#washette fanfiction

[therealslimshakespeare]

I pitched headlong back into my Lafayette feels tonight

[hiidkwhatimdoing7525]

The fic is out! @rainydayscribbling @bribery-muffins

[jefferoni-quotes]

18 and 56 with the father and son relationship of washingdad and laf? pretty please?

18. “It’s okay to cry...”

56. “I don’t do hugs.”

I couldn’t decide between soft Lafayette being comforted or tough Lafayette comforting, so have something in between.

Modern AU (but I have a headcanon that Lafayetet still calls Washington ‘General,’, because he respects him that much and it makes them both smile)

- - -

Washington rubbed his temples so hard that his knuckles went white. He scrunched his eyes up and little creases and wrinkles showed up by the sides of them in stress.

“General? General, are you okay?” Lafayette cracked the office door open, and stepped inside.

George glanced up momentarily. “I’m busy at the moment, Marquis. Just go away please.”

“General.” Lafayette said sternly. “I was not born yesterday. I can see when something is upsetting you.” He closed the door and dropped down the few stairs into the main part of his office.

Washington chuckled. “You’re a smart man, Laf.”

“I know that.” Lafayette chuckled. “Now. What’s stressing you out?” He plopped down on the armchair across the room.

“Nothing, I’m fine. Just busy, and I have a lot of pent up emotion.” George confessed, clammy hands grasping the edges of his desk. Lafayette rose and practically sprinted over like an Olympian, settling his arms on Washington’s desk.

“Liar!” Lafayette smirked. He looked forward at the man who had essentially raised him and frowned. “It’s okay to cry...”

“I don’t need to cry.” George insisted, looking down again. Lafayette narrowed his eyes, he knew what needed to be done. He swiped across the desk, sending his work crashing to the ground. “MARQUIS DE LAFAYETTE! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING!?” Washington exploded, thumping a fist off the table. One tear gathered in his eye, but he quickly wiped it away. If one fell, a rainstorm would follow.

“Then maybe you need a hug.” Lafayette smiled lovingly.

“I don’t do hugs.” He stared coldly, a stone glare.

Lafayette rolled his eyes. “Everyone does hugs. Even you, General.” He tipped his chin up, looking up into the light. “I need one too...”

“Fine, Fine. I accept. But this is to cheer you up! Not me!”

“Of course.”

- - -

Requests are open!

[daphneyoumustmakehaste]

Okay okay okay I couldn’t resist

George looked over at his boyfriend perched on the armchair besides the fireplace. His face was facing downwards, eyes scanning the pages on his lap. His ponytail had loosened, so some of his face was framed by loose hairs.

George shifted in his seat to get a better look at him, closing the book on the American Civil War he had been reading. He lay it idly in his lap and craned his neck to get a better view of Lafayette.

He had a concentrated expression on his face, eyebrows furrowed as he continued to read. His mouth was morphed into a small, natural frown. His finger travelled mesmerisingly over the cream-coloured page.

“Hey, Laf?” George called out softly. Lafayette’s head shot up from his book and looked over at George, whose lips had curved into a loving smile as he watched his lover.

“Oui, amour?” He asked, tilting his head ever so slightly; the movement caused more of his hair to fall out the loose ponytail. Lafayette’s hands moved upwards and pulled out his hair tie, but immediately tied it back up again — tighter this time.

“You have a...” he paused, completely forgetting what he was going to say. Lafayette raised an eyebrow silently. “Nice face?”

He mentally kicked himself. You have a nice face? What the fuck, George?

Lafayette’s face portrayed confusion, but only for a second. He soon regained composure and smiled back at George. “Oui. Oui, I do.”

“I mean,” he tried again, racking his brain for better pick up lines, if you could even call that a pick up line. “A nice face.” There it was again. A nice fucking face. Flirt of the year: you have a nice face

“Uh, thank you? I think?” Gilbert was still smiling, mostly out of amusement, but his eyes were definitely questioning.

“Oh my God,” George groaned, running his hands up and down his face; it had been a long day. “Please accept my awkward attempts of flirting, I don’t know what I’m doing.”

He heard Lafayette chuckle, and watched him delicately place a bookmark on the page where he was at. He got up and made his way over to George, a wide smile on his face; George’s face was a dark red colour.

“Bien sûr, j'accepte votre flirt terrible, mon amour,” he gushed, sitting down besides George and draping his arms above his elbows and around his neck. George replied by letting his head fall onto Lafs shoulder, groaning something unintelligible.

“Tu es trop mignon,” he cooed. George huffed and gripped Lafayette’s hips, pulling him onto his lap.

“Shut up, or you’re sleeping on the couch,” George threatened, but his voice was bright and airy.

“Not if I make you sleep on the couch first,” Lafayette replied, tapping his head with his index finger. “You love me too much anyway.”

“I don’t know why.” He looked at Gilbert, who was smiling at him with the most adorable, irresistible smile. “But I do.”

“And I love you,” Lafayette said, nuzzling George’s neck with his head. “My terrible flirter.”

He smiled to himself smugly. That was until George pushed him off his lap and sauntered off up the winding staircase towards their bedroom.

“Non, Amour! Désolé! Désolé!” He called after him. Lafayette let out an audible noise of frustration and dragged himself to his feet, racing after George.

