#And I know the man is in his backrooms era

[luciddreamingstuff]

Hey wait a second . . . . .

AH I KNEW IT, THE ILLUMINATI!

#I'm so tired from work and stressing about life #Just being a bit silly #And I know the man is in his backrooms era #hermitcraft #hc s10 #grian #ld speaks #Youtube

[skinnyducky]

to break a boy // v.h.

a/n took a break from working on requests and stuff and decided to do a little free writing. i think i got this idea from martin. either it was that or the nanny, can’t remember, i’m running on no sleep. N E WAYS, hope you enjoy this silly yet somewhat cute fic. 

vinnie hacker x fem!reader

Word Count: 1k, edited

WARNING: lang, bit of angst, vinnie’s asshole era, and that’s it.

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Y/n couldn’t believe Vinnie. The audacity of him to go on that podcast and slander her. He literally dogged his own girlfriend to the entire internet, saying that he's, quote unquote, "quick to keep a bitch in check," as if he’s this hyper-masculine figure. Sure, he went on a male-centered podcast, but that didn’t mean he had to act like an actual male. Y/n was so hurt, but more than that…she was pissed. She was so pissed, she left in the middle of work to get him all the way in check.

Stomping into the warehouse, she spotted Vinnie and his friends gathered on the couch, talking and whatnot. "Vincent Hacker." She snarled, his name rolling off her tongue, covered in nothing but venom.

"Baby, what’s up?" Vinnie leaped to his feet and skipped over to her. "Aren’t you supposed to be at work right now? Wait, let me guess…you couldn’t get enough of me, could you?" He chuckled, glancing back at the boys who were laughing their asses off.

"I saw the podcast."

At that, Vinnie grinned from ear to ear. "And what’d you think? Personally, I have to say it’s one of the best podcasts I ever did."

"I definitely have some opinions," Y/n said, "but I would much prefer to share them with you in private, if you don’t mind."

"Obviously, if you’re storming in here, you’ve got something important to say, right?" He quickly shot a wink to his friends before returning his attention to Y/n. "I mean, there should be no problem saying it in front of the boys. So, what’s up? Spit it out."

Y/n huffed, letting out a sharp breath through her nose. "Oh, so you don’t mind me telling your boys about how you cried for my help when that guy threatened you at the movie theater? But I’m the bitch, right?"

The sound of snickering erupted from the gang of boys huddled on the couch. Vinnie turned and shot them a glare before giving it to Y/n. "Can I see you in the back for a minute?"

She nodded, happily following him into the backroom. Once they were both inside, Vinnie shut the door and burst into laughter. "Y/n, I know you’re not mad."

"Of course I’m mad, Vinnie!" She yelled. "How could you say all of those things about me on that damn podcast!?"

"I was just matching the vibe, babe. You know, I don’t mean any of that stuff."

"I certainly hope you don’t," she said, "because if you genuinely believe any of the macho­-man bullshit you said, then you don’t respect me or our relationship!"

Vinnie gasped, clutching his imaginary pearls. "You know I respect you."

"Then you better go on the internet and tell them what’s real—"

Before she could even finish, Vinnie cut her off. "Now wait a minute, Y/n. What’s real between me and you has nothing to do with the internet. Besides, they already know what’s up."

"Oh they do, do they? Do you know how many DMs I’ve received today alone calling me ‘Molly the Maid’ or ‘Vinnie’s pet?’"

"Baby," started Vinnie. He pursed his lips, trying his best to hold back his laughter.

"You know what, I’m done." Y/n spun around and advanced towards the door, but before she could even get to it, Vinnie leapt in front of her, keeping her from leaving.

"Wait a minute," he said, letting out his laughter. "You’re being funny right now, Y/n. You really want to break up over some things I said on a meaningless podcast?"

Sighing, the girl rolled her eyes. "No, I’m breaking up with you because of what you said about me on that meaningless podcast. You talked about me like I was some 1950’s housewife or something, obeying your every command and being this dainty little figure."

Vinnie groaned and slapped his hands against the door. "You see, now I’m mad! This is childish, y/n!" He shouted, moving over to the couch. "You want to end things? Fine! I don’t care, I’m a man! I’m fine with or without you!"

Y/n stood there, silent and emotionless. She didn’t exactly know what to say—well, nothing that didn’t contain a number of profanities—but she knew exactly what to do. All she needed was for him to say the magic words.

"I don’t even know why you’re, like, still here." He plopped down onto the couch and laid back, seemingly unphased by it all. "Door’s right there, don’t let it hit you on the way out."

And with those words, Y/n headed straight for the door. And right as she placed her hand on the knob…

"Y-Y/n, no!" Vinnie cried, shooting up off the couch. He grabbed onto his hair as tears began pouring down from his eyes like rain. "D-Don’t go! You won, okay!?"

Y/n turned to face him, a smug grin on her face. "I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. I what?"

"You won, Y/n, damn!"

"And that means you’re never going to disrespect me on the internet again, right?" She asked, walking over to him, hands firmly planted on her hips.

"Never!" He answered, running to her and pulling her into a hug. "I’m sorry, okay?"

"Okay."

"I’m sorry." He repeated, this time a little softer.

Y/n giggled, "Okay, Vin. I get it."

With his arms still wrapped around her, Vinnie stared deep into her eyes. "I love you," he whispered.

"I love you too." Y/n smiled.

The two gazed into each other’s eyes for a good second before they allowed their lips to come together. Despite the argument that happened just a minute ago, the kiss contained nothing but passion and warmth. Breaking the kiss, Vinnie began nibbling on Y/n’s ear. "For a minute there, I thought you were actually about to leave me. I definitely couldn’t have that."

"Eh, I knew you’d break." She teased, patting him on the back. "Now, I have to get back to work before my boss finds out I left in the middle of my shift."

She freed herself from his embrace and strolled over to the door. However, once again, before she could even leave, Vinnie comes running in front of her and blocks the door.

"What’s wrong, babe?" She asked.

He gulped, fiddling with his fingers. "Look, I know we just talked about this, but I’m begging…can you make it look like I won."

"Vinnie!"

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tag list: @barbietiingz @tvdsure @hwrteye 

#vinnie #vinnie imagine #vinnie x reader #vinnie imagines #vinnie hacker #vinnie hacker imagine #vinnie hacker x reader #vinnie hacker fanfic #vinnie hacker x you #vinnie hacker x y/n #vincent hacker #vhackerr #tiktok imagine

[yr-obedt-cicero]

Was Maria Reynolds part of the plan to " blackmail " Alexander ? Thank you.

Not initially, I don't think. The painful truth is, of course, we'll never know for certain. Especially in regards to the Reynolds affair, with all of the theories surrounding it and no one knowing what's true or not due to Maria's missing letters, and her own pamphlet being lost to time. [x] So, all we have for solid proof is a bias pamphlet from Hamilton, and slandering newspaper extracts. The Reynolds Pamphlet was naturally a one-sided account, and written five years after the affair. Hamilton paints himself as the victim of James Reynold's and Maria's “con couple plot” to blackmail him. And many historians ultimately side with this notion that fits the narrative of the manipulation by a calculated and pretty woman, with her wealthy man prey. But it is my belief that Maria had initially wanted for it to be a traditional mistress situation with Hamilton, that was subsequently distorted into a form of Reynolds's blackmail.

Maria was a lower-class woman, who was seeking happiness and fulfillment through sexual acts, in order to feel loved and cared for. This was actually a common case for many women at the time;

There was another group of women who exercised sexual independence within post-Revolutionary Philadelphia—those who engaged in sex commerce. In many ways, their economic an sexual independence was the most obvious manifestation of female autonomy. Prostitution enjoyed an enhanced position within the community because the world of nonmarital sexual behavior had expanded. Amid the permissive sexual culture of the city, the behavior of those who engaged in sex commerce was less distinct. Women who engaged in sex commerce were more public than in the late colonial era but also more integrated into the broader sexual culture. Evidence from Philadelphia suggests that during the transition between the sexual system of the late colonial period and that of the nineteenth century, prostitution took on its most fluid and least exploitative form.

Philadelphia could not have been more different. Sex commerce prospered during the 1790s as part of the expansive, permissive sexual culture and was well integrated into the public and semipublic leisure world of the city. It was neither geographically segregated nor isolated from the urban centers. Bawdy houses occupied all regions of the city. There were bawdyhouses on the city's main streets and more modest establishments among its alleys. Sex commerce also took place in the backrooms of taverns, in the prison, and in the theater and often spilled into the streets. Women solicited men in the streets, mixing with the legitimate evening strollers, meeting men, and then retiring to rented rooms or bawdyhouses. Sometime they even engaged in sexual transactions in the city's alleys and abandoned lots. Much of this activity took place within the public view. Women called to men from their doorways soliciting their business, and other strolled about the street in pairs to meet men. Prostitutes were known on sight when they were seen shopping, socializing about the town, or entering the almshouse. The identities of their clients were also often common knowledge—many men were not concerned about secreting their behavior. Some demonstrated a striking disregard for being seen. One “well known gentleman,” Moreau de Saint-Méry tells us, “leaves his horse tied to the post outside one of these houses, so that everyone knows when he is there and exactly how long he stays.”

[...]

Sex commerce of the early national period was part of a continuum of illicit sex, and it was not always easy to distinguish which encounters crossed its fluid boundaries. Prostitution operated in many of the same social spaces as other forms of nonmarital sex, integrated into these worlds of socializing and public amusement. Women brought men to the same disorderly houses for prostitution that couples frequented for illicit sex.

[...]

People from all walks of life had sexual encounters that were not markedly different from those of prostitutes and their clients. The woman who supplemented her income by periodically strolling the streets to meet a man who would pay for a sexual encounter had much in common with the woman who frequented taverns accepting food and drink from a gentleman with whom she later had sexual relations. Gifts of goods, food, or drink were part of the sexual exchange in many relationships. Prostitutes who worked the theater expected the gentlemen in the boxes to treat them to the wines and liquors served during performances. This custom was not that different from the gift giving that accompanied adulterous liaisons, where lovers presented gifts and sometimes cash to their partners. Like the women of the town, women who engaged in adultery were treated to gifts by their lovers.

Source — Sex Among the Rabble: An Intimate History of Gender and Power in the Age of Revolution, Philadelphia, 1730-1830, by Clare A. Lyons · 2012

If Reynolds was away, or out of town, Maria took lovers. Folwell even says; “Letters were frequently found in the Entry inviting her Abroad;—and that at Night she would fly off, as was supposed to answer their Contents.” [x] with her husband constantly off, Maria supplemented her unhappy way of living by becoming sexually involved with other men and accepting “gifts” such as money. And it is likely that James Reynolds rather utilized this to his gain when discovering her affairs, and twisted it into instead pimping of his wife for prostitution.

It is also reasonable to assess that Maria was likely looking to become Hamilton's mistress - and mistress, only - because of the state she was in. Maria was recorded to have said plenty of times that she was being mistreated by her husband. Hamilton says that Maria told him; “that her husband, who for a long time had treated her very cruelly, had lately left her, to live with another woman, and in so destitute a condition, that though desirous of returning to her friends she had not the means—that knowing I was a citizen of New-York, she had taken the liberty to apply to my humanity for assistance.” [x] Folwell sides with this distressing description claiming;

Her mind at this time was far from being tranquil or consistent, for almost at the same minute that she would declare her respect for her husband, cry and feel distressed, [the tears] would vanish and levity would succeed, with bitter execrations on her husband. This inconsistency and folly was ascribed to a troubled, but innocent and harmless mind. In one or other of these parox-ysms, she told me, so infamous was the perfidy of Reynolds, that he had frequently enjoined and insisted that she should insinuate herself on certain high and inf l uential characters—endeavor to make assignations with them and actually prostitute herself to gull money from them.

Source — Alexander Hamilton, by Ron Chernow, page 366

A secondary source also claims Reynolds to have been abusive towards his “children”. [x] So, it is possible in this case that Maria was suffering from Reynolds's abuse, alone in Philadelphia, and isolated from her friends and family in New York. And during the times where cruel acts like physical and verbal abuse towards your wife were normalized to a certain extent—that no one would really intervene unless it started to violate another's subjective barrier of morals or condemnation. Or in many cases, if it was deducted that the woman in question was blameless and undeserving (But this is a misogynistic society we are talking about, so how likely of a case is that in general?). So, overall I wouldn't deem Reynolds above abuse towards his wife, or that Maria was merely playing an act for sympathy, there was probably some truth there. With all that in mind, it really seems like Maria engaged in sexual acts with others, or “prostituted” herself, in a way to look for a better love life. And that she may have truly been hoping for a better life with Hamilton. She was likely aiming to be kept as his mistress, but did not succeed in the end due to her husband's involvement. As I said, it was typical for a time when sexual autonomy and economic sufficiency were often intertwined. And Hamilton clearly wasn't entirely against this idea, or that he wouldn't have an adulterous lover for a night—He was 34 at the time, and perfectly capable of making conscious decisions. He was ready to give the money and do the deed. Although, I would argue he wouldn't be too keen on anything much more than a night, or the summer until his family returned, since he rather embarrassedly throws cash at Reynolds to cover his tracks rather than be calculated about it (He seems to have had something against affairs, as they were just against his moral and marriage values which I have gone into before). But also this was exceedingly common for men of all classes at that time, and he was in no way out line in this regard. He knew people who did the same like Governor Morris, so it isn't like this idea was new to him. And it was only when Reynolds started blackmailing him, and that it threatened his marriage and his political career, did he suddenly back down.

There can be much speculation if Maria truly hoped Hamilton would be the one sliver of light in her dark world, and if she truly cared for him, or if she truly felt loved in his presence. Nonetheless, if any of these sentimental feelings did exist, they definitely didn't survive the release of the pamphlet. And I can only assume how crushing it must have been for Maria who suffered the most in the aftermath. She did sign her letters off to him as “Mari”, which could also imply much—Did he call her Mari? Did she call herself that to reel him with guilt and fake intimacy? Which is another consideration, if Maria even cared for Hamilton or his well-being, but rather envisioned him as nothing but profit.

It also shouldn't be completely dismissed that Maria may have been in on the whole scheme. After all, it is suspiciously convenient that James moved his family from New York to Philadelphia, and in the neighborhood possibly in - but definitely not long before - 1791. It is speculated due to Reynolds's tendency toward intrigue and money troubles that the move was made for financial reasons, but it is curious that the affair took place not too soon after. And as mentioned before about Maria seeing several different men, I doubt Hamilton was the only man they plotted against, if they were indeed a con couple. It isn't confirmed that Maria wasn't in on the whole ordeal, or that she wouldn't have agreed to the form of financial gain. I think the only opposition here would be that Reynolds and Maria were separated at the time of the start of the affair, and all that I said before.

Moving on, Maria's divorce from James doesn't come as a surprise. Women - especially the lower class ones - got divorced all the time. While plenty of abuse was tolerated, and even expected to be tolerated, being prostituted by your own husband definitely hit the line. And it was likely Maria's indication of finally breaking away from what she so desperately had been trying to previously. For Maria it was possible for her to go on to marry up the social ladder, to become a respectable woman. And eventually she did, changing her name, and settling down with another man. Without much insight on what was truly her goal—The easiest conclusion I can deduct is that Maria - like many women of her class - was left in a poor marriage from a young age, and used emotional and sexual fulfillment, along with economic stability, because that was all she had at the time. And through her own efforts and in spite of hardship, eventually achieved her goal.

But, in the case that they were a couple of con artists and Maria was not looking for men for comfort, and was truly not being abused; then the divorce was likely because the scheme ended in failure, and still it would make sense that Maria would leave him.

Basically, in my own opinion, I don't think Maria was in-on the scheme at first, I think she was looking for wealthy men to douse her in tender affection and money to make the best out of what she had. But due to her husband exploiting the situation, she was entangled in a blackmailing affair that tarnished her name later on. But with the possibility of this being wrong, it could have also likely been a scheme considering how smoothly things played out for the Reynolds' in the beginning.

Hope this helps!

#tw: domestic abuse #tw: abuse #I got so off topic in random sections of this but there was too much to dissect and include #amrev #american history #reynolds affair #alexander hamilton #historical alexander hamilton #james reynolds #maria reynolds #history #queries #sincerely anonymous #cicero's history lessons

[kjack89]

Coup de Foudre

For @themiserablesmonth Day 25: First Glance.

Canon era, developing E/R.

Read on AO3.

Enjolras’s tone was unusually sour as he led Courfeyrac into the backroom of the Musain. “All that I am saying,” he said loudly, in a tone that indicated he wished this particular argument to be over, “is that there is no such thing as love at first glance.”

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes in return. “And all that I am saying is that you are being quite boring about this,” he said, sounding particularly put out.

Enjolras looked as though he was barely managing to stop himself from also rolling his eyes in response, brightening when he saw Combeferre seated at the table, reading through the draft of a pamphlet. “Ah, Combeferre, talk some sense into Courfeyrac, would you?”

Combeferre glanced up at them, brow lifted in what might have been amusement. “I have yet to be able to thus far,” he said evenly. “But on which topic would you have me try?”

