lathori asked: I have no impulse control so I'm requesting more smut. Hamilton/Laurens, post-Monmouth smut, go forth and make me suffer.
words-writ-in-starlight:
*cackling* Yeah, okay. In actual history Laurens’ wound was much
more serious (not that he didn’t earn it), so we’re going to fudge things a
little in favor of…well. Also! In case you’re curious! Being dressed in just shirtsleeves and
breeches was considered UNBELIEVEABLY improper, which I find hilarious because
it covers pretty much the whole body. Also-also, I pictured historical appearances but tried to make it musical-appearance-friendly, with the difference that Ham is SMOL at 5′7″ in comparison to TOL Laurens at like 6′fucking2″.
When John crashes through the door, Alexander
is already surging up from where he’s been sitting in nothing but his dirtied,
in-places-torn shirtsleeves on the edge of the bed. There’s a heartbeat where the conversation
could go either way, but they are who they are, so the tension snaps into
white-hot rage on all parts.
“You absolute fuck,” John seethes as he kicks the door shut behind him with a
click of the bar-lock. “What were you
thinking?”
Alexander throws his hands into the air,
feeling aching muscles snap taut over bone, and snarls, feral. “I was following
my goddamn orders, John, don’t act like I was simply out on the field
looking for a glorious death!” His voice
is half a shout and he has a moment of gratitude that their room is at the far
end of the second story hall housing the majority of the aides-de-camp. The others are used to Alexander and John
getting into shouting matches—not often with each other, but they fight with
whomever else they please, save the General himself. Even if their comrades had all elected to go
to bed at once after departing the field, any hue and cry of argument from the
last room would be dismissed.
Keep reading
I’m doing a thing I never do and reblogging this because I am very satisfied with it so if you’re interested you should read it and like it because I thrive on positive affirmation.
lathori asked: I have no impulse control so I'm requesting more smut. Hamilton/Laurens, post-Monmouth smut, go forth and make me suffer.
*cackling* Yeah, okay. In actual history Laurens’ wound was much
more serious (not that he didn’t earn it), so we’re going to fudge things a
little in favor of…well. Also! In case you’re curious! Being dressed in just shirtsleeves and
breeches was considered UNBELIEVEABLY improper, which I find hilarious because
it covers pretty much the whole body. Also-also, I pictured historical appearances but tried to make it musical-appearance-friendly, with the difference that Ham is SMOL at 5′7″ in comparison to TOL Laurens at like 6′fucking2″.
When John crashes through the door, Alexander
is already surging up from where he’s been sitting in nothing but his dirtied,
in-places-torn shirtsleeves on the edge of the bed. There’s a heartbeat where the conversation
could go either way, but they are who they are, so the tension snaps into
white-hot rage on all parts.
“You absolute fuck,” John seethes as he kicks the door shut behind him with a
click of the bar-lock. “What were you
thinking?”
Alexander throws his hands into the air,
feeling aching muscles snap taut over bone, and snarls, feral. “I was following
my goddamn orders, John, don’t act like I was simply out on the field
looking for a glorious death!” His voice
is half a shout and he has a moment of gratitude that their room is at the far
end of the second story hall housing the majority of the aides-de-camp. The others are used to Alexander and John
getting into shouting matches—not often with each other, but they fight with
whomever else they please, save the General himself. Even if their comrades had all elected to go
to bed at once after departing the field, any hue and cry of argument from the
last room would be dismissed.
Keep reading
"Once is happenstance. Twice is coincidence. Three times, it’s the author’s kink."
—
ancient proverb (via
emir-dynamite
)
Hahahaha. This is so true. You really learn a lot about yourself when you read your smutty scenes back-to-back.
(via happilyshanghaied)
(Source: alx-972, via lupinatic)
Right, so I wrote this a while back for @twistedangelsays‘ birthday in May, and then she asked me today to post some F/F smut after I posted this ExR smut earlier today. Max is the main character from this novel and Lessa is her girlfriend, details are included in the tag.
Lessa laughed giddily as Mercury
squad spilled through the door, all of us bursting with the adrenaline
rush. The mission had been declared a
wash while we were in the field, but we’d still had a closer brush with gunfire
than I liked.
“All right, everyone,” I said. “Debrief with the marshal or Beck at some
point in the next couple of hours. Sorry
to have dragged you out for nothing.”
“Ah, don’t worry so much, piti bòs, it was fun,” Elijah said, eyes dancing as he hooked an arm
around Miles’ shoulders and cuffed him cheerily up the back of the head. Miles looked offended, one hand still pressed
to a sluggishly bleeding graze to his bicep.
“C’mon, Four, let’s go get that arm looked at. Maybe Janey will meet us there.” Miles
allowed himself to be dragged away without much of a fuss and Zara grinned
fondly after them.
“Mm,” she said. “I’m going to go eat something, do a quick
debrief, and then see if I can round up my boys and fuck them through the
floor. Y’all have a nice night.”
Keep reading
lathori asked: Babe. THE smut fic. You know the one. E x R, what we've been talking about. /Please/ write it? /Please/ <3 E
Aaaaand here we go with the smut. I don’t write smut much, mostly just on
request. So I dunno how this came
out. But it’s definitely smut. NSFW.
Possibly NSF-Anywhere. Also it
like…cold opens to sex, so. There is no plot here.
Grantaire tugged at the long
ends of the cord, tightening the coil winding about the outside. It scraped along the taut length stretching
to the headboard, a faint but audible sound, and he glanced down.
“Too tight?” he asked
quietly, letting his fingers trail down to slip into the gap between Enjolras’
wrist and the five loops of white cotton binding him to the bed. He could still fit two fingers comfortably
beside Enjolras’ delicate wrist, and the touch made Enjolras’ eyes flicker
open. The usually bright honey color was
a little hazy, distracted. “Mon ange,” Grantaire prompted.
“You’re fine,” Enjolras
said, blinking until his gaze was clearer. Grantaire nodded and finished tucking the
loose ends away until the knot was secure.
He ducked, pressed a kiss to the long, deft fingers, and saw Enjolras
close his eyes again.
Keep reading
