i'm part of a system so i'm not around all that frequently but when i am i am deeply deranged abt all my rarepairs
this is my fic blog! main is now @monsterqueerelizaschuyler and i'm also on ao3 as girlboylaurens again (no fic there yet tho).
if u care abt elams/pluralfic/elamsburr/platonic and/or qpr laurliza/any of my favorite four idiots in general/want to hear abt my brainrot pls pls send me an ask i will love u forever <3
What are you thinking? hums the voice of his deity, reverberating against the walls of his skull, the walls of the temple, the sliver of night sky he can see through the open window. A mourning dove cries somewhere far beyond the confines of the praying room. With only a moment’s thought he knows that it is She who spoke to him.
“Greatest and most beloved. Is He there too?” Alexander asks.
Yes, hum their voices. Yes, he is; yes, I am, in perfect unison, their words overlapping like waves on the shore. He hears them perfectly, of course. Since he came to them he always has.
Good evening, says He, as She remains silent. Answer her question, little thing, if you wish it.
He has been here only half an hour; every time he visits it takes less time for them to notice him, and the other monks are so very jealous. By the rules of the outside world, having drawn their attentions allows him to make the law, to interpret the will of the Two Beyond; although he is certain he has never erred in his judgment, he thinks perhaps this respect is the only thing he has ever received unfairly. It is not the other monks’ fault they are not so clever, or so interesting, or so pretty.
“I am thinking,” he says to the Gods Beyond Name, the greatest and most beloved, the shapers of fire and water, the Makers of All Law, the Dying and the Rising, the Sharpened and the Softened, the Bloodied and the Gracious, the only two things in the world, “that I would kiss you both on your raw red mouth, if you had one.”
A crack forms in the stone beneath him, the closest thing they have to a smile.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hamilton - Miranda
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Characters: John Laurens, Alexander Hamilton
Additional Tags: Established Relationship, sensory issues, Angst, Fluff, Good Significant Other Alexander Hamilton, Happy Ending, Autism, Autistic John Laurens, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting
Summary:
John's in love, more than he ever has been before. He's kissed every morning and held every night. It's always there for him, no matter what. His place is in Alex's arms, kept safe, held tight. He's safe there. He's in love.
It wouldn't make sense for it to hurt. So it doesn't. It can't. He can't look it in the eye.
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i finished a fic!! if you read it it’ll make my day :::]
this is (sorta) based on @pluralprompts's prompt #379 ("Write about a system buying a new jacket!). pluralprompts is the best we appreciate pluralprompts in this house
this is 665 words so it's under a cut! this is part of a larger au but we haven't written literally anything else sooooo hope y'all enjoy these contextless sibling feelings/gender feelings/plural feelings. pure self indulgence here tbh
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This hadn’t been the plan. It wasn’t a good use of her time, or particularly responsible, or even in-character. But she’d come home after two straight hours at the library, arguing with Candace Rowe of all people about their group project on symbolism in the Great Gatsby, and found Araminta singing in the attic, so it had made sense at the time, when she proposed it.
Araminta’s just so sad so much of the time, is all, and Lizzie hasn’t known she existed long enough to be a particularly good sister to her. Besides, John (she supposes she should call him that, now) wouldn’t have had the patience to spend this long wandering around the yellowing hallways of their local mall. He certainly wouldn’t have been so happy to be there. The last of the voices echoing in the back of Lizzie’s skull quiet their insistence that this is all lies and witchcraft as she watches Araminta spin around in front of the mirror, a vine-patterned cotton skirt flaring around her ankles. She’s laughing, and her voice is John’s but at the same time it’s foreign and new, expressing an alien joy. Some small part of Lizzie wants to hug her, but then she’d have to stop twirling.
The changing room is crowded; it’s not really meant for two bodies and the mountain of clothes they’ve dragged in. Araminta’s haul is spilling off the bench, flowing dresses and lacy skirts crammed next to Lizzie’s stack of neatly folded clothing. She hasn’t started trying anything on yet, content to watch her sister sparkle with happiness.
It’s an interesting inversion, she thinks, running her hands over the jackets and trousers she’d chosen. A few years ago, she’d done her best to clean up nice, to look pretty; she’d learned to do makeup, to put together pretty-girl outfits, to braid her hair in seven different styles, and then almost as soon as she’d learned it finally found she didn’t want any of the glamour anymore. But then again it wasn’t all a waste, wasn’t? She has another twin now, a sister to teach, to make sparkle. She’s got someone to sit with in a tiny changing room in a deteriorating shopping mall, a companion other than the voices humming away at the back of her head. She’s got someone who will understand.
At random she chooses a jacket and pulls it on over her t-shirt. It’s dark denim with dull gold contrast stitching, and fits well, loose and baggy in all the right places and long enough to contain a truly astounding number of pockets. She spends a few moments poking her hands into all the pockets she can find, not even bothering to look in the mirror. The inside is fleece-lined, and there’s another pocket (zippered, even!) on the inside, just over her heart. Unless she looks like shit or it costs two hundred dollars, she’s getting it.
Araminta stops spinning and shakes her hair out of her face (Lizzie should find a comb or a ribbon or something, to keep it out of the way). When she’s finally got a clear field of vision, she studies Lizzie with that unnervingly unreal gaze of her, then gasps, pressing her hand over her mouth. “Liz! Where’d you get that?”
She shrugs. “I think you were looking at that poppy dress when I found it. Does it…”
It’s not clear even to herself what she’s asking. Does she look good? Does she look like herself? Has it made her someone else, someone stronger, someone she’d rather be? The voices are murmuring, but she can’t understand what they’re saying. One of them is playing scales.
“You look great,” says Araminta, without hesitation. “Handsome,” she adds after a moment, and there are sparks under Lizzie’s ribs, an unaccountable joy welling up in her. "Your collar’s crooked, here, look.” With a swish of her skirt, she moves to the side so Lizzie can see the mirror. “Fix that.”
Everything goes quiet. Lizzie looks. She can’t look away.
