#burr writes
Note
Honestly, it feels really good seeing Claude fan who also happens to love Lady Rhea. There's really not enough of us
Sending love 💛💚
anon this warmed my heart so much im gonna give u a snippet from the claude & rhea friendship fic i never got around to finishing <3
He took a deep breath and knocked.
“Enter.”
He opened the door and stepped into the archbishop’s chambers. The atmosphere was surprisingly soothing, sunlight streaming through the windows and a floral perfume permeating the air. Rhea was sitting up in her nice, if plain-looking, canopy bed, resting against a couple of squashy pillows with a teacup and a book on the bedside table.
“You wished to see me, Claude?” she asked.
“I did.”
“I take it you have further questions?”
“Thought I’d come to pick your brain,” he said easily. “You’re the only one who’s ever taken on Nemesis directly. We need all the help we can get straight from the source.”
Rhea smiled, almost unnervingly genuine. “I can advise you, provided we discuss what’s really on your mind first.”
He’d expected her to be able to disarm him, but he hadn’t expected her to be so pleasant about it. Still, he was nothing if not nimble. “That easy to read, am I?”
“Not at all, actually. Seteth has often complained of it to me.” Her eyes flicked upward, a practiced gesture of exasperated fondness. “But do not forget that I have been in hiding for over a thousand years. There are many skills I lack, but I can detect a master of the craft.”
“Then it looks like we’re on the same playing field.”
Rhea sighed. “I cannot force you to lower your guard, nor do I expect it, but…please, at least have a seat.”
She gestured to the chair next to her bed, and Claude seated himself, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.
“I gather you would still like to know more of the story of your professor.”
“There are still so many things that Byl—Teach still doesn’t know.”
“Including that you are here speaking with me.”
Claude nodded—he’d have been more surprised if she hadn’t guessed. “I didn’t want to worry her. And I think…she needs time before she can speak to you objectively.”
Rhea heaved a sigh, tipping her head back against the bed frame. “I understand. I—I gave you both quite enough information to take in. And…and she must be feeling…I cannot possibly understand what.”
“Neither can she.” He was careful to keep his tone neutral, but it was hard not to be accusatory.
“I owe her many apologies,” Rhea said softly. “Apologies that I cannot expect her to accept.”
“I can’t speak to where her head’s at right now,” Claude said slowly (honestly, Byleth’s head was still an enigma to him sometimes), “but I don’t think she’s—angry. She’s just…” He pressed his lips together in thought, then continued. “She’s spent her whole life being treated like a tool. And then she came here and sort of…found herself. And then she found out that someone who helped make that happen also wanted to use her.” He would know. He’d done the very same thing, before he’d gotten to know his best friend. His…well.
Rhea closed her eyes miserably. “I know. I have greatly wronged her.”
“She also understands why you did it,” Claude continued, “and why you kept it a secret. It’s just…a lot to process. Especially for someone who for so long didn’t even understand how to really feel anything.”
“And what about you?”
Claude tipped his head. “Me?”
Rhea frowned. “You are known for your inquisitiveness, and your thirst for knowledge. Yet you did little to question what I revealed to you. Why?”
Claude propped his chin in one hand, rubbing his lip thoughtfully with his index finger. “Honestly…what you told us made everything I’d been looking at for five years click into place. Just looking at the Relics alone, knowing what we know, and you can tell they’re made of—y’know.”
Rhea nodded, in a resigned sort of way.
“But if you don’t know the full story,” Claude went on, “you might not really think about it. Most people can’t use them, and they’re kept hidden away when they’re not being wielded. Even I didn’t get a look at Failnaught until my grandfather actually passed and I inherited the estate.”
Churning insides were nothing new to Claude, having dealt with them both naturally and otherwise, but even mentioning the bow was making him a bit queasy. How he’d yearned for the chance to wield it, knowing it would give him the opportunity to study it up close and grant him the power to achieve his greatest dreams, and now…
“It all makes sense now,” he continued softly. “I’ve never heard of something so horrific. And the way Seteth and Flayn are so secretive, and how upset Seteth was when Flayn went missing…” He paused, mulling over whether to reveal this particular piece of information—but it was unlikely that Rhea hadn’t seen such a thing coming, and at any rate, in light of all she’d shared with them, she deserved as full a story as he could give in return. “Seteth once confiscated a diagram I was showing Teach, of a creature called The Immaculate One. It had already given me some clues about Crest stones and Relics. At the time I thought it was because the church had something to hide…and in a way, I was right. And now I know that he was right to take it.”
Claude leaned a little closer, meeting Rhea’s eyes and their combined relief and sorrow. It was an expression he knew well—of finally finding someone who understood. “I didn’t even think to say it before. I am so, so sorry, for everything that happened to you. No one deserves to live in fear just because of who they are.”
“You…” Rhea swallowed thickly, eyes misting. Claude fell silent and averted his gaze, giving her a moment to regain her composure.
She took a deep breath. “Your words touch my heart—truly, they do. Yours is a perspective gained from cruel experience.”
She knew. Or at least she’d guessed. It was unsurprising, really, but he couldn’t help the thrill of anxiety pulsing in the back of his mind. Even so…there was an odd kinship here, one he didn’t even feel with Byleth when they discussed it, that kept his panic at bay. “Yeah,” he murmured, “I do. I know better than most people what it’s like to be resented and hated for being who I am. And what I’ve been through…it can’t even compare to what happened to you, and Seteth and Flayn.”
Rhea smiled, eyes still watery. “Such things are not competitive. At the end of it all, there are others who understand.”
59 notes
·
View notes
Text
HP Severitus Second Year Dark Trio AU WIP (Snippet 1)
Snape’s eyes narrowed, his gaze piercing into Ron, who held the stare for a few moments before Ron broke eye contact. Snape’s eyes glinted, something in them distinctly enraged before he seemed to collect himself.
