#torytendencies

niksnarration asked : "It can wait."  from Caroline @torytendencies (feel free to ignore this!)

Idk if this is from any meme. / @torytendencies​​ -- accepting

      𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐞?

      The familiar temperament creeps up his neck and his disagreement shows clearly on his face with his knitted eyebrows and tight jaw. No, he didn’t want to argue here, not with her, not now. He already was wasting time here and his stubborn mind could see the pointlessness in starting a fight right now. 

      He attempts to reign in his anger by running a hand over his hair.

       ❝ Unless you want to join me, Mary, and my father for breakfast, you’re going to have to wait until after I get back. I’ll meet you at the drop when I’m done. ❞ Abe paces the downstairs of his home, grabbing his jacket and his monmouth cap off the peg on the wall as if he officially made up his mind. As he pulls on his jacket, his stare raises and he gives Caroline a sympathetic glance as if to say that he knew she had priorities at the moment, but his were far greater. Abe felt as if his ‘excuse’ wouldn’t be enough for her as his eyes look over at her again; so in his hurried state, he gave a brief explanation as he was inches away from the door.

torytendencies asked : "About last night..." for Rogers and Caroline bc my brain was thinking about all our dynamics and this would by far be the most unexpected one for this meme xD

Send “About last night…” for the morning after our muses had a one night stand. / @torytendencies​ -- accepting

       𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐮𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐞𝐱-𝐑𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐮𝐩 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨. Whether that would be a rented room, a bed of leaves, a grassy hill, or snuggled between branches high up in a tree. In this case, the solid bedding underneath his body and the blanket he tossed off himself solidified his tired and hazy mind that he was not outside, but in a rented room. When he turned in the bed to sit on the edge, his hands making a fist into the bedding, a soreness different from regular morning pains ran up his legs. He must’ve ventured quite a distance from the tavern to this rented room to get this amount of stiffness, bringing the drink that sat half empty on the bedside table. How he was able to find the room he paid for and to count the coins at the front, he never could figure out the morning after his drunken stunts when he woke to the consequences of his drunken actions.

       As he drank from the uncapped bottle, still not feeling persistent enough to move from the edge of the bed, he swallowed harshly and coughed when he heard a stirring in the sheets beside him. To his knowledge, the wanted criminal kept to himself for his own safety and only spoke to others if it was demanded of him or he found some use in it. He pulled the bottle from his mouth and looked over his shoulder, his eyes falling onto the sight of his forgotten companion. The sun shone on her shoulder and disappeared into shadow crevasses between the twists in the sheets. The playwright in him thankfully didn’t emerge in him to make any parallels.

       Caroline Brewster. That piece of shite Brewster. Did he sleep- No, no, being dressed in only his shirt was by the habit of being so used to his own company. There was nothing else to all of this. He hasn’t had another person to rely on in months, and a person lying beside him in a bed was sight unseen for years. Even his hangover could find the reason for that.

       Caroline moved again and his eyes hadn’t peeled away from the sight of her on the other side of the bed. Whether she was asleep, awake, or drifting between the two: it didn’t matter to him as he found acceptance of this strange circumstance. He hadn’t thought of the conclusion that they slept together.

“Why don’t you correct them? When people talk about you, and they’re wrong?” - For Constance (here we go, more historical himbos lol).

@honorhearted

Constance straightened to her full height, rolling her shoulders back, exhaling quietly as she felt her joints popping back into place after being stooped over the laundry for so long. She laid her washing paddle to rest beside the large rock and accepted the Major’s basket of clothes, setting it alongside the half dozen others that had been brought to her that morning.

She’d never known her husband’s commanding officer well, and it seemed strange that the two of them only become acquainted after Peter’s death, especially when she didn’t know how much longer she’d be permitted to stay in camp.

“And what good would that do?” She placed her hands on her hips in an attempt to aid herself with her own posture before lifting a forearm, wiping the perspiration from her brow. “Most times, the rumors are done to illicit a reaction, aye?” Or at least that was how it always was when she and Peter were still employed as servants. There was always at least one troublesome valet or lady’s maid who was more concerned with causing a ruckus in the kitchen than seeing that tea was served on time.

