#saltykrispycake

[thinksideways]

👀

send me a 👀 and i’ll post a snippet of art/writing that i never got around to finishing this year (r.i.p)

from that stupid hamburr equestrian AU I wrote like 20k words for then abandoned

They left the arena and rode into the field beyond. Hamilton led Burr to the cross country field, which supported a rather impressive array of jumps, the heights ranging from foot-high logs to a towering brush fence that even Burr, for all his experience, eyed a little warily. They even had a water complex, a few drops of varying heights built into a carved out portion of the small lake on the property.

“Pretty nice, right?” Hamilton said, and there was a note of pride in his voice, as if had been responsible for building each and every jump.

Burr had to admit he was impressed, though he had glanced out at the field several times; he had never explored it in depth.

“The Washingtons host a lot of clinics here, and run a small event once or twice a year,” Hamilton said.

“I'd love to have a set up like this someday,” Burr said, gesturing to both the cross country field the arena that was now behind them. His feelings for George aside, this really was a spectacular barn, the kind that Burr could never afford. Though he knew he was fortunate to have the means to support his career in horses, he also knew he would never make enough, or be enough, to live like this, in the rustic glamour of stables built on generations and generations of money.

[thisstableground]

Big sweaters and windy nights please?

big sweaters: do you prefer the cold, warmth, or a perfect in-between?

perfect in between: a warm t-shirt wearing day but with a cool breeze. i hate having to wear lots of layers in the cold, and my natural body temperature is apparently just a billion degrees more than everyone else because as soon as the heat’s on i go bright red and overheat. so a nice breeze on a late summer day.

windy nights:if you could go to any concert whose would it be?

i’ve been to see them before but i’d love to go see the new pornographers again, they’re a long-time favourite and the one time i saw them blew me away. for someone i haven’t seen, massive attack.

[jacksgreysays]

Hi! Just wanted to tell you that I absolutely love Windy Strife and hope to read more of her life (whether in FF7 or in the Naruto world)

Nobody likes Windy Strife.

They like who zie could be. They like how zie can and will change to be what they want.

Mom, too, never really liked Windy. She loved hir, of course, an unconditional mother’s love, but it wouldn’t be wrong to say that she liked Cloud better. A daydreamer son over the grim and jaded child forever roaming the wilds–in mind, if not also in body.

Windy’s still sorry that zie couldn’t be the daughter that she wanted.

—

It’s not the first time Windy’s been on Rufus Shinra’s cargo ship–at some point every Turk does a guard rotation on it, Winter not exempt from this–but it’s certainly the first time as a stowaway.

The accommodations aren’t too different, sadly, but zie definitely agrees with the others that finally getting hir feet on the ground of Costa del Sol is a relief.

Still AVALANCHE is technically a terrorist group–and Windy an accessory if not already a ShinRa traitor–and so they have to maintain a low profile while securing a place to rest and recover.

Thankfully, zie has an idea.

“Aerith?” zie asks her, “Can I borrow your spare dress for a bit?”

Everyone else, preferring to pretend zie doesn’t exist, turns to hir with suspicion, but that’s hardly anything new.

“Of course,” Aerith answers, because Winter’s former charge is the nicest and only person that tolerates hir presence. “Though I don’t think my jacket will fit you,” she says while rummaging through her pack.

It’s true that Windy has broader shoulders, but thankfully the dress itself is sleeveless and feminine enough to suit hir purposes.

“This isn’t the time for a makeover,” Lockhart scoffs, “though at least you’ve finally acknowledged that you need one.”

Windy grits hir teeth and tries not to visibly react, but hir gratitude to Aerith is strained.

A quick change and Windy’s current outfit is replaced with Aerith’s pink dress and Winter’s button up shirt folded and coyly tied as needed. It’s hardly anything to swipe a pair of sandals from an outdoor stall–as easy as undoing hir bun–and in a matter of moments it’s not Windy or even Winter the Turk standing there but someone else entirely.

Wendy goes to work.

—

When the twins had traveled from Nibelheim to Midgar, they had stopped in Costa del Sol. Passage to the Eastern Continent is expensive for one, two is more so.

Beyond the reach of Mt. Nibel’s harsh climes, Windy learns to be softer, warmer. Smile sweetly and look demur, but never promise more than zie can give.

