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winterromanov · 5 years

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AU idea- college athlete Bucky and he’s really popular and all that but very sweet and he meets this girl who’s sweet and a little quiet in one of his classes and he just keeps trying to be around her, study with her, buy her coffee and she likes him but she’s just like.... why is this cute popular boy paying attention to me lol

pairing: bucky x reader (also SUPER tempted to do a part two of this, let me know if you’re interested)

You recognise the guy staring at you from across the table in your Russian lit tutorial. You recognise him because everyone knows Bucky Barnes, the football star, certified big name on campus and best friend of fellow football star Steve Rogers. He’s the guy that every girl on your corridor gossips about, the one all the professors love, the one who gets hundreds of likes on his Instagram pictures.

(You don’t follow him but you have to admit, you’ve scrolled through his feed a few times. Just to see what the fuss is all about, you know. And you know. Boy, you know.)

You’ve never actually interacted with him before because your circles aren’t the kind that usually interlink, but now you’re sat in a seminar on Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, and Bucky Barnes is definitely staring at you.

When your eyes eventually flicker up from your laptop--just to double check you’re not making it all up, that he’s not looking at the much prettier girl next to you--he grins, pen between his teeth. Your cheeks involuntarily catch fire and you deliberately snap away. Because this is Bucky Barnes you’re talking about, who dated Natasha Romanoff in his freshman year before it all very publically...fell apart. Who could have literally any girl he wanted worshiping at his high-tops. Who would never look at a girl like you because, well.

You’re you.

You’re trying to buy coffee in the campus shop next to the library when he actually speaks to you directly for the first time. Emphasis on the word trying, because you left your damn purse at home and Apple Pay is not being your friend and you can feel yourself getting more and more embarrassed the longer the cashier has to wait. You eventually resort to rummaging round your backpack for loose change in order to pay the poor guy, but an arm with a contactless debit card reaches out and beeps the payment through for you.

“I’ll get a latte to go, please, Mario.”

“Of course. Anything for you, Mr Barnes.”

It’s Bucky Barnes. Of course it’s Bucky Barnes--only someone like him would take the time to know the server by name. He’s wearing his faded red Columbia jersery and a baseball cap. His grin is kinda crooked and yes, yes you know it’s one of the many reasons all the girls go wild for him.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say, stepping aside so he can go to the front of the queue. He merely shrugs. “Here--let me pay you back, I know I’ve got a couple of dollars in here somewhere...”

He shakes his head as he taps his card once again, the server handing him his latte in a reusable mug with a wink. “Don’t worry about it. Honestly, your idea about interior monologue in Anna Karenina in Ivan’s class the other day actually inspired my paper, so I do owe you one.”

You blink, kinda dumbstruck at the thought of Bucky Barnes remembering any input you’d given in class. Or anyone remembering any input you’d given in class. “You liked my point?”

“Oh, yeah.” Bucky sips his coffee, grimacing slightly as the liquid burns his lips. “Tolstoy finding humour in death. It’s so dark and beautiful. All your points, actually--you see a lot in literature than I’ve never picked up on in a first reading.”

“I...Uh. Well. Thank you.” You’ve always been quite reserved in class, scared to say anything in case it’s stupid or outlandish and the other students laugh at you. In reality you know it’s you being paranoid, but old habits die hard.

Bucky looks at his watch before hissing a profanity under his breath. “Gotta run. Cold War study group across campus in three minutes. Catch you later?”

He phrases it like a question rather than a generic add on, a necessity of politeness. His blue eyes look at you expectantly, actively waiting for you to reply.

(They’re so blue, his eyes. Blue like the sky in the summer back home, bright and cloudless and stared at from a meadow.)

“Yeah, of course! See you in class.” You raise your coffee cup sheepishly in his eyeline. “And thanks for the coffee.”

And like that he vanishes, bustling out the door and stepping purposefully in the opposite direction as the sun blazes on his back.

You see his backpack before you see him, slammed down on the bench next to you in the lecture hall. He sits down with a long exhale of breath, like he’s ran here--this time he’s dressed in sportswear so you assume he’s been to the gym. Veins ripple and flex up his ridiculously toned arms. Being a football hero probably does that to you.

“Crime and Punishment,” he says, instead of a greeting. “What did you think?”

You smile, spreading your hand across the heavily annotated and dog-eared copy you have in front of you. “Long, dark, often psychologically challenging, but ultimately an interesting perspective on nihilism. And you?”

“Oh.” He nods in faux seriousness. “I thought much the same. Reckon I’d like to go for a beer with Dostoevsky.”

“That would be an interesting encounter.”

Bucky rests his laptop and his copy of the book on the bench and looks as though he might say something else until the professor enters the room, hushing the hall to silence. When the lights dim so you can see the projector, you wonder if Bucky can hear how furiously your heart beats in your chest.

After than, some sort of unspoken agreement develops wherein every Russian literature class, his place is a spot next to you. You always seem to arrive first--he’s always rushing from somewhere--but he clocks you and instinctively walks over, sliding into a chair adjacent to your own. The conversation is usually the same. Always about the books.

You’re not sure what any of it means but you’ve somehow found a friend in the famous Bucky Barnes, and people start to notice.

“Since when have you and Bucky been so close?” Wanda Maximoff asks as you queue for the canteen lasagna, the flourescent bar lights doing nothing for the food presentation. “My brother is in your lit class and he says you two sit together a lot.”

You shrug, spooning lasagna onto your plate. “We just sit together.”

“You don’t just sit together with Bucky Barnes, (Y/N). That’s not a thing that happens.”

“Honestly, Wanda, we just talk about books.”

Wanda narrows her eyes, swiping her meal card at the end of the belt. “Sure, okay. I believe you. For now.”

She has to believe you, because you know what she’s insinuating. And when you look across the canteen and see Bucky laughing with Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson and his ex girlfriend Natasha Romanoff, you know this cute, handsome boy and his often insightful observations of Russian texts are so far out of your league that it’s kind of embarrassing.

so, (y/n). what did you think of the master and margarita?

i think pilate suffering for his sins for two thousand years is pretty rough tbh

but he deserves it?

i mean. probably. his suffering is necessary for the redemption arc

just what i was going to say. obviously.

see you tomorrow :)

“Do you want to come to a party?”

Bucky asks you this as you come out of your seminar on Chekov’s Uncle Vanya and, admittedly, it kind of knocks you off guard. When you lamely blink back at him blankly, he decides to elaborate.

“It’s my friend Sam’s birthday. It’s just at our dorm--should be fun. Although we’re very competitive when it comes to beer pong, so beware.” His smile is wistful but he quickly comes back to earth, falling in step with you as you walk along the hall. “So what do you say? You interested?”

“You’re inviting me to a party?” you reply, as this is a very big step in your friendship. This is assuming he’d happily see you outside of class amongst his equally popular and attractive friends.

“Yeah, I think so,” he laughs bemusedly, pausing at the door that leads to the quad. He has his Cold War class across campus. “(Y/N), I’d really like you to come.”

You look at him and expect him to reveal this--him--as a joke, but he’s earnest and certain and honest, with an almost shy smile on his face. His eyes are hidden by his usual cap but you know the colour of blue so well by now. And not just because you’d zoomed in on his Facebook photo in a moment of ridiculous late-night longing.

(You follow him on Instagram now, too, but only because he followed you first. You were still too uncertain to initiate it, worried that he’d ignore you.)

“Okay,” you say, swallowing nervously. Wondering if this might be a mistake. That you’d turn up and no-one there would like you. “Who else will be there?”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll introduce you.” He pauses, chewing his lip for a second, before gesturing at the door. “I’ve got class, so I’ll...I’ll see you later.”

Your hands tighten round the straps of your backpack. “See you later, Bucky.”

Bucky shares a floor with Sam Wilson and Steve Rogers at a block about a ten minute walk from your own, and you use the walk in the chill New York air to calm your jangling nerves. You’re wearing your favourite navy blue dress and have braided your hair and made an effort with your makeup--and you’re not totally sure what for, what you’re expecting. You’re just the quiet girl in Bucky Barnes’ literature class. You don’t know how it got to this.

You’re too awkward to press the buzzer so you message Bucky to let him know you’re outside. Scrolling through your Facebook inbox, your messages have become...quite frequent. Especially at night. You lie on your bed and frantically type until the early hours, only realising it’s 3am before it’s too late.

That’s what friends do, right? Friends.

(God, you’re so fucking in love with him, aren’t you?)

Bucky’s on the edge of a laugh when he answers the door, but his expression falters into muted surprise as soon as he lays eyes on you on his doorstep. A silly gold party hat is positioned at an angle over his head.

“(Y/N),” he says, and you flush, because the way he says your damn name. He steps aside so you can step in under his arm. “I’m glad you came. Finished The Idiot yet?”

“Onto the last fifty pages.” His house is decked out with balloons and paper chains and the loud pumping of a bass stereo carries from the lounge, alongside the chatter of laughing of guests. You recognise Columbia’s only archer and Olympic hopeful Clint Barton rush up the stairs, holding the hand of a brown haired girl. Bucky rolls his eyes at him and yells already? “I think it might be one of my favourites on the module.”

He leads you through to the kitchen which is empty other than various bottles of alcohol on the table and Natasha Romanoff sitting on the counter. Her red hair hangs effortlessly across her shoulders, lips painted scarlet, wearing a classy black jumpsuit. Natasha Romanoff makes you feel nervous because a) she’s the kind of girl you could never be and b) she’s the kind of girl Bucky Barnes dates. She’s sipping rose out of a wine glass, her eyes discretely looking you up and down.

“Is this the famous (Y/N)?” Natasha asks, her tone intrigued, her lips curved. Bucky laughs bashfully, scratching the back of his head. “Honestly, this guy doesn’t stop talking about you.”

“Sorry?” you gape, looking between her and him. Bucky sends Natasha a glare that signals for her to shut up which only makes her more amused by the situation, leaning back casually. “Uh, I don’t know--”

“Ignore her. She’s insatiable.” Bucky quickly swerves, pressing a glass into your hand. “Would you like a drink? We have pretty much everything imaginable. Natasha has plenty of wine she’d love to share.”