Courfeyrac huffed a sigh at being suddenly outnumbered as Enjolras said, “You do recall Courfeyrac’s idiot roommate?”

Combeferre blinked. “Marius?”

“The very one,” Enjolras said, his tone disapproving, as if the very concept of Courfeyrac’s roommate was something to be derided. “The twit has decided that he is in love.”

“Ah.”

Combeferre uttered but the single syllable, which was perhaps for the best, as Enjolras did not seem to notice that he had spoken at all. “With a woman to whom he has never spoken, and whom he has seen, charitably, a handful of times. Am I correct?”

He directed this final question at Courfeyrac, who rolled his eyes a second time as he slumped into the chair next to Combeferre. “Certainly, when you say it like that and strip it of all romance,” he said, matching Enjolras’s sour tone, but when he turned to speak to Combeferre, his tone turned almost wistful. “It was the coup de foudre, Combeferre. I witnessed it with my own eyes.”

“And as I have long maintained, such a thing is but fantasy,” Enjolras interrupted loudly. He gestured to Combeferre. “So I leave it to you to attempt some semblance of reason, lest I despair that all logic is lost forever.”

Combeferre set his pen down, taking a moment to gather his thoughts before carefully pronouncing, “Physiologically speaking, Enjolras may very well be correct.” Courfeyrac made a disparaging noise, but Combeferre continued doggedly, “One day we may be able to parse the brain’s chemistry and demonstrate that the chemicals of infatuation are markedly different from the sustained bond of love and attachment.”

“Spoil sport,” Courfeyrac muttered, as Enjolras gave him a triumphant smile.

Combeferre cleared his throat. “And yet—”

Enjolras groaned, sitting on Courfeyrac’s other side.. “Could you not leave well enough alone?”

“Despite your insistence that you remain above such things,” Combeferre told him, “I prefer to think of the human experience as more than just a sum of chemical reactions.”

Enjolras scowled. “Meaning what, precisely?”

“Meaning that I do not believe the answer to your question is as simple as you think.” Now Combeferre sounded eager, as he was wont to when confronted with a philosophical question, even one not directly posed by either man in attendance. “And that it has a great deal to do with what one considers to be love.”

“Other than idiocy?” Enjolras muttered.

Courfeyrac smirked as he interjected, saccharine sweet, “If it is idiocy, then my roommate very well may have experienced it, by your own admission.”

Enjolras’s scowl deepened. “That is not what I meant, and you know it.”

Combeferre again cleared his throat. “The fact of the matter is, there are many kinds of love beyond simply infatuation or romantic love,” he said reasonably. “Think, after all, of how many words the Greeks used to describe love, from philautia to agape. So too it stands to reason that while you and I might consider pragma to be inconceivable at first glance, eros or even philia might be possible. And are not all of them types of love?”

Both Courfeyrac and Enjolras considered it for a moment, before Enjolras sighed and shook his head. “Far be it for me to argue with the Greeks about anything,” he said, in a tone that indicated he had and would continue to argue with the long dead Greeks about a great many things, “but I believe that to be a separate question of whether Marius Pontmercy has indeed fallen into the commonly understood notion of love at but a single glance.”

“And I believe all three of you are missing the point entirely,” a fourth voice stated, and all three turned as one to stare at Grantaire, slumped in the corner, wine bottle in front of him. “At first glance, at hundredth, at thousandth, even. It is all the same.”

Combeferre’s eyes narrowed. “Speak plainly, Wine Cask, if you are to speak at all.”

The corners of Grantaire’s lips twitched toward what may have been a smile – or a smirk. “Forgive me for daring to speak in the company of such esteemed wisdom,” he said, lifting his bottle in a mocking toast.

“Careful, Capital R—” Courfeyrac started warningly, but Enjolras laid a hand on his arm.

“No, I wish to hear what he has to say.” He fixed his eyes on Grantaire. “Say what you will, Grantaire,” he said. “I would hear your insight into this of all matters.”

Though his words were magnanimous, his tone indicated that he did not believe Grantaire capable of such insight. Perhaps it was for this reason that Grantaire flushed slightly, though when he spoke again, his voice was determined, and his eyes were locked unwaveringly on Enjolras’s. “You speak as though there are only two options. As if love at first glance can happen only the very first time two pairs of eyes meet across a crowded room.”

Combeferre frowned. “Is that not the definition of love at first sight?”

“No.”

“No?” Courfeyrac repeated, almost amused.

Grantaire lifted his chin, just slightly, his eyes still on Enjolras. “No. In love, all is made new again, which is why it matters not if it is the first time eyes meet, or the hundredth.”

“Or the thousandth,” Enjolras finished, something strange in his tone.

Grantaire nodded. “Indeed. For when eyes meet in love, when one or both understands and realizes that who they are seeing is not merely a friend, an acquaintance, even a stranger, but someone who will irrevocably alter the course of their life, any glance made before that matters not at all.” He shrugged, something softening in his expression. “All love happens at a first glance, the first glance that starts something entirely new, the first glance that makes a heart call out in longing.”

Combeferre glanced sideways at Courfeyrac. “I will admit, I expected drunken rambling, not poetry,” he said in an undertone.

Courfeyrac just shook his head slowly. “Can there not be poetry even in drunken rambling?” he asked, equally quiet.

“And so too may man hope that one day, their beloved might look upon them with eyes finally clear, and know, just as they do, in a first glance of their own,” Grantaire said softly, something almost sad, or at the very least longing, underpinning his words. Then, as if realizing he had said more than he intended, his flush deepened, a mottled red. “That is…that is what I think,” he finished weakly, tearing his eyes away from Enjolras to find his bottle.

Combeferre cleared his throat. “Well, that is certainly an interesting counterpoint to our discussion, do you not think, Enjolras?” Enjolras said nothing, and Combeferre leaned forward to frown at him. “Enjolras?”

But Enjolras was still staring at Grantaire, a peculiar expression on his face. “I—” he started, before trying again. “That is to say, I, uh…”

He trailed off and Grantaire stood, taking his wine bottle with him. “Now that my piece has been said, I find myself in need of more libation,” he said, toasting them again, though somewhat less mockingly this time. “Gentlemen.”

As Grantaire strode to the door, Courfeyrac shook his head. “Well, now that we’ve seemingly settled the matter, let us turn to other things.”

But Combeferre stopped him. “Courfeyrac,” he said quietly.

“What?”

Combeferre nodded toward Enjolras, who was still staring at the seat that Grantaire had vacated. “I think it best we give Enjolras a moment.”

Courfeyrac’s brow furrowed. “Why? What ails him?”

“Nothing,” Combeferre said, shaking his head. “Just—”

Realization struck Courfeyrac. “Surely you don’t think—” He broke off, unable to stop the small, delighted smile that stretched across his face. “A first glance.”

Combeferre shrugged, a little helplessly. “After the thousandth.”

Courfeyrac shook his head in wonder. “The coup de foudre.”

“Such as it were.”

Enjolras suddenly shook his head as if to clear it, blinking rapidly as he returned to himself. “My apologies,” he said. “What were we discussing?”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchanged knowing glances. “Love at first glance,” Courfeyrac said, still smiling. “And just when, exactly, that first glance may occur.”

#exr #enjolras x grantaire #enjoltaire #enjolras #grantaire #combeferre #courfeyrac #with mentions of the boobie himself Marius #fanfiction #les miserables #canon era #developing relationship #so to speak #the miserables month 2022

[terrence-silver]

I keep seeing Kreese stuff all over my feed and it’s making me go like feral-

Something about every gen of Kreese, but I find middle age Kreese to be the hottest. I don’t know if it’s just the fact that he’s in his prime at that age, kinda worn but top of his class.

I saw someone talking about him secretly using the original cobra kai dojo as a place to fuck his lover after a long day of training his students. Uhh I just love it.

(Imagine if both Terry Silver and John Kreese, in the thirty years they're not in contact bring their respective beloveds to the old, abandoned dojo for some occasional fun, neither of them really realizing the other one is doing the same.)

But, I digress. Nostalgia is a dangerous drug.

I don't think John really felt at home anywhere as much as he did in that old training studio. Possibly the first thing that was ever actually his, and the first spot he could settle into after the war, even though Terry bought it for him. I think it was his place of employment, where he taught, where he trained himself, exercised, honed champions, where he slept, ate, did his daily routines, in some backroom somewhere, where he drank, smoked and where he did literally everything else. Including fucking, yes. That involves him at his prime, him as a young man, him as an old man, during and in-between distancing himself from Terry. Also, when he reconnected with Terry too. The original Cobra Kai dojo always felt like the right place for John to have his trysts. I mean, his whole life was there, so it stands to reason that beloved gets brought there too.

It is debatable how much of a secret it is too.

His students at any era are simply far too daunted to really outright comment on the person they know is sleeping over past closing hours with their strict, disciplinarian Sensei and the person they see leaving the dojo every morning. Maybe they've even heard some things. Who's to tell? But, John Kreese doesn't suffer fools lightly and if he wants to do what a man's supposed to do during his own leisure time, who is to tell him that he shouldn't?

#john kreese #kk3 #cobra kai #john kreese x reader #john kreese x beloved

[ripplefields]

thank u for making me go insane abt pokemon this is 4 u shawty......

i imagine scc have a similar music taste but they individually have a few differing opinions (for example but not limited to: sweet could take an interest in more psychedelic genres. he likes Strawberry Guy methinks. cap'n is more of a gorillaz kinda guy but he likes the later albums more than the earlier albums. k_k likes goofy ass music dont hand him the aux cord)

U CAN CHANGE THESE OFC but i think they infodump to each other alot abt the newest song they found or good artists in each genres

neil my boy you come in clutch for me. autism to autism communication.

OK *cracks knuckles* i think while they all have a love for music they all have VERY different tastes. i always thought sweet would have the more intense/"rebellious" taste of the three, usually liking standard rock but also taking a liking to breakcore and hard EDM (they're probably the most at risk of getting found by queen for music rebellion acts their stuff is LOUD) ("the louder it is, the stronger the SOUL resonation is!") ("YOURE GOING TO BLOW YOUR SPEAKERS OUT TURN IT DOWN") if it was a late night staying up working on commissions/tracks/being sleepless in general (which is often) the others will make sure they keep the louder songs to a minimum since on multiple occasions, when sleep deprived their voice speaker tends to. die on them if overclocked and they not only can't play tunes but they also can't SPEAK

capn i think has a bit more of an eye for just the groove of the song more than the volume, HUGE jazz fan but also slower rock songs + the always appreciated EDM the three all enjoy together (DEFINITELY not as loud as what sweet puts on but they all enjoy EDM together) (also current day/later gorillaz is exactly what i'm looking for here you are so smart) (they usually say "if the beat's good, i can bear it" whenever asked why they like what they like) they claim to have their own tastes but often can be found peeking in on the other's playlists and getting ideas (they SWEAR it's not stealing, just inspiration!)

now K_K. THIS is where you find oliver buckland/metaroom type beats. music to space out to basically. as said before she also enjoys EDM with the other 3 but god be damned you put on his playlist and microchip comes on (capn voice) youre keeping that fucking aux cord IN and we are LISTENING to their tunes. they also take a certain liking to some hyperpop, they got sweet hooked on it as well (for the sheer volume of it sometimes) and god be damned if they get capn into it ("this is just. various silly chiptune sounds k_k are you serious") ("100%~!") k_k is the type of person that was an oliver buckland fan BEFORE it got popular off of ENA, they were listening to that man before the backroom labyrinth/hourglass meadow era (but those r still some of their favs ESP backroom labyrinth!)

obv they shares their tastes with eachother, capn usually poking fun at sweet's usual type of stuff ("oh wouldya look at that! another track that'll blow my sound receptors out! nice!"), sweet making snarky remarks back ("capn, where's the fun in your music if you can't violently headbang to it?"), and neither DARE say shit about k_k's tastes, not because they pity/baby him, but bc k_k can dig so deep into their music tastes corresponding to their personalities for dissing their bangers they don't dare provoke them (sweet got the treatment once, i think they sat silently on the storage room floor for an hour internalizing it, capn doesn't even know what k_k even said, no feelings were hurt between the two pals either way they were fine when sweet finally snapped out of , but he fears what they even said to sweet) obv their tastes blend into what they make, but somehow all their strongly contrasting tastes all come together in the end to make their band's tracks really enjoyable and unique!

#THIS WAS. OK THIS WAS LONG WOW. #also hi woke up at 3 am for some reason so u know. #can u tell how desperate i am to talk abt my hcs #one day. one day i'll make a long post of them to coherently note them down. #deltarune #txt #IM GONNA. PUT A READ MORE CUT UNDER THIS WOW. LONG. #also i lvooove u neil thank u for sendinf stuff in my guy #ok. it's 4 am. time to try n go back to sleep

[thecaptainhelm]

Every Tap of My Heart

Here’s a  valentine’s gift for @savagenutella46, whose a lovely person! Here’s my gift of writer love for a fellow maribat enthusiast, hope you have a wonderful day fit for a wonderful person. xoxo uwu [insert heart heart winky face heart eyes rose]

Thanks to the moderator @eat0crow for setting this up so nicely, ily all!

In a small office, one of the many in the college of liberal arts building, two people sat across from one another in an awkward manner. One, a rather tall, tan, and robust young man with a relaxed and loose posture, and the other, a much smaller brown, older gentleman, salt and peppered hair and frown lines around his mouth.

“Mr. Wetherby,” the young man said in greeting.

“Jonathan.” Mr. Wetherby deadpanned in return. There was a slight pause between the two before the older gentleman spoke again.

“Well, how are you progressing with your midterm project Jonathan? You were well ahead of your peers the last I observed. I trust you have maintained this pace?”

Jon grinned at this, rather than being intimidated by the scholarly demeanor of his professor. Many of his classmates were intimidated by Mr. Wetherby if not for his surprisingly deep voice, then for the juxtaposition of his gentle appearance and his strict teaching. He had only ever felt amused.

“Yes sir, everything is going well. I’ve already checked the business’s schedule and set a meeting with the owner to have a short interview. Everything is totally in order.”

Mr. Wetherby stoically gazed at Jon’s silly grin as they conversed and didn’t say anymore. He simply nodded, typed a few phrases in the computer and turned the screen to Jon. 

“Very good. With this the meeting is complete and you’ve received full marks for the student-teacher progress report. Have a nice day, Jonathan.”

“Right sir, thank you sir, you too sir,” Jon smiled, bright and goofy, unmoving from his seat.

Mr. Wetherby gained a slight tick near his temple.

“Mr. Kent.” The young man blinked, tilting his head with a look comparable to a puppy dog.

“Yes, Mr. Wetherby?”

“You may leave now,” He spoke through gritted teeth. “Have. A good. Day.”

“Right sir, of course sir!” Jon bounced up and carelessly packed his things away. “Have a good day sir!” He energetically left the room and before the remaining occupant could so much as sigh, Jon popped back in, dark hair flopping into his eyes.

“Oh yeah, are we still on for patrol or are you going to call in--”

“Beat it, Corncob!”

“Hahaha!” Jon cackled and dashed away to complete his assignment. Anyone who saw him would do a double take. It seemed as though he was gliding on air, though he wasn’t moving particularly fast. People shrugged and moved about their day, too busy to really care.

Jon Kent was just strange like that.

Sometime later in the evening, the tall and somewhat awkwardly bulky Jon Kent nervously shuffled his way through Metropolis, carefully moving around busy pedestrians and apologizing in a fluster when he didn’t move carefully enough. He knocked into one final person and sheepishly grinned at the irate grunt before arriving at his target location. La Bonne Fée.

The building was sizable, enough space for a backroom, restrooms, a cozy kitchen facility, counter, and booths for people to sit and relax, with enough space left over to not feel compact. The furnishings were all warm, comfortable and the decorations had a slight vintage feel from a  bygone era of classy etiquette and manners. Through the door he could clearly hear the music of an old school juke-box, playing a Jagged Stone album.

Jon had come to such a café to ask the owner for an interview for the school financial magazine’s new column dedicated to new and upcoming businesses.

Some would ask if Jon lost his touch, others if he was touched in the head. Why would he interview a brand new café, one not even a part of a chain, when they were practically all over the city selling the same thing as their competitors.

Jon swallowed hard, and knocked on the softwood door. He picked up a jumping pulse and saw though the window a head of dark hair quickly poke out from behind the counter. His palms had become sweaty and his own heart jumped in his chest when soft footsteps quickly paced to the door and was pulled open with a silent, breathless smile.

“Jon, hey!” Marinette Dupain-Cheng looked up at him with bright grey eyes, almost silver under the city lights and his heart really kicked into high gear then, only slightly less embarrassing when he heard her heart doing the same.

“Glad you could make it,” She nervously fixed the hem of her sweater and pulled her apron on straight.

“Me too,” He smiled at her and was fine getting lost on her eyes before she cleared her throat and held the door wider.

“Would you like to, um if you would--?”

“Oh right, yeah, yeah, yes please, um,” Jon gulped and grinned strangely. He walked in with small quick steps through the door, taking extra care to not bump into her and send the smaller woman three inches through the flooring. God, he wouldn’t ever live that down if that actually happened.