“Why, Mr. Weasley, did you know how to drive that car in the first place — I am under the understanding that you are…young to be driving, Wizard or not; not to mention, you shouldn’t even know about that car — according to your father, he never told you about it.”
Ron opened his mouth, and Harry wanted to groan; that was Ron’s panicked face, and he could tell Snape smelt blood in the water. “Fred & George taught me over the summer so that I could rescue Harry, Sir.”
Snape let the answer rest in the air for a moment before he questioned Ron again.
“And why, may I ask,” Snape silkily, knowingly, questioned, “Would Mr. Potter need rescuing from his loving guardians?”
Ron seemed to realize just what he had revealed, but to Harry’s horror, Ron looked like he wanted to take the opportunity and tell Snape the truth.
“Ron, shut up!” Harry hissed, only to pale as Snape turned those fathomless dark eyes onto him.
“No, Harry — I kept it quiet last year, but Hermione and I made a promise to each other that if it got any worse, we’d tell someone!” Ron had a stubborn jut to his jaw, and Harry shook his head, shooting pleading looks at his best friend.
“Ron, please —”
“Professor, do you have a Pensive?”
Snape’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline for a full five seconds before his eyes narrowed, crossing his arms.
“I do,” Snape drawled, “Why would you need one, Mr. Weasley?”
Ron lifted his chin, and Harry could only grit his teeth in despair as Ron revealed the truth.
“I’d like to report a student being abused, Professor, and since it’s Harry, I know I’ll need proof, and I have the memories to prove it.”
Snape drew back, looking seriously at Ron, his gaze searing into Harry for a moment before he nodded sharply.
0 notes
Text
"Why do you write like you need it to survive?" because he does he does he does. he wouldn't have survived if he hadn't begun clerking for the landlord or worked in a trading charter, jobs that inherently require skills in writing. he wrote about the hurricane's destruction of his hometown so poignantly that people decided to help him in furthering his education, KEEPING HIM ALIVE. and as much as he wanted to be something else, as much as he wanted a troop of men to command, hamilton as an adult/young man was NOTHING without his writing. he wouldn't have been washington's right hand man, he wouldn't have gone to the winter's ball to meet eliza, he wouldn't have wooed her with his letters or convinced her father, he wouldn't have built his career or been a founding father. he would have died, a bastard, orphan, impoverished. dead. "Why do you write like you need it to survive?" because he DOES. that's why hamilton could never let an insult go, that's why he always needed to write back, that's why he never stopped reaching for more, because without his writing, without his wit, without his rapid responses, he is NOTHING
#hamilton the musical#hamilton musical#alexander hamilton#why do you write like you need it to survive#lin manuel appreciation post#lin manuel miranda#lmms music#hamilton#non stop#aaron burr#eliza schuyler#eliza hamilton#angelica schuyler#george washington#right hand man#a winter's ball#schuyler sisters#take a break
159 notes
·
View notes
Text
Untilted Katamari Reflections
Preamble:
Content considerations for the following include:
Parental abuse
Bigotry
Worldly anxiety
You're welcome back another day if that's too much right now.
I.
It’s fall of 2015.
You and your virgin college friends drink shitty cocktails called the “Slutty Will Rodgers.” They’re just Pepsi rawdogged with indeterminate amounts of grenadine and Captain Morgan. When you bought the mixers a Wal-Mart stocker yodeled “OOOOoOoooOH, maKIN sOMe DRINKS?!?!” and you knew it was time to leave.
We Love Katamari is on the Telly. It’s a sweet, trippy game you first bought to cope with high school. On Dark Fridays at 1am, when your inbox was barren and your balls were full, you’d drive to the empty gym downtown and sprint six miles. Then you’d come home and replay the firefly level until you fell asleep with your pug.
Your college friends are bad at the game, so they pass the controller. You’re playing the underwater stage. A spaceman falls in the pond of people gunk and stacked crabs. It’s going really well if you’re honest. You point to the screen and say “this’ll be Florida if Trump wins.” See Fig. 1.
Figure 1: Rick Desantis has big plans for Disney.
Your friends don’t reply because they soon won’t be virgins and their tongues battle each other’s. It’s a different game they play, one with fuzzier rules, but greater industry respect. You wish the campus gym was open 24/7.
. . .
Your skills as the prince are not inherent. You first meet him in 2005, when your dyspraxic hands can barely tie a shoe. Your parents catch you lose shit for the Toonami review of Me and My Katamari. They buy it for Christmas, hoping to steady your nerves while your father’s in therapy.
Dr. Flam is a Neo-Freudian hitched to your mom’s guy, Dr. Flim. She’s deep in your dad’s dream journal and makes him watch movies like Cool Hand Luke to really reign in his ego. He gets the DVDs from the Netflix site, then through the mail. As a family you watch your dad’s therapy films and reruns of Inyuasha.
In the waiting room you barely navigate the sticky ball through Namco Bandai’s Satoshi Kon parade. See Fig. 2. You’ve only seen adults express anger verbally, so when you mess up you grunt a lot and let out those Leopold Butters Stotch swears like “crap,” “shoot,” and “gosh darn.” You’re not particularly self-aware, so you probably just say “god fucking damn it” a few times and don’t remember. Years later you realize there was probably a secretary behind the glass watching you do all this.
Figure 2: Bwahbwahwabhbawahbwaaaaah.
Sometimes there’s a girl in the room with you, just around your age. She’s stuck while Dr. Flim teaches her mom about what dream snakes mean for her fear of male puberty. That's what he did for your mom, anyway.
You think the waiting-room stranger is cute, but you won’t admit you like girls yet, especially not to yourself. To cope with the cognitive dissonance, you do your weird shit louder while refusing to make eye contact with her. If you get real stressed you crank up the main menu track and yell “ahhhhh that’s so relaxing” while the “nah nah nah nahs” play through your headphones.
