Rise Up, Oh Heart, For There is Another Battle to Win

corinnetags replied to your post “what is your thesis about that youre blogging about baron von steuben…”

Okay, I am going to need the link to your historically researched Hamilton fic. (Unless it’s The War series, I totally binged that last week)

Right, so, here’s the two halves of that Schuylkill fic I wrote once.

Here’s a Valley Forge fic I wrote another time.

Here’s the Monmouth smut fic I wrote once, and also on AO3 if you prefer that format.

In all of these, diversions from actual history or places where I don’t know specific details are usually noted, so don’t take them as gospel, but they’re as well researched as I could make them.

Aaaaand I think that’s pretty much what I’ve written that’s period Hamilton fic, and I think every bit of it’s been requested by @lathori because she puts up with A Lot of AmRev digressions.  Obviously there’s also the Star Wars AU (FYI that tag also contains the Borgias Star Wars AU I wrote because I screwed up the tags) and the AIOS AU but those aren’t historical.

Oh and of course here is my rant about the Baron von Steuben and the first underwear kegger in American history, for those of you who are interested in that situation.

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.

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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.

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lathori asked: "Fun fact: cots and blankets were in short supply during the Revolutionary War and standard practice during the winters to avoid frostbite was to share. I feel this is pertinent to your interests given that it's a matter of historical record that Laurens and Hamilton were best friends and consequently the logical partners to share a bed." Yes I did just copy and paste your message from our chat into this. Hamilton/Laurens sharing a bed. Please <3 your Laurens

First of all, you are clearly not to be trusted with fun historical facts.  What would you ever do with the knowledge that the Marquis de Lafayette once gave John Quincy Adams a pet alligator that the sixth president insisted on keeping in the White House?  Or the fact that America’s treaty with Morocco is the longest standing, due to the fact that they were the first to acknowledge us as an independent country? Anyway.  There was technically already these two idiots sharing a bed last time, but you know what everyone always needs more of in their life?  THE WINTER AT VALLEY FORGE.  Now, there’s actual Research that happened for this one, so some points.  It’s about the end of 1777, meaning John Laurens has only been with the army a couple months (to be fair Hamilton’s only been there about six months longer), and what I’m generously calling ‘huts’ are tiny little buildings that basically only function to cut the windchill down, and they usually housed WAY more than two, but…artistic license?  For the sake of nominal consistency, I’m pretending that this is before Schuylkill, so theoretically it could fit into the same continuum as your other request.  

John hadn’t slept heavily since coming to Valley Forge—the ill ease of a Southern boy exposed to the bitter nip of a Pennsylvania winter for the first time—but he was getting better at it.  The tiny hut was better than the tent, and their status as aides de camp of the general himself meant that they were only two to a hut.  It meant there was barely space to walk between the slapdash cots and the writing desk they shared and the two chairs. Alexander—who had insisted on the familiar address within scant days of meeting John, all sharp-edged smile and warm dark eyes—had a slightly easier time of it, as he wasn’t forced to stand with his head bowed whenever he drew too near a wall, but not much.  The hut was small and damp and dark, and there were moments when John felt as if taking too deep a breath would crack the logs around them.

The thud of Alexander’s forearm colliding with the desk as he dozed off was loud and sharp in the small space, and John jolted awake at the sound.

“My apologies, John,” Alexander said, muffling a yawn with one hand. He reached out and steadied his tallow candle, dabbing at a smear of ink on the page.

“They are unnecessary,” John said, frowning.  “What time is it?”

“Very late, or perhaps very early,” Alexander said with a shrug, brushing an escaping coil of hair out of his face and squinting down at the page.  “I suppose the answer depends on whether you would prefer to judge by the past evening or the upcoming dawn.  That is, of course, assuming you were able to tell which is which in this abysmal weather.”