“Well, I’ll grab some refreshments while you set everything up. Be back in a bit,” Marinette grinned as she led him to a booth near the front, out of view of the windows and moved to the counter with a stiff gait. He sat, pulling out his notebook, his voice recorder, pencils and two copies of the agreed upon interview questions. He fiddled with the materials, trying to distract himself from Marinette’s sounds, her heartbeat, her slight hitches in breath as she moved, the sound her petite fingers made when rubbing against the foam cups, all to no avail.

Yes, that’s a suspicious amount of attention to a single, pretty young woman in the city, but he couldn’t help it. He pressed down on the indentation of his index finger, reveling in the simultaneous sensations of hearing and feeling her heartbeat in person.

He couldn’t help it because she was his soulmate.

Jon’s soulmate mark was one he had from birth, thought to be a deformity but what was actually a touch based soul mark. Pressing it would allow him to feel the pulse and heartbeat of his soulmate, so long as they were alive in this life. The doctors had actually thought there might be a twin or a second heart while he was in the womb, but an x-ray via Superman showed that he was a  lone healthy baby. 

Marinette Dupain-Cheng was a small, triracial young woman, with delicate features, a barely noticeable spread of freckles across a small nose and round grey eyes that turned into happy crescents when she beamed wide and unrestrained. This was all he knew about her, from their brief interactions while they set up the interview, all skin deep and superficial knowledge that he wanted to get past. 

This was his soulmate and he knew he shouldn’t rush, but there were so many things that she would have to know about him, things he shouldn’t and couldn’t hide from her, at least not forever, but how was he going to bring up being a superhero? No, wait, how was he going to bring up being half extraterrestrial?! She’d freak!

He tried to relax. He only found out the Marinette was his soulmate when he asked if she would let him interview her and couldn’t help but compare her heart rate to the one on his finger, further panicking when he saw her press her fingertips together in glee and saw the imprint of his finger upon her own. From there he saw that her index finger would snugly fit the imprint on his and he knew it, beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was his soulmate, that special person the universe found matched perfectly to him in every way that counted. He’d studied and pressed and listened to this heartbeat, wanting to press his head against her back to study and listen in the flesh for years, all before he knew who she was and that she was his and he was hers.

He pressed on it as she walked back to their booth, watching and smiling as she relaxed somewhat, lightly stroking her thumb along her finger as she set the tray of cookies and coffea, the cafe’s specialty fusion drink.

“Sorry for the wait,” She neatly placed the cookies between them after setting down their drinks. He watched the quick and graceful way she tucked the tray into her seat beside her before sending him a dazzling grin that briefly scrambled his brain.

He gaped before managing to stutter out a lame “no trouble” and Marinette merely grinned, cheeks pink. He could dually understand her heart at this time and couldn’t help becoming more flustered. His dumb brain was making him think Marinette had a crush on him, when she was probably just nervous and excited for the interview.

Yeah, that’s all there is to it, nothing more to it at all, he told himself while watching her cheeks darken. 

It wasn’t anything more.

“Well, here’s to a good interview?” Marinette nervously giggled as she raised her cup and Jon did the same without a second thought, only realizing his mistake when she saw his soulmark and paled, honing in like a bat out of hell. He tensed trying to think of an excuse or a lie or something to say but he was stuck. Hope clogged his throat and desire pressed down his tongue.

“You have a soulmark?” She asked after a lengthy pause.

“Y-yes, I do.” His voice cracked from bad nerves and excitement.

“I do too. Touch based.” Her eyes pierced through his soul and pinned him on the spot. He couldn’t leave even if he wanted to.

“Cool. Super cool! I have one too, touch based like yours, yep! Cool!” Jon bobbed his head fervently, searching her gaze and found that she seemed to have the same idea as him. Her hand stretched to the middle of the table and waited for him to meet her in the middle. When he reached, slow and steady, it exposed the subtle quaking of his hand, revealing his inner feelings. He was comforted by the fact that her hand was shaking across from him too. It was a relief she felt the same.

Finally, the fingers touched, a small pale finger tapping two knuckles against the back of his. His shoulders tensed, Marinette mirroring him beat for beat as shoulder collapsed in devastation.

If Jon had thought that feeling Marinette’s heartbeat secondhand was an amazing feeling, then all the wonders of the accumulated sensation were nothing compared to this one touch. The pure physical sensation of another being pulsed through him, the echoing din that had been with him unnoticed all this time becoming known as he melted into himself, feeling it destroy him gently and lovingly.

“Wow,” Marinette breathed shakily. “Wow, I’ve, I never thought,”--an incredulous laugh-- “That was…”

She trailed off taking in his enraptured expression.

“Yeah, me too.” He grinned in wonder. His eyes bored into her own, falling deeper into her spell.

They stared at each other before Marinette finally broke the silence.

“Bonsoir.” She extended her other hand, unwilling to break contact.

“Hi.” He firmly grasped it, giving a strong shake. “Jonathan Kent, miss. Pleased to meet you.”

Marinette smiled beatifically. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng. The pleasure is all mine, Jon.”

The End

#maribatdrabbleexchange #marinette dupain-cheng #jonathan kent #marijon #maribat #marinette x jon

[missmorwen]

I'd love to hear a little bit about Hush!

Hush is a Red Room era BuckyNat fic about rumors - hence the title. I have a ton of snippets written for it, but the problem is that we all know how Bucky and Nat’s romance in the Red Room ended and I prefer fics with a happy ending. Once I figure out how to end the fic on a positive or hopeful note, I’ll definitely finish it since I *really* like the idea, till then, here’s a preview of the start of the fic:

There were rumors in the Red Room. At first, Natalia found this amusing. A program dedicated to training elite spies, who would extract information by any means necessary, had gossip circulating. And not just circulating, thriving. Knowledge was power, after all, and the trainees traded it like currency. A whisper about an impending inspection would give the lucky trainees who heard about it time to make sure their quarters were in order.

Rumors kept them safe.

But the juicy ones evolved into stories, myths almost. There was one about the Winter Soldier. The perfect soldier, loyal only to Mother Russia, and with a list of kills that seem to have grown every time Natalia heard it retold. They said that he was faster than any man, stronger. They said his eyes were so cold, they froze you in your tracks. They said that he had been send after a Widow who ran away, and when he brought her back, she hadn’t begged for mercy, she had begged for death.

Rumors kept them entertained.

Another popular one was about the chair in the backroom. A chair that could be used to take memories away, replace them with new ones. Rebuild anyone into an entirely new person. That one scared Natalia more than the one about the Winter Soldier. She could face torture without breaking, she didn’t fear death. But the thought of losing herself, being turned into a mindless slave, that rattled her more than she would admit to anyone. None of the stories about it came from someone who had seen it, but they all knew what it did and where it was located – past all the storage rooms, along the corridor that only the supervisors were allowed to enter, behind the metal door.

Rumors kept them in line.

There were rumors in the Red Room and Natalia Alianovna Romanova listened closely to every one of them.

#asks #buckynat #teaposing

[mirkwoodshewolf]

I just wanted to make you smile again; 10th Doctor x child reader

*Author’s note*

Okay to the anon who requested this fic THANK YOU FOR BEING SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO PATIENT WITH ME!!!! To those anons and users who have sent me requests literally since last year I thank you all for your patience, I AM GETTING THEM DONE SLOWLY BUT SURELY. I’m already in process of doing another DW fic w/13th doctor (one of the first requests I got when I opened them last year) so I hope you all enjoy this fic.

This takes place after the episode Journey’s end so to those that haven’t seen the episode yet SPOILERS AHEAD!!! Angst and fluff is what this fic is. Enjoy my lovelies and until next time ;)

Taglist:

@plethora-of-things​

@waddles03​

@psychosupernatural​

@ixchel-9275​

@jd-johndeacon-or-jackdaniels​

@platawnic​

_________________________________________________________

Things have been—tough. The Daleks, one of my daddy’s biggest enemies nearly had us and almost succeeded in destroying all of life and matter as we know it.  But thanks to some fast thinking and with the help of a clone of my dad, we managed to stop Davros as well as the rest of the Daleks.

But honestly that was the easy part.  The hardest was saying goodbye to all of our friends.  Rose and her mum went back to the parallel world with the meta-human clone of my daddy, Captain Jack took Martha and Mickey off on another adventure, Sarah Jane (an old friend of my dad’s long before I was born) went back home, and Donna—oh poor, poor Donna.

Daddy said that in order to help stop the Daleks, Donna, who had touched the severed hand of my dad when he first became this new version of himself, gained so much knowledge of the Timelords and of our home that it could overwhelm her brain and eventually kill her.  So my dad had to absorb all memory of Timelord knowledge, including all the times she spent with us.

After taking her back home, daddy told her father that it was too dangerous for her to remember anything.  If there was a glimpse of her recovering her memories, she would die.  So my dad and I left her and her family and he never went back.

Since that day, almost seven months later, he still carries that guilt.  And what’s worse is that he hasn’t been the same. He doesn’t smile as much as he used to before.  I think out of everything that I love about my daddy, it’s his smile that always made me feel happy and safe.

I stepped out of my room to see him where he usually was, standing at the controls with that dazed but intense look on his face.  I looked down at paper butterfly and cautiously walked towards my dad. It’s always a touch and go of how he’ll react whenever he’s in that deep haze.  One time he actually shouted at me and I was scared to even go near him for an entire week till he apologized to me with some Turkish delights.

“Daddy.” I said softly. “Umm…uhh daddy?” he snapped out of his daze and looked down at me.

“Oh (Y/n). Sorry I was just—I was just trying to find….nothing. What is it that you wanted to tell me?”

“Well I—finished my paper butterfly and I-wanted to give it to you.” I held it out to him and he looked down at me.  He knelt down and took the butterfly from my hands and I saw his eyes grow soft.

“It’s beautiful love. Thank you.” he gently ruffled my hair and placed my butterfly right along the controls.  It didn’t work.

I had hoped that my paper butterfly would get him to smile.  He always smiled whenever I made him little trinkets of my own design, or beautiful art projects that I’ve seen on Earth.  I thought that by doing an art project, he’d smile again but it didn’t work.

I was currently in my room reading some books written back in the 20th century.  I’ve always found that time period to be rather splendid.  It was a simpler time (if you don’t count the 2 World wars, the Great depression, and every war after that. You know why must humans always start wars?)

Anyways, the start of the 20th century is always my favorite place.  It’s quiet, tranquil, and peaceful.  A nice place, especially out in the countryside. People can have picnics, host carnivals, and yeah the grown men partake in Foxhunt but I think it’s a barbaric sport and yet they call it tradition.

Maybe if—maybe if we stayed there for a while, daddy could get better and smile once again.  I think the more time we stay in the TARDIS and just keep going through space and time, the more unhappy daddy’s gonna get, like I said he always gets lost in his head and the more bad things that happen around him, the more he keeps it bottled up inside and the more sadder he gets.

The only question now was this—how was I gonna get there? I don’t know how to drive the TARDIS cause daddy always told me to keep my grabby little paws off of it. Oh wait that’s it! I raced over to my drawer and pulled out the middle one and dug through it till I found what I was looking for.

A special teleportation watch gifted to me by Uncle Jack when my dad was in his previous form (just shortly after we first met him).  I placed the watch on my wrist and I set the time and date that I wanted to go to.  Once the coordinates were typed in, I pressed the center of the watch and I disappeared from my room and went to go set up my surprise for daddy.

*10th Doctor’s POV*

I was fiddling around with the controls when I turned and looked up at my daughter’s butterfly.  For months now she’s been making these little trinkets and art projects for me, and I really haven’t been fair to her.  A lot has happened to us, especially with what happened to Donna, and I hate to admit this to myself but I’ve been neglecting my little butterfly.

Maybe she would like it if I took her to see her favorite constellation, or maybe Barcelona (she always did like Barcelona).  Oh! No wait! The Music of the Spheres! Yes brilliant! She and I could use some music in our life, the sound of the universe singing to us.

“Hey (Y/n)! Can you come out here for a second?” I called out to her.  No response.  Okay I know it usually takes her a bit of time to come down from her room but usually she’d be right here by now. “(Y/n)? (Y/n) I said can you come here please?” bah she must be listening to that loud music again, that lass I tell you what.

I left the console room and headed on over to her room and saw that her door was shut which was surprising cause she usually keeps her door open.  I knocked on it and said.

“Poppet, are you okay? You’re not—upset or anything are you?” I still didn’t hear anything from her.  “Look I—I know we’ve been through a lot the past several months, and I have no excuse for not speaking to you. I’m sorry. So—can you please open the door so we can talk?” still nothing.

Alright I know she has a right to be upset but she can’t give me the silent treatment forever.  I opened up the door and snapped.

“Alright little madam you listen here I—” it was then I saw that she wasn’t in her room. “(Y/n)?” I looked around her room to see if she was hiding in her closet again (she always takes every advantage to jump out and scare me) but when I saw that she wasn’t there, that’s when I began to get worried.

As I left her room and began to look all around the TARDIS from the backroom pool, to the library I still couldn’t find her.

“C’mon poppet don’t do this to me.” I searched high and low, near and far and every crack in between but she still wasn’t around. “No, no, no, no, no love don’t do this to me! (Y/n)!”

I raced back towards the console and went over to the computer monitor and I quickly typed in her lifeform energy.  Since she was the only Timelord in existence (well next to me), I knew that she could be pinpoint at any time in any era she might be in.  I only hope that I can get to her before—no! NO DON’T THINK LIKE THAT!! You WON’T lose her like you lost Donna!

“C’mon you blasted thing LOAD!!!” I screamed at the computer before finally I got a hit.  London, England 1908.  Of course, she always said the start of the 20th century was her favorite time period.  I punched in the coordinates and flipped the switch and soon the TARDIS started back up and I was sailing back in time over 100 years into the past.

Once I arrived, I peeked out of the TARDIS and found myself adjacent to a large park. It was pretty peaceful, families were out and about doing their normal human interactions.  I shut the doors to the TARDIS and I quickly raced over to the park and searched for (Y/n).

This was where her last known readings were at.  At this exact spot so where could that little troublemaker be at?  I walked up to a couple and said.

“Hi sorry to bother you but I was wondering if you have found a little girl around 5 years old with (h/l) (h/c) hair and (e/c) eyes? She’s my daughter and she’s wondered off again.”

“No sorry. We haven’t seen any little girls fitting that description.” Said the man as he and his wife continued on their walk.  I then found another couple who seemed a more upper-class couple due to the diamond necklace around the woman’s neck.

“Excuse me could you both please help me I’m looking for my daughter have either of you……”

“We don’t have time to look for lost children, that’s what the servants are for.” Said the man.

“And who loses their child anyway? Such irresponsibility.” The woman snide.  I looked at them offendedly and said.

“At least I don’t dump my child on anyone else! I’m surprised that people like you could even have children.” They looked at me appalled before huffing and walking away from me.  

I grunted and adjusted my jacket trying to compose myself when a small Cockney accent said.

“You said you were looking for (Y/n)?” I turned around and there was a young ginger haired boy with freckles speckled all over his face.  His bright blue eyes staring up at me and he wore a paper boy’s uniform.

“Yeah that’s my daughter’s name. Do you know where she is?”

“Course I do Gov. Just got done talking with her before I started my work sir. She’s right by the lake.”

“The Lake! Oh thank you lad. Thank you so much.”

“No problem, good luck governor.” I raced off towards the lake and when I got there, I soon saw my daughter sitting right by the lake surrounded by flowers and in her lap it looked like she was in the process of making a flower crown.

The important thing was that she was safe, but that little missy is sooo going to get it now.

I trudged my way towards her and exclaimed.

“(Y/n)!” she stopped her work and turned around.  Her big (e/c) eyes staring up at me and a smile spread across her face. She stood up and ran towards me and hugged around my legs.

“Daddy you came!”

“Yes I did.” I knelt down and began to check to see if she was hurt or worst case scenario been replaced by a Graske. “Are you hurt?”

“No I’m perfectly fine.”

“Answer me this then. Who was the first companion that we had together?”

“Rose Tyler.” Okay this was my baby girl.  I immediately hugged her and whispered to her as I rest my head on top of hers.

“I thought I had lost you.” I then separated from her before scolding her vert sternly, “Do you have any idea how worried I was!? You leave your room with no note! How on earth did you leave the TARDIS without my knowledge?!”

“Uncle Jack’s time jump watch.” She said nervously as she held out her wrist.  I looked down and right there was the time teleport watch that Jack had given her shortly after we met him for the first time in my previous state.

“That figures. Remind me to never let him give you anymore teleportation gifts without my permission.” I muttered to myself. “Bottom line is that you left the TARDIS without my permission and had me scared to death! What if something happened to you hmm? Did it ever cross your mind about how that would make me feel!?”

Yes I know my voice was steadily getting angrier and angrier but she should’ve realized that my one rule for her is to never, ever, ever leave the TARDIS without my permission or knowledge and she broke that rule.

“I—I’m sorry daddy. I just……thought that if I brought you here, you would be happy.” My anger quickly vanished and confusion now took its place.