Natasha is totally unaffected, already looking at her mobile phone. She flicks a hand at a line of bottles next to the microwave. “Feel free, honey.”

You’re not a big drinker as you don’t often frequent cool college parties and you’ve been drunk a grand total of one time after one too many glasses of champagne on new year’s eve. Bucky seems to see this in your face.

“You don’t have to drink, obviously,” he says kindly, “But if you mix a bit of soda with rose it actually tastes kinda nice. Much better than beer, anyway.”

“Okay,” you nod, letting him mix the drink for you. He’s remarkably careful, pouring the tiniest amount from one of Natasha’s bottles and topping it up with sprite. He grabs a beer for himself, cracking off the lid with his teeth.

“You know you’re not impressive when you do that,” Natasha says drolly, even though she hasn’t looked up from her phone.

“(Y/N) was impressed,” Bucky says with a wink. You try and keep straight-faced but yeah, come on. You were.

“Of course she was impressed,” Natasha interjects, “You’re both stupidly in love with each other but too polite to make a move.”

Bucky flips her off before pressing a gentle hand in the small of your back, ushering you away from her. “She’s drunk.”

“I’m not drunk!”

You sip your drink, wondering if your palms will ever stop sweating. Natasha can’t be right. She isn’t right. Or is she? No, she can’t be, because this is Bucky Barnes and you’re you.

Bucky’s friends are actually kinda nice. Really nice, in fact. You’ve always been intimidated by Steve Rogers’ reputation on campus but he might be one of the sweetest guys you’ve ever met, instantly welcoming and eager to get you involved with the games he’s beginning to set up. Sam Wilson is bold and blunt, but he grins mischievously and gives Bucky a pointed look when he introduces you and snaps a party hat to your head. In various corners of the apartment you see people you vaguely recognise from school, names burning at the edges of your memory but ultimately escaping you.

Steve sets up the table for beer pong and Bucky clutches your wrist, beckoning you over to play (and cutting short your conversation with a very interesting business major called Pepper). Steve and Sam are on one side while you and Bucky are apparently on the other--Steve’s positioned himself so he’s directly in view of a British exchange student with big eyes on the other side of the room.

(Aside from your own, you’re actually pretty observant when it comes to potential romantic encounters.)

“Just so you know,” Sam stares hard at the two of you, pointing with two fingers, “It’s my birthday, so I have to win. It’s the rules.”

“I don’t think you have to worry,” you reply, looking up at Bucky. His expression is warm, his arms desperately close to yours. “I’m probably going to be pretty rubbish at this.”

“Buck’s a good teacher,” Steve says, grabbing a ping-pong ball and handing it over to Sam. He rolls it between his fingers, his face scrunched in mock seriousness. “But we’ve all had plenty of practice.”

“Too much practice, arguably,” Bucky drawls. “And Wilson, don’t you think for one second that (Y/N) and I are going to let you win under any circumstances.”

“I don’t need you to let me win,” Sam says, before perfectly throwing the ball into one of the cups near the front. He stands back smugly, crossing his arms over his chest, as the rest of the room whoops. “I think you’ll find I possess the skills for victory, fair and square.”

You laugh as Bucky rolls his eyes, picking up the plastic cup filled halfway with lukewarm beer. He keeps eye contact as he knocks the whole thing back, wiping his lip emphatically once he’s done. “That’s it. The game is on.”

Admittedly, it get’s to a point where it’s pretty close. You almost visibly bristle as Bucky tries to show you the ropes, positioning your hips with his hands and following your aim as you try (and often fail) to pit the ball in one of the opposite team’s plastic cups. Whenever you score he yelps dramatically, high-fiving you, and his grin is borderline magical.

(Natasha watches bemusedly from the sidelines, making dry comments here and there. It’s like she’s checking you out for herself. Assessing you.)

It get’s to the point where there is only one cup left on either side and the tension is palpable. Limbs are floppier from downing liquor, the aim repeatedly more off--your stomach is warm and your feet feel light--and Bucky’s palms ghost your waist as you concentrate on what could be the winning put. Sam and Steve try and distract you by dancing ridiculously to an ABBA track playing out the speakers, but Bucky’s words of encouragement are what filter through. You take a deep breath and throw, only exhaling when your ball lands with a triumphant plop in the central solo cup.

Bucky throws his fist in the air before grabbing you and spinning you round, his laugh ecstatic in your ear. You cling onto his neck, your fingers barely millimeters from entangling in his hair, before he plants you down on the ground again. Well. You think you’re on the ground. You might as well be in the clouds.

“A round of applause for the winning shot,” Bucky says, holding your hand and lifting your arm so you can take your bow (which you do with pleasure). Steve and Sam pretend to be reluctant, but they clap anyway.

“I’ll allow it, this once, (Y/N),” Sam answers bemusedly, coming round to the other side of the table. “But if you try and upstage me on my birthday again there will be consequences.”

You feel more confident now, more like these people are your friends. So you grin, feeling the magnetic pull of Bucky to his side from next to you. “I’ll try not to. Promise.”

Sam hums, before clapping Bucky on the shoulder. “Come on, Barnes. You can go mix me a drink.”

Bucky shrugs, asking if you want anything from the kitchen while he’s on his way there, but you shake your head. You’re happy right now with what you have.

Natasha approaches you while you’re waiting outside the bathroom. Someone--you think he’s called Rhodey--emerges and offers you a salute and you’re about to go in, but Natasha grabs your hand and pulls you in with her and locks the door behind you.

You’re so astonished you’re not sure what to say. She brushes the hair away from her neck, back facing you.

“I need someone to unzip me,” she declares like it’s obvious, indicating towards the zipper halfway down her back. “Do you mind?”

“No,” you blink, hand nimbly reaching forward to drag the zipper down her back. Even her back is flawless, like porcelain, a tattoo of what looks like a spider curling up from her waist. “Of course not, no.”

She sits on the toilet unabashedly and doesn’t ask you to look away but of course, you do, because this whole situation feels very strange indeed. The wall is plain and blue and spotted with mildew, probably damp from the shower. Like all student accommodation. It feels weird looking at damp while Natasha Romanoff, beautiful as she is, literally pees behind you.

“I care about Bucky a lot,” she says suddenly, “I’ve known him a long time. Way before college, way before we--dated. I love him, but not in the way you think. And I know what he’s like, what the signs are.”

You shift your feet uncomfortably. “The signs of what?”

She audibly sighs out of frustration. “Honestly, it sounds like you’re both as bad as each other. I know--I know when he’s falling for somebody. You’d think, I know you think, that somebody like him...he’d have no problem with it. And maybe if he cared a little less and felt less intensely he wouldn’t.”

“I’m not sure...”

The toilet flushes. Natasha rises and turns back to you and you dutifully zip her back up while she washes her hands, looking at your reflection in the mirror. When you’re stood side by side like this it really does emphasise the differences between you, but also the similarities. She’s a girl. So are you. Girls, despite what every atom of her being exudes.

“You know exactly what I mean, (Y/N).” She smiles crookedly, wiping her hands on a towel. “Just--treasure him, yeah? He deserves it. I get a feeling you both do.”

She doesn’t look back at you as she leaves, closing the door behind her.

Bucky gives you one of his old football jerseys to walk home in because it’s past midnight and you didn’t bring your own. He also insists on walking you home. And you feel nervous, not just because you’re alone with him for the first time this evening, but also because Natasha’s words circle the back of your mind like a tape cassette stuck on loop. You know exactly what I mean, (Y/N).

“Can I ask you something?” you question, arms crossed as your steps echo on the sidewalk. The street is surprisingly deserted--it’s usually crowded with students, all sorts. Tonight, it is quiet.

Bucky looks over at you quizzically, but intrigued. “Yeah. Shoot.”

“Why me?” When he looks perplexed, you laugh awkwardly and continue on. “Connie Taylor is in our Russian lit class, too, and she’s way prettier than me and like...she’s been trying to get you to notice her all semester and yet.” You scrunch your nose as you look up at him, examining his features. His jawline. The hair that falls into his eyes. His naturally flushed cheeks. The party hat he’s yet to take off. Him. Him him him. “You always come to me.”

He bites the inside of his cheek. “Connie Taylor seems perfectly nice. But Connie isn’t you. I like you.” You arrive at the door of your block and he pauses, shoes scuffing into the ground. “She’s not prettier than you, or smarter than you, or any of the reasons you’ve inevitably thought in your head as to why you think she’s more deserving of anything than you. And I find it vaguely insulting that because...I don’t know, play football, that I could only be interested in one kind of person.”

You look away. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“No, I know.” He steps closer so that the toes of your shoes are almost touching. His hand searches in the darkness for your own. Squeezing your small fingers between his, scarred and scraped from football practice. “(Y/N), I like you because you’re funny and kind and intelligent. I like it when you message me about books, I like it when you save me a seat in lectures, I like it when you explain every single point you make so everyone in the class can understand it. I like so many things about you, and you need to get it out your head that because you’re not Connie Taylor that this can’t be true.”

“No-one ever notices me, Bucky,” you murmur quietly, “And I don’t say that for sympathy, or whatever. I say that because that’s how it’s always been.”

You both stare into each other and for one agonising, aching moment you think he might let go of your hand, snuff every spark out like a candle. But instead--instead he ducks in, covering your lips in a soft post-midnight kiss, his mouth warm and tasting faintly like beer. He snatches the breath from your lungs.

“Do you believe me now?” he whispers, hands curving round your jaw. You want to close your eyes, remember this feeling forever. Trap it all in a polaroid. “You are so fucking special. Everyone but you can see it, and it’s so frustrating.”

You kiss his palm, letting your lips linger on his skin for a moment longer. “Thank you for inviting me tonight. I had a really great time.”

His smile is faint but there, nonetheless. “I knew you would. I hope this means you’ll be willing to come out with me again sometime.”

“I think I would like that.”

He unravels from you, not before ducking in for one last sweet, beautiful kiss. “Goodnight, (Y/N).”

“‘Night, Bucky.”

Your hands remain clasped together until he’s far enough away from you, dropping your hand and grinning as he’s eventually lost in darkness. You have to hover for a second with your keycard in your hand, trying to gather your thoughts, process the events of the evening. Bucky Barnes like you. He likes you, not in spite of you, but because you’re you.