At one point the girl stands against a wall and stares at you with her arms crossed. You bet she thinks you’re cool, but she’s probably just annoyed and hopes you’ll notice, or maybe just ask if she’s OK. It’s probably good you don’t talk with her. You might ask something stupid, like if she's seen the roach corpse in the stairwell. It’s been there for a year straight, isn’t that crazy?
For better and worse, you power through your little game alone. Every time you lose the King of All Cosmos beats, shoots, and belittles you. See Fig. 3. It reminds you of when your own dad shattered your Harry Potter wand over the kitchen counter because you dropped a mini pizza.
Figure 3: The King of All Cosmos offers little constructive advice, all things considered.
You fail quite frequently. Eventually you drop the game because it’s getting stressful and you have the power to relieve yourself of the situation—not the Freudian lobby, just your fake dad.
II.
It’s 2012. PlayStation Network uploads The Prince’s primeval outing: Katamari Damacy. Within, Padre Cosmotic flaps his gums over too much hooch then slams his dump truck ass through the better part of our solar system. He dislodges every recognized constellation and even the moon itself.
Cosmos sends Prince to Earth—the last brick left in the shitstorm—to make slop of our planet and bodies. With the slop space itself will be made anew. The Good Son does as he's told, and every living entity experiences euphoric ego death within the bulbous heaven of the Katamari.
As a Real Gamer Teen you lose a lot less in this one. You really go in and fix Fake Dad’s mistakes, no problem at all. This is why a year ago you hailed “gaming journalism” as your calling. You write clean and play tight; should keep the lights on. It’s the most concrete idea you’ve had since 7th grade when you outlined a YA novel called Tooth Pocket. Even you didn’t think Scholastic would buy that one, though. It was just too hot for the book fair.
One day you’re cranking through FFVI and your real dad swings by, mad you're young. He grills your ass and says “I bet you can’t even tell me the biggest thing happening right now.” It’s some real “What’s a gallon of milk cost?” shit, he could mean anything.
Surprisingly, you can’t think of a good answer. You and your friends are actually pretty informed because John Stewart is still at the desk and y’all chime in every day. See Fig. 4. You also spend hours each week tearing through MSN slideshows in your Graphic Design class because the Photoshop takes five minutes. You’ve seen a staggering amount of the Syrian civil war.
Figure 4: Sometimes in Snapchat you draw glasses on your cat to make him look like Mitch McConnel. You wouldn't do that without this guy.
Still, you’re a little stumped. It’s the middle of a phenomenon native to moralist presidencies known as "a slow news week.” You actually ran out of war shit the other day and clicked through some slides about Pakistani wrestlers. The seniors who offered you Jack Daniels in the Whataburger lot saw it and laughed. They thought you were peeping dong in class. You really weren’t, but they didn’t believe you. They graduate certain you were bricked up in the Dell Lab over big guys in spandex.
“I don’t know,” you tell your dad.
He throws his hands behind his head, hard, like an orangutan chucking logs at a poacher.
“It’s the fucking carbon tax,” he yells. This comes as a surprise, you think, because that shit is last month’s news. It really didn’t go anywhere.
“Do you not pay attention because you don’t give a shit, or are you just a nihilist and think you can’t do anything?” You can tell in his eyes he thinks there’s a real answer. “Seriously, which is it?
You don’t remember what you said. You probably just stammered until he walked off.
A month later he picks you up from marching band. Your phone is dead, so he had to wait twenty minutes longer than anticipated while you found his car. He punches the rearview mirror until the windshield cracks then screams of how your birth kept him from New England.
III.
It’s 2016. A rockin’ MILF in the Psych department gets you really into Hamilton. See Fig. 5. Every day you wake up on the grind and blast “You Aaron Burr, sir?” through your shitty 7-11 cans. While cramming foreign language Quizlets and McGraw Hill Online you do this thing called “Hafilton.” It’s where rock up to “Nonstop” and quit listening just before Hamilton decides what he will stop is being a good husband.
Figure 5: Like Kojima, you know "MILF" is a mindset, not a factual inquiry.
It’s 2018. Your grades are notably better and you’ve snuck into the honors program. Like Hamilton himself, you really flourished at 19 and thought about running for office. You immediately abandoned this idea after remembering your allergy to recordings of your image or voice.
You cohabit with the Psych MILF, and she offers some advice: she’s really had her boots on the ground with this whole “clinical psych thing” and honestly, respectfully, she loves you, but dear God it might not be your scene. It’s taken a real toll on her and the friends, and she can’t imagine you going through that shit.
At 1am in your living room you boot up DOOM (2016) and listen through some Hamilton. Angelica is thirsty on main when you remember that you, yourself, could be a lawyer. You don’t have to run for Congress to fight the establishment. There’s just the common law, and it’s right there. You can just get your grubby little hands in that shit and work your magic.
. . .
It’s the last semester of undergrad. Your Western Thought professor says Hamilton wasn’t really a huge deal and really James Madison shat out the big parts of our faction-proof empire. Yes, there was, in fact, a civil war, but the caplock rifle worked it out. After the Federalist papers he has you read the Bill of Rights but no Supreme Court cases. There’s a lot of talk on negative liberties.
Just before finals, the learned doctor says your generation only has two things to worry about: the climate and the poverty. Yeah they’re big, he says, but they’re just two things. You’re crafty kids, smart as the framers, even.
. . .
The state decides law school is your jam and lets you come inside.
There’s the negative liberties but you actually read Supreme Court opinions when the big boys aren’t shaking fists for Valley Forge. They have you listen to Hamilton for context. You feel dirty. An LRW professor puts on the “I’m Just a Bill” video and your sectionmate with Ivy degrees gets really, really mad.