“What?” I asked her.

“Ever since—” she deeply sighed. “After what happened with Donna you never smile anymore. No matter what I’ve done, I could never get you to smile. Your real smile, the smile that always made me feel loved and protected. I thought that maybe we could—stay here for a while till you were happy again.” She looked down with regret.

I rubbed my hand over my face and through my hair before looking back down at her. I cupped my hands over her face and I said to her.

“What would I ever do without you my little butterfly?” she smiled softly.

“So we can stay?” she asked.

“For now.” I answered her.  She squealed happily and immediately hugged me around my neck repeatedly telling me thank you.  I smiled and embraced my baby girl back and kissed the top of her head as I rocked her back and forth.

This little madam truly does have me wrapped around her little finger, and she seems to know it as well.  But she was right.  Staying in one area made you stop and admire what’s around you, and not stay trapped inside your head letting your demons torment you.

We stayed in 1908 for about five months just enjoying each other’s company.  Going to the park every day, having picnics and tea parties out in the garden of our rented little cottage, and stargazing every night teaching her more about the galaxy and the stars.  

For the first time ever, I felt—peaceful, no regrets, no painful reminders of what I had to do to Donna, it was just me and my daughter.

#doctor who #doctor who fandom #doctor who fanfic #doctor who x reader #doctor who imagine #doctor who imagines #doctor who fanfiction #10th doctor #10th doctor fanfic #10th doctor fanfiction #10th doctor imagine #10th doctor imagines #10th doctor x reader #10th doctor x child reader #david tennant

[quakerjoe]

It is important to remember that, because, as New York’s Sarah Jones writes: “Tara Reade is difficult to dismiss.”

Since she publicly accused her former boss, Joe Biden, of sexual assault, multiple outlets reported corroborative evidence that supports her account. She says she told her brother; The New York Times and The Washington Post confirmed that she did. She says she told an anonymous friend; reporters confirmed that too. She told the Intercept that her mother, distraught over her treatment in Biden’s office, called into Larry King Live to ask for advice around the time of the attack, and the clip emerged. On Monday, Business Insider reported the most significant piece of circumstantial evidence to date: A former neighbor and a former co-worker of Reade’s both told the outlet that Reade disclosed a traumatic event to them in the mid-’90s.

The news cycle moves at a breakneck pace in the Trump era, and time passes oddly in lockdown, but Joe Biden’s coronation and the third-party support for Tara Reade’s assault allegation (which Biden denies) are both very recent developments. Pete Buttigieg, Beto O’Rourke, and Amy Klobuchar all endorsed Biden at the beginning of March; Reade’s interview with Katie Halper, containing her new, more serious accusations, came at the end of that month; The Intercept and Business Insider partially corroborated her story over the last week.

It is, as I mentioned, now the start of May. Thus far, the Biden campaign and Democratic Party organizations have, for the most part, dismissed the story. As The New York Times reports, “progressive activists and women’s rights advocates” have spent weeks urging the Biden campaign to “address the allegation” more thoroughly. They drafted a letter pushing him “to model how to take serious allegations seriously.”

Biden simply chose not to. The groups sat on the letter.

As the Times puts it, Biden’s aides have said they “remained unconcerned about any significant political blowback from Ms. Reade’s accusation.” They are “confident that the allegation will not shake voters’ perceptions of Mr. Biden’s character,” and they “believe that voters will view the allegation with great skepticism.”

All of that could be true. It is also answering a different question than the one those activists and organizations thought they were posing. They, ostensibly, should not be worried about whether Biden can win with a strategy of waiting for these allegations to go away on their own. But that is all the Biden campaign can offer them. (So far. Biden is scheduled to appear on Morning Joe today, and he is expected to answer some sort of question about Reade’s allegations.)

What his campaign is trying to imply is that Biden’s nomination is inevitable, instilling resignation in those who feel queasy about the allegations but who desperately want to beat Donald Trump in November. They want people who might, under normal circumstances, push a politician facing an accusation like this one to open up the Senate records that could shed light on the veracity of these claims to instead come up with reasons why Biden should keep them closed. (Biden has reportedly sent operatives to look through the records.) It is hard to ask the Biden campaign to “model how to take serious allegations seriously” when it seems more interested in following the old model—of having your fiercest partisans defend you in the press with blithe hypocrisy.

But instead of throwing up your arms at being forced to choose between either defending Biden or simply holding your nose and voting for a man you now suspect may have done something terrible, remember—it is only May 1.

Biden is the presumptive nominee in large part because the party leadership coalesced around him, signaling clearly to voters that he was the right man. The most respected and admired figures in the party could now coalesce around another path: Biden bowing out and the presidential contest continuing.

The 2020 Democratic primaries were notable for featuring a huge slate of candidates who were all broadly acceptable to the rank and file. The majority of Democratic voters regularly told pollsters they had favorable opinions of all of Biden’s closest competitors for the nomination. The candidates who couldn’t crack 50 percent were, for the most part, not unacceptable to Democrats but mainly unknown. Loyal Democrats paying the closest attention to the race bemoaned the early exits of numerous perfectly qualified candidates.

Guess what? They can return, if they want to.

The right circled the wagons around Brett Kavanaugh when he faced allegations of sexual assault that were hard to disprove, in large part because he was replaceable. To stick with him was an important display of power and dominance; to withdraw his name and advance an ideologically identical replacement would have made no difference to the right’s larger political project, but it would have been a demoralizing surrender to the forces they hate. There are now some on the Democratic side who feel even more tightly attached to nominee Biden because they, too, are determined not to surrender to the forces they hate, citing Bernie Sanders or Vladimir Putin or both.

But (among the commentariat, at least), there are more left-of-center voices responding with hopelessness or helplessness. I can’t believe male politicians, and the political establishment, are making me do this again threatens to become a common refrain. That reaction would be understandable if the bulk of the corroborating evidence had emerged in October (there is suggestive evidence that right-wing groups had had the Larry King Show tape filed away for just such time; suspiciously, they had it ready to post almost as soon as The Intercept published its story). But it is not October. It is May. Joe Biden is not the nominee. The primaries are still happening. It is within your power to demand an alternative.

The organizations that wasted weeks drafting a letter urging the Biden campaign to come up with an acceptable response to all this could now draft one instead urging Biden to step aside and let the primaries continue. Barack Obama could gently suggest that Biden do what he knows is right. Elizabeth Warren, Pete Buttigieg, Bernie Sanders, and Amy Klobuchar could unsuspend their campaigns. Or some of them could choose, just as they chose to throw their support to Biden, to endorse a well-qualified also-ran they believe deserves another shot, such as Jay Inslee or Julián Castro. And then the Democratic voters could decide. That’s how the system is supposed to work: 

Neither the Constitution nor the bylaws of the Democratic National Committee require that the guy leading the delegate count on May 1 win the nomination.

If Biden left now, on his own terms, perhaps with some polite fiction about his health or stamina, the rest of the primaries could play out as designed, in a civil, well-managed continuation of the contests, and the eventual Democratic nominee could emerge without being seriously wounded.

Based on how the Biden campaign has responded to the allegations so far, and on what they have asked the most principled and loyal Democratic partisans to do, or even to think, a Biden victory in November could be nearly as demoralizing (if not as existentially dangerous) as a Biden defeat. His campaign is run by some of the most cynical people in the Democratic Party apparatus, and unless today marks some sea change in the way they view these allegations, they will continue to believe that they can ignore and dismiss this story and still win. They may well be right. And if you are comfortable with that, there’s not much else to say. But no one is under any obligation to adopt that cynical argument and use it to excuse anything. They would like you to believe that the choice before you is-

All In With Biden or another four years of Trump. That is not remotely the case.

The alternative scenario is not some outlandish, unprecedented piece of political-junkie fan-fiction, in which backroom deals at a virtual convention produce an Andrew Cuomo–Stacy Abrams ticket. The elections already on the calendar would simply continue with an existing slate of perfectly qualified candidates.

That is possible. It’s not even unreasonable, nor would it necessarily hand the election to Trump. Barack Obama became the presumptive nominee in June 2008. He had plenty of time to unify the party, introduce himself to the rest of the nation, and win the November election.

But just because Biden could step aside and allow the primaries to continue without him doesn’t mean that he will. And it is worth reflecting on why that is. Democratic leadership would panic, obviously, at the thought of changing horses in what they already view as the middle of the stream. But they also seem to believe their die-hards won’t care and the people most vocal about wishing to change things won’t demand a reckoning. They are relying on people already fully invested in a Joe Biden campaign—not just the campaign operatives and donors and elected officials, but the outside organizations and the professional activists, and the think tanks and the media personalities, and even people who seem to do nothing but post all day—to entertain no possibility of disinvestment. But with months to go before the convention, there is plenty of time for people with power and platforms to use them.

#democratic party

[warofshadowstheorder]

Chapter 07

The morning arrived in typical fashion on the island of Cuba.  A gorgeous sunrise providing a wondrous prelude to the sweltering heat that followed.  Along the shoreline across the sea from Guantanamo Bay stood a small open-air cantina that was a far cry from any romanticized images of Havana, but exactly what someone would expect for a dive bar in a third-world country.

Business didn’t pick up until late afternoon when daylight was fading and tired working men were searching for a place to sit down and relax with a cold brew, but the aroma of the spent cigarettes and cigars was always present.  The selection was limited, as was the clientele.  Tables and chairs adorned the floor with the only real decoration being a 1950s Wurlitzer.  The most recent selection recognizable to foreign visitors was Roy Orbison’s “Only The Lonely.”

The beverage selection and a few empty cigar boxes were on display on the shelf behind the bar.  The exterior had the appearance of the main office of a rundown jungle hotel that had been built during a time well before any modern era.  At first sight, it looked like it could collapse on its own foundation at any time.

The proprietor, a man named Eduardo Gomez, arrived shortly after daybreak and unlocked the door behind the bar, opening it to reveal a small room with a small desk containing multiple drawers and  up.  The cantina didn’t open until much later in the day, but the morning hours were the only time Eduardo had to clean up from the previous evening.  The previous evening had been particularly boisterous, as evidenced by the condition of the seating area at the bar and the bathroom.  Eduardo gave a sigh after entering upon the realization that the darkness had masked the extent of the deteriorated condition in which he had left the cantina.

After a few hours with a broom, mop, cleansers, brushes, and scrubbers, the cantina was back to the best condition for which Eduardo could hope.  Exhaustion getting the better of him, Eduardo gave the place a last once-over before picking up the newspaper he had brought with him and settling down for a break.  The calm sea outside matching the overall environment.

While Eduardo was settling in, the sea suddenly became a little less calm.  A man’s head quickly surfaced amidst some quickly forming ripples near the shoreline.  Odin brought his tired body to the surface and took a moment to catch his breath.  Having stayed underwater for minutes at a time, it took him a few moments to recuperate.

His lungs felt like they were simultaneously on fire and soaking wet as he took several long breaths.  After a while, he brought his head up and saw the cantina.  He stood on his feet and slowly walked to the establishment, being careful to ensure that he wasn’t seen or being watched.  His steps were slow due to the disorientation he was experiencing from his exhaustion, but each one was careful and deliberate.

He eventually made it to the table where Eduardo sat.  Eduardo looked up from his newspaper and was curious about the sight in front of him.  An obviously foreign man dressed only in a pair of briefs was something that he hadn’t seen before.  He was only halfway standing and his legs were shaking.  His breathing was labored and water freely dripped off of him.

Eduardo didn’t know what to say, all he could do was stare at the man before him.  After several moments of uncertainty and hesitation, Eduardo spoke.

“Buenos dias senor, te puedo ayudar?”

Eduardo stiffened as the man approached him.  He was visualizing every possible outcome of the move and hoped that the idea he had of being dead in a few seconds didn’t end up coming true.

Odin extended his right hand toward Eduardo.  Relieved, Eduardo extended his hand to Odin expecting a handshake.  A moment before they would have shaken hands, Odin moved his hand so that the back of it made contact with the back of Eduardo’s.  Odin then moved his arm over Eduardo’s and gripped his forearm, he then relaxed his grip and slid his hand down to shake Eduardo’s.

A look of surprise came over Eduardo’s face when the two of them ended the handshake.  Odin stared forward at Eduardo as he stared back at him and Eduardo struggled to think of what he was supposed to do next.

“Credentials?” Eduardo asked after a few moments.

Odin nodded, then started running his fingers over his arms and torso.

He peeled off pieces of a material that matched the color of his skin, letting them drop to the floor, each fallen piece revealing something different.

Marks of various geometric shapes and assorted sizes adorned his shoulders, back, and torso.  There were marks on both of his shoulders, one over the right side of his chest, one on his stomach, two just above it, a large one on each of his shoulder blades, and another large one at the small of his back.

The most prominent mark on his body was a large black circle with streaks in the center burned onto his skin.

Eduardo carefully examined the different marks over the front and back of Odin’s body.

“Tell me what those ones,” Eduardo said pointing to one on his left shoulder and two on his abdomen, “represent.”

“This one,” Odin said pointing to the one on his shoulder, “is for escape and concealment, and these,” he pointed to the two on his abdomen, “are for water training, and unarmed combat.”

There was a pause while Eduardo registered what Odin told him, he knew that what he’d said was accurate.  Eduardo’s eyes lit up as he realized what kind of man was standing in front of him.

“I’ve shown you mine,” Odin said after a moment breaking Eduardo out of his revelatory state, “now show me yours.”

“Of course,” Eduardo answered in awe.  He lifted up the left sleeve of his shirt to reveal a tattoo of a cat’s eye with a black color and a green pupil.  Odin looked at it and gave a nod to show that Eduardo passed his inspection.

“What can I do for you?” Eduardo asked eagerly.

“I need to get back to the Monastery.  Now.”  Odin said before picking up the flesh-colored patches.

“Give me a minute,” Eduardo answered.  “You will have to forgive me,” he continued as he led Odin behind the bar into a backroom, “but I was just approached a few years ago and you are the first Knight who has come here.”

“I’m honored,” Odin said returning to his natural accent and occasionally looking around to make sure he and Eduardo weren’t being watched, “you do know the procedure for this, right?”

“Claro,” Eduardo replied with the same excited tone, “I’ve been waiting to actually see this done.”

Odin smiled seeing the enthusiasm and obvious excitement of Eduardo as they entered the office and Eduardo closed the door behind them.  Odin’s eyes immediately found the cauldron.  Eduardo opened one of his desk drawers and handed a piece of paper and pencil to Odin, who quickly thanked Eduardo before beginning to write a note.  As Odin wrote, Eduardo reached into another drawer where he brought out a few small bags, a long length of rope, and some rocks on top of a piece of cardboard.

“Here,” Odin said with a tone that conveyed urgency as he handed the note and skin patches to Eduardo.  Eduardo glanced at the note and read it, “Odin Bruce in Cuba, immediate priority” before putting the items into one of the bags, cutting some rope, and picking up one of the rocks he had brought out.  Eduardo folded down the top of the bag, then tied it shut with the rope and tying the rope around one of the rocks.  He then dropped it into the water and the two of them waited.

“So this is your first time doing this?” Odin asked, Eduardo nodded, “then you’ll want to keep your eyes on the water.”

Eduardo followed Odin’s advice and stared at the water in the cauldron.  They both looked in anticipation at the motionless liquid, one knowing what he was waiting for and the other eager to find out.  They got their wish after a few moments.

Ripples formed in the water before a bright light reflected from it.  Both men instinctively shielded their eyes, then looked back into the water as the light dimmed.  When the light had dimmed completely, they looked and saw the reflection of a young woman with long red hair and blue eyes looking up hopefully.

She and Odin smiled at each other as their eyes met, and Eduardo stood in awe of what he was seeing.

“Hello sweetheart,” Odin said into the water, “am I clear to come in?”

“Of course,” Alicia answered, “but do you have any idea how long I’ve been waiting here for you?  I’ve been worried sick, love.”

Odin was surprised by the almost vicious tone that Alicia used with him, and looked to change the subject.

“This,” he said to Eduardo who was staring in awe at the woman in the cauldron and marveling at the fact that he could hear her, “is my wife Alicia.  Alicia, this is…” Odin paused realizing that he had been in such a rush to get back to the monastery that he hadn’t bothered with formalities.

“Eduardo Gomez,” Eduardo said slowly into the cauldron, “it is very nice to meet you.”

“Hello Eduardo,” Alicia said, “thanks so much for helping my husband get back.  And I have to say that I love your accent.”

“Gracias,” Eduardo replied.  Both he and Odin tensed up at the sound of footsteps approaching the bar.

“You should go now,” Eduardo whispered, “it would be best if no one sees you here.”

“It was nice to meet you Eduardo Gomez,” Odin whispered nodding to Eduardo, “if anyone comes by here asking about me just tell them that a man matching my description came in, had a drink, and sat for a few minutes before leaving.”

“I understand,” Eduardo said, “vaya con dios.”

“Same to you,” Odin said before shaking Eduardo’s hand, “Stand back sweetie,” he said facing Alicia, “your Aussie baby’s coming home.”

