I ACCIDENTALLY POSTED THIS EARLIER, BEcAUSE I DON’T UNDERSTAND THE POWER OF “ENTER”

Randomly had an idea for a oneshot involving Anastasia, so here’s just a little thingy. Dunno if it’ll be a fic. I’ve been watching too many Satisfied animatics tbh. YAY HAMILTON (anyone remember “yay Hamlet”? Because I do) 

SO without further ado, an exclusively tumblr (for now, at least) tidbit of writing from yours truly! 

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POV: Anastasia (Hamilton OC, MC of Second Chances)  Modern Hamliza wedding 

How do I fix this? I can’t stand to see that look on his face. Amongst all the smiles and the laughter, there’s John. A fake smile. A fake laugh. So much pain in his eyes. Dammit, Alexander! I weave my way through guests and other members of the wedding congregation, toward him. My best friend. 

“John.” He looks up at the sound of my voice, immediately turning away. I grab his arm, but his gaze remains averted. 

“I’m fine,” he mutters, fake smile still in place. I reach up, placing a hand against his cheek and turn his head to face me. He’s gotten better at masking his emotions to others, but he’s never been able to get them past me. My dear, sweet John. 

“Tu ne vas pas bien. Vous souffrez tellement. Vous essayez de le cacher, mais je peux le voir (You are not fine. You’re in so much pain. You try to hide it, but I can see it),” I say. He closes his eyes and leans into my touch, sighing and momentarily letting his fake smile drop away. 

“I’ll be fine,” he says instead. I scowl. 

“John-” The music starts up, and he pulls away from me to shuffle to the front of the congregation, linking arms with Angelica. I huff and move into my own place, linking arms with Aaron. 

“Everything alright?” he asks under his breath. I shake my head, glancing back as my shoulder is tapped. Hercules gestures down, and I look down at my sister, Nicolette, the flower girl. 

“Est-ce que John va bien (Is John okay)?” she asks. I smile softly at her. 

“I’ll tell you later, oui?” She nods, and I turn back around, keeping my soft smile as I walk down the aisle. John puts a hand briefly on Alex’s shoulder as he passes, and I feel my heart break. I don’t know if I can do this. I part ways with Aaron, taking a few steps over to stand beside Peggy. Alex glances at me, a lopsided smile on his face, and I look away from him. Nicolette grins gleefully as she tosses flower petals along the aisle, holding onto Hercules’ arm as she does. They reach the end of the aisle, and Nicolette breaks away to go and sit with my mother and the Washington’s. The music shifts, and the guests rise, turning to watch Eliza make her way down the aisle. She looks beautiful, like royalty, and so, so happy. I know why John doesn’t want to speak. He doesn’t want to take that happiness away from her. She reaches the end of the aisle, smiling at her parents, and joins Alex at the alter. I momentarily meet John’s eye, and he appears close to tears. There’s a gentle tap on my arm, and I turn my head to look at Peggy. 

“What’s wrong?” she whispers, leaning a little closer to me. I frown. 

“This wedding has just a few too many heartbroken people,” I whisper back. She pauses, before I watch her lift her head slightly, looking toward John. She glances at me again and I nod. There’s a small frown on her face, and she leans into me slightly. I notice her fingers intertwining with mine, and I squeeze her hand. We both want him to be happy. 

“If anyone has a reason why these two should not be together, speak now, or forever hold your peace,” the priest says. John’s head bows slightly, and he lifts his hand to wipe away a tear. My restraint shatters. 

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Casually rocks back and forth, looking for readers 

If you aren’t interested in my writing, I’d really appreciate if you could push people that might be in my direction! I have fun writing, and I want to share my stuff with the world. Weeeeeeeee~

Second Chances - The Prologue

*Waves* Hi there. I wanted to promote my book Second Chances (I will put the links to my Wattpad and Ao3 accounts at the bottom of the post - or remind me to post them if I forget to) by posting the prologue here and letting everyone have a taste of my work. So, like, weeeeee. 

(Note: I know my work isn’t perfect so feel free to leave suggestions on how I can make my writing better. I need to get better with criticism)

(Note #2: This is a Hamilton AU fic from the perspective of OCs, so there you go)

WITHOUT FURTHER ADO…

The End and The Beginning:

It’s a dreary day, yet so beautiful. These days are always nice. The lovely day is shattered as a single gunshot, followed by another, rings through the air. I freeze and listen, before creeping through the streets slowly. I look around, ever careful. Then my eyes find him, lying there on the cobblestones. I gasp.