. . .
The Federalist Society has a comfy presence at your law school. Along with Big Oil they sling out free pizza to every Little Scalia with a rumbly tum tum.
On your way to class you hear what the pizza boys feel. They hate Europeans, those social democrats with the rotten armories and clumpy cash. The Euros, they think, give too much wiggle room for the mentally ill, and by that they mean they mean gay people and probably just women overall.
There are more than two things to fix, you think.
. . .
The pandemic hits. You and some pals start a Google Doc to stay afloat. It barely works. In the Zoom review for the property final your professor catches multiple people crying. "You don't have to be here," he tells them, “there are other jobs.”
. . .
A year passes. You’re in a niche public interest class you do all right with. The professor looks you and thirty-five others dead in the eye and says how sorry he is that law school is traumatic. You shed a single tear in your little window. You're pretty in the shit and haven’t worn pants to class in months.
Then public interest prof takes a big, big drag from his long, fat spliff. He spins his desk chair and baseball cap at the same time, never letting go of the joint.
“Hey,” he says. “It’s not your fault, really, but the world is fucked. It’s time to fix what your parents did.”
The next week he gives a practice exam where the best solution is to sell an old lady’s house to Nestlé.
IV.
It’s 2022. After throwing your whole gooch at it, you fail the bar exam.
You fall back hard into exercise. When you’re not slamming Barbri you’re at the gym binging curls and cranking the Chainsaw Man soundtrack. One night on the way to squats you finally hear “Black Parade.” Just like you, Mr. Gerry Wayland is stuck between global disrepair and the desire to write Funny Little Books.
You just started an FLB yourself, actually. It’s spin on a Story Break episode you love. In your version there’s a fucked up civil war horse that moves like a spider and is covered in bugs. Rich people kill the planet then the horse gets lost in space. It’s compelling, you promise. There’s body horror and pirates dressed like Gorton’s Fisherman. See Fig. 6 It’s about the horrors of the contemporary world state. It’ll be fun.
Figure 6: An untapped horror icon. Imagine blood contrasting that yellow.
Big problem, though: you remember rich people love hiking. There’s no grass on Mars, not that good shit anyway. Would they really fuck all of it?
You edit. In the last few years, the real breathless ones, the oligarchs cash their tab. A cartel, they think, could really muscle those stragglers, the tragically common. There’s one city left with both breathable air and refugees. They level it. The few survivors are spread amongst the stars, so their loves and languages may die.
. . .
It’s the middle of Bar Prep Round 2. You and the patient MILF see Hadestown in the Big City.
There’s a juke joint on stage flanked by devil trombones. A sad little guy slinks in from the janitor’s closet. His name is Orpheus and, just like you, he’s a sad, short writer who likes a lady so much it comes out weird. He has a vision, he says, for a little ditty. It’s compelling, he promises, and shit’s gonna change. His love is functional and realized, worth the investment of a hardened woman displaced by capital’s torture. She believes him.
You cry because you know where this goes.
It’s just a single tear.
Don’t worry.
Nobody sees.
. . .
There’s this game you like, by some corporate anarchists who hate themselves. They’re Scandinavian, from the spot in Tallin where you stopped for a cruise. Every gift shop there had swastikas and gas masks leftover from the bloody years.
In the game is a liberal yacht MILF. She thinks you’re stupid but someone’s helping with your gun, so you’ve got that on her. And yet, she pins you, re your whole writing thing. See Fig. 7.
Figure 7: She sucked, but it still hurt when she left.
Your favorite Supreme Court podcast says the ocean’s last hope is other countries. But those countries’ people cry to the Disco game, and their ministers also bought The End of History. You meet them on the subreddit. You're all geeked out, waiting for the tide.
. . .
It’s the era of desert cradles. God thinks you’re disgusting, so he sends his better kids with a memo: the flood was too much work on his end, it’s time for something different.
“Just keep walking,” he says.
Your skin bares his figure. So do the corpses. You little birds among billions, gassed out and screaming, move to clean.
V.
It’s 2023.
We Love Katamari is up on the PlayStation store. You sit with the cats and mow down some crabs. You don’t need it so much these days, but it’s nice.
There’s a Bar card in your wallet, just below your gym tag. There are two interviews in your Google Calendar. Good stuff might happen, hopefully soon. You crawl into bed and wrap an arm around your wife’s rib cage.
Everything matters and nothing is safe.
You are loved enough to sleep.
#gaming#actually mentally ill#disco elysium#fuck freud#writing#satoshi kon#2000s anime#law school#environment#hamilton musical#aaron burr#politics#marriage#philosophy#the daily show with jon stewart#bad parenting#my chemical romance#gerard way#existential despair#katamari damacy#we love katamari#succession
316 notes
·
View notes
Text
What's Going On With You?
A/N - Hey @crazy-as-a-jaybird I was told that Santa may have missed your chimney this year. Well thankfully, I'm one of his elves and I am here to give your fic at long last! Sorry things had fallen through with Santa, but I am here to lighten your day with some Hamilton fluff (and some sads, but shush). As always, thank you @squealing-santa for the event and for @hypahticklish for organizing everything and letting me be the pinch hitter for this gift! I madly appreciate it! Anyways, onto the fic!
Word Count: 1,961
“How’d you fuck up this time?” Hamilton all but purred as Burr walked past his seat, looking as dejected as possible, an older dog that’s been passed over at the shelter for the umpteenth time. Hamilton would never admit that Burr’s face made him feel a tinge of sadness; the poor man had clearly just gone through some shit, but Burr had been actively trying to make Hamilton’s life a living hell for years. Of course, Hamilton was going to have to have a little bit of fun kicking the man while he was down. “Washington isn’t a fan of stupid ideas.”