Alicia smiled and disappeared from the cauldron.  Odin placed his hands on the cauldron and slid into it.  Eduardo moved to the side and watched in awe as Odin disappeared into the water without a drop of it leaving the cauldron.

Odin felt himself sink into the cauldron water, falling into it as though he were diving into the deep end of a swimming pool, and sank deeper until he felt a solid surface under his feet.  He pushed off of it and stood up to find himself waist deep in one of the cauldrons in the Monastery.

He rubbed his eyes and saw Alicia standing close by lovingly gazing at him.  Odin smiled back at her and quickly got out of the cauldron.  His feet had barely touched the ground when Alicia ran to him and wrapped her arms around him tightly, not caring about the fact that he was soaking wet.  Alicia captured his lips in a passionate kiss before Odin could say or do anything.

Odin did his best to respond after his ordeal from the night before coupled with the dizzy sensation he always got after what the Knights called cauldron trips.  Alicia was content to have the man of her dreams back with her.  They came apart after a few seconds, and Odin could only open his eyes and smile at Alicia, who returned the gesture.

“I missed you,” Alicia said in a low voice as she brought her head to rest on Odin’s chest, “why were you away so long?”

“Well,” Odin said quietly, “after they took me to the local jail some of the police and agents there talked for a few minutes and made a couple of phone calls.  They shipped me off to some prison in Cuba.”

Alicia looked up into Odin’s face and saw his usual confident expression, coupled with a retrospective look.

“Between the plane trip,” Odin continued, “two bookings, a lot of interrogating, some time in a few different cells, a little time mingling with some inmates, and the fact that I didn’t get my legal counsel until I was in Cuba; it took a little while to get back.”

“Are you serious,” Alicia asked surprised and a little shocked, “did you really go through all of that?”

“I exaggerated a little about the interrogating,” Odin admitted, “it just seemed to go on forever.  I mean all I did was shoot the guy who was probably going to be the next President of the United States of America.”

Alicia laughed against her husband’s chest and held him tighter.  Odin responded in kind, happy to be back in the place he called home with the woman he loved.

“Although I have to admit,” Odin added, “I was tempted to stay for a while and see how well I could stand up to whatever torture or other things they would try on me.”

“I see,” Alicia said coyly, “and what dissuaded you from your foray into masochism?”

“I remembered that Malcolm’s birthday is coming up soon and I didn’t want to risk being there with a limp.”

Alicia smiled at him before they kissed again.

“Olcán told me to give you this,” Alicia said after a moment and handed Odin his crucifix.  She and Odin separated long enough for Odin to take the crucifix from her and put it around his neck.  Then, they were right back to embracing and kissing without missing a beat.

Odin was reveling in experiencing what he had described as “the homecoming” to Olcán back at the pavilion.  The scene was very tender and heartfelt as Odin and Alicia wordlessly expressed the great love they shared.  They eventually separated after several more moments.

“Could you hang on for a second,” Odin asked, “I just need to check in with Eduardo.”

Back in Cuba, Eduardo stood motionless and looked on in pure wonder.  After a moment, he walked over to the cauldron and looked into the water.  He saw darkness, then what looked like a room with a stone ceiling.  He paused, not knowing what to do next, and kept staring at the water.  A knocking sound coming from the bar outside got him back to the present and he worried about having the scene in front of him on display to whomever was outside.

He started to think that there was something he needed to do and struggled to remember what it was.  As he struggled to remember, and became increasingly concerned about leaving the cauldron in its current state, to his relief he saw Odin’s face in the water.

“I made it,” Odin said simply, “thanks again for your help and service to the Order.”

“Let me know if I can ever be of service again,” Eduardo answered still in awe of what he had seen happen right in front of him.  “May the light within…”

Odin nodded, and then Alicia’s grateful face appeared in the water again.

“Drive away the darkness without,” Odin responded, “farewell for now mate.”

At that point, he saw Alicia drop a rock into the cauldron and then tap the water with something.  Suddenly the water returned back to its normal state.  Eduardo stood motionless in wonder.  The sound of the rock Alicia had dropped into the cauldron, the same one that Eduardo had tied around the bag earlier, coming in contact with the bottom of his cauldron snapped Eduardo out of his trance.  He reached into the cauldron and removed the rock, placing it with the other ones he had on the shelf with the rope, paper, and bags.

He felt a sense of satisfaction at finally getting the opportunity to do what he had volunteered to and was reminded of the promises he had made to the group that Odin belonged to.  He was so caught up in the memory of what he had just seen and remembering his responsibilities that it took a soft voice calling out “hello,” to bring him back to the present.

Thinking quickly as to how to explain the splash Odin had made, Eduardo put his hands into the water of the cauldron to replicate the splashing sound the best he could, brought a handful of water to his face, then exited the enclosed space to go out to the bar area.  Seated at the bar was an unexpected but welcomed surprise.  A very beautiful young woman with fair skin, long red hair, and arrestingly beautiful green eyes was standing at the bar.

#novel #action-adventure #fantasy #historical fiction

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

* * * *

It’s very strange to think of Joe Biden as a world-historical figure. For decades, he seemed to me to be a bit of an irritating blowhard who rarely took the chance to edit himself. He was a classic slap-on-the-back backroom pol, with an everyman-on-the-train vibe, who loved the ornaments of public office, and that was basically it.

Washington will always need people like Biden, and he played the part well, but he was hardly a star. He rarely inspired, he made cringe-inducing gaffe after gaffe, his vanity required him to cover up his baldness with what, for a while, looked like a painful rice-paddy of plugs, he plagiarized a speech so obviously and crudely he almost begged to be caught, and despite his rep for retail politics, was terrible at campaigning for president. In 2008, he quit after Iowa, with one percent of the vote.

His big moment came when Barack Obama picked him as his veep. And the choice of Biden was specifically designed, it seems to me, to ruffle no more feathers, and to assuage white working-class discomfort with a young, inexperienced black guy with a funny, foreign-sounding name. Even at the time, it felt to me that Biden’s acceptance speech was fine but not exactly great — but what worked nonetheless was his persona: “It’s hard not to feel affection for this scrappy old guy — especially if you’re a Catholic,” I wrote. “This was a very culturally Catholic speech, especially at the beginning, and Biden will speak to people who might be leery of this young African-American. It was also focused on middle class economic anxiety and spoke about it in intimate ways that voters will immediately understand.”

Twelve years later, this guy is even older and less scrappy but still has the same core appeal: that old Irish dude who can go on a bit but has a heart of gold and hasn’t completely disappeared into the left-liberal elite. The drastically curtailed Covid campaign was a godsend in retrospect because it removed countless opportunities for him to get in his own way, while very successfully projecting and burnishing this image. Yes he could get a bit Abraham-Simpson-y at times, but I confess I began to find that a little comforting after a while, in the era of Trump. The combination of decency, vulnerability and humanness became even more potent up against an indecent, inhuman con-man. It became the stutterer versus the monster.

And Biden’s core appeal, as he has occasionally insisted, is that he ran against the Democratic left, and won because of moderate and older black voters with their heads screwed on right. He was the least online candidate. For race-leftists like Jamelle Bouie, he was part of the problem: “For decades Biden gave liberal cover to white backlash.” For gender-warriors like Rebecca Traister, he was “a comforter of patriarchal impulses toward controlling women’s bodies.” Ben Smith a year and a half ago went for it: “His campaign is stumbling toward launch with all the hallmarks of a Jeb!-level catastrophe — a path that leads straight down … Joe Biden isn’t going to emerge from the 2020 campaign as the nominee. You already knew that.” The sheer smug of it! And the joy of seeing old Joe get the last laugh.

It’s worth recalling the obloquy the woke dumped on Biden in the early stages of the race because this will surely be a battle line if he wins the presidency, and we will have to fight for him and against them if we are not going to sink into deeper tribal warfare. He is one of the last vestiges of the near-extinct rapport between white working-class voters and the Democrats, and if he wins next week, it will be because he has wrested older white voters from the Republican grip, and won white women in a landslide (unlike Clinton), even as his support among blacks and Latinos may come in slightly behind Hillary’s.

Biden ran a campaign, in stark contrast to Clinton’s, focused not on rallying the base around identity grievances, but on persuading the other side with argument and engagement. If you believe in liberal democracy — in persuasion, dialogue, and civility — and want to resist tribalism, Biden may be our unexpected but real last chance. And in this campaign, he has walked the walk.

His core message, which has been remarkably consistent, is not a divisive or partisan one. It is neither angry nor bitter. Despite mockery and scorn from some understandably embittered partisans, he has a hand still held out if Republicans want to cooperate. In this speech at Warm Springs, where Biden invoked the legacy of FDR, you can feel the Obama vibe, so alien to the woke: “Red states, blue states, Republicans, Democrats, Conservatives, and Liberals. I believe from the bottom of my heart, we can do it. People ask me, why are you so confident Joe? Because we are the United States of America.”

And while he has promised a deep re-structuring and redistribution in the wake of Covid, climate change, and destabilizing inequality, he has done so in pragmatic, rather than ideological, terms. Against the surreal extremism and divisiveness of Trump, he has offered moderation and an appeal to unity. Look at the careful balance he has struck on the protests against police misconduct this summer: “Some of it is just senseless burning and looting and violence that can’t be tolerated and won’t, but much of it is a cry for justice from a community that’s long had a knee of injustice on their neck.” We need both these impulses, if we are to extract real reform from distorting rage, and make it stick.

He is not perfect, of course. I suspect he is naive on some questions. He realizes, does he not, that when he uses the term “equity” rather than “equality”, with respect to race, he is using code for the crudest racial discrimination. He surely knows that critical race theory is not about being sensitive to the pain of others, but about seeing the U.S. as no less a white supremacy now than under slavery, and liberal constitutionalism as a mere mask for oppression of non-whites. He knows that the Equality Act eviscerates the religious freedom he has previously championed, does he not, and folds the category of sex into one of gender, jeopardizing at the margins both gay and women’s rights? And it should be troubling, it seems to me, that, when confronted with the fact that his son, Hunter, is corrupt in the classic, legal, and swampy way, Biden refuses to see anything wrong with it at all.

But these are quibbles in the grand scheme of things. And it is striking, as David Brooks noted this morning, how deftly Biden has walked through a field of culture war landmines and not see one go off. That has taken discipline — and Biden has shown that he can exercise it. Maybe he learned it from Obama.

His closing message has been about healing — from the wounds of Covid, economic crisis, and resilient racism. And if there is one thing Biden really knows in his heart and soul it is healing. Recovering from the loss of a wife, a daughter and a son requires a profound sense of how to take the hits that life can bring, how to stay strong while accepting vulnerability, and how to move slowly forward.

This is how he put it last week, as he related to the isolating, desolating casualties of Covid19: “Alone in a hospital room, alone in a nursing home, no family, no friends, no loved ones beside them in those final moments, and it haunts so many of the surviving families, families who were never given a chance to say goodbye. I, and many of you know, what loss feels like when you lose someone you love, you feel that deep black hole opening up on your chest and you feel like you’re being swallowed into it.”

I have felt that way for four years now. What I grieve is an idea of America that is decent, generous, big-hearted, and pragmatic, where the identity of a citizen, unqualified, unhyphenated, is the only identity you need. I miss a public discourse where a president takes responsibility even for things beyond his full control, where the fault-lines of history are not mined for ammunition but for greater understanding, where, in Biden’s words, we can once again see the dignity in each other. I am not a fool, and know how hard this will be. But in this old man, with his muscle memory of what we have lost, and his ability to move and change in new ways, we have an unexpected gift.

“I’ve long said the story of America is a story of ordinary people doing extraordinary things,” Joe Biden said last week. Well, ordinary old Joe, it’s your turn now. Do the extraordinary.

ANDREW SULLIVAN

THE WEEKLY DISH

#corrupt GOP #election 2020 #political #Joe Biden

[sxmethingwicked]

A Simple Request

“Satan’s tits, I’m tired! I need some coffee or somethin’ or I’m gonna pass out.” Leon whined, lounging on the red leather couch at the back of the brothel. He’d been rather busy during the day, nearly too tired for anymore work. Of course, he couldn’t take a break just yet as night was falling. The sinners had money and he needed it.

“Want me to get ya a cup o’ coffee?” Kingsley asked from the other side of the room. The demon was leaning on the back of a chair, tail gently swaying. “I get off a lil early because I’ve been workin’ overtime~. So I can grab you somethin’ and come back if you’d like?”

“Sure, whatever. Make sure it’s got a lot of creamer and sugar or else yer takin’ my shift next time!” The chameleon quipped as Kingsley made his way out. He watched the other go and leaned back again. Taking out his hellphone, Leon took to browsing the internet for a bit while he waited.

“Are thou services available?” A hollow voice questioned, drawing Leon’s attention away from his phone. He looked up and saw a demon clad in what seemed like the stereotypical plague doctor attire of some lost era. They wore a mask similar to a bird with dark lenses over the eyes. A walking artifact, practically.

“Depends, I’m already showin’ some ankle unless you’re feelin’ especially scandalous tonight, old man~.” Leon hummed, pocketing his hellphone. He sat up and rested his chin on his hands, looking the other up and down. Probably was a real freak in the bedroom, secretly, he assumed.

“In a sense. Approximately how much would it be for an hour of your time?” His speech dropped from the thicker old english and seemed to flow into a light modern english one. Was he faking it? Leon tilted his head to the side before shrugging.

“I’ll let ya pay about fifty. It’s early and I’m sure ya ain’t lookin’ for freaky shit.” The sugar demon said, getting up from his spot and motioning for the stranger to follow. “C’mon. There’s still an open room.”

The two moved their discussion to a backroom that was open. It wasn’t luxurious or anything, a simple bed and a rather poor looking chair in the corner was all that was needed here. Leon wished the owner invested in better furniture but it’s all you get when you’re a low level croney in Hell. Hopping onto the bed, the demon took off his vest and laid himself out. His markings gave off a faint bioluminescent glow as he flexed his hooves and wagged his tail.

The other demon simply stared for a moment before removing his mask. The holes in his face were certainly new but they could be useful in Leon’s eyes. Removing his clothes save for his boxers, the stranger simply folded his clothes and placed them onto the chair. Oh, more holes or missing flesh. Nice.

“C’mon, let’s get down to it~. Ya want me to give ya a quickie or do ya need a little ‘massage’ or--” The stranger got onto the bed beside Leon and gently pulled the taller demon close, a vague rumbling emanating from him. Spooning? Really? Well, at least it was money.

“I just need a moment.” He said, burying his face into Leon’s chest. Leon simply stared and just held the other, fingers tracing his spine. This guy was practically skeletal, it seemed. Needs a bit heartier stuff in his diet. Leon’s mind wandered somewhat, the scent of...flowers softly came from the smaller demon. He couldn’t tell what kind but maybe this demon worked with plants somehow? Either way, it was nice. Soft.

Time seemed to fly by and Leon had dozed off at some point, only to see the other getting dressed by the chair. He perked up immediately and was worried he’d let this run on for too long. Thankfully, it had only been an hour.

“Tell no one of this.” The demon said, dawning his mask. He rifled through a pocket in his robes and placed a fairly large stack of bills onto the chair. That much for his silence? What a steal!

“Mind tellin’ me yer name so I know who I’m supposed to look for next time?” Leon purred, laying on the bed with his chin resting on his hands.

“Chambers. I may come back. I do not mind your company, for once.” The demon replied, going for the door.

“Sure sure~. See ya later, bird boy~!” Leon chirped, tail wagging.

Like that, Chambers was gone. Of course, not forever. The two had appointments like these for a while before the smaller demon requested that Leon stay with him. Was it a good decision? Probably not. Was it worth it? Yes.

#Doctors Notes (Drabble) #wrote this a while back and thought y’all would like it

[eryiss]

Chater Three - Drinking

Summary: Laxus Dreyar, prince of Fiore, has been trapped in the town of Magnolia for months by order of his grandfather. After a failed attempt at leaving ends up with the prince injured, his grandfather punishes him by adding a new guard to his retainer team. An arrogant, up-tight, overly confident, handsome bastard named Freed Justine. [Fraxus | Fantasy AU]

Here’s part three. I hope you all enjoy it. Little warning, there’s alcohol consuption in this. They’re of age, but it’s best to be safe with a warning.

You can read this on FanFiction, Archive of our Own, or under the cut. You can find the chapter list here. Hope you enjoy it ^.^

Chapter Three – Drinking

The sensation of cold beer filling his stomach was amazing, Laxus found. Even if the beer was cheaper than anything he usually drank, and although the tankard he drank from was a dulled metal rather than the crystal glass he was used to, he felt as though this was perhaps the best drink he'd had for months. The reason for this was clear for him; he was drinking in an empty tavern that was hours away from Magnolia's outer walls.

This was part of his grandfather's plans to allow him more freedom. It had been over a month since Makarov had alluded to this, and Laxus had all but given up hope that anything would happen. Then he had been called into his grandfather's office and was told that he would be visiting the town of Era.

Apparently, as future king, Laxus needed to make himself known throughout the kingdom. He wasn't going to argue if it got him out.