--

Since the very first moment they'd been acquainted by tragedy, Constance Beall was anything but helpless, and yet even with her sharp eyes and challenging stance at the ready, Ben somehow believed he was needed -- that she was putting up a front and actually was helpless despite her protestations to the contrary. After all, what woman wasn't desirous of help after the unfortunate death of their husband? Shouldn't she want to have the sort of assistance he was offering?

"And what good would that do? Most times, the rumors are done to elicit a reaction, aye?"

Ben sighed. "It could help you preserve your husband's memory, for one," he pointed out. "Forgive me if I seem indelicate -- I know it's not any of my business -- but your life would be far easier, were you to just denounce such claims. It's no secret that jealousy runs rampant in these camps...that sabotage can nip at the heels of unmarried and bereaved women."

@torytendencies

@torytendencies​ continued from here X

The stick garnered in Sybil’s hands is still levied in his direction though, the temptation to make use of it as a weapon has subsided substantially with the introduction of his apologetic words. 

She’s never done anything like this before. She’s never killed anyone nor is she likely to. The stranger’s not exactly the depiction of the enemy. At least, not the one her vivid imagination had conjured up. Her chest heaves, clearing a breath from the very depths of her lungs. Her father would have been none to pleased were she to return with a musket-ball - or a series of them. 

It wasn’t like her to deliberately disobey her orders. Yet, now in the crucial moment, Sybil can’t bring herself to clobber him the way she had the other soldier. 

“I should thank you then. Shouldn’t I? For not shooting me, sir.” The massive piece of wood is finally lowered, but not forgotten. It may still be required. Every one of her visible features soften, mimicking the way her heart transformed from solid rock to putty. “Especially, when I had mistaken you for someone else.” How else was she to explain away the near-clobbering she almost took part in. 

“Not even that disarming smile?” Sybil queries in amusement. “From your uniform, I expected a humorless, emotionless, rigid fence-post of a man. Mayhaps, I was mistaken. For that, I beg your forgiveness.” She confides, though she is trying to conceal her rebel leanings. 

torytendencies asked : ❝  i’ll send you to bed without dinner if you don’t cut that out.  ❞ to Sean from Constance or Harriet 

B.DSM  &  D.OM/S.UB S.MUT PROMPTS. / @torytendencies​ -- accepting

      𝐒𝐞𝐚𝐧’𝐬 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐚𝐧 𝐝𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐢𝐦, all of the golden-pressed text is a jumble of words that are unreadable to his eye but that hardly matters to the Irish thief. It’s the color of each book that he’s eyeing, moving each book to its precise place in a color-coordinated fashion (or at least, Sean’s way of color coordinating). Author, genres, and the book title itself mean nothing to him in the grand scheme of his plan, but instead, it’s the color that is the guide of his organizing. He’s too in tune with his organizing that Harriet’s voice falls on distracted ears and a busy mind, it’s what she said next that seems to break him out of his trance.

      The pad of his finger is pressed against the spine of one of the books, his other fingers are circled by the top and splayed out so that by his pull, the book looks as if it’s leaned over as he intends to remove it from its spot. He looked over his shoulder with an almost shocked look on his face that quickly eases into a disbelieving grin.

Send my muse prying questions about the relationships you have seen them in! / @torytendencies & @palaceofwonders

Ben faltered, and for just a brief moment, his expression darkened. But rather than give in to that old, familiar wound, he straightened his stance and forced a smile. "Before the war came to the colonies, I was quite close to Thomas Woodhull. He was a bit of a pretentious lobcock at times, but given who his father was, I know that was only the perfectionist forced into him."

Those same values had not synced with his own once dissent befell Setauket, and a friendship he'd once valued -- correction, a man he'd once viewed as a brother had suddenly been shorn from his side for the sake of pride and stubbornness.