“Philip,” I breath, before rushing to his side and falling to my knees. His hands are pressing against a bleeding wound. Although I know how little it will help, I pull a handkerchief out and press it over the wound in a feeble attempt to absorb the blood. His breathing is ragged, and I’m scared.

“Someone get a Doctor!” I scream, looking around the streets. Whoever had shot him is nowhere to be seen. A coward! I look back down at Philip’s face. It’s contorted in pain and agony, and his eyes hold so much fear as they stare up at me. 

“Everything will be alright. Come here,” I say gently. I lift his head and place it in my lap, and he hisses in pain.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I whisper, brushing his hair off his forehead. He has tears on his face, and looks so afraid. I run my fingers through his hair slowly, hoping to soothe him and calm him down. He makes a strangled noise, and I shush him softly.

“Hush. I’ll take care of you until you’re brought to a doctor. Please, save what strength you have. You must survive, for your family,” I say, pausing to brush my thumb gently across his freckled cheek. Blood smears across where I touched. He coughs, and I shush him again softly, still stroking my thumb across his cheek, ignoring the blood. The expression shaping his face is breaking my heart. I want nothing more than to comfort him. He reaches a hand up toward me, and I pull one of mine from his hair to hold it. His hand is still covered in his blood, but I don’t care. Mine is too.

“Who are you?” he manages to ask in a strained voice. He doesn’t know who I am…Of course he doesn’t. I smile softly down at him, giving his hand a comforting squeeze. 

“It does not matter. I am just someone who could not leave you here all alone. For, fear only grows in the privacy of one’s own thoughts,” I say. He makes a strangled noise that sounds something like a laugh. He’s smiling at me very slightly.

“You are a poet?” he asks. I give his hand another squeeze and continue to run my fingers through his hair.

“Something of the sort, Mr. Hamilton,” I say kindly. He continues to smile at me.

“Philip. Call me Philip,” he says. I smile back at him.

“Philip,” I correct myself quietly. He coughs again, and I frown with concern. 

“Let us take him!” Men cry, and I raise my head to see them coming. They’ll take Philip to get the help he needs. I nod, and they hoist him from my lap. 

“One minute,” I say, stopping them before they go. Philip is still holding my hand, and I hold it tightly before leaning down and kissing his forehead.

“All will be well, Philip. I promise,” I say softly. He squeezes my hand weakly, before he’s hauled away. And I stand there in the street for a moment. Blood sits sticky on my hand. My handkerchief is gone. It’s okay. As long as he is okay.

“M-mother, you cannot be serious,” I stutter, eyes wide with horror. My mother shakes her head.

“Too serious, my darling. He passed many hours after he left you. You are likely the last person outside of his blood that he saw,” she says, holding my hands in hers. Her eyes shine with sympathy, but all I can think of is the darkness from her words. Philip is dead. He didn’t recognize me, but I’ve known him for my whole life. He’s…The first man I’ve ever loved. And I knew the fear on his face as he laid in my lap, dying. And now he’s…I shake my head and draw back, refusing to believe it.

“They have lied. It is not true!” I say, voice overtaken by emotion. My mother reaches out for me once more, but I flee from her, into my father’s study. I lock her out, and move slowly to my father’s desk. I know he keeps a pistol inside the drawer. It’s a man’s job to carry on the legacy in the first place. This will not matter. I take up a quill, dip it in ink, and write. My words spill desperately across the parchment. For I am running out of time. My last poem, my last words. And the words I’m Sorry curling at the bottom. I do not sign my name. I place the quill down gently and lean down, opening the drawer containing my father’s pistol. There is a bang on the study door, and my mother is calling my name. I do not answer. I draw the pistol out. It is loaded, as it always is, and I know how to use it. Father was adamant that I learned how. I move over to the window, and I stare out it. The gun somehow doesn’t feel heavy in my hand. In fact, it feels nice. As if it were made to sit there. My mother is still calling for me. I lift the gun, and the metal feels cool against my head. I whisper an “I love you” into the air, and close my eyes. The air smells of books, paper, and ink. All of the things I love. 

“I’m sorry, Philip, mon amour,” I whisper. My finger moves to the trigger. I take in a last deep breath, and push it down. Bang. 

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I keep reblogging my own shit because I’m desperate for readers, yo