It took him half an hour filled with coaxing, puppy dog eyes, threatening and kissing to get George to let him lie down on the bed, and another fifteen minutes filled with whining and harassing to get George to cuddle him, but once he was in George’s arms, nothing could get him out of them

[legrandepapillon]

Chapters: 18/30
Fandom: Hamilton - Miranda
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette/George Washington, Alexander Hamilton & John Laurens & Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette & Hercules Mulligan, Adrienne de Lafayette & Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette
Characters: Gilbert du Motier Marquis de Lafayette, George Washington, Adrienne de Lafayette, Alexander Hamilton, John Laurens, Hercules Mulligan, Michel du Motier Marquis de Lafayette, Marie Louise Jolie de La Rivière, Maria Reynolds, Elizabeth “Eliza” Schuyler
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, semi-modern au, Age Difference, Classism, Wealth Importance
Summary: Arranged marriages were a common affair—especially in a world where your hand in marriage is only worth as much as your dowry, and you are your parents property until they say otherwise. Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette—heir to a French title and wealthy import business—had just never expected he’d be subjected to one. (an alternate universe where marriages between young heirs and older affluent people are arranged for power, wealth, and the continuity of financial security)

[herewithstupid]

As I finish the rough draft of one of these two gift fics, specifically the one that has been vexing me the most, I am a combination of these two images:

[beanjuice-duh]

Naps of Monmouth

a/n: drabble stretch, get the writing juice going early.  summary: after the battle of Monmouth, George is eager to see one of his boys safe and sound w/c: 2448 warning: uneditted draft

The smell of gunpowder still lingered in the air around the blood stained fields of Monmouth. George watched as Molly feverishly carried around a cast iron water pitcher and ladle, waddling to the remaining soldiers who lived. Barely.

The battle was set to be doomed. George Washington had left General Charles Lee in charge of recapturing the New Jersey post. However, when Lee was faced with the British military waiting for them, the American’s roughly 1000 foot men versus the skilled British that ranged about 1400-1600 of them. He retreated. The hasty retreat not only costed them most of their footing but dozens of men, dying in the line of fire while Lee was the first to escape with his musket between his legs like a cowering dog. God had been gracious, Washington and his aides were nearby. Hamilton had received word Lee’s disastrous retreat was underway. In a fit of rage Washington bounded on horse back towards the field, commanding Hamilton to let Washington’s dear, French aide know that he was needed on the battlefield.

George had managed, his capable Generals managed to push the British back for another battle. The casualties mounted on both sides. If it wasn’t the bloodshed it was the heat, men dropping to the ground dead. In the midst of battle George emptied his mind. He ...loved the fight, he loved the sound of war ever since he was a child. Violence was all he understood, all he knew until he met the aftermath in there face. Then he learned to empty his anger on his enemies and leave it on the battlefield, dead along with them. Washington dragged his feet, reunited with a few of his Generals when Molly wondered over to him. “Thank you, Miss Molly” George brought the ladle to his lips and took three long gulps of water. The cool liquid barely made a dent in his dry throat, his body soaked in sweat but still for the moment the cold rush cleared his muddled mind. “Thank you for being here for our men, we truly are in your debts.”

“Anything for your men...I only wished God had been kinder on a day like today….the sun never beat down so hard...your men…” She turned and watched as the still able carted off their fallen comrades. Hamilton in the midst of the body count. He was never queasy around death. He knew him well, like an old friend. “Dyin’ in hell's heat like that…”

“Fight would have ended sooner if I had came sooner…” Washington closed his eyes, how could he let Lee take this command? He should have listened to Alexander. He should have known, Charles Lee was no general. He was a coward and had no place in his army. “Your a brave woman Molly. Your husband must be proud.”

“If my husband was out here...I’d want someone looking out for his soul too.” Molly pulled her iron pitcher back and began to turn to aid other soldiers when Washington stopped her short.

“By chance...have you see Major General Lafayette?” In a moment of clear mindedness George realized among his generals Lafayette had not been accounted for. He had seen the young, brilliant Frenchman on the back of his white stallion, bounding in westward on the field after Hamilton had sent for his assistance. After that...he was lost in the sea of redcoats and canon fire. The little woman shook her head, then apologized, leaving George so she may help other men. In that moment George felt unease. Had he… No, Gilbert was skilled, beyond his years. Same age as Alexander but twice the military experience. He loved his boy, Hamilton, like a son but he knew Hamilton never fought until now. Lafayette was different, he was bred for war. Looks had been deceiving to George, he remembered at first sight he saw a youthful, sweetened boy but when placed in the face of foes he was an Angel of death.

He wouldn’t have died by the hands of the British. But the Heat… It was over 100 degrees out, men were dying just from pure exhaustion from the fight and after. Their hearts giving out from hell they faced here on battle. Suddenly George was moving, his eyes scanning through his muddy, uniformed men, the ones who were living...and slowly looking down at the ones who were dead. His heart sank every time he approached a body. His face was unreadable, he used over forty years of habitual masking to keep himself from falling prey to emotional distress.

“Sir.” But there was one person who’s job was to read his mind. “Your Excellency” George cringed at formality from someone he regarded to be his son. “What troubles you sir? Have you drenched your throat yet? Molly has been passing around a pitcher of fresh water and…” He met Washington’s stern, tired, deep set eyes as he glossed over the bodies covered with tattered white sheets. “...over 90 now...only over sixty are from gunfire...almost two dozen from heat”

“I see.” Washington stood out, his poor men. How he wished he could have been here sooner…

“Shame that Lee isn’t among the first to have died, how I would have loved to toss a cloth over his face so he could finally do his hiding properly...six feet under.” Alexander gritted his teeth, even more livid that George by the complete hypocrisy that was the ‘leadership’ of General Lee. Washington’s face went red, not from the heat, that ungodly rage of his. Hamilton could almost see his hand twitch for his sword as if ready to put Lee down himself. But there was a hesitation, not his usual deep breath to steady himself. No, something in the forefront of his mind that brought him back. A worry. “Ah…” Alexander took a knowing step away from the General. “He’s not here, sir.”

“What.” George’s eyes slid to his young aide-de-camp.

“Surely, your Excellency.” Washington rolled his eyes, having half the mind to tune Hamilton out. “You did not put Marquis de Lafayette at the head of battle and think him to be naive enough to die out here? No, you surely would not have sent that young, doe eyed French nobleman to his untimely death.” Alexander smirked watching his General tense up. “Lafayette took his men to a nearby river to cool down, I heard he lost the least amount of men out there, I would search the banks, there is a chance they are still there.”

“I...see.” George felt little ease in speculation that Lafayette was alive. He had to see it for himself.

“I would have stayed by the lapping banks of the rivers too after a fight like this...I’ll man your post until you return with your beloved junior General.”