“Shut up, Hamilton,” Burr snapped, but there was little malice behind his words. He just sounded tired. His eyes were dim, hands in his pockets, as he just walked past his rival.
Hamilton visibly flinched as Burr brushed past him. Clearly something bad must have happened to Burr; the man could never resist the urge to speak his mind.
Hamilton trailed him, walking down the hall full of doors and down the steps. Just as Burr was reaching from the front door, Hamilton grabbed his wrist and dragged him into another room which served as the main chamber for senate meetings. The last meeting had been adjourned hours before, so the room was empty and dark, the only light was the soon to be setting sun radiating from the two windows.
“Hamilton! What is the meaning of this?” Burr growled as he was pushed into one of the long wooden benches, his back laying flat on the hard wood. As he struggled to get up, like a flipped turtle, Hamilton took a seat on his legs, ignoring how uncomfortable the position was for them both.
“What is going on with you?” Hamilton asked, though it sounded more like a statement. He was annoyed, not one to be ignored.
“What is going on with you?” Burr countered, waving his arms to gesture at Hamilton’s position. “And why the hell do you care about how I feel? It’s not like I matter to you. Washington chose you, go be his right hand man. Let me go and be nothing to you, to him.”
Hamilton’s expression lightened; his snarl slipped into a frown.
“What?” His voice was soft, quiet.
Burr turned his head, staring at the back of the bench as he bit his lip.
“It doesn’t matter,” He whispered, the condensation of his breath moistening the polished wood his nose was pressed into. “Please, let me go.”
Without a word, Hamilton obliged. Burr’s joints popped as he got up, trapping a groan in his throat so Hamilton wouldn’t hear. He left the room, closing the door gently, and stood on the other side for a minute, expecting to be followed.
“I’m sorry,” Burr mumbled under his breath as he continued on, leaving the building with his eyes made of glass.
“I’m sorry,” Hamilton mumbled under his breath as he stood alone in the darkening room. For one of the only times in his life, Hamilton did not know what to do.
***
A month had passed without incident. If Burr saw Hamilton anywhere, he would put his head down and keep walking. Thankfully, these encounters were limited. Hamilton became busy with his writings as Burr was busying himself with other endeavors while in the senate, one of which was taking care of Theodosia. It was cathartic, enjoying every second he got to spend with his daughter, but some days he would look at her beautiful face of ten years and have the sudden urge to cry.
One night, after a particularly grueling senate meeting that had him and Samuel Johnston, the senator from North Carolina, in a heated yelling match. Luckily, most had turned out well for Burr, but he was still exhausted. All he wanted to do was rest, but it seemed that God had other plans for him that night.
“Burr?” A voice sounded behind him, freezing him in his tracks. Burr’s hands shook, realizing that as he had been lost in his thoughts, he had somehow managed to walk right passed Hamilton without noticing. Burr stood there in silence, body rigid. “Burr, we need to talk.”
“We do.”
After an awkwardly silent walk, Burr brought Hamilton back to his house. Theodosia greeted her father with a hug and a polite curtsey to the other man.
“Mr. Hamilton, sir,” Theodosia said with a fake, polite smile. She knew this man had upset her father, somehow, but her father hadn’t said much on the matter. And instead of lingering, Theodosia excused herself to her room and left the two men to their own devices.
They were silent for quite some time, eyes locked as Burr stared Hamilton down as he sat in the center of the couch, hands clasped on his lap.
“I’m sorry,” Hamilton said first. He always had to be first. “I overstepped. I should have left you alone.”
“No, I was the one that overacted. I was upset so I got defensive,” Burr stared at the floor as he spoke. “I guess, I just didn’t realize you cared.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” Hamilton countered; his eyes bore into Burr’s slumped figure. “I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t care.”
“Hmm.”
“I guess I didn’t realize you were a dumbass.”
Burr’s jaw slumped as he gaped at the man across from him, though he was able to spot the mischievous glint in the man’s eyes, and quickly pursed his lips together into the faintest of smiles.
“I care about your feelings, even if you’re the biggest pain in my ass,” Hamilton crossed his arms, smirking as he leaned back into the couch. “Besides, you are absolutely no fun when you’re sad.”
“Is that so?”
“Of course! Who else am I going to pester? Washington can only take so much of my banter.”
Burr let out a soft chuckle, dropping his eyes to the floor in embarrassment.
“Was that a laugh I heard?” Hamilton mused, his pitch rising in excitement.
Burr felt his cheeks heat up. He didn’t know why, but Hamilton’s excitement always had this effect on him. It was contagious how lit up Hamilton could get about most things. He hadn’t the slightest idea what Hamilton was intending, but he bit his lip to hold back a smile.
“You’re not answering me,” Hamilton huffed. “I guess I’ll just have to find out for myself.”
Before Burr could react, Hamilton had leaped from the couch and had his hands all over him.
It had been quite some time since they last did this. Just after the war ended, Hamilton and his rag tag team of misfits would attempt to “cheer up” Burr whenever they saw him. Most of the time, Burr hadn’t been upset. However, he wore a natural frown when he walked, which was enough to incite violence, specifically from Hamilton and Laurens. This activity had slowed to a stop once the band broke up. Lafayette went back to France, Mulligan had gone back into tailoring, and Laurens had unfortunately been killed just before the war was officially ended. The latter had hurt Hamilton the most, thus ended most of his playful interactions with anyone outside his household.
Burr didn’t hold back his laughter at all. He didn’t feel the need. It had been years, and frankly, Burr didn’t mind this. It felt normal. Nostalgic.
“Ah, there it is,” Hamilton beamed, listening to Burr’s rich belly laugh that he would only do when his ribs were being attacked. This was Hamilton’s go to spot when on the attack, getting the best results the quickest. It may not have been Burr’s worst spot, but it yielded in the best response.