When you collapse on your bed you map the constellations of cracks on your ceiling, your heart thumping and your mind almost one hundred percent him.

“you and i, it’s as though we have been taught to kiss in heaven and sent down to Earth together, to see if we know what we were taught.”

y/n. it’s 2am and doctor zhivago is making me cry.

also sam has made me drink sambuca

i wish i was crying over russian books with you

even though ur probably asleep

that’s cool

hope ur having sweet dreams

miss you

my masterlist

send me a request

#oh my god im so sorry for this #it got a bit out of control #bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky x you #bucky x reader #marvel #mcu #marvel cinematic universe

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star-trekkin-across-theuniverse · 5 years

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A Song For My Soulmate, pt 2

Steve found himself humming the song as he made himself a sandwich. It was funny how quickly all the music he listened to was taking on significance. She would know what his musical taste was just by the music he sat back and enjoyed, but more so, it would help her to figure out when he was trying to communicate.

He was trying to come up with something that would ease her into the idea of exactly who he was, and was carefully listening to something significant to who he used to be every night at around eight pm. Tony had facetiously suggested the old war bond song, but Steve had immediately cut that idea off. He didn’t want to scare her.

He brought his sandwich to the living room, and put the plate down beside his chair, checking the time on his phone. He had five minutes to queue up Artie Shaw and get settled with his food when he was nearly knocked off his feet by the intensity of the music she was listening to.

The song wasn’t something modern, but it certainly wasn’t his era. It was much more reminiscent of the music Tony would queue up in the lab when he was pulling an all-nighter. Hard, loud, lots of guitar and drums. She’d been quietly listening to his music for days now, so much so that he’d nearly forgotten the communication was a two-way channel. He bolted down the hall to the elevator and jammed the button frantically, hoping to get to the lab before the song ended.

It wasn’t the most creative of lyrics, but when he burst into the lab, he was able to almost follow the chorus, and started singing before checking to see if Tony was alone.

“I really wanna know Who are you? Who, who, who, who? Ah, who the fuck are you? Who are you? Who, who, who, who? Who are you? Who are you? Who, who, who, who? Oh, tell me who are you? Who are you? Ooh I really wanna know Oh, I really wanna know Come on, tell me who are you, you, you, ah you?”

Tony started laughing. “Did you just drop the f-bomb, Cap?” He glanced over at Bruce, and another, unknown scientist, who were both trying to smother their laughter, unsuccessfully. Steve felt his cheeks heat in embarrassment and his shoulders dropped.

“I guess it doesn’t actually matter who the song is by, right? She just wants to know who I am?” It was mostly rhetorical.

“It’s called Who Are You, and it’s by The Who,” Bruce offered, patting his shoulder as he walked past. “So I guess the big question is, are you going to tell her?”

“What if she has no idea who I am? She could be from anywhere in the world. I was reading on the internet this morning that there’s over seven billion people on the planet. It’s pretty arrogant to think she’ll know American history well enough to know who Captain America is. And there aren’t any songs called ‘you scared the crap out of my, and my name is Steve’, unfortunately,” he shrugged. Tony laughed again.

“Start with where you’re from. Here. I’ve been creating a playlist for you.” He tossed an iPod toward Steve, who caught it with one hand.

“Beastie Boys?” Steve asked, looking at the first song on the playlist.

“Trust me. Tomorrow night, settle in and enjoy at least two tracks. She’ll be able to figure it out, and then maybe she’ll offer up some more info about herself,” Tony offered. “I’ll even come sit with you.” Steve nodded and felt his cheeks burn with embarrassment again.

“Sorry for interrupting like that,” he apologized as he backed out of the lab.

XxX

All week, the guy had been listening to some serious grampa music. It wasn’t that it was bad, she reflected, but it was definitely from her grandfather’s era. He was clearly trying to send her a message, because for five days in a row, spot on at eight at night, her head would fill with whatever he’d selected for his radio show for the night. After a couple of songs, the music faded away, and she was able to return to whatever she was up to.

She’d countered his consistency with her own broadcast last night, however. There was no way to put the question burning in her head better than The Who, and she’d danced on her coffee table, flailing away at an imaginary air guitar as the song crescendoed through the living room. She’d only turned it down when the neighbour from across the hall had banged on her door asking her to turn it down.

“Sorry, it got away from me!” She’d apologized, beaming a bright smile as she hid her bottom half behind the door. She’d had one of those days where she’d immediately stripped down to a tank top and undies the moment she’d walked in the door, and hadn’t bothered getting dressed.

“No worries. I thought the building was soundproof, but I guess those of us on the lower floors didn’t get included in that retrofit,” her neighbour had smiled.

“Well, even from the twenty-fifth floor, the view is awesome, so I’ll keep the volume down, and not complain, how’s that?” She offered. Her neighbour had smiled and given her a wink as she’d shut the door. Everyone in the building was friendly, which was weird, in her experience. She supposed it came from living in what was essentially company housing. When she’d been hired for the employee medical clinic, she couldn’t believe she’d found an employer who was seriously willing to provide it all and pay more-than-fair wages. But two years in, and it was definitely a dream come true.

It had been a long day. The boss had authorized free flu shots for all employees, so the clinic had been slammed with folks waiting. She felt like a syringe with a pulse by the time she’d plodded off the elevator and stripped off her scrubs, two hours later than her usual end of shift. It was going to be another tank top and undies night. Thank god she didn’t have plans. She was flopping down on the couch with a pint of Ben and Jerry’s and a spoon when she noticed the time. It was 7:59, and about to roll over to the hour.

Just as expected, there was music. Unexpectedly, it was not Big Band. Initially she couldn’t follow what she was hearing, and then, slowly, she caught it, just before the chorus.

“We got a safe in the trunk with money in a stack With dice in the front and Brooklyn's in the back.

No sleep till No sleep till Brooklyn, no sleep till Brooklyn !

Ain't seen the light since we started this band M.C.A. get on the mike, my man! Born and bred Brooklyn The U.S.A.”

She sat up, nearly dropping the ice cream. The Beastie Boys had been one of her favourite groups growing up, and the song had to be significant. Was her soulmate telling her he was in Brooklyn, or from Brooklyn? In this entire world, he was that close? She put down the pint, and grabbed her phone, quickly searching her playlist and queueing the song on the bluetooth stereo. She settled back into her chair with the spoon and Chunky Monkey and let her response wash over her.

“One hand in the air for the big city Street lights, big dreams, all lookin' pretty No place in the world that could compare Put your lighters in the air everybody say yeah, yeah, Yea, yea

In New York, Concrete jungle where dreams are made of There's nothin' you can't do Now you're in New York These streets will make you feel brand new Big lights will inspire you Let's hear it for New York, New York, New York”

XxX

Steve sat up on his own couch and made eye contact with Tony, who was lost in the second Beastie Boys cut on the iPod. “Holy crap. She’s from here.”

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reallylonglies · 5 years

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Taylor Swift - Demon Hunter: Part 1

It was when she had me in the headlock that I began to wonder if I might have struck a nerve.

Was it something I said?

I thought back through everything I had said to her that day.

“You look nice today.”

Wasn’t that.

“Have you done something different with your hair?”

Pretty standard conversational fare, shouldn’t provoke this kind of reaction.

“Your boyfriend is a fire demon, and you need to exorcise him.”

I thought it might be that but then who can tell with teen girls, honestly?

“Why are you mad?” I asked her, or at least tried to ask her. My voice was a little strained because her elbow was tightening on my throat and her hair was hanging over my face so that every time I inhaled I got a mouthful of it.

“Why are you in my dressing room?”

Oh, yeah. Maybe it wasn’t even the fire demon thing, maybe I was just intruding. Suddenly it all made sense. Mystery solved. Case closed.

I made some strangled noises and tried to spit out a clump of blondeness but it wasn’t going to work. Country singers have big hair and now a good solid third of hers was clogging my airways. She was going to have to let me go if I was going to explain.

“You’re going to have to let me go for me to explain,” I whispered gently into her thoughts. It’s just mild telepathy, nothing fancy. I don’t have a nosebleed whenever I do it or anything.

She dropped me and shouted an expletive. It was uncouth, I was shocked and taken aback. You don’t hear that kind of language in the other realms.

“You can’t be shocked and taken aback, you’re the one who broke into my dressing room,” she shouted, her eyes had narrowed to thin slits of rage.

Perfect, I thought, we can use this.

“Use what? Who the hell are you?”

“See, this is why I don’t use the telepathy thing - once I get into the swing of it I start sharing thoughts I don’t want to and before long everyone knows where I’m going for lunch and there’s a queue for the burrito bar. It’s like inception. Suddenly everyone wants a burrito and I’m left at the back of the queue where the burritos are just wet tortillas filled with cold rice and the memory of beef.”

She kicked me in the face. She has really long limbs.

“I will admit I should have explained myself better.”

“Yes.”

She folded her arms and looked at me. There was an awkward silence before I realised it was now time to explain myself better.

“Have you ever heard of muses?”

“Like the Greek myth?”

“No, not the band. The Greek myth, you know, this is why my job has been hell since 1994… Oh, wait, you said myth didn’t you? That is the correct answer… That doesn’t happen often. Imagine if those muses were like the Greek myth except also they’re fire demons that possess men of influence and try to trick them into forming a global government of badness that will bring about the fall of mankind.”

“So not really like the muses at all then?” I liked her sarcasm, it was spunky, she’d need that in the hellscape. Demons love spunkiness.

“There are nine of them, plus assorted demons and servants. Can I move on to the good part?”

“Is that the part where you leave my dressing room before I call the cops?”

“No. It’s the part where I tell you that you, Taylor Alison Swift, are a Lightning Rod.”

They never react the way that I want them to. It’s not like telling someone they’re a wizard and they get to go to wizard school. Tell someone that and suddenly you’re like their best friend in the world: it’s all fun and laughter and shopping for owls. Tell someone they’re a kind of magical exorcist and the fate of the world depends on them and suddenly you’re the bad guy.

“Yeah, I’m calling security.”

“Wait, wait, wait!”

She paused, her hand hovering over the phone.

“Listen.”

She did, I saw her eyes, once angry slashes of rage, grow wide.

“What is that?”