Beloved, no, Lafayette was not beloved. Beloved was a word reserved for the wives of men. For the women who the men dreamed to reunite with. George was well aware Hamilton had no problem expressing himself regardless the gender. He had his own hunches that Hamilton lived for his moments of peace so he could spend them with his beloved friend, Laurens. Only a few weeks of meeting and Hamilton didn’t dine if not by the fire with John at his side. Beloved, was for the faces they burned on the other side of their eyelids when they fell asleep. For George he reserved beloved for his sweet wife Martha who ran their plantation without complaint. For the country he wanted to free.

George could not risk finding these men beloved. Even the ones he regarded as son, war was a fickle thing. It did not allow men to choose who’d they lose and when. Regarding any man at war beloved was also accepting the pain and loss of the moment they die without a word. Without a whisper. As George mounted his horse he noticed more men were returning from the direction where the river laid. Their uniforms soaked with water. Surely if not for Lafayette’s direction they would have died in the heat, how lucky the Frenchman was. How quick he was to steer his men to a babbling, cool oasis.

His eyes squinted against the sun, that was still beating down on them, and the dust that lifted up from dozens of men running back to the main camps. Some half rejoicing to be alive, some mourning the loss of their friends, others tired of living. George paused and found what he was looking for. The body of the now drenched French General sprawled under a shade giving tree. George looked around and found they were alone now, the men had gotten their full of the river and heat and wished to return to the camps in hopes to find a spare cot to rest on. “General Lafayette.” Washington spoke, dismounting his horse. For a second he felt a worry strike him when he got no response. Lafayette was always prepared to show only the utmost respect towards him. Instead he stirred, he opened his eyes and smiled at George. Soon, all worries and formalities melted away. “See you’ve found time to rest, does war sooth your inner babe? Does it lull you to sleep?” Was the sound of war also a lullabye to the young European noble?

“Not precisely, mon General.” Lafayette beamed, though he was already much more fluent in English than he had been he retained some of it, as a sort of ...way to show endearment. George found the French language sweet on the ears. It wasn’t as abrasive as English, it suited Lafayette so.  “The sounds of victory c’est sweet.”

“I would hardly call this a victory, young man.” George stood just out of reach of the shade, he wanted to feet the heat. It fueled his teeth grinding anger. “If I hadn’t been so foolish, I should have never returned Lee to his post...I should have known his decline was a sign of pure cowardice.”

“You couldn’t have known, Alexandre couldn’t have known. You did what you thought was just...It is Lee who failed you. You did not fail us, you saved us. We snatched a stalemate in the jaws of defeat, we lost less than the English and pushed them out of this area for now, mon General, you did us right.” Lafayette spoke softly.

George’s face eased a bit, few had the ability to break through to George. Hamilton knew how to get under George’s skin and mind, Lafayette knew how to weasel into his heart. He slowly approached the young man, half his body bathed in shade, and sat beside him. He eyed him up and down, his uniform was damp, clinging to his body. Every curve and bump was outlined by the clinging fabric. Left so little to the imagination. “Your disrespect for your uniform calls for reprimanding. A General cannot be seen in such form. What will the others say?”

“They will say, ‘alas that ingenious Marquis took a dip in the river, saved his men from the murderous heat and still managed to look handsome while soaking’” Lafayette smiled coyly, he looked down at his bare shins and feet. “I do admit… I might have lost some garments in the process…”

The hot sun would surely burn Lafayette’s slender legs...George sighed, slowly he took off his jacket and draped it over Lafayette’s legs, shielding him from the deadly light. Gilbert looked up at the strong profile of his General. His General, the man who at first sight he felt an immediate warmth towards. His eyes never showing an ounce of emotion. He envied how close Alexander worked with Washington. How seamlessly the petit lion seemed to read George’s every thought… His favorite no doubt.

George must have felt Lafayette’s pained gaze on him, his eyes darted downward at Gilbert, arching a full brow at him. “Is there something on your mind, son?” Gilbert looked unusually pensive for someone who was just lazing about on the grass.

“I’m enjoying the view, if I die in the next second I want this to be the last thing I see…” He beamed though his general did not appreciate the talk of premature death. Gilbert laughed a bit, “to die on the same soil as my General. What an honor that would be.” He yawned closing his eyes, he didn’t have his fill of George’s face but he knew it was rude to oogle his superior. Lafayette stole glances to curb his desire to stare. He turned to his side, facing George, curling into the over sized jacket placed over him.

How strangely patriotic this young French man was. More so than most, Washington couldn’t count the among of treacherous American spies he had to look out for. The numerous men who were too cowardly to die for their country yet still joined the army in search of glory. The unrivaled bravery that came from a man who was willing to lay down his life for another country...for another man...George watched Lafayette’s face relax, his cheek nuzzled against the grass. He deserved every ounce of peace they could get from the stalemate. Slowly he bent his knee to push himself off when a hand gently reached out and stopped him. Lafayette’s fingers curled around the silk of his underblouse and tugged. “Yes?”

“Stay here.” He pleaded sleepily, his eyes were closed and unable to see the shocked face of Washington. “You should rest, your stress will send you back to the doctor’s quarters...sooner than Hamilton.”

George never found the need to rest. However, the grip of those fingers that moments ago tactfully pulled triggers and ended what could have been a massive loss...also played with a trigger in his heart.

Slowly the larger man lowered himself against the grass, using one arm behind his head as a pillow. He felt the breeze on his skin and months of endless worries and military planning weighed down his lids. He breathed feeling a hand fan out over his chest and a head full of hair press up against the side of his sweat drenched neck. Washington breathed, when would he find comfort like this? In the midst of war…

His free arm slithered around Lafayette’s body and forced him closer, until his side was lined with the front of the young French general’s person. His rested his large, commanding hand on the small of his back, fingers toying to go lower. A purr spilled from Lafayette’s dreamy lips then coiled them into a puckered smile. George fought himself between sleep and sin, battling himself as if the real revolution was in his hard set desires.