Wendy is just a girl from the boondocks trying to get to the big city, what else would she be?

—

Surprisingly enough, Butch remembers Windy. Or, rather, Wendy.

Zie was fifteen and new to creating aliases, though zie hasn’t gotten much more creative.

“Wendy, babe, sexier than ever!” Butch calls out from his shop when he spots her approach. “I knew you couldn’t resist this for long,” he gestures to himself, eyes raking up her form. She knows what he sees: she’s taller than before, increase in height greater than her increase in bust, but she’s a fully grown woman now.

Yeah, Butch is sleazy, but he’s pretty well off and, more importantly, well connected in Costa del Sol.

And, unlike some people Wendy met, all talk.

Wendy smiles, leaning against the counter, forearm pushing up and emphasizing her assets.

“Midgar just doesn’t compare to Costa del Sol,” she sighs–perhaps meaning something besides the cities, perhaps not–looking up through her lashes. “Unfortunately, I’m only here to prepare for a party being thrown next week–and of course I can get you an invite–but I need to make sure accommodations are perfect.” She bites her lip, looking away for a second as if checking for eavesdroppers, “I can’t say who it’s for, of course, but let’s just say it’d make quite the buzz.”

Even across the ocean, Honey Bee Inn is famous.

“Is that so?” Butch asks, unconvincingly casual and completely hooked.

Wendy’s smile–or, rather, Winter’s smile–grows sharp, “I don’t suppose you could help me get the key to The Villa?”

—

In Midgar, the Strife twins were still the Strife twins, but they were Wind and Cloud–brothers both trying out for SOLDIER.

Wind was a man’s man–or, at least, a man in the making in comparison to the utter boys that some of his fellow cadets were. Smart and skilled and surprisingly charismatic, everything a future SOLDIER should strive to be.

Too bad Wind Strife was never real.

—

Technically The Villa is called Shinra Villa–built by the President as a summer home–but considering the sheer opulence and scale of it, no other villa in Costa del Sol deserves the epithet.

Of course, much like it’s derelict sibling Nibelheim, it hasn’t been owned by Shinra in a long time. But, alas, no one else can afford such an obnoxious piece of real estate, and so it remains empty.

But not necessarily unused.

Windy is still in hir Wendy headspace, flashier and more feminine than hir real self, and so she presents the doors of The Villa with all the flair of a showgirl.

Zie’s actually really proud of hirself, so the continued blankly suspicious stares from the majority of the party aren’t exactly what zie hoped for. Aerith, at least, seems pleased at having an actual bed to sleep in.

Well, it’s not like zie’s unused to going unappreciated.

But it is, admittedly, nicer than the Inn would be and so the group spread out to claim their own piece of luxury.

Except for her brother whose brow is furrowed, eyes clearer than they have been in weeks.

“What’s wrong, Cloud?” zie asks, once everyone else has left the foyer. They don’t often get time alone–how strange, when that’s how they lived more than half of their lives–and zie’s certain it’s on purpose.

He’s quiet for long enough that Windy thinks maybe he’s just going to ignore hir until he finally asks: “Was that a you thing, or a Turk thing?”

—

There are no female SOLDIERS.

It’s bullshit, yes, but it’s bullshit couched in enough scientific and legal jargon that some country hoyden isn’t going to change their mind, no matter if zie was top cadet.

But there are female Turks.

And the Turks are certainly interested in a candidate who can keep a secret under scrutiny.

Windy is recruited. Cloud is not.

Maybe that’s where it all went wrong.

—

Windy’s responding smile isn’t the sharp smirk of Winter or the coy curve of Wendy, it’s small and sad and honest.

“You never did like when I pretended to be other people,” zie says helplessly.

Having witnessed the vacant Cloud and the Cloud that is a vessel for Zack Fair–neither of them hir Cloud–zie finally understands.

~

A/N: Thanks for the prompt, saltykrispycake! I also love Windy, but alas zie does not get much love within Into Thin Air. Perhaps that changes in Unto The Climate? Anyway, I appreciated getting the chance to write more of hir life (even if it is bleak… and repetitive from some earlier ITA ficlets. I really ought to make a cohesive timeline)

Check out the Ask Box Advent Calendar!

[scriptshrink]

Hello! Let's say a 20 y.o character died and got reincarnated (with his full consciousness and memories) as a baby. Would he age mentally too? As in, if his body was 10 y.o, does this mean that he's mentally 30? And what would be the drawbacks of his situation?