“That’s me. You can hear me.”

“No, it’s like music. Like a melody.”

“It’s the sound of me disturbing the dimensions by being here, you can hear it because you’re a Lightning Rod, Taylor,” I always feel weird about this bit, sometimes they can smell us, sometimes they can taste us on the air, but every once in a million years there’s one that can hear it. Every one of us, demons, sprites whatever, we have our own little tune. We know each other’s, but Lightning Rods don’t have them because they’re technically mortal. It’s like having someone who hates the internet scroll through your Instagram and tut. I think that’s what it’s like. I don’t show up in photos so Instagram’s not really my bag. Stupid demon laws.

“What’s a lightning...thing?” she asked, her eyes a little misted as she concentrated on my tune.

“It’s a kind of exorcist. The muses are drawn to you. You’re like catnip...Demon-nip if you will.”

Her gaze snapped back to me, fire in her eyes again.

“What does that mean, am I in danger?” she asked. She didn’t sound afraid, more angry, like this whole thing was just some big inconvenience to her.

“No danger,” I said, “If you let me train you.”

“Ugh,” she sank into a chair, “Fine.”

********************************

New York, midnight. Rain falls.

He cracks open his hotel room door and stumbles in. He doesn’t feel good. Who would, in his condition?

“Hello John,” she whispers gently as the storm outside throws light across her face. She’s draped in a chair with it’s back to the corner of the room. The dress he left her in is gone, and she’s dressed all in black. A hood obscures most of her face.

“I thought I just…” his drunken vision swirls to the hotel door. His memory takes him back on a stumbling journey through the lobby, out into the street, crying girl in a dress.

“You left me to make my own way home, John,” she said. Her lips were blood red.

“How did you…” he was on the 20th floor. The elevator had taken ten minutes.

“I’m in good shape, John,” she looked at him, she was holding something silver and small. He wanted to look at her, and at the same time he wanted to close his eyes tight until she was gone.

“What do you want?” with a sudden wave of discomfort he realised how much she was scaring him, this wide-eyed nineteen year old girl whose heart he’d been toying with. He looked around the room, she’d taken the mirror off of the wall above the mantlepiece, it was leaning against the fireplace. She’d scratched something into its surface. “What did you do with the mirror?”

“Do you remember when he came to you? He said he’d help you and you shook his hand, and you never saw him again.”

“What are you talking about?” he didn’t like her voice, it sounded different: powerful.

“And even though you never knew his name, you always remember that after that encounter everything started going right,” she stood up, her clothes were wet from the rain. She held out her hand, her nails sparkled.

He didn’t want to touch her but something in him was compelled to reach out.

Before he knew what was happening he was on his knees, her arm was tight around his throat and she was pressing something cold against his head.

“Look up,” she said, wrenching his neck so his face was opposite the mirror. He did not expect what he saw. Two faces fought against each other on the surface of his skull. One moment he recognised his own deep set eyes, his square jaw. The next second, a different face, rounder, with odd, taught features seemed to pull against his skin and try to gain prominence.

“Get out,” she said, but as he tried to get away from her she wrenched his body back into position, “Not you John.”

She pressed the silver object harder into his skin, it hurt like hell. Something inside him was tearing. To his horror, the face in the mirror began to speak.

“You can’t beat me Swift, they’ve all tried - even Aniston gave it her best shot, he likes having me here.”

“Sure,” she said, her grip tightening, “But how many of them knew your tune.”

She whistled. Two brief, one long, and then two more quick notes. Rising and descending in pitch like a small hill of sound.

Something felt like it was splitting within him. Like his skin was pulling away from his whole body and falling backwards. In the mirror he watched as something horrifying emerged from his limp frame. She let him fall to the ground like a sack of rotten potatoes.

“You’ve had your fun with him, asshole,” she said, and kicked the mirror hard. It shattered and burst into flames.

He woke in a cold sweat. The mirror hung above the fireplace.

A nightmare.

**************

“I just don’t think it’s fair to name-check him,” I said, reclining in an armchair. I liked her home studio. It was warm, my office in the Inbetween is cold and damp and the demon who sits next to me smells of actual brimstone.

“Why?” she said, strumming her guitar pensively, “His demon, his song. Doesn’t the world get to know what he did?”

“The demon or the man?”

“Both,” she stopped strumming and bowed her head, “Is it the muses that make them all assholes or do I have just awful taste.”

“Look,” I said, putting on my most authoritative voice, “You’re the best in the business. You’re a talented exorcist. I hear back at the office they’re even making a pamphlet about you for us to give to the next generation of Rods. You’ll be an inspiration.”

“That is not an answer to my question,” she said, putting her guitar back into its stand and spinning around in her chair, “I’ve heard of guys battling their inner demons but I never knew I would be the one that had to do all the vanquishing. It’s exhausting.”

I always came to watch her record the songs. There was something exciting about watching the lights flicker and the room shake as she trapped a demon in a melody. She was the first aural Rod since the invention of recorded sound, this innovation was helping us keep some real pieces of work at bay in her pieces of work.

As she hit that first line of the chorus I felt the ground quiver below me. Fabulous, a real spectacle. Something worth manifesting for.

#taylor swift #taylor #lover2019 #reputation #urban fantasy #demon hunter #fan fiction

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foslad · 6 years

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Almost Too Good (A Chris Evans Story): Part 21 - 2/3

A/N: I’m not even going to attempt to explain myself for the absence in posting. I can only apologize because I HATE it when others do this... so I know the frustration and can’t excuse myself for it.

I’ll be honest, these next couple of parts/chapters are a little different and they have me worried but I hope you enjoy anyways! Be sure to check out part 1/3 of this now three-part (instead of two) chapter :)

I’m always so overwhelmed at the love and support I receive, SO THANK YOU FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART! LOVE LOVE LOVE!

The car ride was nice, but mostly quiet...

Despite my inner conclusion to just let it go, an air of awkwardness still hung around Chris and I; like some kind of a bad smell. On any other day we might have talked it out there and then, but the presence of the stranger driving us to the venue intensified our silence to the point where I was acutely aware of the sound of my own breathing.

Occasionally in my peripheral, I could see Chris’ fingers tapping his knee to drum up something to say but, ultimately, he kept quiet for the most part. It was very clear that neither of us felt comfortable bringing up earlier whilst in the company of someone else, so small talk remained small.

With that in mind, I decided to occupy my time with some “mental preparation”. I might’ve looked all lovely and glamorous on the outside, but my insides were a lethal cocktail of self-doubt, worry and pressure. I was keenly aware of the fact that I was going to meet a lot of people that were important to Chris tonight and if they didn’t warm to me, well, then, I was truly fucked.

The car pulled up behind the long queue of other cars and the driver kindly got out and opened the door on my side for me. I smiled gratefully at him, carefully stepping out onto the concrete and out onto whatever tonight had in store for me.

I waited patiently off to the side for a minute or so, looking around at all the tall lit up palm trees that lined the path upwards as Chris corresponded with the driver about how he’d contact him later. The night was a little chilly, so I made sure to pull the shawl that I had draped around my elbows up onto my shoulders until we got inside. With a little nod and wink in confirmation, Chris finally turned back around and acknowledged me.

Comically, my face must’ve screamed I’M IN OVER MY HEAD because he met me with a sweet look of encouragement before a lopsided grin emerged.

He eyed our surroundings fleetingly before his fingers came down and casually entwined themselves around my own. As he led the way up the steep concrete staircase, my eyes trained in on the foreign feeling.

Chris was holding my hand... We’d never held hands before!?

It was such a menial and fleeting action for most couples yet it ignited something inside of me. A surge of butterflies, a stupidly goofy smile, a feeling of utter satisfaction. I liked it. A lot.

Any animosity I had about earlier started to melt away with each step we took as a unit.

Chris had explained to me before that there was no compulsory red carpet or anything. The event was a private get together that allowed those more fortunate than others to let loose and do some good for charity without it turning into a media circus. Of course, unsurprisingly, there were those whose job it was to hide in the bushes out front and capture any little mundane detail, like someone getting their car valeted or someone sneaking a crafty cigarette. So, the “back door” was deemed the “entrance” for anyone not looking to get papped.

‘Is it always held here?’ I leaned over and whispered to Chris, gazing around at the crowded foyer in awe. The gold filigree and mirror decked walls, accentuated by the antiques that adorned the place, were simply stunning, and the marble floors were so pristine, it was easy to see one’s reflection. Now this is what you call, top dollar.

‘Nah, they tend to switch up the venues every year. Last year it was at the Griffith Observatory, which was kinda cool.’ He replied, guiding us towards the small queue of people that waited outside the curtain covered entrance where, presumably, the event was being hosted.

After a moment or two of peacefully taking in our surroundings, it was obvious that we were still feeling a little of that awkwardness lingering; so I was grateful to hear Chris try and strike up conversation again.

‘I know I’ve said it already, but you really do look a million dollars tonight Adrian.’

Stepping forward in time with the quickly narrowing queue, I smiled appreciatively at him before biting my lip and running my eyes over his attire. ‘Thank you, as do you. I like this suit, Evans!’

Chris wriggled his eyebrows and smirked. ‘Why thank you, it’s Gucci.’

‘How appropriate.’ I simpered, lightly trailing my hand down the sleeve of our joint venture’s latest creation.

Truthfully, I took the chance as an excuse to just touch him. I hadn’t wanted to make a fuss earlier, finding myself all but lost in the reunion aspect of our togetherness more than anything, but he really had bulked up lately...

Since I’d known him, Chris had always been in undeniably great shape; but he was almost intimidatingly so now. The navy suit did well to accentuate the broadness of his shoulders and the slimness of his waist.

I was constantly in awe of the fact that Chris wore any type of clothing just so well. It didn’t matter if it were $100 sweats, or $5000 suits; the man looked good.

After finally passing through the curtain as ‘Chris Evans and guest’, I felt my jaw physically drop almost immediately.

Admittedly yes, I had been in the game long enough to not get star struck easily, it’s like I’ve always said, they’re just people… but never in my life had I been at something that was on this big of a scale. I had been going to the MET Gala for the last seven years, but even that didn’t seem to compare!

I’d never been to The Oscars... but it seemed like my perception of that; on crack.