Makarov had promised that this would be happening more in the coming months, and he would be visiting all the largest and most important towns and cities in the kingdom for these royal appearances. Laxus couldn't be sure if Makarov actually thought it was important for him to meet the people of Fiore, or if this was just a way to appease Laxus' need to travel, but the blonde didn't care. Getting out of the castle, and Magnolia, was worth it either way. Hopefully, when Makarov saw that nobody was actually trying to kill him, the restrictions would be removed, and he would be granted the same level of freedom that he used to have.

The Inn he was staying in – Cait Shelter – was not in the town he was visiting, but a few miles away. It was a small place and not nearly as luxurious as the castle, but it was homely and comfortable. Makarov had also organised their accommodation and had apparently insisted that nobody else be staying there while he was. It wasn't needed, but Laxus would be lying if he said he didn't enjoy the quiet.

He couldn't exactly say the same thing about the journey there.

It had been him, and his three retainers. The entire carriage ride there had been more tense than Laxus cared for. Bickslow had been chatting almost constantly, sitting beside Laxus and watching the trees roll by. Evergreen was sitting beside Freed, who was piloting their carriage. Usually they would have had someone other than a retainer to do that, but apparently Freed already knew how to do that and having less people in their traveling party greatly increased security. They were Freed's words, and Laxus had his jaw clenched when he said them.

The entire trip here had just felt wrong. Before, carriage rides with his retainers had been a time where he could let loose and have fun with his friends, but not this time. Freed was an intruder. Evergreen and Bickslow didn't seem to think that way as they continued as if nothing was different, but Laxus couldn't. It just felt wrong.

Perhaps that was his fault. He didn't care.

Throughout the month he had known Freed, he had made an effort not to get to know him. There was no reason for him to see him, other than whenever he went into Magnolia. Other than a few misguided attempts and making them friends by Bickslow and Ever, their interactions had been minimal and professional only.

Every time he saw Freed, Laxus felt himself get angry. Not only was he proof that Makarov didn't trust him to look after himself, but he was also just an asshole. That was the only way Laxus could describe him. He was smug, self-interested, rude and fucking intolerable.

He had asked Bickslow why they were friends with him, and the retainer just replied by saying a lot of those terms could be applied to the prince himself. Later that day, Bickslow was mucking out the stables on his own on the prince's orders. What a coincidence.

Even with the smug satisfaction Laxus got from that petty revenge, he was still angry.

It was indescribable as to why Laxus was so affected by Freed. He knew his anger wasn't completely rational, but every time he saw the man it was like a fire exploding inside of him. It reminded Laxus of how he felt whenever his father was mentioned. His opinion of Freed was nowhere near the visceral hatred he held for Ivan – nothing could be, the blonde suspected – but there was just as much passion in regard to what he thought of both men. They both just made him feel so much.

That was why he enjoyed the empty tavern so much. The entire journey he had been stewing on these overly passionate feelings, and he needed a break from it.

And the beer, as previously stated, was fantastic. It was strong enough so that, after having two tankards of it, he was feeling a satisfying buzz flow through him. The bartender was sticking to the backroom, only coming into the tavern hall when Laxus needed a new drink or if the fire was starting to die out. It was relaxing and freeing and a moment of perfection which Laxus felt he was owed, because it had been far too long since he had truly felt like that.

So of course, eventually, it had to end.

He had just finished his third drink when he heard the door opening and looked around to see who it was. An unhindered groan of annoyance filled the room when he saw that it was Freed who had entered it. Fantastic.

Apparently unaffected by the loud sound of disproval at his entrance, Freed walked towards the bar and, when the bartender arrived again, ordered himself a beer. Worse still, for Laxus, was when he turned around and walked towards the same table Laxus was leaning against. He pulled out a chair and sat opposite, and Laxus barely fought off the drunken urge to try and kick his chair out from under him.

"Thought an uptight asshole like you would only drink water from the purest stream of the kingdom," Laxus sneered, voice more slurred than he expected. "Don't want to sully that perfect fucking image you think you have."

That wasn't what he wanted to say, he wanted to ask why the hell Freed thought they were on good enough terms for him to sit at the same table and drink together. Did he not know Laxus was a prince and that the staff usually drank elsewhere? Or that he didn't like him? The sober part of his mind told him that, most likely, Freed was sitting there so their mutual distain wasn't obvious to the tavern staff. They needed to present a unite front at all times, for the best chance of remaining safe.

Fuck, those were Freed's exact words. Bastard.

"I can drink," Freed replied, his eyes scanning Laxus, clearly judging him. "As can you, it seems."

It was incredibly tempting to fall for it because Freed was baiting him into an argument. Laxus knew that, with the amount he had drunk already, he was only slightly slumped over and he wasn't too dishevelled. For all anyone would know, this was his first beer and he wasn't even remotely drunk.

Rather than speaking – as he knew he'd probably say something that a bartender shouldn't hear from a prince's mouth – he glared at his new drinking partner. Freed either didn't notice or wanted to taunt Laxus by not reacting, as he picked up his tankard of beer and started to drink some of it; a few large gulps. Laxus wanted to roll his eyes – the amount he had drunk was almost definitely a way to further disprove Laxus assumption. A metaphorical middle finger to the prince.

"Not bad," Laxus muttered, bringing his own tankard to his lips. It was three quarters full, so he emptied it.

It was a spite thing, Laxus could admit.

Annoying, Freed knew this, as he let out a single chuckle and drained his own drink.

"Would you like another, your highness?" He asked, and Laxus felt his anger burning him inside at the use of his title. The way Freed said it, the slight sneer and tone of arrogance that was in his voice just pissed Laxus on in a way that he couldn't understand.

"Yes. Now," He snapped. If nothing else, Freed was his underling and that gave him the authority to order him around when he wished.

It took a few minutes for Freed to get their next round of drinks, and somehow, they didn't enter into anything of a drinking contest. The last remnants of sobriety were telling the blonde that there was no point – if Freed could drink that much that fast, then the only outcome of trying to drink him under the table would be an inability to remember what happened for the rest of the evening when he next woke up. So even if he did win some kind of contest, he wouldn't remember it. And wiping the smugness off that bastard's face would be something to remember.

Similar to the carriage ride, the drinking session was tense. It had an uneasiness about it and Laxus wished that either Freed left to go to his room, or one of the other retainers came back to act as a buffer between them. But, as that wish went unnoticed, the two men drank in silence.

It was when he was halfway through his fifth beer that Laxus considered himself to be drunk. He hadn't intended for that to happen, but he couldn't change anything now. And, under his grandfather's instructions, he never actually got drunk when he was in Magnolia, so it had been a while and he felt he earned it. Besides, it wasn't as if he was an aggressive drunk or did anything that would get him into trouble, he just felt all his stresses go away.

One such stress that left him was the good sense to think before he spoke. At the start of his sixth drink, he slammed the tankard down and glared at Freed.

"What the fuck is your problem?" He demanded, and Freed looked almost alarmed for the first time.

Freed himself wasn't sober, and Laxus got a small sense of pleasure from the fact he had drunk more than the retainer, but they seemed equally intoxicated. The knight's hair was ruffled and his clothes not as neatly pressed as they should be. He couldn't handle his booze as well as Laxus could.

"You know I'm a prince right. Fucking royalty," Laxus continued. "I'm your better, get that through your fucking skull."

Pulling rank on people wasn't something he normally did, other than with his friends and he only did that in jest, so this almost shocked Laxus himself. But he had a damn point, because a prince deserved a baseline amount of respect and Freed had given him almost the exact opposite of that and Laxus was pissed off at him.

"That's exactly why I dislike you," Freed said, apparently having drunk enough to get loose lipped also. "You're a spoiled little trophy in your family's cabinet."

Laxus tensed at that, but a mean grin split its way across his face. If Freed was willing to make low blows like that, then there was nothing stopping Laxus from doing the same thing, and that was more than fine with the blonde.

"So you're fucking jealous?" Laxus barked out a laugh. "Fuck, if you told me sooner, I could have been pissing you off a whole lot more than I already have. You're one of those assholes that just resent my family. We've got a name for them. Whiny, jealous little dickholes."

"I'm not jealous of you," Freed said, and his tone said he believed his words. "And I don't hate your family. Just you."

"And you got stuck with me. Looking after me. Serving me," Laxus laughed at his own analysis of the situation. "Holy shit that's good. All this time you've been working for me, you've probably been stewing and raging about how much you hate me. That's great."

"I can assure you that's untrue," Freed replied, eyes dark. "Looking after a man like you, who's only reaction to anything is to shout at the world like a damn toddler, I haven't had the time to think about anything else other than keeping you on a leash. Which you might know if you worked a damn day in your life."

Laxus jaw clenched. "You don't think I work? You don't think what I do is fucking work?"

"In two days' time an entire town is putting on a party to celebrate you visiting them. That is probably the most effort you've put into anything for years," Freed all but growled, and Laxus stopped.

This had been the first time Freed had raised his voice and had shown any side of himself other than the cocky, in-control persona that he seemed to wear, and it sent a shiver down Laxus' back for some reason. He didn't know why that happened, as his head was a mess of anger and adrenaline and alcohol and confusing, contradictory feelings. He could only ignore what overtook him for a split second and instead grit his teeth further.

"You don't understand what work is, Dreyar," Freed finished, his face dark.

"I don't understand what work is, huh?" Laxus crossed his arms, smirking again. "That's rich, coming from the fucking criminal. Y'know, I got curious and found out what you did to get locked up. Stealing art from the castle? You've got balls, but no fucking integrity. So don't get all fucking holy than thou on me about working if you just take anything you want."

That seemed to have struck a nerve with Freed, and Laxus revelled in his expression.

"I attempted to steal nothing you would have missed," He said after a moment, his voice almost deadly calm. "And I put more work into getting those paintings than anyone in your family ever has."

Laxus went to open his mouth again, but Freed stood, his face a stormy expression. The retainer practically spat out a goodnight, and Laxus bristled again at the viciousness with which Freed said 'your highness' again. So apparently mentioning the fact Freed was a thief affected him more than Laxus expected. If Freed was willing to leave their argument after it was mentioned then it must be a sore spot.

Perhaps if he was sober, he might have let Freed leave without another world. Hell, he might have felt some kind of guilt for going after something like that. But right now, he was filled with adrenaline and the idea of ending this fight wasn't good enough. Wasn't satisfying enough.

It took him a few moments to decide that this fight wasn't over, and he had more left to say. He stood up, perhaps knocking over the chair as he did so, and stormed through the doors that Freed had just walked through. He walked up the staircase to the landing hall where he saw a door swinging shut – he knew that it was Freed's door. He strode over to it and banged his fist on it multiple times. It opened after his third slam.

Freed's face was an expression of anger, rather than sadness, which Laxus' drunken mind took as an invitation to continue his tirade.

"We ain't fucking done, Justine," Laxus snarled, and Freed stepped out of his room in retort. "You don't get to fucking disrespect me for a whole damn month and then run away when I start throwing shit back at you. That ain't happening!"

"I wasn't running away. I was giving you an out," Freed growled, taking another step forward. "Before one of us did something regrettable."

"Oh I don't think I'm going to fucking regret this," Laxus sneered again, leaning down slightly just to emphasize his slight height advantage. "You're a stuck-up dick, who yells about how hard he works but got caught in the fucking act of stealing. So you're not only a fucking hypocrite, but a shitty one at that."

A pause.

"Very well," Freed said after a moment. "But I'd rather be a 'shitty hypocrite' than a spoiled little daddy's boy whose daddy's on the run for treason."

Ivan. Perhaps the one thing that truly got under Laxus' skin.

Laxus felt true rage flow through him, perhaps something that hadn't happened since he last saw his father. A man who he hated. A man who had fucked him over constantly and had yet to face any real consequences. A man who, now, was being thrown back in his face by Freed Fucking Justine.

How dare he!

The two men were silent for a moment, standing chest to chest with palpable animosity between them. They were staring at each other, muscles tense and forms rigid. Both had seemingly passed the point of no return and neither was willing to back down at this point. It was a clear stare down between them both and neither wanted to give in. this was something that had to happen – something that was always going to happen with the two of them.

His anger fuelling him and the alcohol stopping him from seeing sense, Laxus took a step forward. Their chests were pushed against each other, faces of anger and hatred mere inches away from touching. Freed didn't back down, just held his eye contact without any sign of waving.

Laxus acted before he could stop himself. He brought his hands up and grabbed a handful of the man's green hair; roughly pushed the man against the wall of the narrow hallways; and, without mercy, slammed their lips together in a vicious, relentless kiss.

Freed kissed back.

#fraxus #freed justine #Laxus Dreyar #fraxus day #freed x laxus #fanfic #fairy tail #writing

[kjack89]

Put to the Sword

My fic for this year’s @lesmissamepromptficchallenge! The premise of this fic really only works when looking at the English translation and not the original French but whatever, that’s never once stopped me.

Developing E/R, canon era. Fluff with a touch of angst because of course.

Bossuet propped his chin on his hand, a small frown furrowing his forehead. “Does Enjolras have a sword?” he asked, more rhetorically than seeking an actual answer.

Luckily, Joly, seated at his side in the backroom of the Musain, followed his glance, and blinked twice. “It would appear so,” he said.

It perhaps spoke volumes about Enjolras that once Bossuet’s suspicions were confirmed, he did not feel the need to question further, instead simply shrugging and returning to his cup. But now it was Joly who frowned, and when he saw an opening to do so, he stood and made his way to Enjolras. “Need we all come so well-armed to Les Amis meetings in the future?” he asked, perching on the table next to where Enjolras sat.

Though it may only have been a trick of the candlelight, Joly was fairly certain that a slight flush rose in Enjolras’s cheeks. “I believe we are safe without weaponry, at least for now,” Enjolras said. 

“And yet you have not one but two swords,” Joly remarked mildly, having spotted the second, identical sabre leaning against the table on Enjolras’s other side.

There was no mistaking Enjolras’s blush this time. “Courfeyrac was meant to teach me some basic swordplay,” he muttered. “But it appears he has been waylaid en route this evening.”

From Enjolras’s tone of disapproval, Joly surmised that Courfeyrac had found a much more pleasurable companion for the evening. “As have a few of our number,” Joly agreed mildly, and if anything, Enjolras looked even more put out.

“So it would seem,” he said sourly.

Joly hesitated for only a moment before suggesting, “But if it’s a fencing teacher you seek, surely there are others among us who are equally skilled to be able to teach you.”

Enjolras arched an eyebrow. “Such as...?” he prompted, and Joly couldn’t quite stop the smile that twitched at the corners of his mouth.

“Such as Grantaire.”

For one moment, Enjolras looked as if he was contemplating it, but then he shook his head. “Grantaire is not inclined to do me any favors,” he said dismissively.

Joly gave him a look. “And how inclined have you been to ask him to do you any favors?” Enjolras opened his mouth to retort but no sound came out, and Joly allowed himself a small, triumphant smile before telling Enjolras innocently, “The worst he can say is no, were you so inclined to try.”

With that, he made his way back to Bossuet, who had watched this whole exchange with bemusement. “What were you doing?” Bossuet asked as Joly sat down.

Joly’s smile widened. “Meddling.”

Bossuet sighed. “How many times must I warn you against doing so?” he asked with a long-suffering air.

Joly patted his hand. “At least once more.”

Again Bossuet sighed, looking very much like he was regretting this evening immensely. “And what meddling could you possibly have done in regards to Enjolras’s sword?”

“Swords,” Joly corrected. “Courfeyrac was meant to teach him the basics of fencing, but some pretty gamine or another allegedly caught his eye early this eve, so I seized the opportunity I saw to recommend a different teacher.”

Bossuet cast him a baleful look. “Do not tell me—”

“It is not my fault that Grantaire has oft proclaimed himself quite adept at fencing,” Joly said innocently. “And if by teaching him swordplay, he might spend more time with the man he so venerates, I fail to see what harm could come from it.”

Bossuet sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Foot-fencing,” he said wearily, and Joly frowned.

“Pardon?”

“Foot-fencing, you idiot,” Bossuet repeated. “Grantaire is adept at foot-fencing – savate. Not actual fencing.”

Joly looked momentarily stricken. “Ah,” he said, glancing over at Enjolras, who was saying his goodbyes to Combeferre and Feuilly. “Well, what Enjolras doesn’t know is unlikely to cause him harm.”

Bossuet didn’t look nearly as convinced. “Perhaps not. But do you truly think putting Enjolras and Grantaire in a room together with sharp blades will result in no casualties?”

Joly reached for the wine bottle. “What I think is that this is no longer my concern.”

Bossuet considered it for a moment before holding his own cup out for Joly to refill. “On that point, at least, we can agree.”

----------

Enjolras had not been to Grantaire’s lodgings frequently enough that he should have the route memorized, but somehow his feet found their way there seemingly of their own accord, and when greeted by the closed door, Enjolras figured he had no choice left but to knock and to ask for Grantaire’s help.

No matter how much the idea pained him.