War was beautiful.

[gimme-that-pen-back]

Your only responsibility as a fanfic writer is to properly tag your work

Other than that you can do as you please

Just thought I’d say this in case anyone really wants to write something but isn’t sure whether they should, whether it would be any good, whether it has a ‘good message’ etc... - because I really wish someone told me this when I started writing fanfiction.

Fanfiction is an incredible medium because its targeted at a niche group and will be completely invisible to the outside world. This makes it the perfect space to let your creativity go wild and practice writing without worrying too much about anything else. 

When I decided to write fanfiction, choosing to let go of the relentless need to make my writing perfect and conscientious was the best thing I could have done. I chose to write for me and exclusively for the people who would want to read it, not the outside the world. And it has done wonders for my creativity. What I also realised surprisingly recently was one, my writing to start off with was terrible and through the repetition of writing fanfiction has improved in my real work, and two, that meticulously tagging is a great way to write whatever content you want without worrying about hurting someone. 

So make sure you properly tag and rate your work. Other than that, follow the muse and write that damn fanfiction. 

[enlitment]

Reasons why other people want a time machine:  I could meet Shakespeare and discuss his plays with him! I could watch Leonardo Da Vinci paint Mona Lisa! I could go back to the roaring twenties and throw amazing parties, like in The Great Gatsby!

Reasons why I want a time machine: I would go back to the 18th century and make the founding fathers read all the fanfiction to see how they would react

[jamalam]

And He Wipes Away Someone Else’s Kiss Marks

This is the Domestic AU Washette y’all voted for! Big thanks to @8cringefest8 for helping me edit this! Make sure to reblog if you enjoyed!

“George, darling?” Lafayette asked quietly, setting his book aside and looking up at his husband. “May I ask you something?”

“Anything, Gil,” George answered, folding back the pages of his document and taking off his glasses to clean the lenses, the cloth of his shirt leaving smudged lines on the glass.

“Do you… Do you love him? Alexander?” Whispered Lafayette, his tone of voice a facade of strength, like steady castle walls protecting cobblestone that had long ago turned to dust. Fire had been set, and now all that was left, instead of flame, was a desolate, empty landscape that had once held so much life.

Furrowing his brow, George set his glasses down on the coffee table and sat up straighter, his back no longer leaning against the smooth leather of their couch. “I… Of course I do, Gil- he’s like family to me-”

“Family that you fuck,” Lafayette interrupted, turning his gaze upwards to stare the man in front of him directly in the eyes. Much to George’s surprise, it was not a squinted glance of spite, striking fear into his heart like ice stabbing chills down his spine. Instead, Lafayette’s eyes were wide, glassy and seemingly a silent plea for him to be wrong, that his accusations held no weight, that he would be proven incorrect and they could reconcile with cuddles next to the fireplace and steaming mugs of hot cocoa. “I found a bottle of lube in your car, George.”

“Laffy Taffy, that’s not a sign that I would do something like cheat on you,” George explained, leaning forward and attempting to brush a stray curl out of Lafayette’s eyes, frowning when his husband flinched away, eyes only becoming even moreso wet with unshed tears. “I kept that there in case you wanted to-”

“It was half empty, George,” Lafayette spat, cutting him off once more and shoving him away, feeling a stinging pain in his heart. It was as though the honey-sweet affection of only days ago had somehow been hunted down by bees that decided he was worthy of attack. “But your texts were definitely full. The… The pictures were very explicit… I hadn’t known you were such a deviant that you’d go so far as to, how did you put it, ‘give your darling Alexander a bit of fun after the meeting, if he stayed in the conference room afterwards’? Your darling Alexander… You know, not so long ago, I was your darling Gilbert. Tell me, when did you start thinking I was interchangeable with your… your… your whore?!”

“Alexander is not a whore!” George shouted, standing up and grimacing as soon as he heard the words he’d spoken. The soundwaves echoed through their apartment, bouncing off their wedding photos and family portraits, perhaps even finding their way to the picture of their son’s first day of school, which had only been framed a few weeks ago. “I-I mean…. Lafayette, I can- I can explain, I swear, just give me a chance…”

“You don’t deserve a chance,” Lafayette murmured, rubbing his eyes in effort to prevent the tears in his eyes from spilling over and trailing down his cheeks like waterfalls from a broken dam of broken trust and shattered promises. “You fucked him, and in the process, you fucked up everything we’ve built up over the years.”

“I know I fucked up,” George admitted, biting his lower lip in fear and dropping to his knees, staring up at Lafayette with wide, terrified eyes at the thoughts racing through his head like running water. Every time his managed to grasp one, it slipped out of his grasp and flowed down, far out of his reach, quickly being replaced by one that was far too similar but undeniably different. “I know that I ruined everything, and fuck, I don’t deserve you, I never did. But I love you, and I know that you used to love me. And if you used to love me, maybe there’s a little bit of that love left in your heart, and you could manage to look inside your heart and find it again, if only to tell me that you need time to think things over. Please, Gilbert… I love you, and I made a mistake…”

“You didn’t make a mistake, George,” Whispered Lafayette, turning his gaze away from the desperate man in front of him. “You are one of the smartest, cleverest men I’ve ever met, and I used to love it, but now I think it’s a damn shame how much our son takes after you.”

“I never meant for it to be like this, Gil, I never meant to hurt you,” George pleaded, doing his best to ignore the warm sting of tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “I was drunk, and I missed you, and that time I slept with him was the worst decision I’ve ever made because it’s a decision that hurt you…”

“I’m not an idiot, George. I know that it’s been more than once… I know that you’ve been fucking him for… for months…” He breathed, the words coming out struggled, as if they were twisting through the air and wrapping around his throat to strangle him. “I know you’ve been having an affair for six months… And I’m going to ask you again… Do you love him?”