Firstly, the venue itself was architecturally stunning. The ceilings were ornate, with paintings of clouds and angels (that clearly took inspiration from the Italian Renaissance) and the chandeliers were so grand, that one of them probably cost more than my entire paycheck for my last movie.

On the opposite side of the function “room”, if it could even be narrowed down to a term so loose, was a stage currently being occupied by a podium, extravagant flowers and a backdrop consisting of a painted skyline that was accentuated by tiny lights customized to look like hundreds and hundreds of twinkling “stars”.

Circular tables, dressed decadently for the dinner portion, graced the immediate spaces in front of the stage and nearest to us, stood a large bar area that all the guests seemed to be mingling in; chatting away and having a sneaky drink or two before the proceedings began.

A quick gloss over the room could tell you that this was no regular “gala”. I couldn’t see one person that I didn’t recognize from the entertainment industry; from Colbert to Kimmel, Cruise to Stiller, Aniston to Lawrence; the list could go on…. and on. It practically blew my mind how this “charity event” had somehow slipped under the radar as the best kept secret in Hollywood.

‘Let’s break ourselves in gently, huh?’ Chris decreed, untangling our fingers so he could take my hand and hook it around his forearm - calmly guiding us down the small set of marble stairs towards the bar. I caught myself smiling in appreciation at him, the nerves now truly beginning to kick in at the intense nature of such an occasion.

Looking around, I noticed how strange it felt to feel like you really know someone when, (in reality), you don’t. Unfortunately, I kept having to relay this mantra to myself as I eyed Bryan Cranston, who was stood talking to Gwyneth Paltrow… God I loved that man.

After a minute or so, the search for an actual familiar face was becoming fruitless and I was just about to resign myself to being glued to Chris’ arm all night when some dark locks came into view behind passing strangers. My eyes widened, and a grin formed; like I somehow knew everything was going to be alright now that I had this person in my sights.

In fact, I was so consumed by my discovery that I barely noticed Chris pat my hand and inform me he was off to get us a drink before departing in the opposite direction.

So naturally, I just couldn’t help myself. Weaving myself in and out of Hollywood royalty, I eventually laid my hand on the familiar shoulder and with my best She’s The Man impression, out flew the screechy ‘Sebastian!’ nickname I’d stupidly come up with all those years ago.

Jumping a little in surprise, my victim quickly turned around and his face melted in an immediate gleeful grin. ‘Adrian Warner? Whaaat!?’

Sebastian Stan wasted no time in leaning forward and gifting me a kiss on both cheeks.

‘What is this? Twice, in one year? You’re spoiling me over here, missy!’ He joked, completely leaving behind whoever it was he was conversing with to give me his full attention. I was so happy to see him. To feel like I had an actual ally amidst this celeb-fest was beyond comforting. New York was a whole different scene and I never felt like a “celebrity” there for the most part, so God knows I especially didn’t feel like one here.

‘Right? This feels like Déjà vu from the last time. You’re like my only life line here!’ I admitted with a nervous little laugh.

‘Why’s that? You here by yourself?’

‘No, I’m here with-‘ I paused for a second, searching for the right words, ‘- as someone’s… date.’

Because I was…

He nodded and looked as though he was about to inquire some more before stopping short, his eyes now shooting behind me; just in time to see Chris returning with two stiff drinks in hand.

‘Wait...’ Sebastian’s smirk intensified before his mouth opened fully in complete shock, eyes darting back and forth between Chris and I; the cogs in his brain turning until the click finally materialized. ‘No. Fuckin’. Way.’

‘Dude…’ Chris warned lowly, an almost embarrassed guise on his face as he handed me one of the glasses containing some kind of dark brown consistency.

‘Oh-ho-oh, outstanding!’ Sebastian began cracking up, like he’d just seen a tortoise and a hyena make love and was kinda into it. ‘Noooww I see why you were keeping namey-names a secret, Evans!’

I looked at them both strangely before laughing lightly at Sebastian’s childish use of ‘namey-names’. Chris seemed to return his sentiment with a deliberate silence.

‘What!?’ Sebastian laughed defensively, ‘I approve! I think this is great; two of my favorite people!’

I was delighted with the easy start, but I knew that would all quickly change.

Within twenty minutes, I had gone from the comfort of only Sebastian to the overwhelming depths of reality as Chris Hemsworth, his stunning wife Elsa and the ethereal Elizabeth Olsen introduced themselves and joined the “group” conversation; all three, at least what they thought to be, subtly side eyeing me at any given second.

What discomforted me most (but deep down delighted me), was the fact that it was easy to see the amount of respect everyone had for Chris; to the point where I felt almost unworthy to be by his side. So, I was truly grateful for Sebastian and the history we had in that moment, much like I had been at Chris’ housewarming party. He’d chosen to disclose to the group the time we pulled a prank on our elderly co-star from Tall Bill with a stripper-gram on his 75th Birthday; setting me up to look like a true comedy genius when, truthfully, it’d been a joint effort…

‘No, don’t sell yourself short! You called the company!’ I argued, playfully pointing at Sebastian.

‘Yeah, but then “Misty” turns up in a trench coat… and nothing else! So I straight up bail and as I was peacing out, all I can hear in the distance is “… Is that coat vintage???”

His high-pitched impression of me sent the group off into a chorus of laughter. To see the creases in everyone’s eyes, including Chris’, as they all cracked up at my undeniable obsession with fashion, (to the point where I’d asked a stripper where her coat was from…), was rewarding but mostly relieving.

So far, so good.

I took another tiny sip from the drink in my hand and reluctantly swallowed the strong liquid inside, squinting slightly as I did so. I let my eyes flicker over to Chris, silently questioning his choice of alcohol.

Catching my eye, he bent over and quietly spoke out of the side of his mouth. ‘I thought it might take the edge off a little?’

I wanted to playfully banter with him about why he had one, but I didn’t get the chance.

‘Do you guys know what table you’re on?’ Elizabeth interrupted, her voice so dainty and light as she took a small sip from her champagne flute.

Chris and I looked at one another before shaking our heads in sync, ‘Should we?’ ‘Was there a list?’

‘There’s place cards on all of the tables. We got here early and were bored, so we already had a little snoop around.’ Elsa chuckled, her striking Spanish accent coming through along with her friendly nature. I had quickly warmed to all three of them, finding them to be completely personable despite their immense fame.

Yet it seemed almost cruel that every time I started to settle into my surroundings, another spanner was thrown at me.

‘Well heeey, fancy running into all of you here…’ A deeper voice joked, causing us all to turn around; just in time for Chris to receive a kiss on the cheek in greeting. His deep-rooted smile at her presence confirmed my suspicion as to who this mystery person could be.

I hesitantly took a slightly larger sip of my drink, acutely aware that the pressure was really on now that she was here.

I had always admired Scarlett Johansson for the part she had played in showing that young actresses had the ability to not only be pretty but that they were also very capable of starring in damn good movies. Lost in Translation was still, to this day, a movie I couldn’t skip over if it was showing on TV. Chris had known her for years, since the very beginning of their careers, and had always spoken so fondly of her.

Once Scarlett and her husband had finished greeting the familiar faces in the group, the arresting set of emerald greens finally fixated on me; the only stranger in the circle. I smiled immediately, truly thrilled to meet her before cautiously looking to my left at our common ground.

Eyes popping in realization, Chris rested his hand on the small of my back in assurance and introduced us. ‘And this, is Adrian. Adrian, this is Scarlett.’

‘Hi, it’s a pleasure to meet you!’ I stepped forward and held my hand out in greeting.

With the added “emphasis” on my name, Scarlett’s own eyes widened at the “hint-hint” tone that Chris was emitting before she grinned in my direction. Her eyes turned kindly, and she accepted my handshake with what appeared to be true enthusiasm.

Funny, Chris knew that Sebastian was a long-time acquaintance of mine and yet the only person who seemed to know that I even existed in the “romantic sense” towards him was Scarlett. A truly interesting choice. Maybe one day I’d feel comfortable to ask him about it.

Gleefully our introduction seemed to go well, however the “hi, nice to meet you’s” didn’t stop there…

Like a hurricane, I was quickly introduced to production, crew and more cast members alike. Clearly a tightknit “family”, I was blown away by just how many people were interested in meeting Chris’s “date” for the evening.

In an unusual turn of events, unlike how his mother met most of the girls he dated, it felt like his colleagues just weren’t used to meeting the women in his life; which was oddly comforting.

Some people recognized me but for those who didn’t, I stood there and received rounds and rounds of ‘So you’re an actress?’ ‘Are you in anything coming up?’ ‘What’s next for you?’ questions. I knew they were only trying to see if I was just using Chris to further myself, which saddened me a little to think that might have been the case in the past for him.

It warmed my heart to its core when Chris would jump in for me at times. ‘She just wrapped a movie with Ben Affleck, which he directed, right?’ Like he didn’t already know…

‘Yeah, it was a really great project to have been a part of.’ I’d continue, flashing Chris a grateful “smile” with my eyes all the while.

After what felt like forever, the pianist, who had been lowly playing in the background, announced into his microphone that the evening’s festivities would begin in twenty minutes and began asking everyone to take their seats.

Capitalizing on this brief interlude, I handed Chris the dregs of my drink and informed him that I was going to the bathroom.

‘Alright, I’ll find our seats…’ He smiled before pressing an affectionate kiss to my cheek; pride radiating on his face at how everything was turning out.

As I quickly peed, I silently praised Chris’ assistant Jake for the Olive Garden takeout he had brought over earlier; otherwise that hard liquor would’ve gone straight to my head.

Pulling some tissue paper from the holder, I also took the time to reminisce on how well the night had gone so far. Sure it had been a little intense but for the most part everyone had been nice, and to see Chris so overjoyed at the ease of his rapidly unifying worlds was extremely heart-warming. He was so exhausted and stressed, it felt good to be contributing to the lighter aspects in his life.

I eventually stepped out of the stall and didn’t even bother to hide my amazement at the printed cream wallpaper and golden sconces. Each vanity mirror was splattered with age; which only added to its decadence.

I bent down and washed my hands in the mother of pearl sinks, blissfully unaware of the arrival of the girl who had been in the stall next to me.