I hate to burst your bubble, but this falls firmly into the realm of breaking Aunt Scripty’s rule of reality.

Memories and consciousness are linked to the physical structures of the brain. Babies’ heads are simply not capable of holding all the information stored in the adult brain.

That’s not to say you can’t write your story the way you want to; just be aware that you can’t base this part on reality.

Disclaimer // Support Scriptshrink onpatreon!

[naruto-oc-critiques]

Hello guys :) In your opinion, how old would be the youngest recruits in ROOT? I mean, Danzo wouldn't kidnap them too young since they're too weak to survive the training right?

Personally I believe that Danzo most likely went for an orphanage or children off the streets, kids who wouldn’t be missed or looked for. Though I think probably 6ish is the youngest Danzo would go for, just because its hard to train and indoctrinate anyone who’s much younger than that and I can’t see Danzo taking care of infants or toddlers, he’d let someone take care of that messy work.        - Kaida

[artzawa]

Hi! Just wanted to say that your art is so cool <3

ahhhh oml thank you so much;;; <3!!!

[thisstableground]

What's the favorite smell of each of the trio?

ruben:the way rice smells when you toast it in oil a little before you put the water in. vanessa’s nice shampoo (he always steals it). crushing basil and mint and coriander leaves between his fingers. hand sanitiser (“no i’m not huffing it, usnavi, i just like it!”). melting chocolate. damp soil.

vanessa:the breeze through on open window on a spring day after rain. coconut (another reason she likes borrowing ruben’s sweaters, because he always smells a little like coconut from his moisturiser.). even though it’s kind of objectively not a good scent, the stale metal mechanical smell of the rush of air when a subway train passes by the platform. the inside of stationery shops.

and of course for both vanessa and ruben, coffee made fresh by usnavi with just the right amount of cinnamon, and when he leans in to hand over their mugs the coffee smell mixing with the unbranded deodorant he still applies like a teenager with axe body spray after gym class (one spray under each arm and then a little tornado-circle around his body).

usnavi:a specific combination of fabuloso cleaner and cheap bar soap and the slight underlying damp in the walls of an apartment that reminds him of abuela’s place. the burning scent just after blowing out a candle or shaking out a match. the ocean. the way new cassette tapes used to smell when you open the case. vanessa and ruben - perfume and cologne and clean laundry and them.

[thinksideways]

27 or 28 for the writing prompt please :)?

27. — boxes

“We got you a fight,” Van Ness says, slapping the contract down in front of Burr, “new guy. Unbeaten as an amateur. Don’t know much about him, trying to find his videos online. You’ll be his debut.”

“They’re giving me an amateur?” Burr tries not to sound sullen, but he thought after his last fight - a one-punch KO in the second round - he’d get somebody with a bit of name recognition. Not some - he glances at the contract - Alexander Hamilton, whose amateur record was admittedly impressive, but who had yet to come into the big leagues.

Whatever. A paycheck’s a paycheck. Burr’s still got the title shot in his sights, and if he has to tear through some amateur on his way, so be it.

*

They find a few videos of Hamilton’s fights, and Burr scrutinizes them carefully. The kid’s got decent footwork, switching stances constantly, good about using his angles. But he opens up quick, exploding all his energy in the first flurries. He has a good number of knockouts, but in the fights where he goes the distance, Burr can tell he gasses, hands dropping, going flat-footed instead of balancing light on the balls of his feet.

He can work with that.

Burr redoubles his cardio, running, biking, throwing himself into whatever hellish workout Van Ness concocts.

He spars, too, finding guys in the gym whose style mimics Hamiltons’.  Circling in the ring, gloved hands up, he imagines it’s Hamilton across from him, trying to predict what he might do, anticipating it.

He wins more of the sparring rounds then he loses, and as the fight draws closer, Burr feels confident.

*

He arrives in Vegas several days before the fight, ready for the pre-card circus, media and open workouts. Not that Burr’s the main fight - he and Hamilton are on the undercard, not even close to the main event - but it’s still a big card, a huge main event, and Burr’s excited to be on it. It’s a good opportunity, and he’s riding a five-fight win streak (over less than stellar opposition, but still, a streak’s a streak), and he thinks, with a flashy enough finish, he might have a case for a title contender fight, if not the title fight itself.