George reached up and grasped Lafayette’s hand tightly, squeezing it and not making any effort to wipe away the tears that struck down his cheeks like comets on the night sky. “What kind of question is that, Gilbert? You and I have been married for six years-”

“Seven,” Lafayette corrected him, returning his gaze to the man below him and pulling his hand away as if George’s touch had burned his skin. “Seven years. Our anniversary was on Tuesday… And you forgot. But you didn’t forget your six month anniversary with your slut, now did you?”

“He’s not a goddamned slut!” George screamed, standing up once more, his heart beating so loudly and quickly that he could barely hear the rustling of their couch as Lafayette stood up, staring him in the eyes.

“You’re right,” Lafayette whispered, grabbing his car keys and walking over to the front door, opening it, walking through, and turning back just enough to be sure that George heard him. “Alexander’s not a slut- you are.”

And with the simple motion his hands, Lafayette tugged off his wedding band and dropped it, slamming the front door behind him as he left the building that he had once considered home.

[shortyouarel]

so I ended up writing some Washette and it’s not really related at all to the drawing but I figured I’d share it. it’s not much and I don’t think I’m finished with it (although I have a track record of saying I’m going to finish something and then not finishing it) but here you are, I have so many headcanons for this ship (mostly because I haven’t read a lot of it) and I kinda poured them all into this. It’s not that good, but I figured I might as well post it.

Lafayette flounced over to George, who was sitting at the table, rubbing his forehead exasperatedly.

“Mon cherie, are you alright?” 

“M’ fine,” he mumbled. Lafayette frowned. “You are obviously not fine! You need to relax a bit. It’s already dark outside. Come to bed.” 

“I will, I just need to finish this,” he replied, reaching for his coffee mug. Lafayette snatched it away. 

“You’re becoming Alexander!” he chastised. “No more coffee. What are you working on?” 

“Hamilton’s sending me some stuff to review, it’s nothing big. I just need another hour-” 

“Non,” Lafayette said. “Absolutely not. You’ve been working yourself to the bone, cherie, it’s not healthy. This can wait, oui?” George sighed. 

“Alexander said he’s sending more and I should probably get to it before tomorrow so that I can have it approved by the day after.” Lafayette shook his head and got his phone, sending off a quick “Petit lion, stop stealing my boyfriend with all this work” before putting it down and draping his arms around George’s shoulders. 

“It’ll be alright, you shouldn’t have to work late just because Xander is a terrible workaholic who cannot help himself,” he said, gently closing the computer. George slumped in his chair, sighing. “Sorry, Gil, I know I haven’t been spending time with you that much,” he said. “It is quite alright, I understand you’re busy,” Lafayette said, “but right now that is not my concern. Come to bed. It’s late.” George sighed again, getting up and stretching a bit, Lafayette not even bothering to hide the way his eyes scanned his body. He shook such thoughts away. It was late, and George was tired. It was not the time for those things.

When they finally got to bed, Lafayette laid awake, frustrated at his inability to just go to sleep. “Are you alright, dear?” George asked. “Oui, I just… I’m not sure,” he admitted. “Sometimes I just can’t shut down.” “C’mere,” George said, opening his arms for cuddles that Lafayette gladly accepted. Voice muffled in his boyfriend’s chest, he gave a quiet, “Bonne nuit, cherie,” and George smiled, wrapping his arms tighter around Lafayette. “Good night, dear.”

“G’morning,” Laf heard the next day from the kitchen. He turned around to see a sleepy George Washington leaning on the doorframe, looking like he was still waking up a bit. His expression brightened. “Ah! Good morning! I, ah, made something,” he said, offering up some eggs. “Not much, but at least I did not burn down the house, oui?” George laughed, sitting down at the kitchen island. “Thanks, Gil.” Lafayette set two plates of eggs down and hopped onto the barstool at the other side of the counter and passed a fork from the drawer to George.

ehhhhhhh

see reading it again i don’t really like it

lmk what you think

Washette, we've talked about that, you are neglecting them😌

I really have been neglecting them. Here, have this to make up for it! <3 Soft bois.

[missfumy]

you know you’re fucked up when you prefer to start writing a fanfic with your calculator rather than try to understand maths

[daphneyoumustmakehaste]

12 MONTHS OF WASHETTE

A/N: This is twelve months of Washette, but because I’m starting this in April, It’ll end in April 2020. I will probably post this on my AO3 and Wattpad account later on, so I’ll let you know if I do. Anyway, let’s get on with the fanfiction I wrote at 2am instead of sleeping.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

Lafayette hummed along to the tune as he jogged around the park, his dark muscles defined by the sun.

The blossom trees towered above him, forming a sort of arch — the scenery made him smile. It was a peaceful day; the sun was out, the birds were chirping. It was your typical romance movie setting.

Lafayette loved it.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

It was your typical romance movie setting.

George hated it.

He huffed and tugged on the lead. “Coffee, come!” He barked at the Corgi, who came scurrying over.

“Don’t look at me like that,” George complained at the dog, who was giving him puppy-dog eyes. “It’s not my fault your dads are irresponsible, impulsive shits.”

In his defence, it was partially true. George had woken up (alone, as always) to a knock at the door. Who stood, clutching four bags each with Coffee on the lead and begging for George to take her for the day?

Of course, Alexander and Thomas Hamilton-Jefferson.

The couple, he found out, had somehow forgotten about their plans to Monticello to visit Thomas’ family and remembered them practically last minute. As it happened, Thomas’ younger sister was allergic to dogs, and George was the first person they thought of.

He was not honoured, funnily enough.

So that was the story of how he was in the park with a dog at eight in the morning.

George was awoke from his thoughts when the lead was jerked out of his hand. Coffee was bolting full speed down the path.

“Coffee!” He yelled, hobbling after the dog. “Coffee, come back here!”

A few people turned their heads to watch him run awkwardly down the walkway.

That’s when he decided he was firing Alexander and Thomas when they got back.

To his relief, the devil stopped in front of a man, running around him a few times. Not so much to his relief, the mutt jumped up the man, probably dirtying his legs or shorts.