I grabbed my clutch with my still damp hands and rummaged around for my lipstick, eventually picking it out and pulling the lid off for a top up.

‘Excuse me, could I borrow some soap?’

‘Yeah of course, go ahead.’ I smiled before raising my head to the mirror to apply the lipstick. In doing so, I made direct eye contact with the girl;

…and in that moment, it was like the very depths of hell was laughing at me.

Dressed in crimson red, a set of hazel eyes widened at me in complete horror; wholly surrendered into a state of shock as her expression was reflected into the mirror for us both to see.

‘Oh… my… God…’ The voice squeaked; neither of us removing our vision from the mirror for fear of confirming the horrors of reality on the other side of it.

You know, in a fucked up “funny” kind of way, the last time I had seen Chelsea Hewitt-Lewis, her expression had been much of the same…

I could hear my heartbeat in my ears; easily drowning out all other sounds. In some alternate reality, I knew my initial reaction would’ve been one of watery eyed sobs brought on by a suppressed case of PTSD.

But there was none of that here.

Throwing my lipstick back into my purse and shutting the flap, I quickly backed away; the room spinning as I did so. My mind was blank, my mouth was parted, and my eyes were void of all moisture.

It almost irked me that her own reaction seemed to be a mirror reflection of my inner turmoil. What gave her the right!?

I felt like I would have rather she punched me in the face... because then at least I’d know where we stood.

But I suppose she’d already done that to me two years ago; except her “punch” wasn’t physical.

I fled the bathroom, despite my deep desire to return and just projectile vomit into a stall. My resolute stare was fixated to the ground, but I managed to register the fact that my feet were still carrying me somewhere.

Step by step by step by step. It was inevitable that I was eventually going to crash into something; or someone.

‘Woah, hey, there you are!’ Chris smiled, doing his best to restore our balance as he gently gripped my elbows. ‘I was just coming to find you; I found our table.’

Call it shock, but I found myself nodding like some sort of zombie. Really gripping his arms back, I caught myself tugging at him as a means of leaving the area as soon as possible.

And I almost got away with it, too…

Looking just as shaken as I did, Chelsea exited the bathroom and walked along my already beaten path before eventually recognizing Chris. Raising a brief smile at her new co-star, she sought comfort in the familiarity of it all before noticing who was attached to him.

And that pretty smile fell immediately.

‘Oh, hey! Chelsea, right? I’m Chris.’ He smiled warmly, reaching his hand out upon noticing her back.

My eyes BURNED in response. It felt like the world was on fire and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to straight up slap their hands apart, vomit on them, or both. I never thought for one second that I would curse Chris’ kindness until this very moment.

‘Hi, it’s nice to meet you...’ Chelsea responded shakily, slowing accepting Chris’ hand; her nervousness apparent.

My eyes, once again now void of any moisture, twitched before succumbing to rapidly blinking away this unfolding nightmare.

No.

No, no, NO.

You can’t have him.

Not this one!

My body language reeked of “fuck off before I make you” and she knew it. It was distressing that I almost didn’t recognize myself. I wasn’t an angry or violent person by any means.

‘I should get going, it really was… nice to m-meet you.’ Chelsea bungled out before quickly shuffling away, my stare tracing her as she did so.

My mind was like the aftermath of a tornado and all I could do was attempt to come to terms with, and somehow salvage myself from, the wreckage that was my self-esteem.

I was oblivious to the thousands of dollars being sold off around me. I was oblivious to the fun and laughter that the host was managing to pull from his vast crowd. I was oblivious to all but my own selfish thoughts.

As if the universe didn’t already hate me, there she sat, four seats away, shoveling her food around her plate and avoiding eye contact with the other eleven people at the table as they conversed amongst themselves; much like myself.

Every now and then, I would glance up and observe her.

I truly wondered what was going through her mind? I wondered if she ever actually felt guilt or remorse, or anything for that matter? Was she awkward now because she was confronted with her own hurtful actions?

‘Adrian?’

My head snapped to my left and I clapped eyes on Chris’ concerned face.

‘You okay?’ He eyed me, ‘You seem a little spaced out…’

Spaced out? Oh!

Nodding frantically and rousing a smile, I attempted to bring myself back into the moment. ‘No, no, I’m great.’

‘You sure?’ He eyed me skeptically, ‘You haven’t touched your food… You don’t like it?’

‘No, n-no, no! The food’s amazing!’ I picked up the fork in a feeble attempt at backing up my lies.

‘Then something’s definitely wrong.’ Chris deadpanned, his eyebrows dropping. I managed to let out a genuine little laugh at his concern, touched at the fact he knew me so well.

‘No, I’m okay. Honestly.’ I leaned forward, and we met in the middle for a chaste, but affectionately small peck and I found myself pulling away with a real smile on my face. ‘I think I just need a little air.’

Chris immediately wiped his mouth and dropped his napkin, his hands gripping his seat as he raised himself slightly.

‘Woah, no, no, you stay!’ I quietly commanded, feeling almost overwhelmed at how thoughtful he was being.

Chris eyed me carefully as he slowly lowered himself back down. ‘You sure?’ I rested my hand on his shoulder and kissed the top of his head as I stepped away from the company. ‘Mhmm. I’ll be back in a second.’

Little did I know, I was going to be followed regardless… and not by Chris.

-------------------------------------

I feel like this chapter loses itself in the middle but thank you regardless for getting to the bottom and reading it! I appreciate you so much!

#chris evans #chris evans imagine #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans fanfic #chris fic

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friendlyneighborhoodwhateve-blog · 7 years

Text

The Alphabet of Love // Rafael Casal

Here I am, this was not the first thing in writing queue but it just begged to be written.

I blame Ren ( @alexanderhamllton ) for turning me into Rafa trash and thank Charley ( @always-blame-jefferson ) for listening to my ideas.

My other stuff is here!

Requests are always open!

Word Count:3743, I’m not even sorry.

The Alphabet of Love

A is for Airport.

That’s where you first met.

You being a writer and he being a singer, there weren’t many ways you could meet but on that fateful afternoon your paths met quite forcefully when someone bumped on you on the busy airport, spilling your hot coffee all over your shirt.

“Oh my, I’m so sorry.” You looked up to see a blonde-ish man profusely apologizing.

“It’s no problem.”

“Here, take this at least.” He said, taking a shirt from his carry-on bag.

“You don’t want to spend your flight with a wet, transparent shirt.”

Looking down, you could see that you light blue shirt had become slightly see through due to the spilled drink.

“Thank you.”

The meeting was short lived as your flight was announced over the intercom system, making you smile at the man one more time before leaving.

His shirt smelled of cologne and books.

B is for Brooklyn.

That’s where you worked.

For now at least.

As a writer, you moved around a lot due to your job and since your new novel was set in Brooklyn, you had moved there to research. One, surprisingly sunny, autumn day you were walking through the streets, trying to find inspiration to write again when you caught sight of a familiar blonde head getting into a cab.

No way.

Brooklyn was also a place Rafael liked to visit once in a while; it had this feeling of home he couldn’t explain. Bored, he decided to visit Daveed at the Richard Rogers. As he got into the cab, he turned to look out of the window and saw a familiar face.

Coffee girl.

I'm

As much as he wanted to talk to you again, the cab sped down the road before either of you could say a word.

C is for Chance.

That’s what brought (Y/N) and Rafael together once again; It seemed fate was hell bent on bringing them together.

Daveed, Rafa and some other people who had arrived early for the day’s show were lounging in Daveed’s dressing room when a frantic Lin walked past the open door.

“He must’ve forgotten that someone was visiting today.” Remarked Pippa.

A few minutes later they all gathered backstage on Lin’s request, apparently someone important was visiting, Rafa stuck to the back of the small crowd.Who could it be?

No fucking way, (Y/N) thought when she looked towards the back of the room and saw him again.

“Everyone this is (Y/N) (Y/L/N), the bestselling writer and my college friend.” Lin said giddiness evident in his voice. ”She is researching for a new book and watching the show too, so just go on about your stuff as usual.”

While she remained talking to Lin, a rapid conversation that was a mixture of English and Spanish, Rafa pulled Daveed aside.

“Coffee girl is (Y/N).”

“Dude, you spilled coffee on her? Really?”

“Yes, he did. And he also owes me a new cup of coffee.” You said, cutting into their conversation. “By the way Daveed, I’m a huge fan.”

The three talked and walked around the theater until it was time for Daveed get ready; then it was just the two of you. Looking closely Rafa could recognize the shirt you were wearing; it was the same one he gave to you a week ago.

“About that cup of coffee, I know this really good place on Brooklyn if you still want it.” You smiled when he said that, it was weird the way the connection you felt to him after knowing the man for less than a day.

“Friday afternoon?”

“It’s a date.”

D is for Date.

That’s what they went on that Friday.

(Y/N) were beyond nervous, you hadn't had a date in a while, after your career had picked up three years ago, the dating scene was the last thing in your mind. It had been too long since you had felt the thrill that came when you got ready for a date, the flutter in your heart that accompanied looking at someone you liked.

Rafael was jittery waiting for you outside of the coffee shop. After the disastrous end his last relationship had, dating wasn't something he wanted to get back to so soon but then you showed up and stood beside Lin, all wide eyed and smiling, talking to everyone and he swore it was sign from above.

Down the street he could see you coming, wearing a bright orange dress and his heart skipped a beat.

"Hey there." Your smile was so bright it could stop a war, at least on Rafael's mind.

"Hello." He replied.

The afternoon flew by, the couple sat in the table, talking until the coffee closed and they were forced to go their separate ways.

E is for Eager.

Rafael couldn’t wait to see her again; you had left him with your phone number and the promise to see him again.

Currently he was sat on Daveed's couch, staring at his phone like a love sick teenager.

"Just call her already man." Said Anthony, the man had decided to join them for the afternoon and had been nagging him about (Y/N).

From Rafa

To (Y/N)

Hey, what are you doing?

From (Y/N)

To Rafa

Nothing.

From Rafa

To (Y/N)

Coffee?

From (Y/N)

To Rafa

I'll meet you there.

F is for Finnish.

"You speak Finnish?"

"And seven more languages, but yes, Finnish is one of them."