“You know, I’ve missed this,” Hamilton mused, both teasing and being sincere. “And, since you’re not fighting back, it seems you have too.”
Burr didn’t protest; he really was having a good time. This had been one of the worst years of his life and he’s been in a shit mood for some time, on top of anxiety around his encounter with Hamilton a month ago. The fingers skittering across his rib cage felt like a temporary release from the monsters in his mind. This he could handle with ease. That is, until Hamilton decided to go for the kill.
“Alex!” Burr nearly screeched, dropping all formalities as Hamilton began lightly squeezing his lower stomach, the small patch of fat being extra sensitive. Burr knew Hamilton was going to finish his attack soon. Hamilton knew that Burr couldn’t handle this spot being teased for too long.
“I don’t think you’ve called me that since the eighties,” Hamilton wore a sly smile, giggling to himself. Hamilton was the sort of person to laugh along with the person he was tickling, especially if their laughter was as contagious as Burr’s. It wasn’t his fault that Burr’s laugh was loud and giggly, a stark contrast to his typical stoic persona.
“Stop, please,” Burr finally let out, holding out for a good five minutes. It was fun, in a way, but it had gotten to be too much.
“Damn, you really let me have some fun there,” Hamilton teased, now standing in front of Burr, hands behind his back as he bounced on his toes. Burr took a minute to respond, having to release the final residual huffs of mirth and uncurl himself into a proper sitting position.
“I guess I did,” Burr replied, smile still wide on his face. “Now, I think it would be fair if you repaid the favor.”
“Oh, I-I,” Hamilton stammered, his face reddening. Burr knew this was a go ahead.
Standing up, Burr practically lifted Hamilton and walked him across the room to the couch. Gently plopping him down onto the sofa, Burr straddled the younger man and began to dance his fingers across the entirety of Hamilton’s torso.
“Burr!” Hamilton squealed in delight, grabbing Burr’s wrists, but didn’t try to push them away.
Burr knew that Hamilton loved this, always had. He had always suspected that Hamilton liked the attention, the touch. His childhood had been rough, so Burr assumed that this quirk had stemmed from this. He, of course, had never wanted to press. There was absolutely nothing wrong with this somewhat charming quirk, so he never questioned.
“Still as ticklish as ever, huh?” Burr let out a low chuckle as he fluttered his fingers on either side of Hamilton’s neck. Burr knew he wouldn’t respond, Hamilton’s neck being a weak point that always sent him into hysterical giggles. “Hm, you’re lucky I’ve never done this in front of the other senators. I’m sure they would have a kick out of this.”
“Asshole,” Hamilton replied, now able to speak as Burr’s fingers danced along his lower ribs. His ability to speak would soon be ripped away from him, as Burr’s response to his crude remark was to crawl his fingers downward along his sides, to knead into his hips.
“Burr!” Hamilton’s voice was as loud as it could possibly be, his laughter booming as Burr attacked his most sensitive spot. This specific laugh always made Burr join in, as the laugh itself was adorably funny to listen to, along with it being very apparent that Hamilton was having a delightful time.
As Burr went to town on Hamilton’s hips, Theodosia quietly laughed to herself, peering out from behind her door, with only a partly obstructed view of the living room. She had been lingering there for a while, having heard her father’s deep laugh, and had to investigate. It had been years since she had heard him really laugh, long before her mother died. Burr looked much younger, relaxed.
“Thank you,” Theodosia whispered under her breath, letting out a sigh as she smiled to herself.
36 notes
·
View notes
Text
I can't stop watching his hands. I love many things about the way Raymond Burr portrayed Perry Mason, but the way he always acted with his hands is at the top of the list. There's a reason I spend so much time in my fics describing what Perry's doing with his hands.
#perry mason#raymond burr#my beloved sexy rectangle#seriously#they're constantly in motion#and so strong#it's ridiculous how much i imagine his hands while writing#and how much time i spend trying to get them right#but can you blame me?
14 notes
·
View notes
Text
#HSM#high school musical#hamilton musical#aaron burr#sharpay evans#I’m back just to share thoughts tbh#still no writing motivation#they were never the villains#✰kana-talks
11 notes
·
View notes
Text
Me, adjusting the Fallen Stars playlist for the millionth time: I'm very normal about making playlists.
#fallen stars#technically#seriously though i've messed with this playlist SO MANY TIMES#like--when i'm writing#i don't usually have a playlist going#i find a song with the right 'vibes' and go 'THERE. THAT'S IT'#and then just write#but playlists are DIFFERENT#because when i make them it's like. i want the songs to kind of follow the story beats#which. depending on the songs i find#sometimes goes really well#and other times does not#right now i have 'a rumor in st petersburg' and 'aaron burr sir' for two of the opening songs#mostly because they're the songs i've found that are closest#but they don't fit PERFECTLY so my mind is like 'i need to keep tinkering with this. forever.'#...all this to say i'm totally very normal about making playlists and don't overthink things at all
9 notes
·
View notes
Text
Special Someone on the Side
"You're very kind but I'm afraid it's unlawful, sir."
"What do you mean?"
"She's married."
"I see."
"She's married to a British officer."
"Oh shit."
No one asked for it, but here are my thoughts on this interaction:
There are things between the lines!
and I wrote them.
Enjoy :)
Hamburr friendship :3 (mentioned hamiliza and lams)
629 words.
It was a pleasant night after Hamilton’s wedding. Eliza was bidding her family goodbye while he was supposed to do the same with his friends, but here they were, getting even more drunk.
Burr showed up, seemingly failing to have talked to Alexander during the event and was trying his best to ignore the boys and their teasing.
He was almost done congratulating Hamilton on his marriage and his position as aide-de-camp to Washington, when Laurens deemed the subject too boring and changed it.
“Well, well, I heard,” He got uncomfortably close to Burr. “You got a special someone on the side, Burr.” He shot Alexander a sneaky glance.
