane from withdrawals. The same happens with the chemicals produced by the other presentations’ pheromones; instead of being given supplements to make up for the absence omega’s bodies are left to wilt. It has everything to do with medical malpractice and nothing to do with omega nature! There’s nothing happy about that!”

“Look, there are obviously places where the known biology of omega’s has holes,” Stark admitted, one hand in his pocket while the other was held aloft, “There’s a lot we don’t know, but what we do know is that when omegas are left to their own devices they end up dead.”

“They end up kidnapped, raped, and forcibly bonded by alphas!” If the collar had allowed the pitch you would’ve been shrieking, “By alphas who’s packs rape and bond the omegas, too. The only danger to omegas are the other presentations!”

“That’s why they have to be protected,” Sam emphasized his words with a dose of calming pheromones, and you snarled.

“Stop trying to manipulate me! All your doing is inhibiting my ability to think and feel for myself—do you not see how cruel and insane that is? That you’re literally attempting to—”

“This is a lot of ROR rhetoric,” Bruce sighed quietly, obviously aiming his words to Tony but you picked it up.

“There’s no such thing as ‘radical’ omega’s rights! We just want to be allowed to exist without our lives and hormones being constantly controlled by outside forces that we never chose!” Your voice broke towards the end and you realized tears were welling in your eyes—this conversation was not going your way and hope was dwindling rapidly, “why is that so hard to understand? That chemically controlling another human being is inhumane?”

“Alright, alright, let’s take a second and calm down,” Sam requested sternly, eyes widening when you immediately hissed, “Not just you, ‘mega. Everyone, including me, okay?”

It was truly a battle to fight down the ire rising in your throat, nearly choking you at the collar. You wondered cruelly if he’d treated his sister like she was an infant her entire life, if this was his bedside manner for omegas. The poor thing was probably so addicted to oxytocin she was barely alive.

“Please, let me go,” you begged quietly, squeezing your eyes shut against the tears, “if you have any humanity in you, let me go.”

When you looked up at him again, the doleful look on his face made your heart crumble to pieces.

“Lots of omegas are apprehensive at first, baby,” his voice was gentle, low and forlorn, “when you first present… my sister was seventeen. She was in so much pain and she begged for help, for almost a full week. When she came out of it she could barely remember how bad it had been but we remembered. The agony she’d suffered because she didn’t have an alpha through the process—we couldn’t let that happen over and over again, could we? As her packmates how could we let her endure that? She was upset at first, but now she has a pack that waits on her hand and foot, a whole slew of babies, anything she could ever ask for at her fingertips.”

“She was upset at first,” your heart broke for Sam’s sister, where ever she was, “you realize she was only able to be upset at first, right? Because after a while, she probably stopped being able to process the usual scale of emotion she enjoyed before you allowed her to be given a chemical lobotomy and sold her off—seventeen, God, she never even got to live and you’re talking about her like she’s some sort of success story?”

The look in the man’s brown eyes was getting darker and darker the longer you spoke but a dam had broke and your mouth kept moving, hoarse sounds barking borderline cruel words in fast succession.  

“I hope her ability to feel betrayal went first so she didn’t have to deal with the memory of her family auctioning her off like fucking cattle. Success story,” you scoffed, lips lifted in a fang flashing snarl, “that wasn’t a fucking success story you knottedheaded piece of shit, it was a cautionary tale.”