The couple laid on the couch, bodies entwined, talking. Somehow the conversation had drifted to (Y/N)'s books and how she translated them to all the languages she knew when they were done, just so she could see them with other eyes.

Rafa knew he was falling when his heart stopped upon seeing your eyes light up while you talked about all the other languages you wanted to learn, he loved the way your passion for languages and learning seeped into your voice and made your speech speed up, the tiny dimple in you left cheek and the dash of freckles across the bridge of your nose.

He loved you.

G is for Glad.

No one had seen either of them so happy before.

Wherever you went, people watched. It was rather uncommon to see two people so happy, so obviously in love with each other.

Every once in a while you visited the Richard Rodgers theater again, for research obviously, that meant that so did Rafa visit. Truth was you had taken an unexpected liking to not only the people but the place as well, the atmosphere had trapped you and refused to let go. What was supposed to be one stand-alone book had quickly turned into a trilogy, you sat in Daveed's dressing room once again, Rafa by your side, discussing how the first book was going to end, your boyfriend had insisted in co-writing the books with you.

"Look at them." Said Chris from the doorway. "They're so happy, it's beautiful."

Lin was standing beside Chris looking at his friends; he had never seen you so happy before. Since you didn't have any close family, he decided to pull a "big brother" move and held Rafa's arm as he went to follow you out of the room.

"If you hurt her, I'll end you." The seriousness in his voice surprised Rafael.

"I won't."

H is for Hospital.

That wasn’t the call (Y/N) had been expecting.

Since your boyfriend was away on business, he was calling you more often than the usual (he usually called you at least three times a day), so when your phone rang your mind automatically went to Rafa but an unknown number was showing up on the caller ID.

“Is this (Y/N) (Y/L/N)?” A male voice spoke from the other end.

“Yes. Who am I talking to?”

“This is Justin Vega, I am a nurse from the New York community Hospital and you’re listed as one of Rafael Casal’s emergency contacts, he has been in an accident…”

The rest of his words fell on deaf ears as your phone clattered to the ground. This must be some sick sort of joke from the universe; it wouldn’t dare taking away the man you loved. You were vaguely aware of Lin and Daveed entering your apartment and taking you to meet Rafa.

I is for I love you.

Rafa could hear commotion outside of the curtains they had placed around his bed, he wished to get up and see what was happening but his pounding head and broken leg made everything more difficult. In a flurry, curtains opened to reveal a frazzled looking (Y/N), the haze in his mind cleared just a little bit upon seeing her face.

“I love you.” Were the first words to leave her mouth.

“I love you too.”

J is for Jell-O

The other day he still had to stay in the hospital for observation due to the risk of a concussion and of course you had stayed by his side. Now you regretted the decision a little as you were faced with hospital food, one of the things you hated the most; the bright red gelatin practically stared at you from the tray and you began playing with it.

“What are you doing with the food?” Rafa was glad for anything that was an excuse to distract him from the awful food.

“The gelatin is bouncy. Look!” to illustrate the point, you hit the red thing your spoon. This turned out to be a bad idea because the cup bounced too much, hit you tray, throwing it to the ground. In a valiant effort to save your food, Rafa ended up dropping his tray too.

“I’ll go get us some food.” You said, happy for the fact you didn’t have to eat the hospital food anymore.

“I love you (Y/N).”

“I know.”

K is for Kiss.

You wished he didn’t have to leave again.

After the accident, Rafa had managed to get a few weeks off of work to recuperate but now life was calling again and he had to go back to his house in LA. He spent so much time with you in Brooklyn that you nearly forgot his place of residence was all the way across the country.

“I will call you every day.”

Your eyes were watery, and so were his.

“I love you (Y/N)”

“I love you Rafa.”

You kissed him one last time before he disappeared into the departure gates.

L is for Long-distance.

Skype calls were not being enough, despite spending at least one hour every night talking to him, his absence was taking its toll on you. Your visits to the theater weren’t as animated as before and your smile was less bright.

On the night of your one year anniversary, your Skype call had a little more tears than the usual. The conversation went just like every day but you longed to see his face again.

“I miss you Rafa.”

“I know love, I miss you too.”

The sound of his voice was enough for a fresh wave of tears begin.

M is for Music.

“Hear me out, a music festival in Georgia.”

That week you were supposed to meet Rafa somewhere but his schedule was tight and so was yours. Your new book was finished, your editor had loved the collaboration you did with Rafa and it was on the first stages of development, which meant a lot of meetings so Rafael had proposed that you meet halfway this weekend to do something you both loved.

Once your eyes met in the crowded airport, it was like in the movies. You dropped the bag you were holding, running to his arms.

How you had missed him, your life with him was like one song, the moments you were together being the most perfect chords.

N is for Napping.

More often than not, Daveed would find the couple asleep. time or place didn’t matter, if given more than five minutes and relative quietness, they both be asleep. It was endearing to see them laying on the couch, laptops forgotten, bodies tangled.

Every cast member, company members as well, had at least three different pictures of them, in varied occasions, asleep.

O is for Oxygen.

(Y/N) was the air he breathed.

How had he managed to live without you for so long was one of his most recurring thoughts.

Every time he looked at you, saw your smile, your eyes, the way you danced when you thought he wasn’t looking, every time you did basically anything he felt like a piece of his heart broke of and attached itself to you.

It became increasingly difficult to tell you goodbye, too know it would be days, maybe even weeks, before you saw each other again.

P is for Proposal.

A few days later, Rafael made a big decision.

“Move in with me.” He said over the video chat.

“What? Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack. If you got your mail today, which I’m sure you did, there is a black box within your apartment right now.” You should have known that he had something to do with the strange package you had received that morning. “Now open it.”

Inside the box there were two things: a small silver key and plane tickets.

“Oh my, yes! Of course!”

One week later he drove her to their home.

Q is for Question.

You were an unusually early riser on weekends, they were your free days and you liked to enjoy them to their fullest, so you put on some quiet music and began making breakfast for the two of you, when Classic by Mkto began playing, you quietly began to sing and dance along with it.

The smell of pancakes woke Rafael up. You were dancing around in the kitchen, wearing one of his shirts, he had never been more in love with you. His feet carried him to the bedroom and back in a few seconds.

"Hey there." You could feel his arms wrap around your waist from behind so you turned off the stove and turned to face him.

"Marry me." The words were mumbled so quietly against your lips that you nearly didn't catch them.

"Okay."

"I'm being serious here (Y/N)."

"So am I."

R is for Real.

"There you go." Said Vanessa placing the final bobby pin on your hair.

A few months later you stood in a wedding dress, fidgeting nervously as Vanessa, your maid of honor, fixed your hair. You could hear Lin enter the room and stop in his tracks.

"Mi hermana, estás tan linda."

Lin was taking her down the aisle on what was the best day of her life, he and Vanessa had become her family when she didn't have one so to have them with her today only added to the amazing day, Daveed was Rafael's best man and he was elated for his friends, with time he began to see (Y/N) as his sister too.

As you swayed to the sweet sound of Ed Sheeran's Tenerife Sea, your eyes met Rafa's and the rest of the world disappeared. It was surreal the way you both were feeling.

If there was a way to freeze one moment of your life to live in it forever, this was the one you'd pick. This was real, this was you life.

S is for Someday.

"How many kids do you want?"

"Someday I'd love to have three at least."

You and Rafael were laying down on the grass in Central Park, watching the clouds and just talking about life. It was one of the rare moments your mind was completely relaxed, nothing about the whirlwind that your life had become due to the fact that your new book series was turning into a tv series could even bother you right now.

You made plans for your future because you knew that you had all the time in the world.

T is for Thor.

It was a day like any other, you were finishing your morning run through one of the many parks in LA when suddenly your legs flew out from under you, when you recovered from the fall you could see a beautiful dog sniffing away at your legs. As if a light bulb had gone off in your head, you scooped up the little guy in your arms and began walking with renewed energy.

"Love, I'm home!"

The unusual quietness in the apartment threw Rafa off, then you exited the laundry room with a nervous face and alarms began blaring in his mind.

"So you want the good news or the bad news first?"

"Bad news first." He braced himself for impact.

"Well, the bad news are, actually it's just one bad news, our son made the biggest mess in the bathroom."

"Our son?"

The question was answered in the form of a puppy excitedly running out of the laundry room and on to his legs.

"I've named him Thor."

U is for Universe.

"So? What's the result?" Came Vanessa's voice over the phone.

"It's positive. I'm going to be a mother."

That conversation had happened a week ago, your period had been mysteriously missing and you knew what it could mean, so you dialed Vanessa's phone to wait for the results with you. Now as you got ready for your date night, you thought of a way to tell him about your pregnancy. Tonight's date was rather simple, a picnic and stargazing. Your dress did little to hide the already showing small baby bump.

The basket filled to the brim with food was soon empty, Rafa stared at (Y/N).

"Why are you looking at me like that? I'm eating for two, you know?"

The cat was definitely out of the bag now.

"Two?"

V is for Valerie.

Your baby was growing healthily, a considerable bump now on display. Last week you had found out that you and Rafa would be proud parents to a baby girl.

You had made the trip down to New York to see Lin's final bow as Hamilton and catch up with the friends you had made. Currently you, Luz, Vanessa, Pippa, Jazzy and Reneé were sat in a table on the same coffee shop where your first date with Rafa had been, brainstorming names for your daughter.

"... I suggest Valerie."

Something clicked when you heard the name and you quickly sent your husband a text.

From (Y/N)

To Rafa

Valerie.

From Rafa

To (Y/N)

Perfect.

W is for Won’t.

A very bad thing has happened.

You scream into the night, waking Rafa up. Your abdomen feels like it is on fire, and you scream even more upon the sight of your bloody sheets, moments later your body decides to shut down instead of dealing with so much pain.

Lin didn't expect to wake up in the middle of the night with a call from a very frantic Rafa, the first few minutes of the call were spent trying to calm he down; then Lin called Daveed and Luz so they could go to the hospital as well. He sped to the hospital with Vanessa by his side.

You were as pale as the sheets around you, so many things attached to your body. It made Rafa's heart clench knowing that he'd have to tell you what happened to your daughter, he prepared himself once again when he felt you stir.