“Coffee!” George approached the dog, fuming and out of breath. He was so going to throttle the dogs owners. “I am so sorry,” he began to say, crouching down so he could pick the lead back up. “Not my—“ he huffed, “not my dog. A friends. Terribly sorry, I—“ the words lost their way in his mouth as he looked up.

George stared at the mans face, trying to place where he had seen him before. Hair tied back, pearly white teeth showing and a blessed figure—

“Lafayette. Gilbert Lafayette. Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette, Marquis de Lafayette, but for the love of God, call me Lafayette.”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Lafayette.” George offered him a quirky smile, wiping some sweat of his brow. “I’m, uh... you’re Alexander and Thomas’ friend, right?”

“Oui,” Lafayette didn’t stop smiling as he looked the man up and down. God, he probably looked pathetic next to Lafayette.

There he was, a crop top and shorts with a dazzling smile and figure. And there was George, polo shirt and jeans.

“George...um...” he faltered, looking up at the blossom trees and laughing. “Forgot my last name,” he joked; all he wanted was for the ground to swallow him.

“Washington?” Lafayette giggled, the sound sending shivers down George’s spine.

“Yeah, I’m guessing I’ve been mentioned?” George’s heart twisted as Lafayette nodded, brown eyes sparkling underneath the morning sun.

“Of course, Monsieur.”

“Only good things I hope?” George barked out a laugh, tightening his grip on Coffees lead.

Lafayette threw his head back and chuckled. His pearly teeth came into view again. “Only the best, Monsieur, only the best.” The smirk that made its way onto Gilbert’s lips — along with the look he sent his way, made George want to curl up in a ball and cry.

“So...I guess I’ll see you around, Lafayette?” George said, clearing his throat.

Gilbert smiled once more and shook George’s hand. “I hope so. Au revoir, George!” He called as he started running.

“Bye!” He yelled, turning back to Coffee, who was cocking her head and looking up at him. It looked as if she was smiling.

“Ah, shut up.”

George’s empty threats were forgotten. And maybe he didn’t mind that the park looked like your typical romance movie setting anymore.

[legrandepapillon]

An Unexplored Battlefront (washette)

Summary: Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette first meets General George Washington through a letter. He doesn’t regret even the smallest moment of it. Prompt: In 1940s America, Person A meets Person B through a pen pal program for soldiers. For some reason, Person B stops writing Person A. Why? Author’s Notes: Gilbert is seventeen here, and George thirty-eight. Yes, I realize homosexuality wasn’t really such a thing you could freely talk about in the forties and black Generals were usually only the head of all-black battalions, but for the sake of creative freedom, I didn’t so much explore the political fronts of the 1940s war-torn America.

c. 1940-1941

They meet through the boarding school that Gilbert attends in America, though it isn’t quite a meeting. When the school instructor tells them about the War, about all the men being sent to the battlefield to fight for the nation’s freedom, Gilbert’s entire class becomes quiet—all of them amazed by the patriotism that the soldiers showed by going to the frontlines. Including the young French student that usually sits at the back, spending his days daydreaming and completely ignoring his studies. Though a dreamer he may be, even he knows that the war had the potential to drag on for years—possibly decades—because the US was not going to allow the Nazi’s to win. That was no option.

Not only that, but most of the students’ older siblings had already been drafted into the military—had already seen the frontlines, some dying on them. Including Lafayette’s older sister, who had gone to be a nurse for the Navy. Every student in the classroom wanted to help, despite their youth. His class had been emptying more and more by the day with kids running off to serve their country—the latest to have gone off to join the fighting being Gilbert’s best and only friend, Alexander Hamilton.

He admired their bravery. Wished that he had been smart enough not to get caught when he tried to enlist under a fake age. Or rather, that he’d been smart enough not to tell his uncle—who marched down to the recruitment office and dragged him back home by his ear, ranting about how he had no idea how romanticized the war had become and how he wasn’t ready for things of that nature.

However, the teacher presents them with an alternative to fighting, another way to help the military men get through the war. Letters. It was a pen pal program setup between the school curriculum and the military—students learned how to write formal letters as a part of their schooling and in exchange the soldiers got someone to talk to outside of the battlefield. For their new assignment, the kids are presented with a small file that contains some information about who they’ll be writing. A picture of their soldier, a little bit about them, and where they were currently deployed.

Gilbert nearly falls out of his chair with excitement and flush when he sees that he gets George Washington, a famed army General that had led attacks from the allies on French soil and had become sort of a war hero in the neighboring countries—the first internationally recognized black war hero at that. He remembers being in France at the start of the war with his mother when the radio began talking of the man's exploits, looking to the older woman as she held hope in her eyes and murmured French prayers.

He remembers that flustered feeling he got stirring in his belly when he opened the newspaper one morning to see the hardened General’s face atop an entire page boasting of his exploits. He still had the newspaper cutout hanging on the back of his bedroom door. Though he knew it was wrong, he kissed it every morning before school.

Gil knows exactly what he wants to say, and starts on his letter the second he’s got the paper on his desk.

When Gilbert receives his first response from George, he’s ecstatic. He almost trips over himself getting the mail one morning after school, shoving Thomas out of the way when he goes towards the mailbox. Though Jefferson looks annoyed at his cousin’s clumsiness, he says nothing—scowling at him but remaining quiet as he ascends the steps to Monticello, the Jefferson manor. Gilbert hangs back from his cousins, waiting for all of them to be in the house before opening the letter. Immediately, his cheeks flush.

Dearest Lafayette, I cannot express how gleeful I am to have received a letter from you on this day, February 3rd of 1940. Though feeling a little childish, Gilbert can still barely repress his squeal of excitement as he brings the letter close to his heart, cheeks burning a bright red. He ascends the staircase to the manor, eyes scanning each word of the letter—glued to the penmanship of the General and the way his letters loop into each other, how he doesn’t dot his ‘i’ or how he forgot to cross a ‘t’. He nearly trips over the staircase with how deeply engrossed he is of the General’s words, completely ignoring both his Aunt and Uncle as they greet him. George talks of everything from the War, to the picture that Gil had sent of himself, to his favorite foods and music.