He gave the door two strong knocks and took an automatic step to wait for Grantaire to answer. It was only after he had already done so that he realized that the hour was quite late, and that he perhaps should have waited to call upon Grantaire in the morning, as the man might very well be in bed—

Grantaire opened the door, a small frown of confusion knitting his brow, confusion that was replaced by surprise when he saw Enjolras standing there. “Enjolras?” he asked, stepping into the hallway and closing the door behind him. “What are you doing here?”

Enjolras hesitated for a moment before blurting, “I have come to ask a favor.”

Grantaire arched an eyebrow. “Do your boots need blacking?” he asked mildly, and Enjolras scowled.

“Most hilarious.”

“I fancy myself quite amusing,” Grantaire agreed.

Enjolras’s scowl deepened. “I know you do.”

Grantaire cleared his throat pointedly. “So if not your boots, then how else may I serve you?”

There was no mistaking the double-entendre of his last words, and Enjolras flushed but refused to allow himself to be distracted from his purpose. “I want you to teach me to fence,” he said firmly.

Grantaire blinked. “To – what?”

“To fence,” Enjolras repeated, faltering when he saw the slightly blank look on Grantaire’s face. “I have been led to believe you are adept at fencing.”

“I am adept at a great many things,” Grantaire murmured, more to himself than to Enjolras. “My own skill aside, why do you wish to learn to fence?”

Enjolras squared his shoulders. “A battle is coming, even if I know not when. It seems a useful skill to have.”

Again Grantaire’s eyebrow rose. “You expect to do much fencing on the barricade?”

“I expect that I should be prepared to,” Enjolras shot back. “So will you help me or not?”

For a moment, it looked as though Grantaire might refuse. Then he shook his head slowly. “Let it never be said that Grantaire did not help the Cause when he was asked,” he said, which Enjolras supposed was as straightforward a ‘yes’ as he was likely to ever get from him. “Meet me at the Musain in a half hour and we shall begin your tutelage.”

Enjolras frowned. “Why the Musain?”

Grantaire glanced at the closed door behind him. “I am afraid my accommodations are likely not large enough for this particular endeavor.”

“Then why not outside?”

Grantaire gave him a look. “Where the police or any unfortunate bystander may happen upon us?” he asked, shaking his head. “Believe me, this is an activity best undertaken indoors and without an audience.”

Enjolras found he didn’t have a counterargument, so settled for jerking a stiff nod. “Very well. The Musain, in half an hour. I shall return now and ask any of our number that remains to clear out.”

“You do that,” Grantaire told him before disappearing back into his apartment, leaving Enjolras standing in the hallway, feeling very much like he was going to regret this.

----------

As it turned out, none of their comrades still lingered when Enjolras arrived, and he took the liberty of getting Grantaire a bottle of wine and a cup, figuring that he owed the man at least that much for agreeing to teach him, and at this late hour especially.

Grantaire arrived at the appointed time, still dressed in solely a shirt with no cravat or waistcoat, his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. “You would do well to remove your cravat and vest,” he told Enjolras. Now, allow me to examine what swords you expect us to use for this exercise in folly.”

Enjolras handed both blades to Grantaire. “I borrowed them from Courfeyrac, who said they were training blades,” he said. “Dulled so as not to cause much real harm.”

Grantaire took one blade in each hand, hefting them as he considered. Then, without warning, he tossed one to Enjolras, who grabbed for it but missed. “Some warning might be appreciated,” Enjolras said as he bent to pick it up.

“My apologies,” Grantaire said smoothly, but he didn’t sound particularly apologetic.

Enjolras made a face but did not press the issue further, instead holding the sword in front of him with both hands. Grantaire arched an eyebrow at him. “One hand only,” he corrected, his own sword held easily in his right hand.

“Wouldn’t both hands give you more control?” Enjolras asked, even as he shifted the blade into his right hand.

“If you were swinging a longsword, perhaps,” Grantaire said. “But this measly weapon requires just the one.” He paused to give Enjolras a calculating look. “Will you be giving me this much trouble for every instruction I give you?” Enjolras scowled but did not press the matter further. “Now turn so that you face me side-on,” Grantaire ordered. “That way you present a smaller target.”

Enjolras turned obediently, feeling rather foolish. “Like this?” he asked, holding the sword in front of his side, his shoulders and head turning automatically but leaving most of his body facing away.

Grantaire nodded. “Now your feet,” he instructed. “Place your weight on your front foot. And allow me to examine your grip.” He closed the space between them, standing behind Enjolras, so close that his chest brushed against Enjolras’s back, and Enjolras swallowed, feeling suddenly and inexplicably nervous. “Not so tightly,” Grantaire said into his ear, and he placed one hand on top of Enjolras’s, loosening his grip and rearranging his fingers. His other hand rested lightly on Enjolras’s hip, shifting his weight with a gentle touch.

His hands lingered on Enjolras’s hand and hip perhaps a moment too long, and Enjolras cleared his throat. “Are we almost ready to begin?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

Grantaire stepped away from him, and Enjolras flinched at the sudden loss of heat. “As ready as I suppose we will ever be,” Grantaire said, picking up his own sword and mirroring Enjolras’s stance a few paces away.

For one long moment, they both just looked at each other, and Enjolras wondered how they would look to any who happened to pass by. “What happens now?” he asked.

Grantaire grinned. “Now, we fight.”

Without warning, he moved rapidly, so quickly that Enjolras barely had time to raise his sword before Grantaire brought his whistling down to meet Enjolras’s with a loud clang. The clash sent vibrations up Enjolras’s arm, but he had no time to recover before Grantaire aimed a slash at his side.

He managed to avoid the blow, and danced out of reach of the next thrust, even managing to aim a swipe of his own at Grantaire’s arm. But his blade did not connect, and he was so surprised that he did not have time to parry Grantaire’s next swing from his other side. The dulled sabre caught him on his shoulder, a sudden, stinging blow that was almost certain to leave a bruise. “Ow,” he winced, though in truth his pride suffered the greater injury than had his shoulder.

Grantaire retreated as quickly as he had started, still grinning. He didn’t look like he had even broken a sweat, where Enjolras’s hair was all but plastered to his forehead. “Good,” Grantaire said, raising his sword again. “This time, faster.”

Enjolras barely had time to impatiently brush his hair out of his eyes when Grantaire lunged again. True to his word, the blows came faster this time, Grantaire’s sword reduced to a blur as he swung at Enjolras from seemingly all sides. Enjolras managed to parry the first several attacks, but he was tiring quickly, and a sudden upward swing from Grantaire caused Enjolras’s sword to clatter out of his hand.

Enjolras immediately knelt to pick it up, but before he could even reach the sword, Grantaire’s blade was at his throat. Enjolras stared down at the metal, barely a breath away from his bare skin, and he swallowed as Grantaire took a step closer. 

But Grantaire merely used the tip of his sword blade to tilt Enjolras’s chin up so that their eyes met, the move surprisingly gentle given the ferocity of his earlier attacks. “If there was a real fight, you would be dead,” Grantaire told him.

“Then I suppose I am glad this was not a real fight,” Enjolras managed, panting as he stared up at Grantaire, who grinned.

“I suppose not,” he agreed, finally flicking his sword away from Enjolras’s throat before bending to offer Enjolras his hand to help him to his feet.

Enjolras let Grantaire pull him to his feet and winced as he rolled his shoulders and prodded at his arm, which had already begun to swell where Grantaire had hit him. “At least Joly did not lie in his estimation of your skill.”

To his surprise, Grantaire barked a laugh. “Oh, about that…” he started, pouring himself a cup of wine. “I’m afraid that Joly sold you a pack of lies.”

Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I have no more skill with a blade than any of our number,” Grantaire told him cheerfully, lifting his cup in a mock toast. “My speciality is in foot-fencing, which involves no fencing or blades of any kind.”

“Oh.”

“Oh,” Grantaire agreed, watching him closely.

Enjolras opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t seem to find any words. He settled for telling Grantaire, a little desperately, “But you were so good.”

Grantaire arched an eyebrow. “Was I? Or was I merely better than you?”

Enjolras felt like Grantaire had hit him in the stomach instead of the arm. He had gone to him to ask a favor, and this was how Grantaire repaid his trust? By making a mockery of his request? “And why, may I ask, did you need to make a fool of me this way?” he asked stiffly.

Grantaire shrugged. “I saw an opportunity for amusement, and I took it,” he said easily. “And now I have an excellent story to share with any of our comrades who might ask.”

A muscle worked in Enjolras’s cheek. “Then I sincerely hope that you have received what you were looking for,” he said icily. “I suppose the fault is mine for ever believing you were capable of sincerity.”

For a brief moment, Grantaire looked stricken, but Enjolras did not wait for whatever platitudes he might offer, instead turning on heel and storming off, his pride again hurting far worse than any of the physical aches he now bore.

He had barely gotten a half dozen steps outside when a thought struck him, and he paused in his step, debating whether it would do any good to ask further. But curiosity got the better of him, and he doubled back, surprising Grantaire so much when he threw the door open that the man slopped half his cup of wine on himself. “Tell me again, why put me through this charade?”

Grantaire shook his head, trying in vain to blot the wine that stained his shirt. “I told you, I saw an opportunity—”

Enjolras shook his head. “I do not believe that.”

“Whyever not?” Grantaire asked, giving up on the wine stain and instead crossing to refill his cup.

“If your goal was simply to embarrass me, you would’ve ensured we had an audience, not gone out of your way to ensure we would be alone,” Enjolras pointed out. “Besides, you are not generally so malicious.”

“Maybe not,” Grantaire agreed. He suddenly grabbed his sword from where he had set it on the table and whirled so that it was again pointed at Enjolras’s throat. “Or maybe I just like the way you look at the end of my sword.”

Enjolras smiled, just lightly. “Now that I do believe.” He sidestepped away from Grantaire’s sword. “But as this is twice now that you could have killed me and did not, I also believe you owe me some honesty.” He leveled an even look at Grantaire. “Why go along with the charade?”

Grantaire’s shoulders slumped, and he lowered his sword with a sigh. “Because if I said no, you would find a different teacher,” he said tiredly.

“One who might actually possess the skills I sought to learn,” Enjolras said sourly.

But Grantaire shook his head. “No,” he said, a little sadly. “One who might teach you that which I could not bring myself to.”

Enjolras frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, you did not wish to learn to fence. You wished to learn how to kill with a blade.”

Grantaire delivered the words flatly, and Enjolras was momentarily taken aback by his tone. “Yes,” he said, seeing no point now in denying it. 

Grantaire’s expression tightened. “And that is something I could not willingly bring myself to let you learn.” He paused and snorted. “Of course, when I saw how ill-equipped you were to fight with a blade, it seemed less important to let the charade continue. Not even a trained swordsman could get you up to snuff.”

Enjolras was temporarily stung by Grantaire’s harsh – if undoubtedly true – assessment of his skill, but he refused to allow himself to be distracted. “But why were you not willing to let me learn?” he demanded. “Do you think I will be better protected if I am left defenseless when I have used my last shot?”

Grantaire traded his sword for his cup of wine and took a swig before answering, uncharacteristically quiet, “No.”

“So you do not think it would be valuable for me to learn to swing a blade?” 

“I think it would be valuable for you to learn to enjoy drinking wine and taking someone to your bed, but you’ve never much cared what I think,” Grantaire said.

Enjolras felt himself flush but was undeterred. “Perhaps not. But you’re deflecting.”

Grantaire drained his cup and set it down harder than he likely intended, the sound of the metal against the wooden table echoing the sound of Enjolras’s sword clattering from his hand earlier. “I learned long ago that you will not keep your body out of harm’s way when the time comes,” he said, his voice low. “Forgive me for thinking that I might do my part to protect your soul.”

Enjolras stared at him. “What does any og this have to do with my soul?” he asked slowly.

Grantaire just arched an eyebrow. “I suppose it is for every man to decide whether taking another’s life tarnishes his soul,” he mused before his expression hardened. “But whatever blood ends up on your hands, I will have no part in teaching you a more efficient way of putting it there.”

Finally, Enjolras understood, and he felt as though the floor had shifted underneath him. For Grantaire to think even about, let alone care so much about the state of his soul and what damage he might do to it in whatever battle was to come… 

He was not often at a loss for words, but invariably, it was always Grantaire who put him there, who made him feel unsteady when he would rather be sure-footed, but this time, it was not by his usual mockery that Grantaire had so unmoored him. This was as close as Enjolras had ever been to witnessing Grantaire caring for him, and the glimpse, even in these most unusual of circumstances, was almost more than Enjolras could bear.

So much so that he could do only what Grantaire normally did when confronted with that which he would rather not face: deflect. “I did not think you believed in souls,” he said, aiming for levity and missing by a mile.

Grantaire shrugged. “I don’t.”

And yet the man who professed no belief save in his full glass had dragged himself from his apartment in the dead of night to spar with him if just delay him for that much longer from learning another way to kill a man.

Say what you would about Grantaire, and Enjolras had certainly spared no words over the years, but he was certainly dedicated.

Enjolras only wished that his dedication was to something far less human and fallible.

Grantaire headed toward the door, clearly not waiting for whatever judgment Enjolras might pass on him, but he nonetheless paused when Enjolras called after him, “We are not yet done.”

“What more is there to discuss?” Grantaire asked without turning. “There is nothing that I can teach you.”

“Maybe not,” Enjolras said and Grantaire turned, his expression wary. Enjolras sighed. “As you have said, there is little chance at me becoming so proficient with a blade that I would yet do any real damage. And if you truly seek to protect me, whether in body or in soul, will you not at least help me learn to defend myself, should the time come?” Grantaire still didn’t look convinced and Enjolras pressed, “I am certain that you can at least help me to keep myself alive.”

Grantaire’s expression was unreadable. “Would that I could,” he murmured, so low that Enjolras could barely hear him.

Enjolras picked the sword up from where Grantaire had dropped it and turned it to offer it to him hilt-first. “Please, Grantaire,” he said quietly.

Grantaire took the sword reluctantly. “Why would you not just get a proper teacher?” he asked. “Why would you continue to put yourself through this, and with me of all people?”

“Because I trust you, of all people,” Enjolras told him. He wasn’t sure that he had ever believed the words as much as he did now. “Because perhaps you are correct, and I have put too much stock in death and not enough in defense. And…” He hesitated. “Perhaps just because I would like the chance to see what you look like at the end of my blade.”

Grantaire bowed his head for a long moment, and Enjolras realized that he was holding his breath, waiting for his answer. “Flattery will get you everywhere,” Grantaire said finally, but he was smiling again, a small, slightly cocky smile, and Enjolras released the breath he had been holding in relief. “But do be warned – I may not have much skill, but I will not make this easy for you.”

Enjolras smiled as well. “I would expect nothing less.”

#enjolras #grantaire #exr #enjolras x grantaire #enjoltaire #joly #bossuet #les miserables #fanfiction #les mis spfc 2021 #look i just wanted to write grantaire tipping Enjolras's chin up with a sword #and truly who cares how convoluted the premise is if it gets us that #canon era #developing relationship #mostly fluff #or at least mostly light #but like it's canon era so there's always angst in the distance....

[aion-rsa]

Hamilton: Ranking Every Song from the Soundtrack

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Imagine the experience of being one of the first individuals to see Lin-Manuel Miranda’s now-classic Hamilton: An American Musical live. 

The first thing you notice is the spartan, largely empty stage. Then as Leslie Odom Jr. takes the stage as Aaron Burr followed by Miranda’s Hamilton, you realize that this production about America’s founding fathers is made up almost exclusively of People of Color. That’s a lot to take in from the start. At a certain point, however, you’re bound to realize that the play is about 40 minutes in and The. Music. Has. Not. Stopped. 

In addition to its many ingenious quirks and hooks, Hamilton is truly a musical musical. Miranda’s book and lyrics about one of the country’s most colorful and impressive founders has a lot of ground to cover. And it does so at a musical sprint with almost no expository time-wasting in-between.

As such, the Hamilton soundtrack is a staggeringly impressive piece of recent culture. At 46 tracks spread out over nearly two and a half hours, this album closely replicates the experience of a show most could never get a ticket to live. A passionate, thriving Hamilton fandom rose up out of that soundtrack and it continues through to this day.

Now, with Hamilton about to be more accessible than ever by joining Disney+, we decided to rank all 46 of those tracks.

46. Hurricane

The hurricane that ravaged Alexander Hamilton’s Caribbean island home of St. Croix was a crucial part of his life and led to him securing passage to the United States. But the song “Hurricane” uses the storm late in the play as a tortured metaphor for his turbulent public life. It’s undoubtedly the least energetic and weakest full song on the Hamilton soundtrack.

45. Farmer Refuted

“Farmer Refuted” does well to capture a young Hamilton’s rhetorical brilliance early on in the play but doesn’t hold up well against other, more fully crafted tunes. Hercules Mulligan mumbling “tear this dude apart” is certainly a soundtrack highlight though. 

44. The Story of Tonight (Reprise)

What would any Broadway musical soundtrack be without a reprise or two? “The Story of Tonight (Reprise)” is certainly fun. But, ultimately, tales of Hamilton’s legendary horniness would have been better suited with a full song. 