Your mind eases into consciousness again, the first thing your eyes saw were Rafa's hands, holding yours tightly.

"You're up." He said, the sheer happiness in his face was enough to calm you down just a bit.

"What happened?"

"The doctors said that you had a spontaneous abortion, they couldn't save Val."

No, no, how could this have happened? You had taken all of the necessary precautions for your pregnancy, only visiting the set once a week, resting enough, eating the right foods. How?

His eyes filled with tears and so did yours, your baby was dead. You cried for a long time, clinging on to him.

"Hey, look at me love. Remember when we got married, what did I tell you?"

"Us against the world."

Those words reassured you that no matter what happened, together you'd go through everything.

X is for multiplication.

Rafa made it his job to multiply the joys in your life.

The first few weeks after that were extremely difficult but he was by your side every step of the way.

When you didn't feel like doing anything the entire day, he'd call everyone to postpone your agenda (and his agenda as well), just so you could spend the day in bed, watching Friends again.

When you felt like crying, he'd hold you and cry with you.

He took you to your favorite places, bought your favorite foods, did everything he could to make you happy again.

Everyone around the both of you did what they could to help. Lin called everyday, he talked to you both for at least an hour, with his tight schedule you knew how much his time meant. Daveed gifted you with tickets to your favorite Broadway show, Pippa baked you the tastiest banana bread you had ever eaten.

And little by little, life moved on, like it always does.

Y is for Year.

It was winter again.

You were taking a walk in the park with Thor, he wasn't as active as he used to be. The past year had been an emotional roller coaster but you had made it out alive and well in the end.

You were living in London now, working in Mary Poppins with Lin while Rafael taught a course in Oxford. The city was what you needed to move on, soon enough you were happy again. On Fridays, Lin, Vanessa, Rafa and you went to nights out in the city.

Slowly, you allowed yourself to dream again.

Z is for Zeitgeist, the movie.

After many years, you had finally convinced Rafa to watch it.

Everything was set, the popcorn was ready, Netflix was loaded and Noah was blissfully asleep in his bedroom. After many years, you hadn't managed to leave London, it had grown in you and became your home. Your books were still best sellers and Rafa was successful in anything he tried to do.

Sure, there were fights, there were scream and tears but it was love.

You wouldn't have it any other way.

#rafael casal #rafael casal imagine #Rafael Casal reader #rpf #daveed diggs #lin manuel x reader #lin manuel miranda

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neighbourskid · 4 years

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Blow Us All Away

(original date: 07 June 2016)

In 2007, a young Puerto Rican went on vacation, a book by Ron Chernow under his arm, and came back inspired to write something that is today known as "the best goddamn musical on Broadway ever". Kidding. That's just what I'm saying. But it's getting seriously good reviews. Like, astonishingly good reviews.

Lin-Manuel Miranda went on holiday to relax, came back with an idea and nine years later he performed at The White House, had the Obamas come see his musical, has his musical nominated for 16 Tony Awards -the most nominations in history-, his show is sold out until January 2017 and a whole generation of teenagers and young adults are suddenly interested in American History. Like, He Did That!

"Lin-Manuel Miranda? Yo, who the f is this?" Well. Let me educate you.

Lin-Manuel is the most precious little bean of a man you will ever hear of. As I said, he started working on Hamilton: The American Musical nine years ago after reading the biography of Alexander Hamilton (one of the Founding Fathers of the United States, in case you're like me and didn't know). In 2009, after working on first raps about Hamilton, Lin performed the intro song "Alexander Hamilton" at the White House Evening of Poetry, Music, and the Spoken Word, and received Standing Ovations for it. Little did the shy young man then know, that his work would be appreciated by tens of thousand of people. Little did he know, that his musical would be so loved and that it would inspire new generations of writers and singers and actors. Little did he know, that he would blow us all away.

The musical itself is a masterpiece. I haven't really realised until of late, that I have so much love for musicals. But I do. I love musicals. I have come to realise that this is probably also the reason why I love Disney movies so much, because they basically are musicals, too. As a kid, I genuinely liked High School Musical. I loved Mamma Mia! and I enjoyed Glee as well as Pitch Perfect. It's not necessarily the stories. Actually, I don't think it is the stories at all. It's the music. The singing. The breaking out into a song mid-sentence. That was what I liked. Same goes with Disney. I loved the stories of course, well, most of them anyway. But the thing that hooked me, was that Mulan freed China in a song, that Hercules became a Hero in a song, that Simba grew up in a song. And that is the beautiful thing about musicals. Marius and Cosette fell in love in a song. Javert went through an emotional crisis in a song. Jean Valjean realised who he was in a song. The French Revolution happened in a song or two. That's the beauty of it. It happens in a song. It's not a boringly told story. It's music in your ears and you don't even notice that it's already over shortly after.

And that is what makes Hamilton a wonderful musical, too. It takes the story of some old boring white dude that you didn't care about in your history lessons because your teacher just didn't manage to make it at least a little bit interesting, and it makes music out of it. Lin tells Hamilton's story with raps and rhymes, with music and dance. Cabinet meetings become rap battles, the war becomes a beautifully choreographed dance fight number. Washington, Jefferson, Madison, Laurens, Hamilton, Burr- they are not these boring old white dudes on your money anymore. Suddenly, Madison is this powerful Nigerian American man with a booming voice, Hamilton and Laurens are young Puerto Ricans who know how to rock long hair, Washington is this tower of a man with the brightest smile, Burr's dancing is amazing and Jefferson knows how to spit some serious verses and can rap like hell. Suddenly, American History is pretty attractive.

I first listened to the entire Cast Album on May 11 this year. 46 songs later and I was a changed person. A few days after that I bought the album on iTunes and have been listening to it more or less non-stop. Sometimes I mix it up with a bit of Les Miserables or a few other songs that I have on my phone. But the other thousand songs I have in my library are mostly forgotten and ignored in favour of Lin's masterpiece of a musical. It's been now nearly a month, and I know basically all of the lyrics. Well, I can sing/rap along side the tracks, a few songs I even know by heart. It's not even rare anymore that I wake up in the morning with a song from Hamilton on my mind. I am a goner for this musical.

On Sunday 12th are the Tony Awards. 16 Nominations for Hamilton. That's a lot. Lin himself is nominated for "Best Book of a Musical", "Best Original Score" and "Best Actor in a Musical". Lin wrote the book, he wrote the score and music, he plays the leading role. The man is non-stop. And he doesn't just stop there, either. Pretty usual for Broadway shows, there's a lottery for 10$ tickets before each show. But they are obviously pretty limited. The lottery for Hamilton is, to say it mildly, pretty well used. The musical is sold out until next January, so the lottery is the only way right now for people to still get tickets. On the first preview night -so, before the musical even officially opened- there were 700 people queueing for the lottery. SEVENHUNDRED PEOPLE! That's insane. And guess what? Lin, the precious human being he is, gives back. He gives back something to the people coming to the lottery. Each day, before each performance, for each lottery, he goes out there in front of the Richard Rodgers Theater and thanks the people for coming, for spending half an hour to get tickets for his show. He encourages them to come back the next day if they don't win, because they will be here for a bit. And it's not just that. He brings friends, brings co-stars, and gives the people an experience. What is now known as #Ham4Ham is Lin's way of giving back and thanking people. He now does short videos to put online, because he can't always come out, and because there's an online lottery, too.

And besides all that, he also manages to be the freaking most gentle and genuinely nicest human being ever. Just- just look at the way he tweets.

I mean. I am at a loss of words, to be honest. He does so much. He keeps giving. He is non-stop. And there's still a million things he hasn't done.

I haven't heard of Lin before Hamilton managed its way into my line of sight. Apparently he was in a House MD episode once, and I have probably seen it, but I can't remember. Anyways. In this last month, Lin has managed to secure himself a place on my bucket list of people I'd like to meet, right next to Benedict Cumberbatch (whom I've met before briefly) and Zachary Levi, who are both people that inspire me so much to chase my dreams and to not give up. Ben always inspires me to read, to keep learning stuff and to not let go of my dream to work in the film industry. Zac has always been the one to inspire me to be nice and kind to strangers, to keep giving. He is a role model especially in my believes and my faith. He inspires me to be genuinely myself. Now Lin. He managed to spark something inside of me, that I didn't know was there. I have always loved music, and always sang along the music I was listening to. I'm not a very good singer. I tend to imitate the singing of the person I'm listening to, instead of actually singing myself. But Lin, he managed to spark this love for singing again. I don't give much fucks about what people think about me, but I think singing has always been a thing where I did care that it was more or less good. But now I drop some verses of rap from time to time while listening, and I don't give a shit.

Lin is right there with Zac and Ben, inspiring me to be who I truly am. He inspires me to be passionate about music and writing. And especially my love for musicals. And he inspires me to unapologetically portray and show people who I am, what I like. Shove it into their faces, that this kid is a big nerd. That I am enthusiastic about the things I like, that I consume them wholeheartedly and not just a bit. If I like something or someone, then I know a shit ton about it. And Lin inspires me to cherish that.

I seriously wish that the Hamilton Musical finds its way to Europe as well. Apparently there's something planned for London and then also continental Europe. It won't be the same cast, of course. And even though, I find that rather sad, I appreciate the fact that they're thinking about coming to Europe. Because I haven't had the chance to see the musical. I saw snippets and some gifs. I have seen them "perform" at Ham4Ham. But it's not the real show, the real story. I think the cast album covers a lot of the whole play, but not all of it. And I would of course love to see the whole dancing, and apparently the lighting is amazing. But yeah, I'm willing to wait for it.

I hope that if I will ever get the possibility to go to New York (I'm going to San Diego this summer, so no luck in going this year), that they will still be on Broadway and that I will get the possibility of seeing this masterpiece live, with some of the original cast. That would be amazing.

But for now, I can only wish them all the best. I will be watching the Tony's on Sunday, will cheer them on, because Lin and the whole cast deserve this so much. I will continue to follow Lin's career, see what he's up to, check out his projects.

Until then, there's one last thing I can say:

Lin-Manuel Miranda. America (and the rest of the world) sings for you.

We have the honour to be your obedient servants.

A. (Ham)

#blog post #import from old blog #hamilton #lin-manuel miranda #musicals #musical theater #inspiration

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