By the time he comes to the end of the note, Gil is positively smitten with the General. If the sinful feelings he’d harbored for the other man before had been nothing but a passing fancy, he feels as though he’s madly in love with this small piece of General Washington clutched in his fingers. He knows of ‘homosexuality’, had known since he was a young child that he was very deeply flawed in that aspect, but he can’t bring himself to care too much about the sin when there are so many butterflies flitting throughout his stomach. It’s obvious this crush will consume him, has consumed him, and he knows he’ll have to deal with the issues of that later.

However, he’s too taken with the letter to do much other than sit down and write George another one.

For months, the two of them exchange correspondence each other. Each post that passes between the two of them becoming more intimate, each word put down to paper becoming more significant in meaning. Long after the program ends for the school year, and most of the students in his classroom have lost contact with their old penmate—except for Thomas, who quickly becomes just as eager and quick to getting to mailbox as his cousin had—the young student and the war-hero write each other. With each passing day, Gil feels as though he can trust the other man. There is something about the energy that radiates from the words put to paper that makes him completely confident in his relationship with George. So much so that he eventually manages—though extremely nervously, with great sickness in his stomach as he puts the letter in the post—to confess his interest in the male sex.

George stops writing him after that letter, though. Everyday after school, the teenager goes to check the post. And everyday, there is no letter from George Washington. Not even a message just to let him know that he’s alright. It doesn’t take long for the young Frenchman to begin believe he’s lost him for good after a tragic miscalculation of comfort. He had thought that he and George were close enough to share that sort of thing with each other, but it quickly becomes very obvious that he had been horribly wrong. A million things run through the frightened young man’s head—what if George was disgusted with him now because he too believed the horrible things that people said about men of his nature, or what if George had contacted local Virginian police to alert them of his sodomy, or even worse… what if George had died in battle?

For three months following that cursed mistake of a confession, Gil walks around the streets of his small Virginian town riddled with anxiety and depression. Every policeman he comes across on the street, every man he dares look at for too long, every newspaper about the war, every single thought he has of the captivating General Washington sends his stomach twisting in painful knots. He stops eating as often. He doesn’t sleep well. He even begins to have fainting spells, where he’ll pass out in the middle of a task and wake up in bed with a cool towel over his face. Aunt Jane changes his studies home so that he doesn’t have to go to school, she gets so worried about his health. Hired doctors file in and out of the residence, all of them making guesses on this sudden illness that has overcome him but none of them ever coming close to the true cause.

All he does anymore is lie in bed, listening to the newscaster on the war station give facts about the new changes in the day-to-day life of the World War.

Then, one day, there’s a knock on the door. Gilbert is in the living room on that day, attempting to cope with a cold he’d caught from fainting in the middle of a storm. Aunt Jane had wanted to better keep an eye on him during the day while she worked, when she was hemming dresses for the women of Shadwell in the parlor. At around noon, when she’s just finished up a wedding gown for a local friend, there are several sharp raps on the door, Gil barely looks away from the book he’d only been half-reading—he simply sinks beneath the pile of blankets that his Aunt had covered him with in hopes that whoever was there wouldn’t try to make conversation.

“Excuse me ma’am,” a deep, strong voice says a moment after he hears his Aunt open the door. Keening his ears—both out of curiosity and boredom—Gilbert listens to the man that speaks, struggling to hear through the fabric of his blanket. “I’m looking for a Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette. I have been corresponding with him for awhile now, and I’d very much like to see him.”

Wait… he’s looking for me? Gilbert thinks, sitting up on the couch now with interest. The quick motion dizzies him, and he struggles with a bout of nausea for a moment before returning his attention the conversation. Corresponding for awhile now? He scans his brain for anyone that he had sent letters to recently, but the only person he thinks of is…

“George!” Gilbert exclaims as the realization dawns on him, tripping over his blankets as he scrambles to the doorway of the manor. He pauses in the parlor to fix his curls into a tight bun and straighten out the wrinkled clothes he’d thrown on earlier that morning—wishing he’d known the man would be there earlier so that he could’ve dressed appropriately. Aunt Jane is confused for a moment—Gilbert had shown such an excitement for months now, and the quick switch in moods takes the woman off guard. But then her nephew sends her a pleading look, standing beside her in front of the war hero, and she seems to get the hint—he’d like some privacy with this man. Muttering something about having to go out for more sewing supplies, she quickly gathers her purse and coat before excusing herself from the two—waving goodbye and leaving them alone in the large manor.

Gilbert looks back towards the other man, disbelief obviously painted across his features. The young man had never seen the man face-to-face, but now that he has, he realizes how truly beautiful he is. It’s obvious that the General had at least cleaned up before coming over—his face is closely-shaven, a vast difference from that old news article clipping that had shown him sporting a full beard. And there isn’t a speck of dirt or a wrinkle in sight on the forest green uniform—the badges, medals and ribbons shining beneath the warm Virginia sun. His dark eyes are war-weathered and have wrinkles in the corners, but his mouth possesses deep smile lines and adorable dimples. Gilbert can feel himself falling in love with him all over again. “George, what are you doing here? What about the War?”

“I received a medical leave,” the General says, smiling down at his young friend. His hand shoots up to tuck a stray curl behind the younger man’s ear, and Gil melts into the action—eyes fluttering at the feeling of his calloused hands that press against the side of his cheek. “I got shot in the knee in Italy, and they’re giving me time to recover before I deploy again. Doctors say it’ll at least be a year.”

They stand in the doorway for a moment, Gilbert enjoying the feel of George’s presence and the faint smell of the older man’s cologne wafting off of his body before he pulls away and ushers him inside, picking up the two duffel bags that had accompanied his war hero on his trip. Once the door is safely closed and locked, Gil turns back to the man and wrings his hands in front of him.

“George I… I hope… I hope you don’t…” the words escape him, and with every moment that ticks by, the knots of anxiety return to haunt his stomach. He feels nauseous again, dizzy… almost as though he might faint, before George steadies his soldiers and brings his focus back to what's important.