“Is that so?” Hamilton laughed at his boyfriend's antics.
“What’re you tryna hide, Burr?” Laurens slurred in Burr’s ear who’d reached his limit.
“I should go.”
Hamilton instantly disagreed. “No, these guys should go.”
“What?” Laurens turned to Hamilton in thinly veiled betrayal. “No!”
“Leave us alone.” Hamilton gave him a pointed look.
I’m getting us the gossip.
“Man!” Laurens rolled his eyes fondly, grabbing Lafayette and Mulligan as they stalked away, resigned.
Being with Hamilton alone seemed to make Burr slightly nervous.
“It’s alright, Burr.” Alexander smiled a little. “I wish you’d brought this girl with you tonight.” Hamilton couldn’t help seeing that Burr was lacking a plus one at the wedding.
“You’re very kind,” Burr looked down, fidgeting with the handkerchief in his hand. Hamilton spotted the initials T.B.P. Now who could that belong to? The special someone on the side, perhaps? “But I’m afraid it’s unlawful, sir.”
Oh?
Is it?
In what way?
Hamilton found himself thinking of his nights with Laurens, in their tent, under the cover of night.
Had Burr also found a lad during their battles?
“What do you mean?” Hamilton asked, a light tone and a smirk emerging with the words. If Burr was going to confess something, he wanted him to know he’d be accepted.
“She’s married.”
Oh. Hamilton deflated. “I see.”
No matter, they might still be able to work around this. Burr could be with his beau regardless. With a simple divorce, or even a duel for the lady’s honor, it could be manageable. As long as she isn’t—
“She’s married to a British officer.”
“Oh shit.”
Hamilton hadn’t realized he’d said it outloud until he heard Burr chuckle self-deprecatingly.
“Congrats again, Alexander.” Burr turned to go but Hamilton’s mind was still reeling.
There must still be a way for his friend and the one he loves to be together.
“Smile more.” Burr was walking away.
They could be happy and in love and together without a random British officer in their way.
“I’ll see you on the other side of the war.” Wait, what? He’ll simply give up like that?
“I will never understand you.” Hamilton found himself saying.
Burr turned around, confused. They were alone on the terrace, the quiet lull of people leaving the building could be heard distantly.
“If you love this woman, go get her!” Yes, he might lose his head in the process, but for love! Isn’t he willing to risk everything to get what he wants? “What are you waiting for?”
Burr eyed Alexander carefully, trying to discern something before he sighed. “I’ll see you on the other side of the war.”
He’s beyond saving.
Hamilton sighed back, resigned. “I’ll see you on the other side of the war.”
When Washington had finally given him a command, Hamilton made sure to wound and kill every single British officer he came into contact with.
To this day, he’s not sure if he did kill Theodosia’s late-husband personally, but she’s living happily with Burr in married bliss and having Hamilton and his wife over for tea and biscuits weekly.
So Burr won anyway.
#hope you liked it#hamilton#alexander hamilton#aaron burr#john laurens#lafayette#hercules mulligan#marquis de lafayette#lams#hamburr#friendship#theodosia bartow prevost#theodosia burr sr.#hamilton fanfic#hamilton fic#my fanfiction#my fanfic#my fic#my writing#and im proud of it 😌#my work#hamilton fanfiction
18 notes
·
View notes
Text
leona and wolfe are preteens and they are, cordially, prepared to make it everybody's problem
#perc'ahlia#percy de rolo#vex'ahlia#leona de rolo#wolfe de rolo#cr1 spoilers#critical role#burr writes
33 notes
·
View notes
Text
I NEED to get a modern AU Hamilton fic where burr is more like he was in actual history. A smoker hypersexual insomniac.
Like, that dude was so much more badass than people make him out to be. I don't have anything about soft, quiet and nice burr but just PLEASEEEEEEEE someone make him a drug addict.
I don't know why I like to read fanfics with characters that take drugs in the forefront, but I do and burr HISTORICALLY was addicted so writing a drug addict burr fanfic can't be that hard (said by someone that can't write for shit.)
#hamilton an american musical#Aaron burr#i dont fucking know#rambling#fanfiction#someone please write this#i love ao3 authors
16 notes
·
View notes
Text
IT'S BURR HAMILTON DUEL DAY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 218 years ago, Alexander Hamilton was shot by male thot enemy of the state Aaron Burr
Bonus doodles under the cut
#alexander hamilton#aaron burr#historyposting#hamburr#my art#I MEANT TO WRITE 'MUFFLED CRYING' BUT YKNOW WHAT. THIS VERSION FEELS MORE RAW#tw blood#tw gunshot
156 notes
·
View notes
Text
pardon me, are you aaron burr, sir?
"Pardon me, but-" Alex takes a deep breath, unable to contain his excitement. "Are you Aaron Burr, sir?"
"That depends, who's asking?"
"Oh, well, sure, sir-" he holds a hand out, watching Burr take it. "I'm Alexander Hamilton-" a spark of recognition, slowly catching and blazing into a fire "-I'm at your service, sir, I have been… looking for you."
"Why-"
"Aaron, help." Alex collapses into his best friend's chest, moaning in despair.
#alexander hamilton#aaron burr#au#raven quills: fanfiction#my writing#raven quills: prose#fluff#ao3#fanfiction#happy#writing#fanfic
9 notes
·
View notes
Note
MORE. FOR U
Ok ok ok we all collectively will not shut up about how Percy is endeared by Vex's ears, right? well UNO REVERSE CARD! His lil round human ears are so fucking cute to Vex. It's also very funny for her to parse out how sensitive they are vs half-elven or elven ears.