*

Burr’s returning from his last workout - light, more to keep his muscles warm than anything else - when he sees a man across the hall. Latino, with longer hair that’s pulled back in a ponytail. His back’s to Burr, which gives Burr a great view of the man’s ass, shown off to the fullest extent in his workout shorts, and then the man turns and Burr almost curses out loud.

He’d been checking out Hamilton.

His hair’s longer than it had been in the videos, which is why Burr hadn’t recognized him immediately, but the features are the same. Fuck.

Burr looks away, embarrassed, as if Hamilton could somehow read his mind. He walks away as quick as he can, and pretends he doesn’t hear someone calling after him.

*

Burr doesn’t seen Hamilton again until weigh-ins. Hamilton weighs in first, and though Burr’s backstage and can’t see it, he hears the cheers and applause that suggest Hamilton made weight.

Burr’s name is called, and he walks out to his own cheers, quickly strips down to his shorts - not risking keeping anything on that might put him over the weight limit. He steps onto the scale, hears the number read out - 155 on the dot - and steps off to his own round of applause. He looks across the stage and sees Hamilton waiting for the face off.

Burr usually keeps his face offs professional, never feeling any real malice for his opponents - it’s just business - but that’s gotten him nowhere, so he strides up to Hamilton, forehead against his, hands raised.

Hamilton doesn’t miss a beat, presses back into him, and talks, low enough that only Burr can hear.

“So you’re the big bad Aaron Burr huh? Don’t look like much to me…”

“Glad they gave me some pansy-ass amateur,” Burr responds in the same low tone, and then he feels Washington’s arm at his chest, keeping them separate, and he finally looks at Hamilton. His hair’s pulled back, and he’s shirtless, and Burr can’t keep his eyes from going to Hamilton’s chest, his abs, every muscle pulled in taut definition from his weight cut.  

Burr swallows the decidedly out of place desire, locks eyes with Hamilton, a final challenge, and absolutely does not think about how stunning his eyes are.

*

Burr re-hydrates, enjoying his first proper meal in weeks (weight cutting’s what he likes least about the sport - punch him in the face any day, just don’t take away the carbs). He lays back on the hotel bed, visualizing the fight for the hundredth time.

It takes him a long time to fall asleep, and when he finally does the sleep is fitful. It always is, the night before a fight. Before walking into the lion’s den.

*

Burr walks out to applause that sounds thunderous. He doesn’t know what the gate for this event was, but the crowd’s easily in the thousands, probably the biggest crowd he’s ever fought in front of. He shakes his arms, trying to stay loose. His hands are tightly wrapped inside his boxing gloves. He stops in front of Van Ness, who pops his mouth guard in, undergoes the final check of his gloves, and then enters the spotlit ring.

His world narrows down to the ring, the noise of the crowd fading out, all his focus on Hamilton as he enters the ring.

It’s just business, but for now, as the referee steps out and the announcer begins, Hamilton’s his enemy. One more mountain to climb.

They step closer to one another. The ref speaks into the microphone the announcer holds out.

“All right guys, have a safe fight, and protect yourselves at all times. Touch gloves if you want.”

To Burr’s surprise, Hamilton extends his gloved fists. Burr taps them lightly. Hamilton gives a little nod, and Burr nods back, glad his antics at the weigh-ins didn’t sour this face off.

The bell rings.

*

Hamilton starts fast, like Burr had expected, throwing several punches in quick succession. Burr dodges several, though one glances off his chin, not full power, but he feels stupid for being caught like that. He fires off his own series of punches, feinting high then dropping his body, catching Hamilton in the stomach with a hard blow. Hamilton doubles over for a moment, then straightens, moves.

Burr continues his strikes to the body - that had been part of the game plan, wear him down his body shots early, which would pay dividends later one as the fight progressed and the shots made themselves known.

His focus lets up for a second, and Hamilton catches him with a hard right hook, rocking Burr’s head back. He hisses through his teeth, low, straightens, drives in with an uppercut that catches flush on Hamilton’s jaw. The crowd screams its encouragement, savage, and Hamilton falls, almost in slow motion.

He gets back up though, almost immediately, dives back in, and the men clinch up, driving into on another with short, inefficient strikes.This close, and he can hear Hamilton’s heavy breathing, which he takes as encouragement, Hamilton’s bruised body having increasing difficulty taking in air.