43. Schuyler Defeated

Just about every line of dialogue in Hamilton is sung… including heavily expository moments like Burr defeating Hamilton’s father-in-law in a local election. The subject matter and lack of true musical gusto makes “Schuyler Defeated” one of the least essential tracks in the show.

42. We Know

It’s a testament to how strong the Hamilton soundtrack is that a song like “We Know” could appear this low on the list. This account of Jefferson and company informing Hamilton of what they know is quite good; it just pales in comparison to the song in which they uncover Hamilton’s misdeeds. 

41. It’s Quiet Uptown

This is sure to be a controversial spot on the list for this much-loved ballad. “It’s Quiet Uptown” is indeed composed quite beautifully. It also features lyrics that seem to be almost impatient in nature – as though the song is trying to rush the Hamiltons through the grieving process to get back on with the show. 

40. Take a Break

Part of the miracle of Hamilton is how the soundtrack is able to turn rather mundane concepts and events in Hamilton’s life into rousing, larger-than-life musical numbers. “Take a Break” is charged with dramatizing the notion that Hamilton simply works too much with a sweetly melancholic melody. It does quite a good job in this regard but naturally can’t compete with some of the more bombastic songs on the list. 

39. Stay Alive

Set in the brutal dredge of the Revolutionary War, “Stay Alive” is a song about desperation. And between its urgent piano rhythm and panicky Miranda vocals, it does quite a good job of capturing the appropriate mood. It also feels like one long middle with no compelling introduction or conclusion. 

38. Best of Wives and Best of Women

Talk about “the calm before the storm.” “Best of Wives and Best of Women” captures one last quiet moment between Alexander and Eliza before Aaron Burr canonizes his one-time friend to the $10 bill. It’s brief, lovely, and effective. 

37. The Adams Administration

Hamilton wisely surmises that the best way to introduce audiences to new eras of its title character’s life story is through the narration of the man who killed him in Aaron Burr (Leslie Odom Jr.). Odom Jr.’s real flare for showmanship turns what could be throw-away intros into truly excellent material. It also features a hilarious nod to Sherman Edwards’ 1776 musical when Hamilton says, “Sit down, John” and then adds a colorful, “you fat motherf***er!”

36. A Winter’s Ball

Again: Burr’s monologues are always a welcome presence in these tracks. And in “A Winter’s Ball,” he does some of his best work by setting up Burr and Hamilton’s prowess… “with the ladiessssss!”

35. Meet Me Inside

Despite a brief running time, “Meet Me Inside” is able to establish George Washington’s general bona fides and Hamilton’s daddy issues in equal measure. 

34. Your Obedient Servant

“Your Obedient Servant” is Hamilton’s loving ode to passive aggression. In just two minutes and thirty seconds, you’ll believe that two grown men could somehow neg themselves into a duel via letter-writing. 

33. The Reynolds Pamphlet

You know that old adage of “he could read out of a phonebook and it would be interesting?” Well Hamilton basically does that with “The Reynolds Pamphlet.” The ominous music injects real import into the simple act of writing that would upend the Hamilton family’s lives. 

32. That Would Be Enough

Eliza’s refrain of “look around, look around at how lucky we are to be alive right now” recurs at the beginning of “That Would Be Enough” in a truly touching way. This song is a real tonal whiplash from the revolutionary battles and duels that precede it, but it is ultimately strong enough to bring the focus back to Alexander and Eliza and not just the hectic world they inhabit. 

31. The Story of Tonight

“The Story of Tonight” is both a clever drinking song among bros and a subtle setup for the show’s larger theme of one’s story being told after they’re gone. The song is both affecting and effective, just a little too short to stand out and make big waves on our list. 

30. Blow Us All Away

“Blow Us All Away” is a fun, jaunty little ditty from Anthony Ramos’ Philip Hamilton. It rather ingeniously incorporates the young Philip’s own musical motif before ending in tragedy. 

29. Stay Alive (Reprise)

It’s hard for any song to emotionally contend with the death of a child in under two minutes but “Stay Alive (Reprise)” does a shockingly good job. There’s a real sense of urgency to the music before it settles in for poor Philip to say his final words. 

28. Burn

Musically, “Burn” is not one of the better ballads in Hamilton. Lyrically, however, its power is hard to deny. Phillipa Soo does a remarkable job communicating Eliza’s pain at her husband’s betrayal. More impressive is how she communicates the only way to work through that pain, which is through burning all of his personal correspondences and writings to her. 

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27. The Election of 1800

Hamilton is the rare musical where one character can sing “can we get back to politics please?” and the audience’s response is “hell yeah!”. The show is uncommonly good at dramatizing boring political processes, and “The Election of 1800” is no exception. The song builds up to a pseudo-reprisal of “Washington on Your Side” in a shockingly effective and cathartic way. 

26. History Has Its Eyes on You

“History Has Its Eyes on You” is a powerful recurring phrase through the entirety of Hamilton. Each and every time the concept comes up in a song, it truly stands out. Strangely though, the song that bears its name is only in the middle of the pack in terms of the show’s numbers. Perhaps it’s because it occurs near the middle of the first act, before we can properly appreciate its heady themes? 

25. Aaron Burr, Sir

One of Hamilton’s most charming traits is how readily it acknowledges what an annoying pain in the ass its lead character can be at times. “Aaron Burr, Sir” is literally the second song of the entire musical and helps establish its playful tone as much as the bombastic opening number establishes a deadly serious one. 

24. Guns and Ships

Ballads are nice. “I want” songs are nice. Recurring motifs are nice. But sometimes you need a song that just goes hard. Thanks to “America’s favorite fighting Frenchman” that’s what “Guns and Ships” delivers. Lafayette actor Daveed Diggs faces an enormous challenge in Act One by filling out the character’s growth in bits and pieces. “Guns and Ships” is the reward, where a fully unleashed (and English-fluent) Lafayette makes it very clear what hell he has in store for the British army. 

23. Washington on Your Side

Thomas Jefferson is such a dynamo of a presence in Hamilton that one could be forgiven for forgetting how infrequently he turns up. Jefferson (and Daveed Diggs) is operating at an absurdly high capacity in “Washington on Your Side.” Meanwhile the music has a ball keeping up with the increasingly incensed backroom scheming of Jefferson and his “Southern motherfucking Democratic-Republicans!”

22. Right Hand Man

Thirty-two thousand troops in New York Harbor. That’s uh… that’s a lot. While the second act of Hamilton has to work a little harder to capture the drama of the inner-workings of a fledgling government, the first act is able to absolutely breeze through some truly epic and exciting songs covering the Revolutionary War. “Right Hand Man” is one such ditty that really captures the frenetic urgency of a bunch of up-jumped wannabe philosophers trying to topple the world’s most powerful empire. 

21. The Schuyler Sisters

Honestly, “The Schuyler Sisters” deserve better than its placement on this list. It’s just that everything that comes after is such a banger, that it’s hard to justify moving up the dynamic introduction of Angelicaaaa, Elizzzaaaaa… and Peggy.

20. Ten Duel Commandments

Imagine how insane you would sound in circa 1998 explaining that there would one day be a musical about the founding fathers that uses the framework of Notorious B.I.G.’s “Ten Crack Commandments” to describe the duel between Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton. Then imagine how insane you would sound when explaining that it was great. “Ten Duel Commandments” doesn’t cover the “big” duel of Hamilton. It’s a teaser for what’s to come. Thankfully it’s a hell of a good teaser. 

19. Cabinet Battle #2

Hamilton’s two cabinet battles run the risk of being the cringiest part of the show. Every concept has its stylistic limit, and a rap battle between Alexander Hamilton and Thomas Jefferson should absolutely fly past that limit. Somehow, however, the novelty works and the creativity of Miranda’s writing shines through. 

18. Cabinet Battle #1

The two Cabinet Battles are pretty interchangeable on the list. #1 gets the nod because of “we know who’s really doing the planting.”

17. What Comes Next

The trilogy of King George III songs is some of the most purely joyful songwriting on the Hamilton soundtrack. We can dive into the specifics of what really works about the songs in a later entry. For now, know that “What Comes Next” falls the lowest on our list due to featuring only one round of “da-da-da’s.”

16. I Know Him

“I Know Him” also features only one burst of “da-da-da’s.” But it still gets the nod over “What Comes Next” for King George III calling John Adams “that little guy who spoke to me.” 

15. Dear Theodosia

Perhaps more so than any other character in Hamilton, Aaron Burr works best on his own. The character (and the man he was based on) plays things close to the vest by design. It’s only through his musical soliloquies that we get a real sense of the guy. That’s what makes “Dear Theodosia” so powerful in particular. Burr wants the same thing for his daughter that Hamilton wants for his son: “Some day you’ll blow us all away.”

14. One Last Time

George Washington owned slaves. Yeah yeah, you can bandy around the usual “bUt He ReLeAsEd ThEm AlL lAtEr In LiFe” all you want. At the end of the day, it’s an inescapable fact for the country to confront. It’s a hard thing for Hamilton, however,  a show realistic about America’s flaws but still reverential to its founding story, to deal with. Hamilton presents the George Washington of American mythos for the most part and he strikes an undeniably impressive and imposing figure. To that end, “One Last Time” is one of the most unexpectedly moving songs in the show. Washington is committing one of the most important and selfless acts in American history by stepping aside. Yet there’s a real sense of sadness as the cast chants “George Washington’s going hooo-ooo-ooome.”

13. Non-Stop

“Non-Stop” is an extremely atypical choice for an Act-ender. Hamilton could have just as easily chosen to wrap up Act One with the rebels’ victory over Great Britain. Instead it takes a moment to process that then deftly sets up the rest of its story with “Non-Stop,” which is simply a song about Hamilton’s insane work ethic. The key to the track’s success is how relentless it is, as if it were trying to keep up with and mimic the title character’s pace. Then there are all the usual exciting Act-ending reprisals and recurring motifs to boot. 

12. Say No To This

Just as was the case in Hamilton’s life, Maria Reynolds has only a brief role in the show, but her influence casts quite a long shadow. “Say No To This” is a real showcase for both Miranda and Maria actress Jasmine Cephas Jones. This is a devastatingly catchy jazzy number about marital infidelity…. as all songs about marital infidelity should be. 

11. Alexander Hamilton

“How does a bastard, orphan, son of a whore / And a Scotsman, dropped in the middle of a forgotten spot / In the Caribbean by providence impoverished / In squalor, grow up to be a hero and a scholar?” our narrator Aaron Burr asks in Hamilton’s superb opening number. A play with so many moving parts, and such a high-concept needs an indelible opening track to convince audiences that the madness that is about to follow is worth waiting for. “Alexander Hamilton” is more than up to the task. This is an exhilarating starter that introduces its audience to all the important characters, themes, and sounds of the show. It also has its lead character spell out his full name in a rap, which somehow ends up being awesome and endearing rather than corny. 

10. Wait for It

Just like the rest of us, Burr is the main character of his own story. And the show allows him to tell that story in songs like “Wait For It.” “Wait For It” is an exciting, downright explosive bit of songwriting. It’s every bit the “I want” song for Burr that “My Shot” is to Hamilton. And just like Burr and Hamilton are two sides of the same coin, so too are these two songs. Burr is alone once again in this powerful number. And he uses that privacy as an excuse to loudly… LOUDLY exclaim his modus operandi. He comes from a similar background as Hamilton and he wants mostly the same things as Hamilton. The difference between the two of them is that Burr is willing to wait for it all.

9.  The Room Where it Happens

Bless this musical for having a song as brilliant  as “The Room Where it Happens” only just being able to crack the top 10. There are hundreds of musicals in which “The Room Where it Happens” would be far and away the standout number. For Hamilton, it’s ninth. “The Room Where It Happens” is another example of the show taking a seemingly bland topic (backroom deal-making) and turning it into something transcendently entertaining for its audience and something transcendently illustrative for its characters. This is the song where the borders between Aaron Burr: Narrator and Aaron Burr: Vengeance-Seeker come down.  Burr starts off as a patient observer of what kind of nefarious negotiations go into the building of a country before his frustration slowly builds into the recognition that he needs to be in the room where it happens. 

8. Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story

Truly there is no more fitting ending to Hamilton than “Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story.” At its core, this is a play not only about legacy but about the fungible nature of legacy. Alexander Hamilton is gone and we know his story lives on. But who will tell that story? Like any good closing number, “Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story” knows the importance of bringing back many of the play’s core concepts and characters. And none of those are more important than Eliza’s assertion that she is ready “to write herself back into the narrative.” In the end, it’s not the revolutions or the pamphlets but the love. And that’s how one finds oneself in the absurd position of crying over the guy on the $10 bill.

7. What’d I Miss?

Lin-Manuel Miranda has described Thomas Jefferson as the show’s Bugs Bunny. Nowhere is that more apparent than in the ludicrously jaunty track that opens up Hamilton’s Act Two. There might not be a more joyful or outright hilarious three minutes in any of the soundtrack’s 46 songs. After several years spent living it up in France, Daveed Diggs’s TJ returns to the United States. The rest of his fellow revolutionaries have moved on to R&B and rap, but Jefferson is still stuck in full on jazz mode. “What’d I Miss” serves as the perfect introduction to a crucial character and the themes of the show’s second half. 

6. The World Was Wide Enough

If “Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story” is designed to make the audience cry, then “The World Was Wide Enough” exists to make them gasp. This penultimate song is a truly stunning piece of work. This is a sprawling performance that brings back “The 10 Duel Commandments” in expected yet still emotional fashion. Then at the play’s climactic moment, it cuts out the music entirely to make room for Hamilton’s internal monologue – his one last ride through all the pages he won’t write. Finally it covers the grim aftermath of Burr and Hamilton’s duel as the survivor grapples with what he has done. There is a lot packed into these five minutes of song and each moment is more compelling than the last. 

5. You’ll Be Back

If absolutely nothing else in Hamilton worked – if the characterizations were off, if the costumes were too simple, if the “Founding Fathers rapping” concept couldn’t be executed – the play’s two and a half hours all still would have been worth it for this one, tremendously goofy song. King George III (portrayed by Jonathan Groff in the original Broadway production) pops up three times throughout the show to deliver pointed little reminders to the American colonists about how good they used to have it. The first time around is by far the best, in large part because it’s so charmingly unexpected and weird. By the time King George III gets to the “da-da-da” section of his breakup song with America, it’s hard to imagine anyone resisting the song… or the show’s charms. 

4. My Shot

While “You’ll Be Back” may go down as the most enduring karaoke song from Hamilton, “My Shot” is almost certainly the play’s most recognizable and iconic tune. Every musical needs an “I want” song in which its lead articulates what they want out of this whole endeavor. Rarely are those “I wants” as passionate and thrilling as “My Shot.” This was reportedly the song that Miranda took the longest to write and it’s clear now to see why. Not only is “My Shot” lyrically and musically intricate, but it does the majority of play’s heavy lifting in establishing Hamilton as a character. Just about everything we need to know about Alexander Hamilton and what drives him is introduced here. And the work put into “My Shot” makes all of its recurring themes and concepts hit so much harder in the songs to come. 

3. Yorktown (The World Turned Upside Down)

In many ways, “Yorktown” benefits from the precedent that earlier songs like “My Shot” established. This is a song that puts energetic renditions of previous lines like “I’m not throwing away my shot” and “I imagine death so much it feels like a memory” to grand use. But for as much as “Yorktown” deftly invokes Hamilton’s past, what makes this song truly special is how solely focused it is on the present. To put it quite simply: “Yorktown” goes hard. It is fast, harsh, chaotic, and thrilling. This is the song that captures the moment that American troops defeated the British empire and “the world turned upside down.” It’s to the song’s immense credit that the music and lyrics capture the enormity of the moment. Also, there’s “stealing the show” and then there’s what Hercules Mulligan (Okieriete Onaodowan) does here in “Yorktown.” We’re in the shit now, and Hercules is loving it. 

2. Helpless

“Helpless” might be pound for pound the best musical moment in all of Hamilton. It’s a simple, seemingly effortless love song that, even removed from the context of the show, would sound beautiful coming out of anyone’s car radio on a lovely summer day. Within the context of the show, it’s even better. It acts as a rare moment of celebration for all the characters involved before the Revolutionary War really gets churning and before a young America needs capable young Americans to guide it. What makes “Helpless” truly great, however, is the song that follows it…

1. Satisfied

Wait, wait… why is Angelica saying “rewind?” Why do we need to rewind? We had such a lovely night! The transition between “Helpless” and “Satisfied” is Hamilton’s greatest magic trick. The former presents a night of unambiguous love and celebration. Then the latter arrives to teach us that there is no such thing as “unambiguous” in Hamilton. In a truly remarkable performance, Angelica Schuyler (Renée Elise Goldsberry) teaches us what really happened the night Hamilton met the Schuyler sisters. Angelica will never be satisfied, and it’s because she’s “a girl in a world in which (her) only job is to marry rich.” Hamilton and Eliza’s story is a love story. But it’s also a story of Angelica’s loss. “Satisfied” imbues the musical with a sense of subtle melancholy that it never quite shakes through to the very end. “Satisfied” is the emotional lynchpin of Hamilton, and as such also its very best song. 

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