“If this is about what you said in your last letter, you hush all of that right this moment. Oh, Gilbert…” he sighs, cupping the side of the young man's face again. Gil closes the space between them, his hand darting out to lace his fingers with George’s. His heart skips several beats when he notices the soldier doesn’t immediately pull away from the small act of affection. “I thought… I was scared of my feelings about you, too. Do you know that? I really was. I loved… I love you, but I also know what happens to men who… who…”

“George,” Gilbert whispers, eyes finding his. He shakes his head slightly, a small comfort for the two of them. For right now, they didn’t have to use the words. They didn’t have to put a term to these forbidden emotions swirling like a cesspool between the two of them. Those things could come later. Right now, all the Frenchman wants is to just bask in the feeling of an enormous weight of relief being lifted from his shoulders. Revel in the idea that his General didn’t hate him, or wasn’t disgusted by him—that he shared the same feelings.

Labels were useless when they had all of this love between the two of them.

“But… I realize now, that I can’t be fearful anymore. As as much I am, I am more afraid of losing you than anything else in the world. Than the war, than the possibility of prosecution, than death. I couldn’t begin to imagine a life without you again, especially when I’m sent back to battle. You were my sunshine in that warzone, and I desperately need you. Gil, we can do this together. We can’t be normal, we’ll never live normal lives that you see between man and wife. But we can be very happy together.”

“Oh, George. You’ll be given a blue discharge if we’re found out. Even worse, we’ll be separated, or killed or… or you’ll be hurt.”

“Why should I continue to fight for a country that won’t fight for me anyways? Why should I care about the consequences if I don’t take a chance to enjoy the action?” George insists, his grip on Gilbert’s hand tightening for just a moment. The younger man's eyes sparkle, both with tears and an overabundance of joy and admiration. He realized that things would be difficult for them—homosexuality was illegal, and if either of them were caught, they could face anything from forced castration to prison to death. But standing in the middle of the foyer of his Uncle’s mansion, holding hands with the one of the most esteemed war heroes of this time, Gilbert can’t bring himself to think too much of it. He is happy, for now, and that is all he needs.

Standing on the tips of his toes, Gil presses his lips against the older man’s—deepening the kiss when George cups his face tightly and pulls him closer. Their mouths move together in perfect synchronization as George’s hands slide down to his waist—gripping him tightly, keeping them so close together they could almost fuse into one being. Gil can’t help but notice that his lover—lover, how absurd—tastes like whiskey and cigarettes, and that the light layer of stubble on his chin scratches at him. They only pull away when Gil remembers that his family would be home soon, and they couldn’t be too brazen about this.

“George, I… I love you.”

“I love you, too, my love,” he responds, smiling like Gilbert was the sun, moon and stars. The Frenchman can feel himself falling head over heels in love all over again. He laughs when George crouches down to sweep him off his feet, the sounds of joy echoing throughout the empty house. Carrying him towards the staircase, George grins down at him. “Now come here, you silly boy, you never told me the rest about that dream you had where you ran off to the circus.”

Author’s Notes:  i read two articles about homosexuality in the 1940s that helped formulate the mixed sort of secrecy and candidness of george & gilbert’s romance. if you’re interested, they are here:

http://www.latimes.com/local/california/la-me-adv-lgbt-archive-20150830-story.html

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1900%E2%80%9349_in_LGBT_rights 

[enchi-elm]

Turn of the Seasons: Fall 2020 Writing Prompt!

Hello!

You may know me as Apfelessig on AO3. This year, I’ve organized my first ever Collection and it’s for the vibrant and hoppin’ Turn fandom! I had a blast reading all the submissions and couldn’t be happier to present to you this season’s offerings.

🍁🍂⭐Thank you to everyone who submitted! ⭐🍃🌿

We have some incredible pieces you can READ HERE!

The submissions criteria were...

Length: 100-1K+ words. This is to emphasize that short and sweet is just fine, but if you have a longer piece, that’s great too!

Pairings: Any pairing you like, including none. Tag your content accordingly!

Premise: The story must take place during the fall season. It can be spooky or have supernatural elements, with influence from any theology or folklore you desire, but spookiness is not a requirement if you’d rather not! References to fall-related food or drink are appreciated, because food is great and we all love fall, but again, up to you. Highly encouraged to make the entries multicultural. Fall covers a lot of holidays and traditions, and all are welcome!

Some people who’ve expressed interest have already developed their own ideas. For those who want inspiration, have some prompts:

🍁🍂 Fall-related Prompts 🍃🌿

Cute and Fluffy Fic Prompts

Relationships/Meet Cute Fall AUs

Cozy Fall Asks

Fall/Autumn Writing Prompts for your OTP 

👻🎃 Monster AU Prompts/Ideas 🦇 🌘

"Let me tell you something,” the antagonist said. “You want to get away with being a monster, you act like a hero.” (credited to @the-modern-typewriter)

Check out these photosets of Washington as a werelion, Ben as a gryphon, Caleb as a Floss, Abe as a spectre, Rob Townsend as a witch, John Andre as a fallen angel and Peggy Shippen as a siren.

Werewolf

Merman

Cursed Pirate

Sentient Zombie

Very Responsible Single Dad Stuck at Home with a Sick Child and Handing Out Candy

Astronomer Wizard

Ghost

Ghouls

Vampire

Centaur

Professor who Has Some Questions About Your Recent Paper and You’re Late for a Halloween Party

🌽🍎 Other Prompts to get Started 🍏🍺

What was your character’s earliest fall/autumn memory? What do they miss most about the fall when they’re in another season? What do they find most unsettling or uncomfortable about this time of year? Who have they run from? Who have they run to? What things can’t they smell/eat/drink without thinking of fall/autumn? What has scared them? What can’t they let go of? What haunts them?

[herewithstupid]

Guess who got Washington in both of their assigned pairings for the server gift exchanges? :D

https://archiveofourown.org/works/31644068

I regret nothing except that title- happy gift exchange Blue_Clover!