He drops Hamilton twice more, but each time he gets up. Hamilton’s movements slow, become more obvious, sloppy as he gasses, and Burr picks him apart.

He lands several shots that should have finished him, one knocking Hamilton back against the ring, and Hamilton’s head lifts, eyes meeting Burrs’, and he sees only determination as the other man pushes off the ropes and charges again.

*

He doesn’t finish Hamilton, which is disappointing, but he picks him apart in the final rounds, and when the final bell rings he throws his hands up in victory before it’s officially announced.

The scorecards reflect it, and Burr walks away with another W on his record, having handed Hamilton his first loss. After the announcement, Hamilton shakes his hand, graceful in defeat.

“Congratulations,” Hamilton says.

“Thanks,” Burr replies.

*

He watches the rest of the card, goes out to dinner, after, face already starting to swell. He’ll hurt for the next few days - Hamilton had landed some decent shots - but he’ll be back in training soon enough. He’d seen Washington after the fight, and he had teased a title elimination belt with Jefferson. Big things on the horizon.

He’s tired and when he finally makes it back to his hotel room he’s surprised to see someone waiting outside it.

He’s more surprised when the figure comes into view, and it’s Alexander Hamilton, one eye blackened and already swelling, hair still in the braids he’d worn for the fight.

“Can I help you?” he says, confused. Hamilton’s dresses in a t-shirt and jeans, and he looks good, despite the black eye.

“I want a rematch,” Hamilton says.

“Talk to Washington, not me.”

“Already did. He said no.”

“There you go.”

“Look, Alex, no offense, but I’m gunning for the title, not to beat up on amateurs.”

“Then train me.”

“What?”

“Let me come by the gym. Get some pointers. You could clearly teach me a thing or two.”

Hamilton’s looking at him now, and it makes Burr uneasy. The look is knowing, and far too intimate for two strangers.

“We’ll see.”

“Give me your number, at least.”

Burr sighs.

“Fine.”

They exchange numbers (well, he gives Hamilton his, and Hamilton immediately texts him), and Hamilton departs, leaving Burr to lay starfished on the too-big hotel bed, smelling like Biofreeze and Tiger Balm, trying to process the day.

*

He flies home the next day, takes several days to recover, and then is back in the gym, business as usual. Except - except, well, he finds himself still watching Hamilton’s fights. He finds the video of their weigh-in online, freezes it at the moment when he charged forward. The freeze-framed image is Hamilton, eyes intense and gleaming. And those fucking abs.

Maybe he screenshots it. Maybe.

*

He finds Hamilton’s Facebook fan page, where there’s some really…flattering promotional pictures. Burr likes the page but not the pictures. He doesn’t want to be creepy.

He gets a text all of fifteen minutes later.

I see you liked my page.

He gets another notification - Hamilton just liked his page, too. And a photo. And another photo. Another.

I see you liked mine, too.

You’re pretty talented. There’s a lot to like.

Burr stares at that text for way too long, as if trying to decipher ancient hieroglyphs. He gets another text.

Shit, sorry. You’re a good fighter, I mean.

Thanks.

This is where you say ‘you’re a good fighter, too.’

Your left hook is sloppy. You wind up too much. Easy to spot.

Asshole.

Just telling the truth.

*

They text a lot and Burr can’t tell if it’s flirting or if maybe this is just how people text the super hot guy they beat and now want to…

Well.

*

Burr wakes up to read a text sent at like 2 am.

I’m in town next week. Still want to train?

His stomach flutters a bit at the thought of seeing Hamilton again, even if it’s just business. He writes back.

Sure. I’m happy to whip your ass again.

Buy a guy a drink first, geez.

Okay, that’s definitely flirting. Naturally, he freezes up and doesn’t respond.

*

Hamilton meets him outside the gym before it’s even opened. It’s a weird familiarity, they’ve texted a fair amount, but this is the first time he’s ever been in real proximity to Hamilton without their fight looming over him. It’s weird, so Burr quickly suggests they get into the ring, do a little light sparring.

“Winner buys drinks?” Hamilton says, smiling, those eyes on him. Shit.

“Winner buys drinks,” Burr echoes. His throat’s suddenly quite dry.

“You’re on.”

They touch gloves.