In modern AUs their taste in music seems very different at a glance but meshes SUPER well. Percy is rocking to MCR and anime intros and Fallout Boy and old rock'n'roll (that his dad and Julius loved), Vex is grinding to pop and country, and everyone is like 'surely not' until they pull up to give Pike a ride and are just blasting a Taylor Swift song together (she joins in obviously). Or on a train sharing earbuds and the poor folks the next seats over can hear Monster by Skillet from there and these two are mouthing along and sharing Dramatic Looks.
Trinket keeps bringing cubs home. He's a male bear, bears don't raise cubs in pairs (males don't participate at ALL), but he's a Ranger companion and lives as long as Vex does. And given he's a fit specimen he's probably the sire of a lot of cubs in the area (Vex and the Grey Hunt have got to watch out for inbreeding effects KJTRNHRKN). So every now and then he'll find a hurt or abandoned or sick cub and bring it back, and Vex nurses it back to health (and Dan too), and suddenly they Have Another Bear. Oh Dear. Sometimes Vex and Trinket make a conscious effort to train the cubs to live in the wild and release them a ways away once they're old enough, but the three bears we see in C3 is Only The Beginning.
The first time Percy tried really growing a beard, Vesper made Unhappy Faces when he'd give her kisses and in a fit he shaved it all off. He needed some talking-tos about it. His baby girl was SO upset and it make HIM upset OKAY -
It's advised that guests do not wander the halls of Castle Whitestone alone at night. They assume, naturally, that this is due to Ghosts or Restless Spirits - no the de Rolos are just. like that. Cass would rather everyone avoid the trauma of hearing them having a good time. Also the kids' darkvision means they have shining pupils if light hits them in the dark and someone fell down the stairs once so there's that too.
Percy fucking agonizes over blue now. Getting a gift to match Vex's feather takes up at least 3-12 hours of a given project. At this point he has custom paints mixed for it and will scour stalls and shops for gems of the right turquoise.
He also owns way more fur than he'd expect, because Vex is a ranger and can at least make a decent muffler or trim for mittens or ruff for his winter coat out of some of her more impressive catches. His favorite, though, is a tiny fur thing that's badly worn. Vex insists it's a bird. *it does not look like a bird,* it looks like a pointed rock with two bead eyes. It was the first thing she tried making him and it, well, it didn't come out as she'd expected. He still stims with it often, it practically lives in his pocket - like she was in Pandemonium, when VM were transformed into birds. She says she hates it, but his earnest adoration for this little silly thing she made really makes Vex so damn happy.
OH MY GOD SHE WOULD LOVE HIS EARS,,, HIS LIL ROUNDED EARS,,, SO SOFT N ROUND,,,,,,,, OMG
YOUR MUSIC TASTES FOR THEM ARE SO IN LINE WITH WHAT'S IN MY HEAD NGKJRNGK. vex imo has the most chaotic playlists because there's just one for all of her music. it switches from lizzo to mumford & sons without rhyme nor reason. and they WOULD be taylor swift stans with pike i LOVE THIS. AND GOD,, THE MENTAL IMAGE OF HER AND PERCY DRAMATICALLY LIP-SYNCING LIKE HUGE NERDS..... MY CROPS ARE WATERED. MY SKIN IS CLEAR
THIS IS ONLY THE BEGINNING NGKJRNKJGNR i simply think vex deserves an entire legion of bears who love her, and many of them on the castle grounds. only the best for the grand mistress of bears. (trinket mimicking vex's adopting behavior is SO CUTE I'M GONNA CRY)
percy upsets his baby One Time and suddenly he must change everything about himself. i love him so much i cannot stand it
NKGJNKJENG the de rolos fuck nasty and it is a burden upon those who think themselves to be fearless... my heart goes out to the unlucky few who dare. ALSO THE FUCKING. QUARTER ELVES. JUST LIKE A BUNCH OF CATS IN THE KITCHEN AT 2AM WHEN YOU WANT A SNACK. IS PERFECTION.
GERKGNERJN percy will do anything to maintain his wife's aesthetic
VEX CRAFTING HIM THINGS...... PERCY KEEPING HER FIRST LIL BAUBLE BECAUSE HE LOVES HER................ STIMMING WITH IT CAUSE IT'S SOFT................................ picturing vex finding out and endeavoring to acquire so many soft things, making him a bunch more knick-knacks once she's better at it, wearing soft clothes, just, oh my GOD she loves him SO MUCH
thank you again for this absolute unfathomable joy, i squeaked out loud at least 3 times, i am full of serotonin once more
#THE SCREAM I SCRUMPT AS BURR WOULD SAY#oh my god you make me want to write so many little things for them#i'm crying. i LOVE THEM VERY MUCH#vex’ahlia#percival de rolo#perc’ahlia#fave#critical role#vox machina#blorbologist
52 notes
·
View notes
Text
Ok this thing exists.
16 notes
·
View notes
Text
I watched Hamilton on disney plus when small and uhh this is the product of that-
Aaron Burr is an age regressor! (so are like... the rest of them, but my brain likes him specifically so here we go)
Burr is very bladder shy when he's not regressed, let alone when he is small. He doesn't want to ask, but he will eventually. However, he will not be able to go to the toilet if there's anyone around. This has led to some accidents.
He's a big fan of pacifiers, but doesn't like others to know about that. He 100% needs one for naps or just general sleeping.
He has a black cat plush and loves it entirely. It's one sure fire way to get him to regress, just mention it and he's small.
Thats all for now, but send me requests for hamilton characters please!
#star writes#hamilton musical#hamilton#hamilton agere#age regression#hamilton age regression#little burr#age regressor aaron burr#aaron burr#diap stuff
10 notes
·
View notes
Last Seen Blogs
honeydots
Stop Snitchin’, Motherfucker
raihanihs
Sinonim Capaian
inlove-and-dying
I'm on the Nightrain
alem-do-querer
Além do querer.
nihilitystar
star