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lathori asked: Darling, dear, love. Hamilton/Laurens Literally anything during the revolutionary era Perhaps even just how they got together. /Please/, for me? <3

words-writ-in-starlight:

Anything for you, Laurens. Soooo…I know you wanted fluff…we’re not doing that.  I don’t actually know if Laurens was in Washington’s camp for this, but we’re going to assume history is flexible because extensive googling did not produce an actual date or shit for this battle (besides ‘between September 1777 and June 1778’), which was hardly a battle at all.  Also technically Lee sent a letter but whatever, we’re doing Some Shit with history anyway, might as well go hard.

to see our glory

The message from Lee was greeted by a long beat of silence.

“My sympathies, Your Excellency,” Lee said, doing a poor job of imitating poise as his shirtsleeves dripped steadily on the ground.  The word simper drifted through John’s mind at the sound of Lee’s voice.

“Yes,” General Washington said flatly, both hands braced on the table that had been serving duty as a tactical map minutes before. John couldn’t bring himself to look away from where the general’s little finger had pushed aside the marker of a British fort, one that he and Alexander had been bickering over not a day past. “Thank you for informing me, Major General.  You are dismissed.”

Lee left, and the tent was deathly silent, the general still standing over the table with his head down, John still fixed in place where he stood near the far corner of the table, the handful of other men in the tent stony.

“Gentlemen,” General Washington said, his voice perfectly controlled.  “Please send for the Marquis, he will want to know.  If my aides would stay, it would be appreciated.  The rest of you are dismissed.”

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Because I AM NICE, and also because @twistedangelsays asked, and also because I’m a history nerd with zero impulse control, I wrote more.  A couple thing: I’m pretending that, for whatever reason, Washington is where Schuylkill happened because otherwise I’d have to go through the above and make a bunch of changes to make it Valley Forge rather than bumfuck-nowhere Tent City, and second of all I’m picturing the musical characters because, uh, I can.  With the caveat that, historically, Laurens was probably somewhere between 6′ and 6′5″, so just imagine that Anthony Ramos got put in a stretcher like taffy.

“You are going to freeze to death,” John muttered once they were back in their tent, rummaging through their sparse belongings for a few moments before coming up triumphant, a clean set of trousers in one hand and a shirt in the other, a soft cloth between two fingers.  “Put these on.”  Alexander made a mutinous noise and John set his jaw.  “Put them on, Alexander.  You have put me through enough tonight.”

Guilt flickered over Alexander’s face and he complied without another word, stripping to the skin and rubbing himself closer to dry with the cloth John offered.  Once he had dressed, he was still shivering, but his skin had regained some of his usual color, and John moved his wet clothes onto a chair before changing himself.

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lathori asked: Darling, dear, love. Hamilton/Laurens Literally anything during the revolutionary era Perhaps even just how they got together. /Please/, for me? <3

Anything for you, Laurens. Soooo…I know you wanted fluff…we’re not doing that.  I don’t actually know if Laurens was in Washington’s camp for this, but we’re going to assume history is flexible because extensive googling did not produce an actual date or shit for this battle (besides ‘between September 1777 and June 1778’), which was hardly a battle at all.  Also technically Lee sent a letter but whatever, we’re doing Some Shit with history anyway, might as well go hard.

to see our glory

The message from Lee was greeted by a long beat of silence.

“My sympathies, Your Excellency,” Lee said, doing a poor job of imitating poise as his shirtsleeves dripped steadily on the ground.  The word simper drifted through John’s mind at the sound of Lee’s voice.

“Yes,” General Washington said flatly, both hands braced on the table that had been serving duty as a tactical map minutes before. John couldn’t bring himself to look away from where the general’s little finger had pushed aside the marker of a British fort, one that he and Alexander had been bickering over not a day past. “Thank you for informing me, Major General.  You are dismissed.”

Lee left, and the tent was deathly silent, the general still standing over the table with his head down, John still fixed in place where he stood near the far corner of the table, the handful of other men in the tent stony.

“Gentlemen,” General Washington said, his voice perfectly controlled.  “Please send for the Marquis, he will want to know.  If my aides would stay, it would be appreciated.  The rest of you are dismissed.”

Keep reading